To the best bride-bed will we,
Which by us shall blessed be;
And the issue there create
Ever shall be fortunate.
So shall all the couples three
Ever true in loving be;

And the blots of nature's hand
Shall not in their issue stand;
Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,
Nor mark prodigious, such as are
Despised in nativity,

Shall upon their children be.
With this field-dew consecrate,

Every fairy take his gait;

And each several chamber bless,
Through this palace with sweet peace:
Ever shall in safety rest,

And the owner of it blessed.

Trip away;

Make no stay:

Meet me all by break of day.

MERCHANT OF VENICE.

THE BIRTH AND DEATH OF FANCY.*

TELL

ELL me where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head?

How begot, how nourished?

Reply, reply.

It is engendered 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.

Fancy is constantly used by Shakespeare and his contemporaries in the sense of love.

THE CHOICE.

Gold.

you

ALL that glisters is not gold,
Often have heard that told;
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold;
Gilded tombs do worms infold.
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscrolled;
Fare you well; your suit is cold.

Silver.

The fire seven times tried this;
Seven times tried that judgment is
That did never choose amiss:
Some there be that shadows kiss;
Such have but a shadow's bliss;
There be fools alive, I wis,
Silvered o'er; and so was this.
Take what wife you will to bed,

You that choose not by the view,
Chance as fair, and choose as true!
Since this fortune falls to you,
Be content, and seek no new.
If you be well pleased with this,
And hold your fortune for your bliss,

Turn you where your lady is,

And claim her with a loving kiss.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

SIGH

INCONSTANCY OF MEN.

I

IGH 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.

2

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,

DONE

Then sigh not so, &c.

HERO'S EPITAPH.

ONE to death by slanderous tongues Was the Hero that here lies; Death, in guerdon of her wrongs, Gives her fame which never dies: So the life that died with shame, Lives in death with glorious fame. Hang thou there upon the tomb, Praising her when I am dumb.

PAR

HYMN AT THE TOMB.

ARDON, goddess of the night, Those that slew thy virgin knight; For the which, with songs of woe, Round about her tomb they go.

Midnight, assist our moan;
Help us to sigh and groan,
Heavily, heavily:

Graves yawn, and yield your dead,
Till death be uttered,

Heavenly, heavenly.

Y on sinful fantasy!

FY

Fy on lust and luxury!

Lust is but a bloody fire,

Kindled with unchaste desire,

Fed in heart; whose flames aspire,

As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher.
Pinch him, fairies, mutually;

Pinch him for his villainy;

Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about,
Till candles, and star-light, and moon-shine be out.

TWELFTH NIGHT.

SWEET-AND-TWENTY.

MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and hear; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers' meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.

SLAIN BY LOVE.

COME away, come away, death,

And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it;

My part of death no one so true
Did share it.

On

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O where

Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.

AM

THE CLOWN'S EXIT.

I gone, Sir,

And anon, Sir,

I'll be with you again,
In a trice,

Like to the old Vice,
Your need to sustain;

Who with dagger of lath,
In his rage and his wrath,
Cries, ah, ha! to the devil:
Like a mad lad,

Pare thy nails, dad,

Adieu, goodman drivel.

THE RAIN IT RAINETH EVERY DAY.

HEN that I was and a little tiny boy,

WE

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.