Page images

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit! tu-whoo! a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.


Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more ;

Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.

Then sigh not so,

But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe

Into hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no mo

Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy.
Then sigh not so, &c.


[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry;
On the bat's back I do fly,
After summer, merrily;
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.




TAKE, oh, take those lips away

That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,

Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain!
Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow

Which thy frozen bosom bears;
On whose tops the pinks that grow

Are of those that April wears: But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those icy chains by thee!


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.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It could not wither'd 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. BEN JONSON,

STILL to be neat, still to be dress'd
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfumed;
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.


the rose ;

SONG. WHENCE comes my love ?—Oh, heart, disclose! 'Twas from cheeks that shai From lips that spoil the ruby's praise ; From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze: Whence comes my woe, as freely own;Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone. The blushing cheek speaks modest mind; The lips befitting words most kind; The eye does tempt to love's desire, And seems to say 'tis Cupid's fire : Yet all so fair but speak my moan, Sith nought doth say the heart of stone. Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek,

Yet not a heart to save my pain?
O Venus! take thy gifts again.
Make nought so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like thy own.


LOVE like a beggar came to me,

With hose and doublet torn,
His shirt bedangling from his knee,

With hat and shoes outworn.
He ask'd an alms; I gave him bread,

And meat too, for his need;
Of which when he had fully fed,

He wish'd me all good speed.
Away he went; but, as he turn'd,

In faith I know not how !
He touch'd me so as that I burn'd,

And am tormented now,
Love's silent flames and fires obscure

Then crept into my heart;
And, though I saw no bow, I'm sure
His finger was the dart.



Bid me to live, and I will live

Thy protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give

A loving heart to thee:

A heart as soft, a heart as kind,

A heart as sound and free
As in the whole world thou canst find,

That heart I'll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,

To honour thy decree;
Or bid it languish quite away,

And 't shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep

While I have eyes to see ;
And having none, yet I will keep

A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I'll despair,

Under that cypress tree;
Or bid me die, and I will dare

E’en death, to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart,

The very eyes of me;
And hast command of every part,
To live and die for thee.


GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Time is still a flying ;
And this same flower, that smiles to-day,

To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,

The higher he's a getting,
The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting.

« PreviousContinue »