When thou hast taken thy repast, Repose, my babe, on me; So may thy mother and thy nurse Thy cradle also be. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy! I grieve that duty doth not work All that my wishing would; Because I would not be to thee But in the best I should. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy! Yet as I am, and as I may, I must and will be thine, Though all too little for thyself Vouchsafing to be mine. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy! THOMAS NASHE 1567-1601 _166._ _Spring_ Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing-- Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay-- Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street these tunes our ears do greet-- Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! Spring, the sweet Spring! _167._ _In Time of Pestilence_ 1593 ADIEU, farewell earth’s bliss! This world uncertain is: Fond are life’s lustful joys, Death proves them all but toys. None from his darts can fly; I am sick, I must die-- _Lord, have mercy on us!_ Rich men, trust not in wealth, Gold cannot buy you health; Physic himself must fade; All things to end are made; The plague full swift goes by; I am sick, I must die-- _Lord, have mercy on us!_ Beauty is but a flower Which wrinkles will devour; Brightness falls from the air; Queens have died young and fair; Dust hath closed Helen’s eye; I am sick, I must die-- _Lord, have mercy on us!_ Strength stoops unto the grave, Worms feed on Hector brave; Swords may not fight with fate; Earth still holds ope her gate; _Come, come!_ the bells do cry; I am sick, I must die-- _Lord, have mercy on us!_ Wit with his wantonness Tasteth death’s bitterness; Hell’s executioner Hath no ears for to hear What vain art can reply; I am sick, I must die-- _Lord, have mercy on us!_ Haste therefore each degree To welcome destiny; Heaven is our heritage, Earth but a player’s stage. Mount we unto the sky; I am sick, I must die-- _Lord, have mercy on us!_ THOMAS CAMPION 1567?-1619 _168._ _Cherry-Ripe_ There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: There cherries grow which none may buy Till ‘Cherry-ripe’ themselves do cry.