We rise with the lark and go to bed with the lamb.

quote by Nicholas Breton
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I wish my deadly foe no worse Than want of friends, and empty purse.

quote by Nicholas Breton
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Thus much for thy assurance know; a hollow friend is but a hellish foe.

quote by Nicholas Breton
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An Odd Conceit

Lovely kind, and kindly loving,
Such a mind were worth the moving;
Truly fair, and fairly true-
Where are all these, but in you?

Wisely kind, and kindly wise;
Blessed life, where such love lies!
Wise, and kind, and fair, and true-
Lovely live all these in you.

Sweetly dear, and dearly sweet;
Blessed, where these blessings meet!
Sweet, fair, wise, kind, blessed, true-
Blessed be all these in you!

poem by Nicholas Breton
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A Report Song In A Dream, Between A Shepherd And His Nymph

Shall we go dance the hay? _The hay?_
Never pipe could ever play
Better shepherd's roundelay.

Shall we go sing the song? _The song?_
Never Love did ever wrong.
Fair maids, hold hands all along.

Shall we go learn to woo? _To woo?_
Never thought came ever to[o](?)
Better deed could better do.

Shall we go learn to kiss? _To kiss?_
Never heart could ever miss
Comfort where true meaning is.

Thus at base they run, _They run,_
When the sport was scarce begun;
But I waked, and all was done.

poem by Nicholas Breton
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Another Of The Same (A Report Song In A Dream)

Say that I should say I love ye,
Would you say 'tis but a saying?
But if Love in prayers move ye,
Will ye not be moved with praying?

Think I think that Love should know ye,
Will you think 'tis but a thinking?
But if Love the thought do show ye,
Will ye loose your eyes with winking?

Write that I do write you blessed,
Will you write 'tis but a writing?
But if Truth and Love confess it,
Will ye doubt the true inditing?

No, I say, and think, and write it,
Write, and think, and say your pleasure;
Love, and truth, and I indite it,
You are blessèd out of measure.

poem by Nicholas Breton
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An Assurance

Say that I should say I love ye,
Would you say 'tis but a saying?
But if love in prayers move ye,
Will ye not be moved with praying?

Think I think that love should know ye,
Will you think 'tis but a thinking?
But if love the thought do show ye,
Will ye lose your eyes with winking?

Write that I do write you blessed,
Will you write 'tis but a writing?
But if truth and love confess it,
Will ye doubt the true inditing?

No, I say, and think, and write it,
Write, and think, and say your pleasure;
Love, and truth, and I indite it,
You are blessed out of measure.

poem by Nicholas Breton
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Pretty Twinkling Starry Eyes

Pretty twinkling starry eyes!
How did Nature first devise
Such a sparkling in your sight
As to give Love such delight
As to make him, like a fly,
Play with looks until he die?

Sure you were not made at first
For such mischief to be cursed,
As to kill affection's care
That doth only truth declare.
Where worth's wonders never wither
Love and Beauty live together.

Blessed eyes! then give your blessing
That, in passion's best expressing,
Love, that only lives to grace ye,
May not suffer to deface ye;
But in gentle thoughts directions,
Show the praise of your perfections.

poem by Nicholas Breton
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Sonnet

The worldly prince doth in his sceptre hold
A kind of heaven in his authorities;
The wealthy miser, in his mass of gold,
Makes to his soul a kind of Paradise;
The epicure that eats and drinks all day,
Accounts no heaven, but in his hellish routs;
And she, whose beauty seems a sunny day,
Makes up her heaven but in her baby's clouts.
But, my sweet God, I seek no prince's power,
No miser's wealth, nor beauty's fading gloss,
Which pamper sin, whose sweets are inward sour,
And sorry gains that breed the spirit's loss:
No, my dear Lord, let my Heaven only be
In my Love's service, but to live to thee.

poem by Nicholas Breton
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A Pastoral.

Sweet birds! that sit and sing among the shady valleys,
And see how sweetly Phyllis walks amid her garden alleys,
Go round about her bower, and sing as ye are bidden:
To her is only known his faith that from the world is hidden,
And she among you all that hath the sweetest voice,
Go chirp of him that never told, yet never changed, his voice.

And not forget his faith that lived forever loved
Yet never made his fancy known, nor ever favor moved;
And ever let your ground of all your grace be this-
'To you, to you, to you the due of love and honor is,
On you, on you, on you our music all attendeth,
For as on you our Muse begun, in you all music endeth.'

poem by Nicholas Breton
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