Whene’er the wast makes too much hast, That hast againe makes too much wast. - William Strode

I saw faire Cloris walke alone
Where feather’d rayne came softly downe,
And Jove descended from his tower
To court her in a silver shower;
The wanton snowe flewe to her breast
Like little birds into their nest,
And overcome with whiteness there
For griefe it thaw’d into a teare,
Thence falling on her garment’s hemme
For greife it freez’d into a gemme.

Weep not because this childe hath dyed so yong,
But weepe because yourselves have livde so long:
Age is not fild by growth of time, for then
What old man lives to see th’ estate of men?
Who sees the age of grande Methusalem?
Ten years make us as old as hundreds him.
Ripenesse is from ourselves: and then wee dye
When nature hath obteynde maturity.
Summer and winter fruits there bee, and all
Not at one time, but being ripe, must fall.
Death did not erre: your mourners are beguilde;
She dyed more like a mother than a childe.
Weigh the composure of her pretty partes:
Her gravity in childhood; all her artes
Of womanly behaviour; weigh her tongue
So wisely measurde, not too short nor long;
And to her youth adde some few riches more,
She tooke upp now what due was at threescore.
She livde seven years, our age’s first degree;
Journeys at first time ended happy bee;
Yet take her stature with the age of man,
They well are fitted: both are but a span.

When Westwell Downes I gan to tread,
Where cleanely wynds the greene did sweepe,
Methought a landskipp there was spread,
Here a bush and there a sheepe: The pleated wrinkles of the face Of wave-swolne earth did lend such grace, As shadowings in Imag’ry Which both deceive and please the eye.The sheepe sometymes did tread the maze
By often wynding in and in,
And sometymes round about they trace
Which milkmayds call a Fairie ring: Such semicircles have they runne, Such lynes acrosse so trymly spunne That sheppeards learne whenere they please A new Geometry with ease.The slender food upon the downe
Is allwayes even, allwayes bare,
Which neither spring nor winter’s frowne
Can ought improve or ought impayre: Such is the barren Eunuches chynne, Which thus doth evermore begynne With tender downe to be orecast Which never comes to haire at last.Here and there twoe hilly crests
Amiddst them hug¢g a pleasant greene,
And these are like twoe swelling breasts
That close a tender fall betweene. Here would I sleepe, or read, or pray From early morne till flight of day: But harke! a sheepe-bell calls mee upp, Like Oxford colledge bells, to supp.