But now, if e'er my face with joy be clad, Think Hannibal did laugh when Carthage lost.

Sweet lady, as for those whose sullen cheer, Compared to me, made me in lightness sound; Who, stoic-like, in cloudy hue appear; Who silence force to make their words more dear; Whose eyes seem chaste, because they look on ground:

Believe them not, for physic true doth find, Choler adust is joyed in woman-kind.

POEM: A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO SHEPHERDS

Uttered in a Pastoral Show at Wilton.

WILL. d.i.c.k, since we cannot dance, come, let a cheerful voice Show that we do not grudge at all when others do rejoice.

d.i.c.k. Ah Will, though I grudge not, I count it feeble glee, With sight made dim with daily tears another's sport to see.

Whoever lambkins saw, yet lambkins love to play, To play when that their loved dams are stolen or gone astray?

If this in them be true, as true in men think I, A l.u.s.tless song forsooth thinks he that hath more l.u.s.t to cry.

WILL. A time there is for all, my mother often says, When she, with skirts tucked very high, with girls at football plays When thou hast mind to weep, seek out some smoky room: Now let those lightsome sights we see thy darkness overcome.

d.i.c.k. What joy the joyful sun gives unto bleared eyes; That comfort in these sports you like, my mind his comfort tries.

WILL. What? Is thy bagpipe broke, or are thy lambs miswent; Thy wallet or thy tar-box lost; or thy new raiment-rent?

d.i.c.k. I would it were but thus, for thus it were too well.

WILL. Thou see'st my ears do itch at it: good d.i.c.k thy sorrow tell.

d.i.c.k. Hear then, and learn to sigh: a mistress I do serve, Whose wages make me beg the more, who feeds me till I starve; Whose livery is such, as most I freeze apparelled most, And looks so near unto my cure, that I must needs be lost.

WILL. What? These are riddles sure: art thou then bound to her?

d.i.c.k. Bound as I neither power have, nor would have power, to stir.

WILL. Who bound thee?

d.i.c.k. Love, my lord.

WILL. What witnesses thereto?

d.i.c.k. Faith in myself, and Worth in her, which no proof can undo.

WILL. What seal?

d.i.c.k. My heart deep graven.

WILL. Who made the band so fast?

d.i.c.k. Wonder that, by two so black eyes the glitt'ring stars be past.

WILL. What keepeth safe thy band?

d.i.c.k. Remembrance is the chest Lock'd fast with knowing that she is of worldly things the best.

WILL. Thou late of wages plain'dst: what wages may'sh thou have?

d.i.c.k. Her heavenly looks, which more and more do give me cause to crave.

WILL. If wages make you want, what food is that she gives?

d.i.c.k. Tear's drink, sorrow's meat, wherewith not I, but in me my death lives.

WILL. What living get you then?

d.i.c.k. Disdain; but just disdain; So have I cause myself to plain, but no cause to complain.

WILL. What care takes she for thee?

d.i.c.k. Her care is to prevent My freedom, with show of her beams, with virtue, my content.

WILL. G.o.d shield us from such dames! If so our dames be sped, The shepherds will grow lean I trow, their sheep will be ill-fed.

But d.i.c.k, my counsel mark: run from the place of woo: The arrow being shot from far doth give the smaller blow.

d.i.c.k. Good Will, I cannot take thy good advice; before That foxes leave to steal, they find they die therefore.

WILL. Then, d.i.c.k, let us go hence lest we great folks annoy: For nothing can more tedious be than plaint in time of joy.

d.i.c.k. Oh hence! O cruel word! which even dogs do hate: But hence, even hence, I must needs go; such is my dogged fate.

POEM: SONG

To the tune of "Wilhelmus van Na.s.sau," &c.

Who hath his fancy pleased, With fruits of happy sight, Let here his eyes be raised On Nature's sweetest light; A light which doth dissever, And yet unite the eyes; A light which, dying, never Is cause the looker dies.

She never dies, but lasteth In life of lover's heart; He ever dies that wasteth In love his chiefest part.

Thus is her life still guarded, In never dying faith; Thus is his death rewarded, Since she lives in his death.

Look then and die, the pleasure Doth answer well the pain; Small loss of mortal treasure, Who may immortal gain.

Immortal be her graces, Immortal is her mind; They, fit for heavenly places, This heaven in it doth bind.

But eyes these beauties see not, Nor sense that grace descries; Yet eyes deprived be not From sight of her fair eyes: Which, as of inward glory They are the outward seal, So may they live still sorry, Which die not in that weal.

But who hath fancies pleased, With fruits of happy sight, Let here his eyes be raised On Nature's sweetest light.