The Hock-cart, or Harvest Home
To the Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl of Westmoreland Come, sons of summer, by whose toil We are the lords of wine and oil; By whose tough labours, and rough hands, We rip up first,
TO ROBIN RED-BREAST
Laid out for dead, let thy last kindness be With leaves and moss-work for to cover me; And while the wood-nymphs my cold corpse inter, Sing thou my dirge, sweet-warbling chorister! For epitaph, in
HIS GRANGE, OR PRIVATE WEALTH
Though clock, To tell how night draws hence, I’ve none, A cock I have to sing how day draws on: I have A maid, my Prue, by good luck sent, To save That little,
THE WHITE ISLAND:OR PLACE OF THE BLEST
In this world, the Isle of Dreams, While we sit by sorrow’s streams, Tears and terrors are our themes, Reciting: But when once from hence we fly, More and more approaching nigh Unto young
HOW PANSIES OR HEARTS-EASE CAME FIRST
Frolic virgins once these were, Overloving, living here; Being here their ends denied Ran for sweet-hearts mad, and died. Love, in pity of their tears, And their loss in blooming years, For their restless
TO MEADOWS
Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill’d with flowers; And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours. You have beheld how they With wicker arks did come,
AN ODE OF THE BIRTH OF OUR SAVIOUR
In numbers, and but these few, I sing thy birth, oh JESU! Thou pretty Baby, born here, With sup’rabundant scorn here; Who for thy princely port here, Hadst for thy place Of birth, a
THE MAYPOLE
The May-pole is up, Now give me the cup; I’ll drink to the garlands around it; But first unto those Whose hands did compose The glory of flowers that crown’d it. A health to
THE BUBBLE: A SONG
To my revenge, and to her desperate fears, Fly, thou made bubble of my sighs and tears! In the wild air, when thou hast roll’d about, And, like a blasting planet, found her out;
ON HIMSELF
A wearied pilgrim I have wander’d here, Twice five-and-twenty, bate me but one year; Long I have lasted in this world; ’tis true But yet those years that I have lived, but few. Who
UPON A DELAYING LADY
Come, come away Or let me go; Must I here stay Because you’re slow, And will continue so; Troth, lady, no. I scorn to be A slave to state; And since I’m free, I
COMFORT TO A YOUTH THAT HAD LOST HIS LOVE
What needs complaints, When she a place Has with the race Of saints? In endless mirth, She thinks not on What’s said or done In earth: She sees no tears, Or any tone Of
UPON LOVE
A crystal vial Cupid brought, Which had a juice in it: Of which who drank, he said, no thought Of Love he should admit. I, greedy of the prize, did drink, And emptied soon
THE FUNERAL RITES OF THE ROSE
The Rose was sick, and smiling died; And, being to be sanctified, About the bed, there sighing stood The sweet and flowery sisterhood. Some hung the head, while some did bring, To wash her,
TO MUSIC: A SONG
Music, thou queen of heaven, care-charming spell, That strik’st a stillness into hell; Thou that tam’st tigers, and fierce storms, that rise, With thy soul-melting lullabies; Fall down, down, down, from those thy chiming