Holds a watch with sweet love,
Down the dale, up the hill;
No plaints nor groans may move
Their holy vigil.

All you that will hold watch with love,
The fairy-queen Proserpina

Will make you fairer than Dione's dove;
Roses red, lilies white,

And the clear damask hue,

Shall on your cheeks alight:
Love will adorn you.

All you that love or loved before,
The fairy-queen Proserpina

Bids you increase that loving humour

more:

They that have not fed

On delight amorous,

She vows that they shall lead
Apes in Avernus.

When Thou must Home to Shades of Underground

When thou must home to shades of under

ground,

And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finished love From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,

Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,

Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,

And all those triumphs for thy beauty's sake:

When thou hast told these honours done to thee,

Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder

me.

do Laugh or Weep

Whether men do laugh or weep,
Whether they do wake or sleep,
Whether they die young or old,
Whether they feel heat or cold;
There is, underneath the sun,
Nothing in true earnest done.

All our pride is but a jest:

None are worst, and none are best;
Grief and joy, and hope and fear,
Play their pageants everywhere:
Vain opinion all doth sway,
And the world is but a play.

Powers above in clouds do sit,
Mocking our poor apish wit;
That so lamely, with such state,
Their high glory imitate:
No ill can be felt but pain,
And that happy men disdain.

Where are all Thy Beauties now?

Where are all thy beauties now, all hearts enchaining?

Whither are thy flatterers gone with all their feigning?

All fled! and thou alone still here remaining!

Thy rich state of twisted gold to bays is turned!

Cold, as thou art, are thy loves, that so much burned!

Who die in flatterers' arms are seldom mourned.

Yet, in spite of envy, this be still proclaimed,

That none worthier than thyself thy worth hath blamed;

When their poor names are lost, thou

shalt live famed.

When thy story, long time hence, shall be perused,

Let the blemish of thy rule be thus excused,

"None ever lived more just, none more abused".