SONGS AND BALLADS

MY SWETE SWETING

Ан, my swete swetyng!
My lytyle prety swetyng,

My swetyng will I love wherever I go;
She is so proper and pure,
Full stedfast, stabill and demure,
There is none such, ye may be sure,
As my swete swetyng.

In all this world, as thynketh me,
Is none so pleasant to my eye,
That I am glad soe ofte to see,
As my swete swetyng.

When I behold my swetyng swete,
Her face, her hands, her minion fete,
They seme to me there is none so swete,
As my swete swetyng.

Above all other prayse must I,
And love my pretty pygsnye,
For none I fynd so womanly
As my swete swetyng.

LORD VAUX

THINKING

WHEN all is done and said,

In the end thus shall you find,
He most of all doth bathe in bliss
That hath a quiet mind :

A

And, clear from worldly cares,
To deem can be content
The sweetest time in all his life
In thinking to be spent.

The body subject is

To fickle Fortune's power,
And to a million of mishaps

Is casual every hour:
And Death in time doth change
It to a clod of clay;

Whenas the mind, which is divine,
Runs never to decay.

Companion none is like
Unto the mind alone;

For many have been harmed by speech;
Through thinking, few, or none.
Fear oftentimes restraineth words,
But makes not thought to cease;
And he speaks best that hath the skill
When for to hold his peace.

Our wealth leaves us at death;
Our kinsmen at the grave;
But virtues of the mind unto
The heavens with us we have.
Wherefore, for virtue's sake,
I can be well content,
The sweetest time of all my life
To deem in thinking spent.

THE FALLING OUT OF FAITHFUL FRIENDS

RICHARD EDWARDES

IN going to my naked bed as one that would have

slept,

I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had

wept ;

She sighed sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest,

That would not cease, but crièd still, in sucking at her breast.

She was full weary of her watch, and grievèd with her child;

She rocked it and rated it, till that on her it smiled: Then did she say, Now have I found this proverb true to prove,

The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

Then took I paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write,

In register for to remain, of such a worthy wight;
As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat,
Much matter uttered she of weight, in place whereas
she sat.

And proved plain, there was no beast, nor creature bearing life,

Could well be known to live in love, without discord and strife:

Then kissed she her little babe, and sware by God above,

The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

She said that neither king, nor prince, nor lord could live aright,

Until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might;

When manhood shall be matched so that fear can take no place,

Then weary works make warriors each other to embrace,

And leave their force that failed them, which did consume the rout,

That might before have lived in peace their time and nature out:

Then did she sing as one that thought no man could her reprove,

The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

She said she saw no fish, nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt,

That met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a

taunt;

Since flesh might not endure for long, but rest must wrath succeed,

And force the fight to fall to play, in pasture where they feed;

So noble nature can well end the work she hath begun, And bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some: Thus in her song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove,

The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

I marvel much pardy, quoth she, for to behold the rout, To see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about;

Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some cheek, and some can smoothly smile,

And some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile;

Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout,

Yet are they never friends in deed until they once

fall out:

Thus ended she her song, and said before she did

remove,

The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

THE LOVER'S LUTE

SIR THOMAS WYATT

BLAME not my Lute! for he must sound
Of this or that as liketh me;

For lack of wit the Lute is bound

To give such tunes as pleaseth me;
Though my songs be somewhat strange,
And speak such words as touch my change,
Blame not my Lute!