ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? O sweet content! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? O punishment! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers, golden numbers? O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? O sweet content! Swimm’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears? O punishment! Then he that patiently want’s burden bears No burden bears, but is a king, a king! O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! THOMAS HEYWOOD —1649? GOOD-MORROW PACK, clouds, away, and welcome day, With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I’ll borrow; Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing, To give my Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow, Notes from them both I’ll borrow. Wake from thy nest, Robin-redbreast, Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each hill, let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow! You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, Sing my fair Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Sing, birds, in every furrow! ROBERT HERRICK 1591–1674 TO DIANEME SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes Which star-like sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud, that you can see All hearts your captives; yours yet free. Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty’s gone. TO MEADOWS YE have been fresh and green, Ye have been filled with flowers; And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours. Ye have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home. You’ve heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round, Each virgin, like a Spring, With honeysuckles crowned. But now we see none here Whose silvery feet did tread, And with dishevelled hair Adorned this smoother mead. Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock, and needy grown, You’re left here to lament Your poor estates alone. TO BLOSSOMS FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.