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Thomas Nashe

Blest is that government where no art thrives.

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Our learning ought to be our lives' amendment, and the fruits of our private study ought to appear in our public behavior.

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A traveler must have the back of an ass to bear all,
a tongue like the tail of a dog to flatter all,
the mouth of a hog to eat what is set before him,
the ear of a merchant to hear all and say nothing.

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Fair Summer Droops

Fair summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore,
So fair a summer look for nevermore:
All good things vanish less than in a day,
Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay.
Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year,
The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.

What, shall those flowers that decked thy garland erst,
Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed?
O trees, consume your sap in sorrow's source,
Streams, turn to tears your tributary course.
Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year,
The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.

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Spring, The Sweet Spring

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king,
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!

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Spring, the Sweet Spring

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king,
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!

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Summer's Last Will and Testament (excerpt)

1 Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king,
2 Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
3 Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
4 Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

5 The palm and may make country houses gay,
6 Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
7 And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
8 Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

9 The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
10 Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
11 In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
12 Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!

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To The Right Honorable The Lord S.

Pardon, _sweete flower of Matchles poetrie,
And fairest bud the red rose euer bare;
Although my Muse, devorst from deeper care,
Presents thee with a wanton Elegie.

Ne blame my verse of loose unchastitie
For painting forth the things that hidden are,
Since all men acte what I in speache declare,
Onlie induced with varietie.

Complants and praises euery one can write,
And passion out their pangu's in statlie rimes;
But of loues pleasures none did euer write,
That have succeeded in theis latter times.

Accept of it, Deare Lord, in gentle gree,
And better lynes, ere long, shall honor thee.

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Poem 2 From Pierce Penilesse

Perusing yesternight with idle eyes,
The Fairy Singers stately tuned verse:
And viewing after Chap-mens wonted guise,
What strange contents the title did rehearse.
I streight leapt ouer to the latter end,
Where like the queint Com├Ždians of our time,
That when their Play is doone do fal to ryme,
I found short lines, to sundry Nobles pend.
Whom he as speciall Mirrours singled fourth,
To be the Patrons of his Poetry;
I read them all, and reuerenc't their worth,
Yet wondred he left out thy memory.
But therefore gest I he supprest thy name,
Because few words might not co[m]prise thy fame.

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Spring

SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing--
   Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay--
   Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet--
   Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
   Spring, the sweet Spring!

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