I die! For, oh! I feel Death's horrors drawing nigh, And all this frame of nature reel. My hopeless heart, despairing of relief, Sinks underneath the heavy weight of saddest grief; Which hath so ruthless torn, so racked, so tortured every vein, All comfort comes too late to have it ever cured again. My swimming head begins to dance death's giddy round; A shuddering chillness doth each sense confound; Benumbed is my cold sweating brow A dimness shuts my eye. And now, oh! now, I die! From _Faire Virtue_. Song Lordly gallants! tell me this (Though my safe content you weigh not), In your greatness, what one bliss Have you gained, that I enjoy not? You have honours, you have wealth; I have peace, and I have health: All the day I merry make, And at night no care I take. Bound to none my fortunes be, This or that man's fall I fear not; Him I love that loveth me, For the rest a pin I care not. You are sad when others chaff, And grow merry as they laugh; I that hate it, and am free, Laugh and weep as pleaseth me. You may boast of favours shown, Where your service is applied: But my pleasures are mine own, And to no man's humour tied. You oft flatter, sooth, and feign; I such baseness do disdain; And to none be slave I would, Though my fetters might be gold. By great titles, some believe, Highest honours are attained; And yet kings have power to give To their fools, what these have gained. Where they favour there they may All their names of honour lay; But I look not raised to be, 'Till mine own wing carry me. Seek to raise your titles higher; They are toys not worth my sorrow; Those that we to-day admire, Prove the age's scorn to-morrow. Take your honours; let me find Virtue in a free born mind-- This, the greatest kings that be Cannot give, nor take from me. Though I vainly do not vaunt Large demesnes, to feed my pleasure; I have favours where you want, That would buy respect with treasure. You have lands lie here and there, But my wealth is everywhere; And this addeth to my store-- Fortune cannot make me poor. Say you purchase with your pelf Some respect, where you importune; Those may love me for myself, That regard you for your fortune. Rich or born of high degree, Fools as well as you may be; But that peace in which I live No descent nor wealth can give. If you boast that you may gain The respect of high-born beauties; Know I never wooed in vain, Nor preferred scorned duties. She I love hath all delight, Rosy-red with lily-white, And whoe'er your mistress be, Flesh and blood as good as she.