Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/229

 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!    THOMAS CAMPION  1567?-1619   168. Cherry-Ripe

There 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.