His golden locks time hath to silver turned

His golden locks time hath to silver turned;

O time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!

His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned,

But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing:

Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;

Duty, faith, love, are roots and ever green.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees,

And, lovers' sonnets turned to holy psalms,

A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,

And feed on prayers, which are age his alms:

But though from court to cottage he depart,

His saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in hmely cell,

He'll teach his swains this carol for a song--

"Blessed be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,

Cursed be the souls that think her any wrong."

Goddess, allow this aged man his right,

To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

George Peele

Not iris in her pride

NOT Iris in her pride and bravery

Adorns her arch with such variety;

Nor doth the Milk-white Way in frosty night

Appear so fair and beautiful in sight,

As do these fields and groves and sweetest bowers

Bestrewed and decked with parti-coloured flowers.

Along the bubbling brooks and silver glide,

That at the bottom doth in silence slide,

The water-flowers and lilies on the banks

Like blazing comets burgeon all in ranks;

Under the hawthorn and the poplar tree,

Where sacred Phoebe may delight to be,

The primrose and the purple hyacinth,

The dainty violet and the wholesome minth,

The double-daisy and the cowslip (Queen)

Of summer flowers) do over-peer the green;

And round about the valley as ye pass,

Ye may not see, for peeping flowers, the grass.

George Peele