No More Learning

475. UPON HIS DEPARTURE HENCE.

Thus I
Pass by,
And die:
As one
Unknown
And gone:
I'm made
A shade,
And laid
I' th' grave:
There have
My cave,
Where tell
I dwell.
Farewell.


476. THE WASSAIL.

Give way, give way, ye gates, and win
An easy blessing to your bin
And basket, by our entering in.

May both with manchet stand replete;
Your larders, too, so hung with meat,
That though a thousand, thousand eat,

Yet, ere twelve moons shall whirl about
Their silv'ry spheres, there's none may doubt
But more's sent in than was served out.

Next, may your dairies prosper so
As that your pans no ebb may know;
But if they do, the more to flow,

Like to a solemn sober stream
Bank'd all with lilies, and the cream
Of sweetest cowslips filling them.

Then, may your plants be prest with fruit,
Nor bee, or hive you have be mute;
But sweetly sounding like a lute.

Next, may your duck and teeming hen
Both to the cock's tread say Amen;
And for their two eggs render ten.

Last, may your harrows, shears, and ploughs,
Your stacks, your stocks, your sweetest mows,
All prosper by our virgin vows.

Alas! we bless, but see none here
That brings us either ale or beer;
_In a dry house all things are near_.

Let's leave a longer time to wait,
Where rust and cobwebs bind the gate,
And all live here with needy fate.
Where chimneys do for ever weep
For want of warmth, and stomachs keep,
With noise, the servants' eyes from sleep.

It is in vain to sing, or stay
Our free feet here; but we'll away:
Yet to the Lares this we'll say:

The time will come when you'll be sad
And reckon this for fortune bad,
T'ave lost the good ye might have had.

_Manchet_, fine white bread.
_Prest_, laden.
_Near_, penurious.
_Leave to wait_, cease waiting.


477. UPON A LADY FAIR BUT FRUITLESS.

Twice has Pudica been a bride, and led
By holy Hymen to the nuptial bed.
Two youths she's known thrice two, and twice three years;
Yet not a lily from the bed appears:
Nor will; for why, Pudica this may know,
_Trees never bear unless they first do blow_.


478. HOW SPRINGS CAME FIRST.

These springs were maidens once that lov'd,
But lost to that they most approv'd:
My story tells by Love they were
Turn'd to these springs which we see here;
The pretty whimpering that they make,
When of the banks their leave they take,
Tells ye but this, they are the same,
In nothing chang'd but in their name.


479. TO ROSEMARY AND BAYS.

My wooing's ended: now my wedding's near
When gloves are giving, gilded be you there.