That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But, being spent, the worse, and worst Time shall succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while you may, go marry; For, having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry. TWELFTH NIGHT, OR KING AND QUEEN Now, now the mirth comes, With the cake full of plums, Where bean's the king of the sport here; Beside, we must know, The pea also Must revel as queen in the court here. Begin then to choose, This night, as ye use, Who shall for the present delight here; Be a king by the lot, And who shall not Be Twelfth-day queen for the night here. Which known, let us make Joy-sops with the cake; And let not a man then be seen here, Who unurged will not drink, To the base from the brink, A health to the king and the queen here. Next crown the bowl full With gentle lamb's-wool; Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, With store of ale, too; And thus ye must do To make the wassail a swinger. Give them to the king And queen wassailing; And though with ale ye be wet here; Yet part ye from hence, As free from offence, As when ye innocent met here. THE BAG OF THE BEE ABOUT the sweet bag of a bee, Two Cupids fell at odds; And whose the pretty prize should be, They vowed to ask the gods. Which Venus hearing, thither came, And for their boldness stript them; And taking thence from each his flame, With rods of myrtle whipt them. Which done, to still their wanton cries, When quiet grown she'ad seen them, She kissed and wiped their dove-like eyes And gave the bag between them. A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE LORD, Thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Is weatherproof; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry. Where Thou, my chamber for to ward, Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by the poor, Who hither come, and freely get Good words or meat. Like as my parlour, so my hall, And kitchen small; A little buttery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipt, unflead. Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess, too, when I dine The pulse is Thine, And all those other bits that be There placed by Thee. The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent: And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord,'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That sows my land: All this, and better, dost Thou send Me for this end: That I should render for my part A thankful heart, Which, fired with incense, I resign As wholly Thine: But the acceptance--that must be, O Lord, by Thee. TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH MORNING DEW