THOMAS NASHE

Wit with his wantonness Tasteth death's bitterness; Hell's executioner Hath no ears for to hear What vain art can reply ; I am sick, I must die

Lord, have mercy on us !

Haste therefore each degree To welcome destiny ; Heaven is our heritage, Earth but a player's stage. Mount we unto the sky ; I am sick, I must die

Lord, have mercy on us I

��THOMAS CAMPION 168. Cherry- Ripe

T^HERE is a garden in her face

• Where roses and white lilies blow;

A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow :

There cherries grow which none may buy Till ' Cherry-ripe ' themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow ; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy Till 'Cherry-ripe* themselves do cry.

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