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My muse doth not delight

Me as fhe did before,

My hand and pen are not in plight,

As they have ben of yore.

For reafon me denyes

This youthly ydle rime,
And day by day to me fhe cryes,
Leave off thefe toyes in tyme.

The wrinkles in my brow,
The furrowes in my face

Say, limping age will lodge him now,
Where youth must geve him place.

The harbinger of death,

To me I fee him ride,

The cough, the colde, the gasping breath, Doth bid me to provyde

A pikeax and a spade,

And eke a fhrowding fhete,
A howfe of clay for to be made,
For such a guest most mete.

Me thinkes I heare the clarke,
That knowles the careful knell,
And bids me leave my woful warke,
Ere nature me compell.

My keepers knit the knot,

That youth did laugh to skorne, Of me that clene fhal be forgot,

As I had not been borne.

Thus must I youth geve up,
Whofe badge I long did weare,
To them I yield the wanton cup
That better may it beare.

Lo here the bar-hed fkull,

By whofe balde figne I know, That ftouping age away fhall pull, Which youthful yeres did fow.

For beauty with her band,

These croked cares hath wrought, And fhipped me into the lande, From whence I firft was brought.

And ye that byde behinde,
Have ye none other truft:
As ye of clay wer caft by kinde,
So fhall ye waft to dust.

A SONG TO THE LUTE IN MUSICKE.

WHERE gripinge grefes the hart would wounde,

And dolefulle dumps the mynde oppresse,

There muficke with her filver found

With fpede is wont to fend redresse: Of trobled mynds, in every fore,

Swete muficke hathe a falve in store.

In joye yt maks our mirthe abounde,
In woe yt cheres our hevy sprites;
Be-ftrawghted heads relyef hath founde,
By mufickes pleafaunt fwete delightes:
Our fenfes all, what fhall I fay more?
Are fubjecte unto musicks loré.

The Gods by muficke have theire pray se,
The lyfe, the foule therein doth joye;
For, as the Romayne poet fayes,

In feas, whom pyrats would deftroy,
A dolphin faved from death most sharpe
Arion playing on hys harpe.

O heavenly gyft, that rules the mynd,
Even as the fterne dothe rule the fhippe!
O muficke, whom the gods affinde

To comforte manne, whom cares would nippe! Senfe thow both man and befte doeft move, What befte ys he, wyll the difprove?

GENTLE HERDSMAN, TELL TO ME.

Entle herdsman, tell to me,

GOf curtefy I thee pray,

Unto the towne of Walfingham
Which is the right and ready way.

"Unto the towne of Walfingham
"The way is hard for to be gone;
"And verry crooked are those pathes
"For you to find out all alone."

Were the miles doubled thrife,
And the way never foe ill,

Itt were not enough for mine offence;
Itt is foe grievous and foe ill.

"Thy yeares are young, thy face is faire,

"Thy witts are weake, thy thoughts are greene; "Time hath not given thee leave, as yett, "For to committ fo great a finne."

Yes, herdfman, yes, foe woldst thou fay,
If thou kneweft foe much as I ;
My witts, and thoughts, and all the reft,
Have well deferved for to dye.

I am not what I feeme to bee,
My clothes and fexe doe differ farr,
I am a woman, woe is me!

Born to greeffe and irkfome care.

For my beloved, and well-beloved,
My wayward cruelty could kill:
And though my teares will nought avail,
Moft dearely I bewail him ftill.

He was the flower of noble wights,
None ever more fincere colde bee;
Of comelye mien and shape he was,
And tenderlye hee loved mee.

When thus I faw he loved me well,
I grewe fo proude his paine to fee,
That I, who did not know myselfe,
Thought scorne of fuch a youth as hee.

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