Maesia's Song

SWEET are the thoughts that savor of content;

The quiet mind is richer than a crown;

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;

The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown.

Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,

Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.

The homely house that harbors quiet rest;

The cottage that affords no pride nor care;

The mean that 'grees with country music best;

The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare;

Obscurèd life sets down a type of bliss:

A mind content both crown and kingdom is.

Robert Greene

The Shepherd's Wife's Song

AH, what is love? It is a pretty thing,

As sweet unto a shepherd as a king--

And sweeter too,

For kings have cares that wait upon a crown,

And cares can make the sweetest love to frown,

Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,

What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

His flocks once folded, he comes home at night

As merry as a king in his delight--

And merrier too,

For kings bethink them what the state require,

Where shepherds careless carol by the fire,

Ah, then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,

What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat

His cream and curds as doth the king his meat--

And blither too,

For kings have often fears when they do sup,

Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup,

Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,

What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

To bed he goes, as wanton then, I ween,

As is a king in dalliance with a queen--

More wanton too,

For kings have many griefs, affects to move,

Where shepherds have no greater grief than love,

Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,

What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound

As doth the king upon his beds of down--

More sounder too,

For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill,

Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill.

Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,

What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Thus with his wife he spends the year, as blithe

As doth the king, at every tide or sithe--

And blither too,

For kings have wars and broils to take in hand,

Where shepherds laugh and love upon the land.

Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,

What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Robert Greene

Cupid abroad was lated

CUPID abroad was lated in the night,

His wings were wet with ranging in the rain;

Harbor he sought, to me he took his flight

To dry his plumes. I heard the boy complain:

      I oped the door and granted his desire,

      I rose myself, and made the wag a fire.

Looking more narrow by the fire's flame,

I spied his quiver hanging by his back.

Doubting the boy might my misfortune frame,

I would have gone, for fear of further wrack;

      But what I drad did me, poor wretch, betide,

      For forth he drew an arrow from his side.

He pierced the quick, and I began to start,

A pleasing wound but that it was too high;

His shaft procured a sharp yet sugared smart.

Away he flew, for why is wings were dry;

      But left the arrow sticking in my breast,

      That sore I grieved I welcomed such a guest.

Robert Greene

Weep Not, My Wanton

WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:

When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

Mother's wag, pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy.

When thy father first did see

Such a boy by him and me,

He was glad, I was woe:

Fortune changèd made him so,

When he left his pretty boy,

Last his sorrow, first his joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:

When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

Streaming tears that never stint,

Like pearl drops from a flint,

Fell by course from his eyes,

That one another's place supplies:

Thus he grieved in every part,Tears of blood fell from his heart,

When he left his pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:

When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

The wanton smiled, father wept;

Mother cried, baby lept;

More he crowed, more we cried;

Nature could not sorrow hide.

He must go, he must kiss

Child and mother, baby bliss;

For he left his pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:

When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

Robert Greene

The Description of Sir Geoffrey Chaucer

HIS stature was not very tall,

Lean he was, his legs were small,

Hosed within a sock of red,

A buttoned bonnet on his head,

From under which did hang, I ween,

Silver hairs both bright and sheen.

His beard was white, trimmèd round,

His countenance blithe and merry found.

His sleeveless jacket large and wide,

With many plights and skirts side,

Of water camlet did he wear;

A whittle by his belt he wear,

His shoes were cornered, broad before,

His inkhorn at his side he wore,

And in his hand he bore a book.

Thus did this ancient poet look.

Robert Greene