4.

The ambitious toyling statesman that prepares
Great mischiefes ere the day begins,

Nor measures day by houres, but by his cares,
And night must intermit his sinnes.

Then why when my slow chariot used to clime,
Did old mistaking sages weepe?

As if my empire did usurpe their time,
And houres were lost when spent in sleep.

6.

I come to ease their labours, and prevent
That wearinesse which would destroy;
The profit of their toyles are still mispent,
Till rest enables to enjoy.

The above is taken from LUMINALIA or the Festival of Light. A Masque, presented at Court on Shrove Tuesday night. 1637.

SONG.

1.

Now fie on Love, it ill befits,

Or man and woman know it,

Love was not meant for people in their wits,
And they that fondly shew it

Betray their too much featherd brains,

And shall have only Bedlam for their pains,

To

2.

To love is to distract my sleep,

And waking to wear fetters;

To love is but to go to school to weep;
I'll leave it for my betters.

If single love be such a curse,

To marry is to make it ten times worse.

From the Careless Shepherdess, a Tragi-Comedy, acted before the King and Queen, and at Salisbury Court. 1656.

SONG.

Golden slumbers kisse your eyes,

Smiles awake you when you rise;

Sleep, pretty wanton, doe not cry,
And I will sing a lullabie.

Rock then, rock then, lullabie.

Care is heavy, therefore sleepe you;

You are care, and care must keepe you;

Sleepe, pretty wanton, doe not cry,

And I will sing a lullabie.

Rocke then, rocke then, lullabie.

From The Pleasant Comodie of Patient Grissel. 1603.

SONET

His golden lockes Time hath to silver turned;
O Time too swift, O swiftnesse never ceasing:
His youth gainst Time and Age hath ever spurned,
But spurnd in vain, Youth waineth by increasing.
Beauty, Strength, Youth are flowers, but fading seen,
Dutie, Faith, Love, are roots, and ever greene.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees,
And lovers sonets turned to holy psalmes;
A man at arms must now serve on his knees,
And feede on praiers which are age his almes.

But though from court to cottage he depart,
His saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
Heele teach his swaines this carroll for a song:
Blest be the heartes that wish my Sovereign well,
Curst be the soules that think her any wrong.
Goddesse allow this aged man his right,

To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

From POLYHYMNIA, describing the honourable triumph at Tylt, before Her Majestie on the 17 of Nov. &c. &c. 1590.

SONG at the Lord Mayor's Table.

1.

The storm is all over, a Halcyon Calm
Hus smooth'd the rough face of the Sea:

Crown every glass with a garland of Palm,

The emblem of victory.

Great Jove the proud Titans subdu'd in a trice,
That we might for ever, for ever rejoyce.

CHORUS.

Then a health to that one whom Heav'n to the Throne, Did in spite of Pretenders restore:

May the friends of the Crown be install'd with renown, And his enemies hang at the door.

2.

With courage and conduct our Cæsar endow'd,
Did the factious band overcome,

Surprize their great Dagon, the God of the Crowd,

And brought him a captive home.

Great Jove has the Cyclops a sacrifice made,
No more on the rights of his throne to invade.
Then a health, &c.

3.

When steel-daring giants made war with the Gods,
Their thunder the slaves did dispise;

But when the Calestials had gotten the odds,
Their throne they secur'd in the skies.

His friends have exalted our Jove in his sphear,
But the fall of the rebels hath setled him there.
Then a health, &c.

From Londons Annual Triumph, a Pageant, by Matt. Taubman.

1685.

SONG.

Haymakers, rackers, reapers and mowers,
Waite on your Summer-Queen;

Dresse up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers

This is mine, this is mine, this is mine;

Let us die, ere away they be born.

Bow to the Sun, to our Queen, and that fair one,

Com to behold our sports,

Each bonny lasse here is counted a rare one,

As those in princes courts.

These and wee,

With countrie glee,

Will teach the woods to resound,

And the hills with ecchos hollow;
Skipping lambs,

Their bleating dams,

Mongst kids shall trip it round,

For joy thus our wenches we follow.

Winde jolly huntsmen your neat bugles shrilly,
Hounds make a lustie crie,

Spring up you faulconers the partridges freely,
Then let your brave hawks flie.

Horses amain,

Over ridg, over plain,

The dogs have the stag in chace,

"Tis a sport to content a king.
So ho ho through the skies,
How the proud bird flies.

And sowcing kills with a grace,

How the deer falls, hark how they ring.

From the Suns Darling, a Masque, by John

Foard and Thomas Decker.

1656.

SONG.

1