PAGEAnonymous—17,21,24,39,49,51,52,53,59,63,66,78,95,96,97,100,117,123,126,129,130,132,160,161,192,196,197,222,224.Barnard, Lady Anne,157Beaumont and Fletcher,13Blake, William,176Bloomfield, Robert,194Breton, Nicholas,8Browning, Robert,343Burns, Robert,177Burns, Robert,351Byron, Lord,277Campbell, Thomas,252Campion, Thomas,91Carew, Thomas,107Carey, Henry,133Carey, Henry,352Chalkhill, John,127Chatterton, Thomas,161Clough, Arthur Hugh,342Cockburn, Mrs.,238Coleridge, Samuel Taylor,202Cowper, William,139Cunningham, Allan,265Dalrymple, Sir David,225Dibdin, Charles,200Drayton, Michael,74Dufferin, Lady,346Dyer, Sir Edward,9Edwardes, Richard,2Fletcher, John,14Garrick, David,150Gay, John,129Goldsmith, Oliver,151Hamilton, William,135Hemans, Felicia,288Herbert, George,116Herrick, Robert,108Heywood, Thomas,11Hogg, James,263Holcroft, Thomas,287Hood, Thomas,295Houghton, Lord,347Jonson, Ben,93Keats, John,286Kingsley, Rev. Charles,349Lovelace, Richard,124Macaulay, Lord,305Marlowe, Christopher,6Mickle, William Julius,223Moore, Thomas,269Nairne, Lady,198Nash, Thomas,9Parker, Martin,125Percy, Thomas,227Proctor, B.W.,280Rogers, Samuel,193Ross, Alexander,158Scott, Sir Walter,244Shakespeare, William,79Shelley, Percy Bysshe,283Shenstone, William,139Shirley, James,10Sidney, Sir Philip,18Southey, Robert,231Still, John,7Suckling, Sir John,118Tennyson, Lord,312Thackeray, William Makepeace,341Thomson, James,131Vaux, Lord,1Waller, Edmund,122Webster, John,19Wither, George,103Wolfe, Charles,282Wordsworth, William,239Wyatt, Sir Thomas,4
Ah, my swete swetyng!My lytyle prety swetyng,My swetyng will I love wherever I go;She is so proper and pure,Full stedfast, stabill and demure,There is none such, ye may be sure,As my swete swetyng.In all this world, as thynketh me,Is none so pleasant to my eye,That I am glad soe ofte to see,As my swete swetyng.When I behold my swetyng swete,Her face, her hands, her minion fete,They seme to me there is none so swete,As my swete swetyng.Above all other prayse must I,And love my pretty pygsnye,For none I fynd so womanlyAs my swete swetyng.
Ah, my swete swetyng!My lytyle prety swetyng,My swetyng will I love wherever I go;She is so proper and pure,Full stedfast, stabill and demure,There is none such, ye may be sure,As my swete swetyng.
In all this world, as thynketh me,Is none so pleasant to my eye,That I am glad soe ofte to see,As my swete swetyng.
When I behold my swetyng swete,Her face, her hands, her minion fete,They seme to me there is none so swete,As my swete swetyng.
Above all other prayse must I,And love my pretty pygsnye,For none I fynd so womanlyAs my swete swetyng.
When all is done and said,In the end thus shall you find,He most of all doth bathe in blissThat hath a quiet mind:And, clear from worldly cares,To deem can be contentThe sweetest time in all his lifeIn thinking to be spent.The body subject isTo fickle Fortune's power,And to a million of mishapsIs casual every hour:And Death in time doth changeIt to a clod of clay;Whenas the mind, which is divine,Runs never to decay.Companion none is likeUnto the mind alone;For many have been harmed by speech;Through thinking, few, or none.Fear oftentimes restraineth words,But makes not thought to cease;And he speaks best that hath the skillWhen for to hold his peace.Our wealth leaves us at death;Our kinsmen at the grave;But virtues of the mind untoThe heavens with us we have.Wherefore, for virtue's sake,I can be well content,The sweetest time of all my lifeTo deem in thinking spent.
When all is done and said,In the end thus shall you find,He most of all doth bathe in blissThat hath a quiet mind:And, clear from worldly cares,To deem can be contentThe sweetest time in all his lifeIn thinking to be spent.
The body subject isTo fickle Fortune's power,And to a million of mishapsIs casual every hour:And Death in time doth changeIt to a clod of clay;Whenas the mind, which is divine,Runs never to decay.
Companion none is likeUnto the mind alone;For many have been harmed by speech;Through thinking, few, or none.Fear oftentimes restraineth words,But makes not thought to cease;And he speaks best that hath the skillWhen for to hold his peace.
Our wealth leaves us at death;Our kinsmen at the grave;But virtues of the mind untoThe heavens with us we have.Wherefore, for virtue's sake,I can be well content,The sweetest time of all my lifeTo deem in thinking spent.
In going to my naked bed as one that would have slept,I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept;She sighèd sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest,That would not cease, but crièd still, in sucking at her breast.She was full weary of her watch, and grievèd with her child;She rockèd it and rated it, till that on her it smiled:Then did she say, Now have I found this proverb true to prove,The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.Then took I paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write,In register for to remain, of such a worthy wight;As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat,Much matter uttered she of weight, in place whereas she sat.And provèd plain, there was no beast, nor creature bearing life,Could well be known to live in love, without discord and strife:Then kissèd she her little babe, and sware by God above,The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.She said that neither king, nor prince, nor lord could live aright,Until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might;When manhood shall be matchèd so that fear can take no place,Then weary works make warriors each other to embrace,And leave their force that failed them, which did consume the rout,That might before have lived in peace their time and nature out:Then did she sing as one that thought no man could her reprove,The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.She said she saw no fish, nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt,That met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt;Since flesh might not endure for long, but rest must wrath succeed,And force the fight to fall to play, in pasture where they feed;So noble nature can well end the work she hath begun,And bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some:Thus in her song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove,The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.I marvel much pardy, quoth she, for to behold the rout,To see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about;Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some cheek, and some cansmoothly smile,And some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile;Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout,Yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out:Thus ended she her song, and said before she did remove,The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.
In going to my naked bed as one that would have slept,I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept;She sighèd sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest,That would not cease, but crièd still, in sucking at her breast.She was full weary of her watch, and grievèd with her child;She rockèd it and rated it, till that on her it smiled:Then did she say, Now have I found this proverb true to prove,The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.
Then took I paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write,In register for to remain, of such a worthy wight;As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat,Much matter uttered she of weight, in place whereas she sat.And provèd plain, there was no beast, nor creature bearing life,Could well be known to live in love, without discord and strife:Then kissèd she her little babe, and sware by God above,The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.
She said that neither king, nor prince, nor lord could live aright,Until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might;When manhood shall be matchèd so that fear can take no place,Then weary works make warriors each other to embrace,And leave their force that failed them, which did consume the rout,That might before have lived in peace their time and nature out:Then did she sing as one that thought no man could her reprove,The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.
She said she saw no fish, nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt,That met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt;Since flesh might not endure for long, but rest must wrath succeed,And force the fight to fall to play, in pasture where they feed;So noble nature can well end the work she hath begun,And bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some:Thus in her song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove,The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.
I marvel much pardy, quoth she, for to behold the rout,To see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about;Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some cheek, and some cansmoothly smile,And some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile;Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout,Yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out:Thus ended she her song, and said before she did remove,The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.
Blame not my Lute! for he must soundOf this or that as liketh me;For lack of wit the Lute is boundTo give such tunes as pleaseth me;Though my songs be somewhat strange,And speak such words as touch my change,Blame not my Lute!My Lute, alas! doth not offend,Though that perforce he must agreeTo sound such tunes as I intendTo sing to them that heareth me;Then though my songs be somewhat plain,And toucheth some that use to feign,Blame not my Lute!My Lute and strings may not deny,But as I strike they must obey;Break not them so wrongfully,But wreak thyself some other way;And though the songs which I inditeDo quit thy change with rightful spite,Blame not my Lute!Spite asketh spite, and changing change,And falsed faith must needs be known;The faults so great, the case so strange;Of right it must abroad be blown:Then since that by thine own desertMy songs do tell how true thou art,Blame not my Lute!Blame but thyself that hast misdone,And well deserved to have blame;Change thou thy way, so evil begone,And then my Lute shall sound that same;But if till then my fingers play,By thy desert their wonted way,Blame not my Lute!Farewell! unknown; for though thou breakMy strings in spite with great disdain,Yet have I found out for thy sake,Strings for to string my Lute again:And if perchance this silly rhymeDo make thee blush at any time,Blame not my Lute!
Blame not my Lute! for he must soundOf this or that as liketh me;For lack of wit the Lute is boundTo give such tunes as pleaseth me;Though my songs be somewhat strange,And speak such words as touch my change,Blame not my Lute!
My Lute, alas! doth not offend,Though that perforce he must agreeTo sound such tunes as I intendTo sing to them that heareth me;Then though my songs be somewhat plain,And toucheth some that use to feign,Blame not my Lute!
My Lute and strings may not deny,But as I strike they must obey;Break not them so wrongfully,But wreak thyself some other way;And though the songs which I inditeDo quit thy change with rightful spite,Blame not my Lute!
Spite asketh spite, and changing change,And falsed faith must needs be known;The faults so great, the case so strange;Of right it must abroad be blown:Then since that by thine own desertMy songs do tell how true thou art,Blame not my Lute!
Blame but thyself that hast misdone,And well deserved to have blame;Change thou thy way, so evil begone,And then my Lute shall sound that same;But if till then my fingers play,By thy desert their wonted way,Blame not my Lute!
Farewell! unknown; for though thou breakMy strings in spite with great disdain,Yet have I found out for thy sake,Strings for to string my Lute again:And if perchance this silly rhymeDo make thee blush at any time,Blame not my Lute!
Come live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dale and field,And all the craggy mountains yield.There will we sit upon the rocksAnd see the shepherds feed their flocks,By shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.There will I make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies,A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull,Fair linèd slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.A belt of straw and ivy budsWith coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my Love.Thy silver dishes for thy meatAs precious as the gods do eat,Shall on an ivory table bePrepared each day for thee and me.The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my Love.
Come live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dale and field,And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocksAnd see the shepherds feed their flocks,By shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies,A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull,Fair linèd slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy budsWith coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my Love.
Thy silver dishes for thy meatAs precious as the gods do eat,Shall on an ivory table bePrepared each day for thee and me.
The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my Love.
I cannot eat but little meat,My stomach is not good;But sure I think that I can drinkWith him that wears a hood.Though I go bare, take ye no care,I nothing am a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old.Back and side go bare, go bare;Both foot and hand go cold;But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,Whether it be new or old.I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,And a crab laid in the fire;A little bread shall do me stead,Much bread I not desire,No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,Can hurt me if I wold;I am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'dOf jolly good ale and old.And Tib, my wife, that as her lifeLoveth well good ale to seek,Full oft drinks she till ye may seeThe tears run down her cheek.Then doth she trowl to me the bowlEven as a maltworm should,And saith, 'Sweetheart, I took my partOf this jolly good ale and old.'Now let them drink till they nod and wink,Even as good fellows should do;They shall not miss to have the blissGood ale doth bring men to;And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls,Or have them lustily troll'd,God save the lives of them and their wivesWhether they be young or old.Back and side go bare, go bare;Both foot and hand go cold;But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,Whether it be new or old.
I cannot eat but little meat,My stomach is not good;But sure I think that I can drinkWith him that wears a hood.Though I go bare, take ye no care,I nothing am a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old.Back and side go bare, go bare;Both foot and hand go cold;But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,Whether it be new or old.
I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,And a crab laid in the fire;A little bread shall do me stead,Much bread I not desire,No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,Can hurt me if I wold;I am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'dOf jolly good ale and old.
And Tib, my wife, that as her lifeLoveth well good ale to seek,Full oft drinks she till ye may seeThe tears run down her cheek.Then doth she trowl to me the bowlEven as a maltworm should,And saith, 'Sweetheart, I took my partOf this jolly good ale and old.'
Now let them drink till they nod and wink,Even as good fellows should do;They shall not miss to have the blissGood ale doth bring men to;And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls,Or have them lustily troll'd,God save the lives of them and their wivesWhether they be young or old.Back and side go bare, go bare;Both foot and hand go cold;But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,Whether it be new or old.
In the merry month of May,In a morn by break of day,With a troop of damsels playingForth I went forsooth a-maying.When anon by a wood side,Where, as May was in his pride,I espied, all alone,Phillida and Corydon.Much ado there was, God wot!He would love, and she would not,She said, never man was true:He says none was false to you;He said he had lov'd her long;She says love should have no wrong,Corydon would kiss her then;She says, maids must kiss no men,Till they do for good and all,When she made the shepherd callAll the heavens to witness truth,Never lov'd a truer youth.Then with many a pretty oath,Yea and nay, faith and troth,Such as silly shepherds use,When they will not love abuse;Love, which had been long deluded,Was with kisses sweet concluded;And Phillida with garlands gayWas made the lady of May.
In the merry month of May,In a morn by break of day,With a troop of damsels playingForth I went forsooth a-maying.
When anon by a wood side,Where, as May was in his pride,I espied, all alone,Phillida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot!He would love, and she would not,She said, never man was true:He says none was false to you;
He said he had lov'd her long;She says love should have no wrong,Corydon would kiss her then;She says, maids must kiss no men,
Till they do for good and all,When she made the shepherd callAll the heavens to witness truth,Never lov'd a truer youth.
Then with many a pretty oath,Yea and nay, faith and troth,Such as silly shepherds use,When they will not love abuse;
Love, which had been long deluded,Was with kisses sweet concluded;And Phillida with garlands gayWas made the lady of May.
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!The palm and may make country houses gay,Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,In every street these tunes our ears do greet,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!Spring! the sweet Spring!
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay,Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,In every street these tunes our ears do greet,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!Spring! the sweet Spring!