Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey.
Wherein each thing renews, save only the Lover
THE soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill and eke
The nightingale with feathers new she sings;
The turtle to her make1 hath told her tale.
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 flete with new repairàed scale.
The adder all her slough away she
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;
The busy bee her honey now she mings;2
worn that was the flowers bale.
And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.
O HAPPY dames! that may embrace
The fruit of your delight,
Help to bewail the woful case
eke the heavy plight
Of me, that wonted to rejoice
The fortune of my pleasant choice:
Good ladies, help to
fill my mourning voice.
In ship, freight with rememberance
Of thoughts and pleasures past,
He sails that hath in governance
life while it will last:
With scalding sighs, for lack of gale,
Furthering his hope, that is his sail,
the sweet port of his avail.
Alas! how oft in dreams I see
Those eyes that were my food;
Which sometime so delighted
That yet they do me good:
Wherewith I wake with his return
Whose absent flame did make me burn:
when I find the lack, Lord! how I mourn!
When other lovers in arms across
Rejoice their chief delight,
Drownàed in tears, to mourn my
I stand the bitter night
In my window where I may see
Before the winds how the clouds flee:
a mariner love hath made me!
And in green waves when the salt flood
Doth rise by rage of wind,
A thousand fancies in that
Assail my restless mind.
Alas! now drencheth1 my sweet foe,
That with the spoil of my heart did
And left me; but alas! why did he so?
And when the seas wax calm again
To chase fro me annoy,
My doubtful hope doth cause me
So dread cuts off my joy.
Thus is my wealth mingled with woe
And of each thought a doubt doth
Now he comes! Will he come? Alas! no, no.
MARTIAL, the things that do attain
The happy life be these, I find:
The richesse left, not got
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind;
The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;
No charge of rule, nor governance;
Without disease, the
The household of continuance;
The mean diet, no delicate fare;
True wisdom joind with simpleness;
The night dischargàed of
Where wine the wit may not oppress.
The faithful wife, without debate;
Such sleeps as may beguile the night:
Contented with thine
Ne wish for death, ne fear his might.
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