English

As itt beffell in Midsumer time
When burds singe sweetlye on euery tree,

Our noble King, King Henery the eighth,
Ouer the riuer of Thames past hee.

Hee was no sooner ouer the riuer,
Downe in a fforrest to take the ayre,
But eighty merchants of London cittye
Came kneeling before King Henery there.

O yee are welcome, rich merchants,
[Good saylors, welcome unto me.]
They swore by the rood they were saylers good
But rich merchants they cold not bee.

To France nor Flanders dare we nott passe

As it fell out one May morning,
And upon a bright holiday,
Sweet Jesus asked of his dear mother
If he might go to play.
" To play, to play, sweet Jesus shall go,
And to play now get you gone;
And let me hear of no complaint
At night when you come home."

Sweet Jesus went down to yonder town,
As far as the Holy Well,
And there did see as fine children
As any tongue can tell.
He said, " God bless you every one,
And your bodies Christ save and see!
And now, little children, I'll play with you,

As it fell out on a holiday,
A high holiday so high,
Sweet Jesus he asked his own mother dear
Whether he should go and play.

" To play, to play, my own dear son,
It's time that you are gone,
And don't let me hear no complaints of you
At night when you do come home.

" You'll go back to the merry little town
As far as the holy well,
And there you'll see as fine children
That as every tongue can tell."

" They say they were lords' and ladies' sons,
The meanest among them all,

As it fell one holy-day--
As many be in the yeare,
When young men and maids together did goe,
Their mattins and masses to heare,

Little Musgrave came to the church-dore;
The priest was at private masse;
But he had more minde of the faire women
Then he had of our lady's grace

The one of them was clad in green,
Another was clad in pall,
And then came in Lord Barnard's wife,
The fairest amonst them all.

She cast an eye on Little Musgrave,
As bright as the summer sun;

as is the sea marvelous
from god's
hands which sent her forth
to sleep upon the world

and the earth withers
the moon crumbles
one by one
stars flutter into dust

but the sea
does not change
and she goes forth out of hands and
she returns into hands

and is with sleep....

love,
the breaking
of your
soul
upon

As in the night I restless lie,
I the watch-candle keep in eye;
The innocent I often blame,
For the slow wasting of its flame.
Sweet ease! — O whither are you fled! —
With one short slumber ease my head!

My curtain oft I draw away,
Eager to see the morning ray;
But when the morning gilds the skies,
The morning no relief supplies.
To me, alas! the morning light
Is as afflictive as the night.

My vigorous cries to God ascend,
Oh! — will not God my cries attend?
Can God paternal love forbear —

There is no rose of such virtue
As is the rose that bare Jesu:
Alleluia!

For in that rose containèd was
Heaven and earth in little space:
Res Miranda!

By that rose we well may see
There be One God in Persons Three:
Pares Forma!

The angels sang, the shepherds too:
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Gaudeamus!

Leave we all this worldly mirth
And follow we this joyful birth:
Transeamus!

As in the depths of an ancient cavern
lost in the recesses of the mountain,
silently, these centuries, a drop
of water falls;
so in my dark and solitary heart,
in the most hidden secret of my vitals,
I have heard, this long time past, a tear
slowly falling.
What dark cranny filters it to me?
From what mysterious springs does it distil?
To what fertile torrent is it faithless?
From what far source is it to me consigned?
Who knows? . . . When I was a child my tears
were the celestial dew that morning sheds;

As in a duskie and tempestuous Night,
A Starre is wont to spreade her Lockes of Gold,
And while her pleasant Rayes abroad are roll'd,
Some spiteful Cloude doth robbe us of her Sight:
(Faire Soule) in this black Age so shin'd thou bright,
And made all Eyes with Wonder thee beholde,
Till uglie Death depriving us of Light,
In his grimme mistie Armes thee did enfolde.
Who more shall vaunt true Beautie heere to see?
What Hope doth more in any Heart remaine,
That such Perfections shall his Reason raine?

“As I went up to London,”
I heard a stranger say—
Going up to London
In such a casual way!
He turned the magic phrase
That has haunted all my days
As though it were a common thing
For careless lips to say.
As he went up to London!
I'll wager many a crown
He never saw the road that I
Shall take to London town

When I go up to London
'Twill be in April weather.
I'll have a riband on my rein
And flaunt a scarlet feather;
The broom will toss its brush for me;