FROM LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.

Spring.

WHEN daisies pied, and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckow-buds of yellow hue,

Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckow then, on every tree,
Mocks marry'd men, for thus sings he,
Cuckow;

Cuckow, cuckow,-O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a marry'd ear!

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,

And merry larks are plowmen's clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,

And maidens bleach their summer smocks, The cuckow then, on every tree,

Mocks marry'd men, for thus sings he,
Cuckow;

Cuckow, cuckow,-O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a marry'd ear!

Winter.

When icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,

And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-who;

Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-who;

Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

FROM THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

TELL me, where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?

It is engender'd in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies:

Let us all ring fancy's knell,
I'll begin it,- -Ding dong, bell.
Ding dong, bell.

FROM AS YOU LIKE IT.

UNDER the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Why should this a desert be?
For it is unpeopled? No;
Tongues I'll hang on every tree,
That shall civil sayings show.
Some, how brief the life of man
Runs his erring pilgrimage;
That the stretching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age.
Some, of violated vows

"Twixt the souls of friend and friend: But upon the fairest boughs,

Or at every sentence' end,
Will I Rosalinda write;

Teaching all that read, to know
This quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show.
Therefore heaven nature charg'd,
That one body should be fill'd
With all graces wide enlarg'd:
Nature presently distill'd
Helen's cheek, but not her heart;
Cleopatra's majesty:
Atalanta's better part;

Sad Lucretia's modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devis'd; Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,

To have the touches dearest priz'd. Heaven would that she these gifts should have, And I to live and die her slave.

FROM CYMBELINE.

HARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chalic'd flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes; With every thing that pretty bin; My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise!

Guid. Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Both golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Arv. Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe, and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this and come to dust.

Guid. Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Arv. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Guid. Fear not slander, censure rash;
Arv. Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
Both. All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign to thee and come to dust.

Guid. No exorciser harm thee!
Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Guid. Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Arv. Nothing ill come near thee!
Both. Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!

JOHN WEBSTER.

A DIRGE.

CALL for the Robin-redbreast, and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,

To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

A DIRGE.

HARK, now every thing is still;

The screech-owl, and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,

And bid her quickly d'on her shroud.
Much ye had of land and rent;
Your length in clay now's competent.
A long war disturb'd the mind:
Here the perfect peace is signed.

Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?

Sin, their conception; their birth, weeping:
Their life, a general mist of error,
Their death, a hideous storm of terror.

Strew the hair with powder sweet,
D'on clean linen, bathe the feet:
And (the foul fiend more to check)

A crucifix let bless the neck.

'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day: End the groan, and come away.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

FROM THE ELDER BROTHER. BEAUTY clear and fair,

Where the air

Rather like a perfume dwells,
Where the violet and the rose

Their blue veins in blush disclose, And come to honour nothing else:

Where to live near,

And planted there,

Is to live, and still live new;
Where to gain a favour is
More than light, perpetual bliss,
Make me live by serving you.

Dear, again back recall
To this light,

A stranger to himself and all;
Both the wonder and the story
Shall be yours, and eke the glory:
I am your servant, and your thrall.

FROM THE MAID'S TRAGEDY.

Asp. LAY a garland on my hearse,
Of the dismal yew;

Maidens willow branches bear;
Say, I died true:

My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth,
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!

Dula. I could never have the pow'r
To love one above an hour,

But my heart would prompt mine eye
On some other man to fly:

Venus, fix thou mine eyes fast,

Or if not, give me all that I shall see at last.

FROM THE LITTLE FRENCH LAWYER.

THIS way, this way, come and hear,
You that hold these pleasures dear;
Fill your ears with our sweet sound,
Whilst we melt the frozen ground.
This way come; make haste, oh, fair!
Let your clear eyes gild the air;
Come, and bless us with your sight;
This
way, this way, seek delight!

FROM VALENTINIAN.

HEAR ye, ladies that despise
What the mighty love has done;
Fear examples, and be wise:
Fair Calista was a nun;

FROM THE NICE VALOUR, OR THE PASSIONATE
MADMAN.

HENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy;

Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up, without a sound!

Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd, save bats and owl!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley:
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

Ye should stay longer if we durst:
Away! alas, that he that first
Gave time wild wings to fly away,
Hath now no power to make him stay!
But tho' these games must needs be play'd,
I would this pair, when they are laid,

And not a creature nigh 'em,
Could catch his scythe as he doth pass,
And cut his wings, and break his glass,
And keep him ever by 'em.
Peace and silence be the guide
To the man, and to the bride!
If there be a joy yet new

In marriage, let it fall on you,

That all the world may wonder!

If we should stay, we should do worse,
And turn our blessing to a curse,
By keeping you asunder.

FLETCHER.

FROM THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS.

Satyr. THOROUGH yon same bending plain
That flings his arms down to the main,
And thro' these thick woods have I run,
Whose bottom never kiss'd the sun
Since the lusty spring began,
All to please my master Pan,
Have I trotted without rest
To get him fruit; for at a feast
He entertains, this coming night,
His paramour, the Syrinx bright.
But, behold a fairer sight!
By that heav'nly form of thine,
Brightest fair, thou art divine,
Sprung from great immortal race
Of the gods; for in thy face
Shines more awful majesty,
Than dull weak mortality
Dare with misty eyes behold,

And live! Therefore on this mould,
Lowly do I bend my knee,
In worship of thy deity.
Deign it, goddess, from my hand,
To receive whate'er this land
From her fertile womb doth send
Of her choice fruits; and but lend
Belief to that the Satyr tells:
Fairer by the famous wells,
To this present day ne'er grew,
Never better nor more true.

Here be grapes, whose lusty blood
Is the learned poets' good,

Sweeter yet did never crown

The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown
Than the squirrel whose teeth crack 'em ;
Deign, oh, fairest fair, to take 'em.-
For these black-ey'd Driope
Hath often-times commanded me
With my clasped knee to climb:
See how well the lusty time

Hath deck'd their rising cheeks in red,
Such as on your lips is spread.

River God. What pow'rful charms my streams

Back again unto their spring,

With such force, that I their god,
Three times striking with my rod,
Could not keep them in their ranks !
My fishes shoot into the banks;
There's not one that stays andf eeds,
All have hid them in the weeds.
Here's a mortal almost dead,
Fall'n into my river-head,
Hallow'd so with many a spell,
That till now none ever fell.
"Tis a female young and clear,
Cast in by some ravisher.

See upon her breast a wound,

On which there is no plaister bound,

Yet she's warm, her pulses beat,
'Tis a sign of life and heat.
If thou be'st a virgin pure,

I can give a present cure:
Take a drop into thy wound,
From my watery locks, more round
Than orient pearl, and far more pure
Than unchaste flesh may endure.
See, she pants, and from her flesh
The warm blood gusheth out afresh.
She is an unpolluted maid;

I must have this bleeding staid.
From my banks I pluck this flow'r
With holy hand, whose virtuous pow'r
Is at once to heal and draw.

The blood returns. I never saw

[do bring

A fairer mortal. Now doth break
Her deadly slumber: Virgin, speak. [breath,
Amo. Who hath restor'd my sense, giv'n me new
And brought me back out of the arms of death?
God. I have heal'd thy wounds.

Amo. Ah me!

God. Fear not him that succour'd thee:

I am this fountain's god! Below,

My waters to a river grow,

And 'twixt two banks with osiers set,
That only prosper in the wet,
Thro' the meadows do they glide,
Wheeling still on ev'ry side,
Sometimes winding round about,
To find the even'st channel out.
And if thou wilt go with me,
Leaving mortal company,
In the cool stream shalt thou lic,
Free from harm as well as I;

I will give thee for thy food
No fish that useth in the mud!
But trout and pike, that love to swim
Where the gravel from the brim
Thro' the pure streams may be seen:
Orient pearl fit for a queen,
Will I give, thy love to win,
And a shell to keep them in :
Not a fish in all my brook
That shall disobey thy look,

But, when thou wilt, come sliding by,
And from thy white hand take a fly.
And to make thee understand
How I can my waves command,
They shall bubble whilst I sing,
Sweeter than the silver string.

FROM THE BROKEN HEART.

Он, no more, no more! too late
Sighs are spent; the burning tapers
Of a life as chaste as fate,
Pure as are unwritten papers,
Are burnt out: no heat, no light,
Now remains; 'tis ever night;
Love is dead; let lovers' eyes,
Lock'd in endless dreams,
Th' extremes of all extremes,
Ope no more, for now love dies,
Now love dies, implying

Love's martyrs must be ever, ever dying.

LILY.

FROM ALEXANDER AND CAMPASPE.

CUPID and my Campaspe play'd

At cards for kisses, Cupid paid;

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows;
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on 's cheek, (but none knows how,)
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes,
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O'tis the ravish'd nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, terue, she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick song! who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
How at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat,
Poor Robin Redbreast tunes his note;
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo to welcome in the spring,
Cuckoo to welcome in the spring.

BEN JONSON.

SONG TO CELIA.

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.