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, The wrinkles in my brow, Say, limping age will lodge him now, 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, Me thinkes I heare the clarke, 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, 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, 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, The Gods by muficke have theire pray se, In feas, whom pyrats would deftroy, O heavenly gyft, that rules the mynd, 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 "Unto the towne of Walfingham Were the miles doubled thrife, Itt were not enough for mine offence; "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, I am not what I feeme to bee, Born to greeffe and irkfome care. For my beloved, and well-beloved, He was the flower of noble wights, When thus I faw he loved me well, |