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- 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 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
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