Vertue

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season’d timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

Antiphon

Chor. Praised be the God of love,
Men. Here below,
Ang. And here above:
Chor. Who hath dealt his mercies so,
Men. To his friend,
Ang. And to his foe;
Chor. That both grace and glorie tend
Ang. Us of old,
Men. And us in th’end.

Chor. The great shepherd of the fold
Ang. Us did make,
Men. For us was sold.

Chor. He our foes in pieces brake;
Ang. Him we touch;
Men. And him we take.
Chor. Wherefore since that he is such,
Ang. We adore,
Men. And we do crouch.

Chor. Lord, thy praises should be more.
Men. We have none,
Ang. And we no store.
Chor. Praised be the God alone,
Who hath made of two folds one.