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Then to Silvia let us sing,

That Silvia is excelling ; She excels each mortal thing,

Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring.

SONG IN KING HENRY VIII.

SHAKSPEARE.

Orpheus, with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,

Bow themselves when he did șing :
To his music, plants, and flowers,
Ever sprung; as sun, and showers,

There had been a lasting spring.
Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art;
Killing care and grief of heart,

Fall asleep, or, hearing die.

SONG IN CYMBELINE,

SHAKSPEARE.

Hark! hark! the lark at Heaven's gate sings,

And Phæbus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs

On chalic'd Aowers that lies ;

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes ;
With every thing that pretty bin :
My lady sweet arise ;

Arise, arise.

[Sung by Cloten's musicians under the window of Imogen. Washington Irving when he made his pilgrimage to Stratford-upon-Avon, tells us that • Shakspeare's exquisite little Song' was called to his mind when he saw a lark pouring forth its torrents of melody in the bright and fleecy cljud, above him.]

YOUTH AND AGE.

SHAKSPEARE.

Crabbed Age and Youth

Cannot live together ;
Youth is full of pleasance,

Age is full of care:
Youth like summer morn,

Age like winter weather,
Youth like summer brave,

Age like winter bare:
Youth is full of sport,
Ages breath is short ;

Youth is nimble, Age is lame :
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold;

Youth is wild and Age is tame,
Age, I do abhor thee,
Youth, I do adore thee;

O, my love, my love is young:
Age I do defie thee;
Oh sweet shepherd, hie thee,

For methinks thou stayst too long.

[Printed in the “ Passionate Pilgrim,” by Shakspeare, 1599. seems," says Percy, "intended for the mouth of Venus, weighing the comparative merits of youthfal Adonis and aged Vulcan.” Ford, in "Fancies chaste and noble,” 1638, alludes to it, which gave Gifford an opportanity to call it " a despicable ditty."]

THE PRAISE OF A COUNTRYMAN'S LIFE.

JOHN CHALKHILL,

Oh! the sweet contentment

The countryman doth find,
High trolollie, lollie, loe, high trolollie, lee,
That quiet contemplation,

Possesseth all my mind :
Then, care away, and wend along with me
For courts are full of flattery,

As hath too oft been try'd,
The city full of wantonness,

And both are full of pride:
Then, care away, and wend along with me.
But, oh the honest countryman

Speaks truly from his heart,
His pride is in his tillage,

His horses and his cart :
Then, care away, and wend along with me.

Our clothing is good sheep-skins,

Gray russet for our wives,
'Tis warmth, and not gay clothing,

That doth prolong our lives :
Then, care away, and wend along with me.
The ploughman though he labour hard,

Yet on the holy-day
No emperor so merrily
Does
pass

his time away :
Then, care away, and wend along with me.
To recompense our tillage

The heavens afford us showers,
And for our sweet refreshments

The earth affords us bowers :
Then, care away, and wend along with me.
The cuckoo and the nightingale,

Full merrily do sing,
And with their pleasant roundelayes,

Bid welcome to the spring :
Then, care away, and wend along with me.

This is not half the happiness

The countryman enjoys,
Though others think they have as much,

Yet he that says so, lies :
Then, come away, turn countryman with me.

[Found in Walton's Angler, 1653. Who Chalkhill was has been a matter of much dispute, by some he is supposed to be Walton himself ; but Walton, who published his poem called Thealma and Clearchus, by John Chalkhill, calls him a friend of Spenser's. The chorus,“ High trolollie," &c. is repeated as the third line of every verse.]

YOU MEANER BEAUTIES.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

Born 1568—Died 1639.

You meaner beauties of the night,

Which poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light;

You common people of the skies,
What are you when the Moon* shall rise ?

Ye violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own;
What are you when the Rose is blown?

Ye curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth dame Nature's layes,
Thinking your passion's understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise,
When Philomel her voice shall raise?

“Sun” is the reading in the Reliquiæ Wottonianæ. The alteration I believe is Percy's, from a MS. copy.

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