Thus, scorning all the cares That fate or fortune brings, He makes the heaven his book, His wisdom heavenly things; Good thoughts his only friends, His wealth a well-spent age, The earth his sober inn And quiet pilgrimage. Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619 176. O come quickly! NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more, Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast: O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest! Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise, Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes: Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessed only see: O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee! John Reynolds. 16th Cent. 177. A Nosegay SAY, crimson Rose and dainty Daffodil, With Violet blue; Since you have seen the beauty of my saint, And eke her view; Did not her sight (fair sight!) you lonely fill, With sweet delight Of goddess' grace and angels' sacred teint In fine, most bright? Say, golden Primrose, sanguine Cowslip fair, With Pink most fine; Since you beheld the visage of my dear, And eyes divine; Did not her globy front, and glistering hair, With cheeks most sweet, So gloriously like damask flowers appear, The gods to greet? Say, snow-white Lily, speckled Gillyflower, With Daisy gay; Since you have viewed the Queen of my desire, In her array; Did not her ivory paps, fair Venus' bower, With heavenly glee, A Juno's grace, conjure you to require Her face to see? Say Rose, say Daffodil, and Violet blue, With Primrose fair, Since ye have seen my nymph's sweet dainty face And gesture rare, Did not (bright Cowslip, blooming Pink) her view (White Lily) shine-- (Ah, Gillyflower, ah Daisy!) with a grace Like stars divine? teint] tint, hue. Sir Henry Wotton. 1568-1639 178. Elizabeth of Bohemia YOU meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, You common people of the skies; What are you when the moon shall rise? You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents; what 's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise? You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own; What are you when the rose is blown? So, when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not design'd Th' eclipse and glory of her kind. Sir Henry Wotton. 1568-1639 179. The Character of a Happy Life