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VI.* JOHN SKELTON, 15**.-15**
TO MARGARET. Merry Margaret, As Midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower : With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
As patient and as still,
Far may be sought,
VI.** SIR THOMAS WYATT, 1503–1541
BLAME NOT MY LUTE.
Of this or that, as liketh me;
To give such tunes as pleaseth me;
Blame not my lute!
Though that perforce he must agree
To sing to them that heareth me;
Blame not my lute!
My lute and strings may not deny,
But as I strike they must obey;
But wreak thyself some other way;
Blame not my lute!
VI.*** ANDREW BOURD, about 1530.
THE ENGLISHMAN. I am an Englishman, and naked I stand here, Musing in my mind what garment I shall wear; For now I will wear this, and now I will wear that, Now I will wear I cannot tell what: All new fashions be pleasant to me, I will have them, whether I thrive or thee: Now I am a fisher, all men on me look What should I do but sit cock-o' the hoop ? What do I care if all the world me fail ? I will have a garment reach to my bail. Then I am a minnow, for I wear the new guise, The next year after I hope to be wise, Not only in wearing my gorgeous array, For I will go to learning a whole sumner's day ; I will learn Latin, Hebrew, Greek, and French, And I will learn Dutch sitting on my bench. I do fear no man ; each man feareth me; I overcome my adversaries by land and by sea. I had no peer if to myself I were true : Because I am not so diverse times do I rue: Yet I lack nothing, I have all things at will, If I were wise and would hold myself still, And meddle with no matters but to me pertaining, But even to be true to God and my king.
VII. GAWAIN DOUGLAS.
SHIPWRECK OF THE CARAVAL.
Right souer, tight, and wonder strangely beildit, Was on the bairdin wallis quite o’erthraw. Contrairiously the blusterous winds did blaw
In bubbis thick, that nae ship's sail might wield it
Now sank she low, now high to heaven upheildit; At every part sae the sea windis draif, While on ane sand the ship did burst and claif. It was a piteous thing,--alaik, alaik! To hear the doleful cry when that she straik ;
Maist lamentable the perished folk to see! Sae famist, drowkit, mait, forewrought, and waik ; Some on ane plank of fir tree, and some of aik ;
Some hang upon a takill, some on ane tree;
Some frae their grip soon washen by the sea
VIII. SIR DAVID LINDSAY.
THE PEASANT. My father was an auld man and ane hoar, And was of age four score years or more. And Mald, my mother, was four score and fifteen, And with my labour I did them baith sustene. We had ane meir that carryit salt and coal, And ever ilk year she brought us hame ane foal. We had three ky, that was baith fat and fair, Nane tidier into the toun of Ayr. My father was so waik of bluid and bane That he deit, wherefore my mother made great mane : That she deit within ane day or two, And there began my poverty and wo. Our gude grey meir was baitand on the field, Aud our land's laird took her for his heryield.
The vicar took the best cow by the head
IX. EARL OF SURREY.
SPRING. The sweet season that bud and bloome forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale ; The nightingale with feathers new she sings :
The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs;
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale, The buck in brake his winter coat he flings,
The fishes fleet with new repaired scale : The adder all her slough away she flings,
The swift swallow pursues the flies small, The busy bee her honey now she mings.
Winter is worn that was the flower's bale. And thus ) see, among those pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.
X. SIR PHILIP SYDNEY.
Underneath my window plaineth ? -
Being, ah! exiled, disdaineth
Why, alas! and are you he ?
Are not yet those fancies changed ?--
Though from me you are estranged,
Cease to see, and cease to wonder.--
Can learn how myself to sunder
Time doth work what no man knoweth
With time still affection groweth
Will not they stir new affection ?-
Image-like of saints' perfection,
Bids you leave such thoughts to nourish.
Never doth thy beauty flourish,
1. MIDNIGHT. Midnight was come, and every vital thing
With sweet sound sleep their weary limbs did rest, The beasts were still, the little birds that sing Now sweetly slept beside their mother's breast,
The old and all were shrouded in their nest. The waters calm, the cruel seas did cease, The woods, the fields, and all things held their peace.