SONNE T. [In" England's Helicon," and "Love's Labour Lost."] ON a day, (alack the day!) I Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom, passing fair, Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen 'gan passage find, 2 That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. "Air," quoth he, "thy cheeks may blow; “Air, would I might triumph so! "But alack! my hand is 3 sworn "Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn. "Vow, alack! for youth unmeet, "Youth so apt to pluck a sweet; "Do not call it sin in me "That I am forsworn for thee: "Thou for whom [e'en] Jove would swear "Juno but an Æthiop were; "And deny himself for Jove, "Turning mortal for thy 5 love. 1 "was." Eng. Hel. 2 "Shepherd." Eng. Hel. 4 These 3 "Alas my hand hath." Eng. Hel. two lines wanting in Eng. Hel. 5 "my." Eng. Hel. Spring. A Song. [At the end of "Love's Labour Lost."] WHEN daisies pied, and violets blue, Cuckoo! cuckoo !-O word of fear, When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, Mocks married men, for thus sings he; Cuckoo! cuckoo !-O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear! Winter. A Song. [At the end of " Love's Labour Lost."] 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 ; Tu-whit! tu-whoo! a merry note, When all aloud the wind doth blow, And Marion's nose looks red and raw; Tu-whit! Tu-whoo! a merry note, Song of Fairies. [By Puck in " Midsummer-Night's Dream."] Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon, Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task foredone. Now the wasted brands do glow; Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud, Puts the wretch, that lies in woe, In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the churchway paths to glide; And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecat's team, To sweep the dust behind the door. SONG. [In" Much Ado about Nothing."] SIGH no more, ladies, sigh no more; Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never: 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 SONG. [In the " Merchant of Venice."] TELL me, where is Fancy bred, |