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Thomas Vaux

A Quiet Mind

When all is done and said,
In the end thus shall you find,
He most of all doth bathe in bliss
That hath a quiet mind:
And, clear from worldly cares,
To deem can be content,
The sweetest time in all his life
In thinking to be spent.

The body subject is
To fickle Fortune's power,
And to a million of mishaps
Is casual every hour;
And death in time doth change
It to a clod of clay;
Whereas the mind, which is divine,
Runs never to decay.

Companion none is like
Unto the mind alone;

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Try Before You Trust

To counsel my estate, abandoned to the spoil
Of forged friends, whose grossest fraud is set with finest foil;
To verify true dealing wights, whose trust no treason dreads,
And all too dear th'acquaintance be, of such most harmful heads;
I am advised thus: who so doth friend, friend so,
As though tomorrow next he feared for to become a foe.

To have a feigned friend, no peril like I find;
Oft fleering face may mantle best a mischief in the mind.
A pair of angel's ears oft times doth hide a serpent's heart,
Under whose grips who so doth come, too late complains the smart.
Wherefore I do advise, who doth friend, friend so,
As though tomorrow next he should become a mortal foe.

Refuse respecting friends that courtly know to feign,
For gold that wins for gold shall lose the selfsame friends again.
The quail needs never fear in fowler's nets to fall,
If he would never bend his ear to listen to his call.
Therefore trust not too soon, but when you friend, friend so,
As though tomorrow next ye feared for to become a foe.

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The Aged Lover Renounceth Love

. I loathe that I did love,
In youth that I thought sweet;
As time requires for my behove,
Me thinks they are not meet.
My lusts they do me leave,
My fancies all be fled,
And tract of time begins to weave
Gray hairs upon my head.
For age, with stealing steps,
Hath clawed me with his crutch,
And lusty life away she leaps
As there had been none such.
My muse doth not delight
Me as she did before,
My hand and pen are not in plight
As they have been of yore.
For reason me denies
This youthly idle rhyme,
And day by day to me she cries,
Leave off these toys in time.

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