Fine knacks for ladies! cheap, choice, brave, and new, Good pennyworths--but money cannot move: I keep a fair but for the Fair to view-- A beggar may be liberal of love. Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true, The heart is true. Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again; My trifles come as treasures from my mind: It is a precious jewel to be plain; Sometimes in shell the orient’st pearls we find:-- Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain! Of me a grain! _59._ _Hey nonny no!_ Christ Church MS. Hey nonny no! Men are fools that wish to die! Is’t not fine to dance and sing When the bells of death do ring? Is’t not fine to swim in wine, And turn upon the toe, And sing hey nonny no! When the winds blow and the seas flow? Hey nonny no! _60._ _Preparations_ Christ Church MS. Yet if His Majesty, our sovereign lord, Should of his own accord Friendly himself invite, And say ‘I’ll be your guest to-morrow night,’ How should we stir ourselves, call and command All hands to work! ‘Let no man idle stand! ‘Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall; See they be fitted all; Let there be room to eat And order taken that there want no meat. See every sconce and candlestick made bright, That without tapers they may give a light. ‘Look to the presence: are the carpets spread, The dazie o’er the head, The cushions in the chairs, And all the candles lighted on the stairs? Perfume the chambers, and in any case Let each man give attendance in his place!’ Thus, if a king were coming, would we do; And ’twere good reason too; For ’tis a duteous thing To show all honour to an earthly king, And after all our travail and our cost, So he be pleased, to think no labour lost. But at the coming of the King of Heaven All’s set at six and seven; We wallow in our sin, Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn. We entertain Him always like a stranger, And, as at first, still lodge Him in the manger. _61._ _The New Jerusalem_ _Song of Mary the Mother of Christ_ (London: E. Alide), 1601 Hierusalem, my happy home, When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end, Thy joys when shall I see? O happy harbour of the Saints! O sweet and pleasant soil! In thee no sorrow may be found, No grief, no care, no toil. There lust and lucre cannot dwell, There envy bears no sway; There is no hunger, heat, nor cold, But pleasure every way. Thy walls are made of precious stones, Thy bulwarks diamonds square; Thy gates are of right orient pearl, Exceeding rich and rare. Thy turrets and thy pinnacles With carbuncles do shine; Thy very streets are paved with gold, Surpassing clear and fine.