OF HIS MISTRESSE, WHOSE NAME WAS

BAYES.

IN bayes I boast, whose braunch I beare,
Such joy therein I finde,

That to the death I shall it weare,
To ease my carelesse minde.

In heat, in cold, both night and day,
Her virtue may be seen;

When other fruits and flowers decay,
The bay yet grows full green.

Her berries feed the birdes full oft;
Her leves swete water make;
Her boughs we set in every loft,

For their swete savour's sake:

The birdes do shroude them from the cold

In her we daily see;

And men make arbers as they would

Under the pleasant tree.

It doth me good when I repaire

There as these bayes do grow ;

Where oft I walk to take the air,
It doth delight me so.

But, lo! I stand as I were dumme,

Her beauty for to blase,

Wherewith my spirites be overcome,

So long thereon I gase.

At last I turne unto my walke,

In passing to and fro,

And to my selfe I smile and talk,

Why smilest thou? say lookers on ;
What pleasure hast thou found?
With that I am as cold as stone,
And ready for to swounde.

Fie, fie, for shame! sayth fansie then,
Pluck up thy fainted heart,

And speak thou boldly, like a man,
Shrink not for little smart.

Whereat I blush and change my cheare,
My senses wax so weak:

O God! think I, what make I here,
That never a word may speake;

I dare not sigh lest I be heard ; ·
My looks I slyly cast,

And still I stand, as one were scar'd,
Untill my stormes be past.

Then happy hap doth me revive,

The blood comes to my face;

A merrier man is not alive

Than I am in that case.

Thus after sorrow seke I rest,

When fled is fancies fit;

And tho' I be a homely guest,

Before the bayes I sit,

Where I do watch till leaves do fall,

When winde the tree doth shake;

Then, tho' the branche be very small,
My leafe away I take.

And then I go and clap my handes,

My heart doth leap for joy.

These bayes do ease me from my bands
That long did me annoy :

For when I do behold the same,
Which makes so fair a show,

I find therein my mistress' name,
And see her virtues grow.

THAT LENGTH OF TIME CONSUMETH ALL THINGS.

WHAT harder is than stone?

What more than water soft?

Yet with soft water drops

Hard stones be pierced oft.
What gives so strong impulse

That stone may ne withstand?
What gives more weak repulse
Than water prest with hand?
Yet weak though water be,

It holloweth hardest flint ;

By proof whereof we see

Time gives the hardest dint.

JOHN HARRINGTON,

THE ELDER.

Born about 1534, died 1582.

VERSES MADE ON ISABELLA MARKHAME, WHEN I FIRSTE
THOUGHT HER FAYER, AS SHE STOOD AT THE PRINCESS'S
WINDOWE IN GOODLYE ATTYRE, AND TALKEDE TO DYVERS
IN THE COURTE-YARD.

WHENCE Comes my love, O hearte, disclose!
'Twas from cheeks that shame the rose;
From lips that spoyle the rubies prayse;
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze.
Whence comes my woe, as freely owne;
Ah, me! 'twas from a hearte lyke stone.

The blushyng cheek speakes modest mynde,
The lips befitting wordes most kynde;
The eye does tempte to love's desyre,
And seems to say, 'tis Cupid's fire:
Yet all so faire but speake my moane,
Syth noughte dothe saye the hearte of stone.

Why thus, my love, so kyndely speake

Sweet lyppe, sweet eye, sweet blushynge cheeke,
Yet not a hearte to save my paine?
O Venus! take thy giftes again;
Make not so faire to cause our moane,
Or make a hearte that's lyke our owne.

JOHN HARYNGTON TO ISABELLA MARKHAME, 1549.

QUESTION.

ALAS! I love you overwell,

Myne owne sweete deere delygte!

Yet, for respects, I feare to tell

What moves my troubled spryghte;

What workes my woe, what breedes my smarte,
What woundes myn harte and mynde;

Reason restrayns me to emparte,

Such perylls as I fynde.

ANSWER.

If present peryll reason fynde,
And hope for helpe do haste,
Unfolde the secretts of your mynde
Whyles hope of helpe may take;
And I will ease your payne and smarte,
As yf yt weare myn owne;
Respects and perylls put aparte,

And let the truthe be knowne.

QUESTION.

The wordes be sounde, the sounde ys sweete,
The sweete yeeldes bounty free;

Noe wyghte hathe worthe to yeeld meed meete
For grace of suche degree.