She may be well compared

Unto the Phoenix kind,

Whose like was never seen nor heard,
That any man can find.

In life she is Diana chaste,
In truth Penelope ;

In work and eke in deed steadfast.
What will you more we say?

If all the world were sought so far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.

Her roseal colour comes and goes
With such a comely grace,

More ruddier, too, than doth the rose,
Within her lively face.

At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet,

Ne at no wanton play,

Nor gazing in an open street,

Nor gadding as a stray.

The modest mirth that she doth use

Is mixed with shamefastness;
All vice she doth wholly refuse,
And hateth idleness.

O Lord! it is a world to see
How virtue can repair,
And deck her in such honesty,
Whom nature made so fair.

Truly she doth so far exceed
Our women nowadays,

As doth the gillyflower a weed;,
And more a thousand ways.

How might I do to get a graff
Of this unspotted tree?

For all the rest are plain but chaff,
Which seem good corn to be.

This gift alone I shall her give:
When death doth what he can,
Her honest fame shall ever live
Within the mouth of man.

III.

BEING DISDAINED HE COMPLAINETH.1

(By Thomas Lord Vaux. Died in 1557.)

F friendless faith, if guiltless thought may shield;

If simple truth that never meant to

swerve;

If dear desire accepted fruit do yield;

If greedy lust in loyal life do serve;
Then may my plaint bewail my heavy harm,
That, seeking calm, have stumbled on the storm.

My wonted cheer,-eclipsed by the cloud
Of deep disdain, through error of report,
If weary woe enwrapped in the shroud,
Lies slain by tongue of the unfriendly sort;

"Paradise of Dainty Devices," 1576, &c.

K

Yet heaven and earth, and all that nature wrought,
I call to vow of my unspotted thought.

No shade I seek in part to shield my taint,
But simple truth; I hunt no other suit:
On that I ga[g]e the issue of my plaint;

If that I quail, let justice me confute:
If that my place among the guiltless sort
Repay by doom my name and good report.
Go, heavy verse; pursue desired grace;

Where pity shrined in cell of secret breast Awaits my haste the rightful lot to place,

And loathes to see the guiltless man oppressed: Whose virtues great have crowned her more with fame

Than kingly state, though largely shine the same. L. VAUX.

IV.

OF THE MEAN ESTATE.1

(By Thomas Lord Vaux or W. Hunnis.)

HE higher that the cedar tree unto the heavens do[th] grow,

The more in danger is the top when sturdy winds gan blow.

Who judges them in princely throne to be devoid

of hate,

1 "Paradise of Dainty Devices;" in edit. 1578 signed W. H; in edits. 1580 and 1596 signed W. Hunnis; in other edits. L. V. (or Lord Vaux).

Doth not yet know what heaps of ill lie hid in such

estate.

Such dangers great, such gripes of mind, such toil do they sustain,

That oftentimes of God they wish to be unkinged again.

For as the huge and mighty rocks withstand the raging seas,

So kingdoms in subjection be whenas Dame Fortune please.

Of brittle joy, of smiling cheer, of honey mixed with gall,

Allotted is to every prince in freedom to be thrall: What watches long, what sleeps unsure, what griefs and cares of mind,

What bitter broils, what endless toils, to kingdoms be assigned!

The subject then may well compare with prince for pleasant days,

Whose silent night brings quiet rest, whose steps no storm bewrays.

How much be we then bound to God, who such provision makes

To lay our cares upon the prince! Thus doth He for our sakes.

To Him therefore let us lift up our hearts and pray amain,

That every prince that He hath placed may long in quiet reign.

V.

OF A CONTENTED MIND.1

(By Thomas Lord Vaux.)

HEN 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,

Whenas the mind, which is divine,

Runs never to decay.

Companion none is like

Unto the mind alone;

For many have been harmed by speech;
Through thinking few or none:

"Paradise of Dainty Devices," 1576, &c.