Then the sun full soone shott under the clouds,
And it darkened full dimlie and drew towards night.
Every ryncke to his rest full radlye him dressed;
Beeten fires full fast, and feteled them to sowpe
Besides Barwicke on a banke, within a broad woode.
Then dauned the day, soe deere God ordayned;
Clowdes cast up full cleerlye, like castles full hie.
Then Phebus full faire flourished out his beames
With leames full light all the land over.
All was damped with dew the daysies about;
Flowers flourished in the field, fair to behold;

The grace of Tullies eloquence doth excell
any Englishmans tongue ... my barbarous stile ...

The tongue our leaders use to cast their spell
was once denounced as " rude " , " gross " , " base " and " vile " .

How fortunate we are who've come so far!

We boys can take old Hansards and translate
the British Empire into SPQR
but nothing demotic or too up-to-date,
and not the English that I speak at home,
not Hansard standards, and if Antoninus
spoke like delinquent Latin back in Rome
he'd probably get gamma double minus.

Read and committed to the flames, I call
these sixteen lines that go back to my roots
my Cahier d'un retour au pays natal ,
my growing black enough to fit my boots.

The stutter of the scold out of the branks
of condescension, class and counter-class
thickens with glottals to a lumpen mass
of Ludding morphemes closing up their ranks.
Each swung cast-iron Enoch of Leeds stress
clangs a forged music on the frames of Art,
the looms of owned language smashed apart!

Three cheers for mute ingloriousness!

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;
Here's to the widow of fifty;
Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean,
And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.
Chorus
Let the toast pass,--
Drink to the lass,

I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.

Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize;
Now to the maid who has none, sir:
Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here's to the nymph with but one, sir.

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow;
Now to her that's as brown as a berry:

Eastern neighbor, western neighbor:
swallows flying.
Tomorrow or the next day,
spring will be gone.
Much sadness, much illness,
saying goodbye:
no wine, no money,
pawning my clothes!

There was a devil and his name was I;
From out Profundus he did cry:
He changed his note as he changed his coat,
And his coat was of a varying dye.
It had many a hue: in hell 'twas blue,
'Twas green i' the sea, and white i' the sky.
O, do not ask me, ask me why
'Twas green i' the sea, and white i' the sky;
Why from Profundus he did cry:
Suffice that he wailed with a chirruping note,
And quaintly cut was his motley coat. —

I have forgot the rest. Would I could sleep;
Would I could sleep away an age or so,

FROM SATURDAY MARKET

In Saturday Market, there's eggs a-plenty
And dead-alive ducks with their legs tied down,
Gray old gaffers and boys of twenty —
Girls and the women of the town —
Pitchers and sugar-sticks, ribbons and laces,
Posies and whips and dicky-birds' seed,
Silver pieces and smiling faces,
In Saturday Market they've all they need.

A spending hand that alway powreth owte
Had nede to have a bringer in as fast,
And on the stone that still doeth tourne abowte
There groweth no mosse: these proverbes yet do last.
Reason hath set theim in so sure a place
That lenght of yeres their force can never wast.
When I remembre this and eke the case
Where in thou stondes I thowght forthwith to write,
Brian, to the, who knowes how great a grace
In writing is to cownsell man the right.
To the, therefore, that trottes still up and downe,
And never restes, but runnyng day and nyght

Myne owne John Poynz, sins ye delight to know
The cause why that homeward I me drawe,
And fle the presse of courtes wher soo they goo,
Rather then to lyve thrall, under the awe
Of lordly lokes, wrappid within my cloke,
To will and lust learning to set a lawe;
It is not for becawse I skorne or moke
The powar of them, to whome fortune hath lent
Change over us, of Right, to strike the stroke:
But true it is that I have allwais ment
Lesse to estime them then the common sort,
Of outward thinges that juge in their intent,

My mothers maydes when they did sowe and spynne,
They sang sometyme a song of the feld mowse,
That forbicause her lyvelood was but thynne,
Would nedes goo seke her townysshe systers howse.
She thought her self endured to much pain,
The stormy blastes her cave so sore did sowse,
That when the forowse swymmed with the rain
She must lye cold and whete in sorry plight;
And wours then that, bare meet there did remain
To comfort her when she her howse had dight,
Sometyme a barly corne, sometyme a bene,
For which she laboured hard boeth daye and nyght