VOL. 1.

Swigg whey untill thou burst,

Eat bramble-berries,
Pye-lid and pastry crust,

Pears, plumbs and cherries;
Thy garments shall be thin,
Made of a weathers skin:
Yet, all's not worth a pin,
Phillida flouts me.

Which way soe'er I go,
She still torments me;
And whatsoe'er I do,
Nothing contents me;
I fade and pine away,
With grief and sorrow ;
I fall quite to decay,
Like any shadow:
I shall be dead, I fear,
Within a thousand year
And all because my dear
Phillida flouts me.

Fair maiden, have a care,
And in time take me,
I can have those as fair,
If you forsake me:
There's Dol, the dairy-maid,
Smil'd on me lately,
And wanton Winnifred

Favours me greatly:

She throws milk on my cloaths,
Th' other plays with my nose;

F

What pretty toys * are those!
Phillida flouts me.

She has a cloth + of mine,

Wrought with blue Coventry,
Which she keeps as a sign
Of my fidelity;

But if she frowns on me, §
She ne'er shall || wear it;
Ill give it my maid Joan,¶
And she shall tear it.**
Since 't will no better be,+t
I'll bear it patiently;

Yet all the world may see
Phillida flouts me.

[This singular ballad is printed from Ritsons' Ancient Songs, who has taken it from "The Theatre of Compliments, or New Academy. London, 1689." The variations given at the bottom of the pages are from an older copy in a poetical miscellany, called "Wit Restored, 1658," which Mr. Geo. Ellis followed. The order of the stanzas run

The seventh and last stanza is not found in the text copy.

I cannot work and sleep

All at a season;

Love wounds my heart so deep,

Without all reason.

I'gin to pine away,
With grief and sorrow,
Like to a fatted beast
Penn'd in a meadow,
I shall be dead, I fear,
Within this thousand year,
And all for very fear!

Phillida flouts me.

Isaak Walton alludes to the Song by name in his "Compleat Angler," published in 1653. Ritson justly supposes it much older than Walton's day. Phillida's answer is printed but its merits are

neither original or many.]

A WORSHIPPER OF CRUELTY.
You may use common Shepherds so !
My sighs at last to storms will grow,
And blow such scorns upon thy pride
Will blast all I have deified:
You are not faire when love
Ingratitude makes all things black.

you lack

Oh do not for a flock of sheep,
A golden shower whenas you sleep,
Or for the tales ambition tells

Forsake the house where honour dwells:
In Damon's palace you'll ne'er shine

So bright

as in that bower of mine.

(From a MS. in the Harleian Library, No. 3511, written in the time of K. Charles the Second. See Ritson's Ancient Songs, p. 260.]

WELCOME, WELCOME!

WILLIAM BROWNE.

Born 1590.

Welcome, welcome, do I sing,
Far more welcome than the spring ;
He that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

Love that to the voice is near,
Breaking from your ivory pale,
Need not walk abroad to hear
The delightful nightingale.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing

Far more welcome than the spring;
He that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

Love, that looks still on your eyes,
Though the winter have begun

To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summers sun.

Welcome, Welcome then I sing.

Love, that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,

Is a fool, if e'er he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing.

Love, to whom your soft lip yields,
And perceives your breath in kissing,
All the odours of the fields,

Never, never, shall be missing.
Welcome, welcome then I sing.

Love that question would anew,
What fair Eden was of old,
Let him rightly study you,
And a brief of that behold.
Welcome, welcome then I sing,

Far

more

welcome than the spring,

He that parteth from you never,

Shall

enjoy

a spring for ever.

"From a MS. copy of Browne's Poems in the Lansdowne Collection, printed lately by Sir Egerton Brydges.

were

In 1772 Browne's Works

republished, but with little success, he deserves to be widely known, his Pastorals are the pastorals of nature.]

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME.

ROBERT HERRICK.

Born 1591.

Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may;
Old Time is still a flying;
And this same flower that smiles to day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of Heaven, the Sun,

The higher he's a getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.