WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that's gone:
Violets plucked, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again;†
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;
Fate's hidden ends eyes cannot see:
Joys as winged dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo.
THE KNIGHT OF THE BURNING PESTLE.
THE HEALTHINESS OF MIRTH.
"TIS mirth that fills the veins with blood,
More than wine, or sleep, or food;
Let each man keep his heart at ease;
No man dies of that disease.
He that would his body keep
From diseases, must not weep;
But whoever laughs and sings,
Never he his body brings
Into fevers, gouts, or rheums,
Or lingeringly his lungs consumes;
Or meets with achès in his bone,
Or catarrhs, or griping stone:
But contented lives for aye;
The more he laughs, the more he
* Ascribed to Fletcher.
This most exquisite passage is thus embodied by Bishop Percy in
his ballad of The Friar of Orders Grey:
'Weep no more, lady, weep no more;
Thy sorrow is in vain :
For violets plucked the sweetest showers
Will ne'er make grow again.'
DIRGE FOR THE FAITHFUL LOVER.
COME, you whose loves are dead,
And, whiles I sing,
Weep, and wring
Every hand, and every head
Bind with cypress and sad yew;
Ribbons black and candles blue
For him that was of men most true!
Come with heavy moaning,
And on his grave
Let him have
Sacrifice of sighs and groaning;
Let him have fair flowers enow,
White and purple, green and yellow,
For him that was of men most true!
LIVE WELL AND BE IDLE.
WOULD not be a serving-man
To carry the cloak-bag still,
Nor would I be a falconer
The greedy hawks to fill;
But I would be in a good house,
And have a good master too;
But I would eat and drink of the best,
And no work would I do.
FOR Jillian of Berry, she dwells on a hill,
And she hath good beer and ale to sell,
And of good fellows she thinks no ill,
And thither will we go now, now, now,
And thither we will go now.
And when you have made a little stay,
You need not ask what is to pay,
But kiss your hostess, and go your way;
And thither, &c.
THE SONG OF MAY-DAY.
LONDON, to thee I do present
The merry month of May;
Let each true subject be content
To hear me what I say:
For from the top of conduit-head,
As plainly may appear,
I will both tell my name to you,
And wherefore I came here.
My name is Ralph, by due descent,
Though not ignoble I,
Yet far inferior to the flock
Of gracious grocery;
And by the common counsel of
My fellows in the Strand,
With gilded staff and crossèd scarf,
The May-lord here I stand.
Rejoice, oh, English hearts, rejoice!
Rejoice, oh, lovers dear!
Rejoice, oh, city, town, and country,
Rejoice eke every shire!
For now the fragrant flowers do spring
And sprout in seemly sort,
The little birds do sit and sing,
The lambs do make fine sport;
And now the birchen-tree doth bud,
That makes the schoolboy cry;
The morris rings, while hobby-horse
Doth foot it feateously;
The lords and ladies now abroad,
For their disport and play,
Do kiss sometimes upon the grass,
And sometimes in the hay.
Now butter with a leaf of sage
Is good to purge the blood;
Fly Venus and phlebotomy,
For they are neither good!
Now little fish on tender stone
Begin to cast their bellies,
And sluggish snails, that erst were mewed,
Do creep out of their shellies;
The rumbling rivers now do warm,
For little boys to paddle;
The sturdy steed now goes to grass,
And up they hang his saddle;
The heavy hart, the blowing buck,
The rascal, and the pricket,
Are now among the yeoman's pease,
And leave the fearful thicket;
And be like them, oh, you, I say,
Of this same noble town,
And lift aloft your velvet heads,
And slipping off your gown,
With bells on legs, and napkins clean
Unto your shoulders tied,
With scarfs and garters as you please,
And 'Hey for our town!' cried, March out, and shew your willing minds, By twenty and by twenty, To Hogsdon, or to Newington,
Where ale and cakes are plenty;
And let it ne'er be said for shame,
That we the youths of London
Lay thrumming of our caps at home,
And left our custom undone.
Up then, I say, both young and old,
Both man and maid a-maying,
With drums and guns that bounce aloud,
And merry tabor playing!
Which to prolong, God save our king,
And send his country peace,
And root out treason from the land!
And so, my friends, I cease.
LET THE MILL GO ROUND.
NOW having leisure, and a happy wind,
Thou mayst at pleasure cause the stones to grind; Sails spread, and grist have ready to be ground; Fy, stand not idly, but let the mill go round!
How long shall I pine for love?
How long shall I sue in vain ?
How long like the turtle-dove,
Shall I heavily thus complain?
Shall the sails of my love stand still?
Shall the grist of my hopes be unground?
Oh fy, oh fy, oh fy!
Let the mill, let the mill go round!
fair sweet face! oh, eyes celestial bright, Twin stars in heaven, that now adorn the night! Oh, fruitful lips, where cherries ever grow,
And damask cheeks, where all sweet beauties blow!
Oh thou, from head to foot divinely fair!
Cupid's most cunning net's made of that hair;
And, as he weaves himself for curious eyes,
'Oh me, oh me, I'm caught myself!' he cries:
Sweet rest about thee, sweet and golden sleep,
Soft peaceful thoughts your hourly watches keep,
Whilst I in wonder sing this sacrifice,
To beauty sacred, and those angel eyes!
ELL me what is that only thing
For which all women long;
Yet having what they most desire,
To have it does them wrong?
*The joint production of Fletcher and W. Rowley.
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