Volume I Part 86 (1/2)
And when he saddest sits in homely cell, He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,-- ”Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.”
G.o.ddess, allow this aged man his right To be your beadsman now that was your knight.
George Peele [1558?-1597?]
THE WORLD
The World's a bubble, and the life of Man Less than a span: In his conception wretched,--from the womb, So to the tomb; Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years With cares and fears.
Who then to frail mortality shall trust, But limns on water, or but writes in dust.
Yet whilst with sorrow here we live oppressed, What life is best?
Courts are but only superficial schools To dandle fools: The rural parts are turned into a den Of savage men; And where's a city from foul vice so free, But may be termed the worst of all the three?
Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Or pains his head: Those that live single, take it for a curse, Or do things worse: Some would have children; those that have them moan Or wish them gone: What is it, then, to have, or have no wife, But single thraldom, or a double strife?
Our own affections still at home to please Is a disease; To cross the seas to any foreign soil, Peril and toil; Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, We are worse in peace: --What then remains, but that we still should cry For being born, or, being born, to die?
Francis Bacon [1561-1626]
”WHEN THAT I WAS AND A LITTLE TINY BOY”
From ”Twelfth Night”
When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to man's estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came, alas! to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came unto my beds, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, With toss-pots still had drunken heads; For the rain it raineth every day.
A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, But that's all one, our play is done, And we'll strive to please you every day.
William Shakespeare [1564-1616]
OF THE LAST VERSES IN THE BOOK
When we for age could neither read nor write, The subject made us able to indite; The soul, with n.o.bler resolutions decked, The body stooping does herself erect.
No mortal parts are requisite to raise Her that, unbodied, can her Maker praise.
The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when pa.s.sions are no more.