Lord, how long, how long wilt Thou Quite forget and quite neglect me? How long, with a frowning brow, Wilt Thou from Thy sight reject me?
How long shall I seek a way
Forth this maze of thoughts perplexed,
Where my grieved mind, night and day,
Is with thinking tired and vexed?
How long shall my scornful foe,
On my fall his greatness placing,
Build upon my overthrow,
And be graced by my disgracing?
Hear, O Lord and God, my cries!
Mark my foes' unjust abusing,
And illuminate mine eyes,
Heavenly beams in them infusing;
Lest my woes, too great to bear,
And too infinite to number,
Rock me soon, 'twixt hope and fear,
Into death's eternal slumber.
Lest my foes their boasting make, Spite of right, on him we trample; And a pride in mischief take, Hasten'd by my sad example.
As for me, I'll ride secure
At Thy mercy's sacred anchor;
And, undaunted, will endure
Fiercest storms of wrong and rancour.
These black clouds will overblow,
Sunshine shall have his returning;
And my grief-dull'd heart, I know,
Into mirth shall change his mourning.
Therefore I'll rejoice and sing
Hymns to God in sacred measure,
Who to happy pass will bring
My just hopes at His good pleasure.
Francis Davison.-About 1610.
501.-MAN'S MORTALITY. Like as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on the tree, Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning of the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas hadE'en such is man, whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is done! The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, The flower fades, the morning hasteth, The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes-and man he dies!
Like to the grass that 's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan-
E'en such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,
The hour is short, the span is long,
The swan's near death-man's life is done!
Simon Wastell.-About 1610.
502.-SADNESS.
The gentle season of the year
Hath made my blooming branch appear,
And beautified the land with flowers;
The air doth savour with delight,
The heavens do smile to see the sight,
And yet mine eyes augment their showers.
The meads are mantled all with green,
The trembling leaves hath clothed the treen,
The birds with feathers new do sing;
But I, poor soul, whom wrong doth rack,
Attire myself in mourning black,
Whose leaf doth fall amidst his spring.
And as you see the scarlet rose
In his sweet prime his buds disclose,
Whose hue is with the sun revived:
So, in the April of mine age,
My lively colours do assuage,
Because my sunshine is deprived.
My heart, that wonted was of yore,
Light as the winds, abroad to soar
Amongst the buds, when beauty springs,
Now only hovers over you,
As doth the bird that's taken new,
And mourns when all her neighbours sings.
When every man is bent to sport
Then, pensive, I alone resort
Into some solitary walk,
As doth the doleful turtle-dove,
Who, having lost her faithful love,
Sits mourning on some wither'd stalk.
There to myself I do recount
How far my woes my joys surmount,
How love requiteth me with hate,
How all my pleasures end in pain,
How hate doth say my hope is vain,
How fortune frowns upon my state.
And in this mood, charged with despair,
With vapour'd sighs I dim the air,
And to the Gods make this request,
That by the ending of my life,
I may have truce with this strange strife,
And bring my soul to better rest.
Uncertain. About 1593.
503.-THE SOUL'S ERRAND.
Go, Soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand,
Fear not to touch the best,
The truth shall be thy warrant ;
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.
Go, tell the Court it glows,
And shines like rotten wood;
Go, tell the Church it shows
What's good and doth no good:
If Church and Court reply,
Then give them both the lie.
Tell potentates they live,
Acting by others' actions,
Not loved, unless they give,
Not strong but by their factions;
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate;
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending;
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell Zeal it lacks devotion,
Tell Love it is but lust,
Tell Time it is but motion,
Tell Flesh it is but dust;
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.
Tell Age it daily wasteth,
Tell Honour how it alters,
Tell Beauty how she blasteth,
Tell Favour how she falters;
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.
Tell Wit how much it wrangles
In treble points of niceness,
Tell Wisdom she entangles
Herself in overwiseness;
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.
Tell Physic of her boldness,
Tell Skill it is pretension
Tell Charity of coldness,
Tell Law it is contention;
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.
Tell Fortune of her blindness,
Tell Nature of decay,
Tell Friendship of unkindness,
Tell Justice of delay;
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell Arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming,
Tell Schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming;
If Arts and Schools reply,
Give Arts and Schools the lie.
Tell Faith it's fled the city,
Tell how the country erreth,
Tell manhood shakes off pity,
Tell Virtue least preferreth;
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.
And when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing,
Although to give the lie,
Deserves no less than stabbing;
Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the soul can kill.
Uncertain.-About 1593.
There is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy,
No chemic art can counterfeit ;
It makes men rich in greatest poverty,
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,
The homely whistle to sweet music's strain;
Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent,
That much in little-all in nought-Content.
Uncertain.-About 1598.
505. THE WOODMAN'S WALK.
Through a fair forest as I went,
Upon a summer's day,
I met a woodman, quaint and gent,
Yet in a strange array.
I marvell'd much at his disguise,
Whom I did know so well :
But thus, in terms both grave and wise,
His mind he 'gan to tell;
Friend! muse not at this fond array,
But list a while to me:
For it hath holpe me to survey
What I shall show to thee.
Long lived I in this forest fair,
Till, weary of my weal,
Abroad in walks I would repair,
As now I will reveal.
My first day's walk was to the court,
Where beauty fed mine eyes;
Yet found I that the courtly sport
Did mask in sly disguise:
For falsehood sat in fairest looks,
And friend to friend was coy:
Court favour fill'd but empty rooks,
And then I found no joy.
Desert went naked in the cold,
When crouching craft was fed : Sweet words were cheaply bought and sold, But none that stood in stead.
Wit was employed for each man's own;
Plain meaning came too short;
All these devices, seen and known,
Made me forsake the court.
Unto the city next I went,
In hope of better hap;
Where liberally I launcht and spent, As set on Fortune's lap.
The little stock I had in store,
Methought would ne'er be done; Friends flock'd about me more and more, As quickly lost as won.
For, when I spent, then they were kind;
But when my purse did fail,
The foremost man came last behind:
Thus love with wealth doth quail.
Once more for footing yet I strove,
Although the world did frown:
But they, before that held me up,
Together trod me down.
And, lest once more I should arise,
They sought my quite decay:
Then got I into this disguise,
And thence I stole away.
And in my mind (methought) I said,
Lord bless me from the city:
Where simpleness is thus betray'd
Without remorse or pity.
Yet would I not give over so,
But once more try my fate;
And to the country then I go,
To live in quiet state.
There city, court, nor country too,
Can any way annoy me;
But as a woodman ought to do,
I freely may employ me;
There live I quietly alone,
And none to trip my talk: Wherefore, when I am dead and gone, Think on the woodman's walk!
Uncertain. About 1600.
The golden sun that brings the day,
And lends men light to see withal,
In vain doth cast his beams away,
When they are blind on whom they fall;
There is no force in all his light
To give the mole a perfect sight.
But thou, my sun, more bright than he
That shines at noon in summer tide,
Hast given me light and power to see
With perfect skill my sight to guide;
Till now I lived as blind as mole
That hides her head in earthly hole.
I heard the praise of Beauty's grace,
Yet deem'd it nought but poet's skill;
I gazed on many a lovely face,
Yet found I none to bend my will;
Which made me think that beauty bright
Was nothing else but red and white.
But now thy beams have clear'd my sight,
I blush to think I was so blind,
Thy flaming eyes afford me light,
That beauty's blaze each where I find;
And yet those dames that shine so bright,
Are but the shadows of thy light.
Uncertain.-About 1608.
507.-THE OXFORD RIDDLE. There dwells a people on the earth, That reckons true allegiance treason, That makes sad war a holy mirth, Calls madness zeal, and nonsense reason; That finds no freedom but in slavery, That makes lies truth, religion knavery,
That rob and cheat with yea and nay:
Riddle me, riddle me, who are they?
They hate the flesh, yet kiss their dames,
That make kings great by curbing crowns,
That quench the fire by kindling flames,
That settle peace by plund'ring towns,
That govern with implicit votes,
That 'stablish truth by cutting throats,
That kiss their master and betray:
Riddle me,
riddle me, who are they?
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