A Fable
Ralph Waldo Emerson
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel
And the former called the latter “Little Prig”
Bun replied
“You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make a year,
And a spear,
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I’m not so large as you,
You are not so small as I
And not half so spry;
I’ll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track.
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.”
The Prologue
Geoffrey Chaucer
When April with its showers sweet,
The drought of March has pierced to the root,
And bathed every vein in such liquor,
Of whose magic engendered is the flower;
And the wind with its sweet breath
Has touched in every nook and corner
The tender crops, and the young sun,
Has half of his course run;
The small birds make melody,
So people long to go on pilgrimages.
And especially from every shire
Of England to Canterbury they go.

The Knight
Geoffrey Chaucer
A knight there was and that a worthy man,
That from the time that he first began
To ride out, he loved chivalry,
Truth and honor, freedom and courtesy.
Full worthy was he in his Lord’s wars
And even honored for his worthiness.
Full many time at head of board he sat.
And even more he earned his sovereign praise.
And though he was worthy, he was modest
And his bearing as meek as a maid.
He never yet no villainy has said.
He was very true and gentle perfect knight.

Song to Celia
Ben Jonson
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I’ll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine,

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be;

But thou thereon didst only breathe
And sent’st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

Rosalind’s Madrigal
Thomas Lodge
Love in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck in his sweet;
Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he,
Will pretty flight,
And makes pillow of my knee
The livelong night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
His music plays if I but sing;
He lends me every lovely thing;
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting
Whist, wanton still ye!

Else I with roses everyday
Will whip you hence,
And bind you, when you long to play
For your offense..
I’ll shut my eyes to keep you in,
I’ll make you fast it for your sin,
I’ll count your power not worth a pin.
Alas! What hereby shall I win
If he gainsay me?