I do not wish the wealth of Gyges mine ,
Never did emulate nor ere repine
At Heavens decrees; Nor covet I to be
A mighty Prince, these things are far from me.

A network handkerchief contains no tear.
'Tis dawn at court ere wine and music sate.
The rich red crops no aftermath await,
Rest on a screen, and you will fall, I fear.

This Lock of Queen Elisabeth's owne Hair was presented to Sir Philip Sidney by Her Majesty's owne faire hands, on which He made these verses, and gaue them to them to the Queen, on his bended knee. Anno Domini 1573.
Her inward worth all outward Show transcends,
Envy her Merits with Regret Commends,
Like Sparkling Gems her Vertues draw the Sight,
And in her Conduct She is alwaies Bright;
When She imparts her thoughts her words have force,
And Sence and Wisdom flow in sweet Discourse.

In vain physicians mingle bitter drinks
While the sick stomach still of sugar thinks.

The Primrose

Sweet primrose peeping in the hazel copse
Beneath the maple roots of grass green moss
Where hermit woodman at his labour stops
Or may be peeping by a clump of gorse
Its sulphur bunches flower with brunny eye

When I visit a spot I have witnessd before
In infancys innocent day
Or see a sweet place I may never see more
From my own native fields far away
Some shade which I found when the hot summer smild
How long reccolection endears
I picture them fresh in my mind like a child
& keep them in memory for years.

Farey elves those minute things
That sleep and dream in flowers
That come on summers golden wings
To dance in moonlight bowers
That on a mushroom table sups
By glowworms trembling light
& drink their dews from acorn cups
Thro summers pleasant night.

The roads begin to stand wi spungy pudges
& the maid of[t] pauses on her way
To spy a stone or tuft of grass
To stride on & escape a[c]ross
Without wet feet.

The winter winnowed chill And fast came down the snow
T'was white on every hill In rucks the drift did blow
When a bonny Irish maiden
Came barefoot throug[h] the Snow.

Came it to your ears to hear
What the gaunt philosopher
One day, in his wisdom, said
To a proud, fat, pudding-head?
" Friend! " quoth he, " an Arab steed,
Though he should be lean indeed,
By his quality surpasses
All a stableful of asses! "