Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest Did never muse inspire beneath A poet's brain with finer store. He wrote of love with high conceit may The sacred ceremonies there partake, The which do endless matrimony make; And let the roaring organs loudly play The praises of the Lord, in lively notes, The whiles with hollow throats The choristers the joyous anthems sing, That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring. Behold whiles she before the altar stands, Like crimson dyed in grain, Forget their service, and about her fly, Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair The more they on it stare; But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governed with goodly modesty, Why blush ye, Love! to give to me your hand, EDMUND SPENSER. THE HOUSE OF RICHES. THAT house's form within was rude and strong, Like an huge cave hewn out of rocky clift, From whose rough vault the ragged breaches hung Embossed with massy gold of glorious gift, And with rich metal loaded every rift, That heavy ruin they did seem to threat; And over them Arachne high did lift Her cunning web, and spread her subtle net, Enwrapped in foul smoke and clouds more black than jet. Both roof, and floor, and walls, were all of gold, But overgrown with dust and old decay, And hid in darkness, that none could behold The hue thereof: for view of cheerful day Did never in that house itself display, But a faint shadow of uncertain light; Such as a lamp whose life does fade away; Or as the Moon, clothed with cloudy night, Does show to him that walks in fear and sad affright. In all that room was nothing to be seen But huge great iron chests, and coffers strong, All barred with double bends, that none could ween Them to enforce by violence or wrong; On every side they placed were along. But all the ground with sculls was scatteréd And dead men's bones, which round about were flung; Whose lives, it seeméd, whilome there were shed, And their vile carcasses now left unburiéd. THE BOWER OF BLISS. THERE the most dainty paradise on ground And none does others' happiness envy; 9 ROBERT SOUTHWELL. [1560-1595.] CONTENT AND RICH. I DWELL in grace's courts, Faith guides my wit, love leads my will, In lowly vales I mount To pleasure's highest pitch, My conscience is my crown, Enough, I reckon wealth; That lies too high for base contempt, My wishes are but few, All easy to fulfil; I make the limits of my power The bounds unto my will. I have no hopes but one, Which is of heavenly reign: Effects attained, or not desired, All lower hopes refrain. I feel no care of coin, Well-doing is my wealth : I clip high-climbing thoughts, Their fate is worst, that from the height Silk sails of largest size The storm doth soonest tear : I bear so low and small a sail As freeth me from fear. I wrestle not with rage While fury's flame doth burn; It is in vain to stop the stream Until the tide doth turn. But when the flame is out, And ebbing wrath doth end, I turn a late-enragéd foe Into a quiet friend; And, taught with often proof, Spare diet is my fare, My clothes more fit than fine; I know I feed and clothe a foe That, pampered, would repine. I envy not their hap Whom favor doth advance: I take no pleasure in their pain That have less happy chance. To rise by others' fall I deem a losing gain: All states with others' ruins built To ruins run amain. No change of fortune's calms Can cast my comforts down: When fortune smiles, I smile to think How quickly she will frown; And when, in froward mood, ALEXANDER HUME. [About 1599. A SUMMER'S DAY. THE time so tranquil is and clear, All trees and simples, great and small, The ships becalmed upon the seas, |