ΤΟ ΡΑΝ

JOHN FLETCHER

LL ye woods, and trees, and bowers,

AL

All ye virtues and ye powers

That inhabit in the lakes,

In the pleasant springs or brakes,
Move your feet

To our sound,
Whilst we greet

All this ground,

With his honour and his name

That defends our flocks from blame.

He is great, and he is just,

He is ever good, and must
Thus be honoured.

Daffodillies,

Roses, pinks, and loved lilies

Let us fling

Whilst we sing,

Ever holy,

Ever holy,

Ever honoured, ever young:
Thus great Pan is ever sung.

S

FOLDING THE FLOCKS

JOHN FLETCHER

HEPHERDS all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks up; for the air

'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops, how they kiss
Every little flower that is;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a string of crystal beads.
See the heavy clouds, low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from underground;
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapours, fly apace,
And hover o'er the smiling face
Of these pastures; where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom.
Therefore from such danger lock
Every one his loved flock;

And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout

From the mountains and, ere day,
Bear a lamb or kid away;
Or the crafty, thievish fox
Break upon your simple flocks.
To secure yourself from these,
Be not too secure in ease;

So shall you good shepherds prove,
And deserve your master's love.

Now, good-night! May sweetest slumbers
And soft silence fall in numbers
On your eyelids. So farewell;
Thus I end my evening knell.

RUSTIC SONG

From THE SUN'S DARLING

THOMAS DEKKER

AYMAKERS, rakers, reapers, and mowers,
Wait on your summer queen!

Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers,
Daffodils strew the green!

Sing, dance, and play,

'Tis holiday!

The Sun does bravely shine

On our ears of corn.

Rich as a pearl

Comes every girl.

This is mine, this is mine, this is mine.

Let us die ere away they be borne.

Bow to our Sun, to our Queen, and that fair one

Come to behold our sports;

Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one,

As those in princes' courts.

These and me,

With country glee,

Will teach the woods to resound,
And the hills with echoes hollow.
Skipping lambs

Their bleating dams

'Mongst kids shall trip it round; For joy thus our wenches we follow.

Wind, jolly huntsman, your neat bugles shrilly,

Hounds make a lusty cry;

Spring up, you falconers, partridges freely,

Then let your brave hawks fly!

Horses amain,

Over ridge, over plain,

The dogs have the stag in chase:
'Tis a sport to content a king.

So ho! ho! through the skies
How the proud bird flies,

And sousing, kills with a grace!
Now the deer falls; hark! how they ring.