What is our life? a play of passion: Our mirth? the music of division. Our mothers' wombs the tyring-houses be Where we are drest for this short comedy: Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is That sits and marks whoe'er doth act amiss: Our graves, that hide us from the searching sun, Are like drawn curtains when the play is done: Thus march we playing to our latest rest, Only we die in earnest,--that's no jest. From JOHN WILBYE's _Madrigals_, 1598. What needeth all this travail and turmoiling, Short'ning the life's sweet pleasure To seek this far-fetched treasure In those hot climates under Ph[oe]bus broiling? O fools, can you not see a traffic nearer In my sweet lady's face, where Nature showeth Whatever treasure eye sees or heart knoweth? Rubies and diamonds dainty And orient pearls such plenty, Coral and ambergreece sweeter and dearer Than which the South Seas or Moluccas lend us, Or either Indies, East or West, do send us! From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs_, 1588. What pleasure have great princes More dainty to their choice Than herdsmen wild, who careless In quiet life rejoice, And fortune's fate not fearing Sing sweet in summer morning? Their dealings plain and rightful, Are void of all deceit; They never know how spiteful, It is to kneel and wait On favourite presumptuous Whose pride is vain and sumptuous. All day their flocks each tendeth; At night, they take their rest; More quiet than who sendeth His ship into the East, Where gold and pearl are plenty; But getting, very dainty. For lawyers and their pleading, They 'steem it not a straw; They think that honest meaning Is of itself a law: Whence conscience judgeth plainly, They spend no money vainly. O happy who thus liveth! Not caring much for gold; With clothing which sufficeth To keep him from the cold. Though poor and plain his diet Yet merry it is, and quiet. From JOHN DOWLAND's _Third and Last Book of Songs or Airs_, 1603. What poor astronomers are they, Take women's eyes for stars! And set their thoughts in battle 'ray, To fight such idle wars; When in the end they shall approve 'Tis but a jest drawn out of Love. And Love itself is but a jest Devised by idle heads, To catch young Fancies in the nest, And lay them in fool's beds; That being hatched in beauty's eyes They may be fledged ere they be wise. But yet it is a sport to see, How Wit will run on wheels! While Wit cannot persuaded be, With that which Reason feels, That women's eyes and stars are odd And Love is but a feigned god!