Thomas Heywood

Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, day! With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow:

Seven cities warred for Homer being dead, Who living had no roofe to shrowd his head.

I hold he loves me best that calls me Tom.

Her that ruled the rost in the kitchen.

The world’s a theatre, the earth a stage Which God and Nature do with actors fill.

With this kiss I wed thee once again.