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Green Bays. Verses and Parodies

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     Senex. Saye, cushat, callynge from the brake,               What ayles thee soe to pyne?             Thy carefulle heart shall cease to ake                 When dayes be fyne                 And greene thynges twyne:               Saye, cushat, what thy griefe to myne?

    Turtur. Naye, gossyp, loyterynge soe late,               What ayles thee thus to chyde?             My love is fled by garden-gate;                 Since Lammas-tyde                 I wayte my bryde.               Saye, gossyp, whom dost thou abyde?

     Senex. Loe! I am he, the 'Lonelie Manne,'               Of Time forgotten quite,             That no remembered face may scanne—                 Sadde eremyte,                 I wayte tonyghte               Pale Death, nor any other wyghte.

             O cushat, cushat, callynge lowe,               Goe waken Time from sleepe:             Goe whysper in his ear, that soe                 His besom sweepe                 Me to that heape               Where all my recollections keepe.

             Hath he forgott? Or did I viewe               A ghostlye companye             This even, by the dismalle yewe,                 Of faces three                 That beckoned mee               To land where no repynynges bee?

             O Harrye, Harrye, Tom and Dicke,               Each lost companion!             Why loyter I among the quicke,                 When ye are gonne?                 Shalle I alone               Delayinge crye 'Anon, Anon'?

             Naye, let the spyder have my gowne,               To brayde therein her veste.             My cappe shal serve, now I 'goe downe,'                 For mouse's neste.                 Loe! this is best.               I care not, soe I gayne my reste.


     Not on the neck of prince or hound,       Nor on a woman's finger twin'd,     May gold from the deriding ground       Keep sacred that we sacred bind:                Only the heel                Of splendid steel       Shall stand secure on sliding fate,       When golden navies weep their freight.

     The scarlet hat, the laurell'd stave        Are measures, not the springs, of worth;     In a wife's lap, as in a grave,        Man's airy notions mix with earth....