When this old cap was new,'Tis since two hundred year;No malice then we knew,But all things plenty were:All friendship now decays(Believe me, this is true);Which was not in those days,When this old cap was new.The nobles of our landWere much delighted then,To have at their commandA crew of lusty men,Which by their coats were known,Of tawny, red, or blue,With crests on their sleeves shewn,When this old cap was new.Now pride hath banished all,Unto our land's reproach,When he whose means is small,Maintains both horse and coach:Instead of a hundred men,The coach allows but two;This was not thought on then,When this old cap was new.Good hospitalityWas cherished then of manyNow poor men starve and die,And are not helped by any:For charity waxeth cold,And love is found in few;This was not in time of old,When this old cap was new.Where'er you travelled then,You might meet on the wayBrave knights and gentlemen,Clad in their country gray;That courteous would appear,And kindly welcome you;No puritans then were,When this old cap was new.Our ladies in those daysIn civil habit went;Broad cloth was then worth praise,And gave the best content:French fashions then were scorned;Fond fangles then none knew;Then modesty women adorned,When this old cap was new.A man might then behold,At Christmas, in each hall,Good fires to curb the cold,And meat for great and small:The neighbours were friendly bidden,And all had welcome true;The poor from the gates were not chiddenWhen this old cap was new.Black jacks to every manWere filled with wine and beer;No pewter pot nor canIn those days did appear:Good cheer in a nobleman's houseWas counted a seemly show;We wanted no brawn nor souse,When this old cap was new.We took not such delightIn cups of silver fine;None under the degree of a knightIn plate drank beer or wine:Now each mechanical manHath a cupboard of plate for a show;Which was a rare thing then,When this old cap was new.Then bribery was unborn,No simony men did use;Christians did usury scorn,Devised among the Jews.The lawyers to be fee'dAt that time hardly knew;For man with man agreed,When this old cap was new.No captain then caroused,Nor spent poor soldiers' pay;They were not so abusedAs they are at this day:Of seven days they make eight,To keep from them their due;Poor soldiers had their right,When this old cap was new.Which made them forward stillTo go, although not prest;And going with goodwill,Their fortunes were the best.Our English then in fightDid foreign foes subdue,And forced them all to flight,When this old cap was new.God save our gracious king,And send him long to live:Lord, mischief on them bringThat will not their alms give,But seek to rob the poorOf that which is their due:This was not in time of yore,When this old cap was new.
When this old cap was new,'Tis since two hundred year;No malice then we knew,But all things plenty were:All friendship now decays(Believe me, this is true);Which was not in those days,When this old cap was new.
The nobles of our landWere much delighted then,To have at their commandA crew of lusty men,Which by their coats were known,Of tawny, red, or blue,With crests on their sleeves shewn,When this old cap was new.
Now pride hath banished all,Unto our land's reproach,When he whose means is small,Maintains both horse and coach:Instead of a hundred men,The coach allows but two;This was not thought on then,When this old cap was new.
Good hospitalityWas cherished then of manyNow poor men starve and die,And are not helped by any:For charity waxeth cold,And love is found in few;This was not in time of old,When this old cap was new.
Where'er you travelled then,You might meet on the wayBrave knights and gentlemen,Clad in their country gray;That courteous would appear,And kindly welcome you;No puritans then were,When this old cap was new.
Our ladies in those daysIn civil habit went;Broad cloth was then worth praise,And gave the best content:French fashions then were scorned;Fond fangles then none knew;Then modesty women adorned,When this old cap was new.
A man might then behold,At Christmas, in each hall,Good fires to curb the cold,And meat for great and small:The neighbours were friendly bidden,And all had welcome true;The poor from the gates were not chiddenWhen this old cap was new.
Black jacks to every manWere filled with wine and beer;No pewter pot nor canIn those days did appear:Good cheer in a nobleman's houseWas counted a seemly show;We wanted no brawn nor souse,When this old cap was new.
We took not such delightIn cups of silver fine;None under the degree of a knightIn plate drank beer or wine:Now each mechanical manHath a cupboard of plate for a show;Which was a rare thing then,When this old cap was new.
Then bribery was unborn,No simony men did use;Christians did usury scorn,Devised among the Jews.The lawyers to be fee'dAt that time hardly knew;For man with man agreed,When this old cap was new.
No captain then caroused,Nor spent poor soldiers' pay;They were not so abusedAs they are at this day:Of seven days they make eight,To keep from them their due;Poor soldiers had their right,When this old cap was new.
Which made them forward stillTo go, although not prest;And going with goodwill,Their fortunes were the best.Our English then in fightDid foreign foes subdue,And forced them all to flight,When this old cap was new.
God save our gracious king,And send him long to live:Lord, mischief on them bringThat will not their alms give,But seek to rob the poorOf that which is their due:This was not in time of yore,When this old cap was new.
Shall I, wasting in despair,Die because a woman's fair?Or make pale my cheeks with care'Cause another's rosy are?Be she fairer than the day,Or the flow'ry meads in May,If she be not so to me,What care I how fair she be?Should my heart be griev'd or pin'd'Cause I see a woman kind?Or a well-disposèd natureJoinèd with a lovely feature?Be she meeker, kinder thanTurtle-dove or pelican,If she be not so to me,What care I how kind she be?Shall a woman's virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or her well-deservings, known,Make me quite forget my own?Be she with that goodness blestWhich may gain her name of best,If she be not such to me,What care I how good she be?'Cause her fortune seems too high,Shall I play the fool and die?Those that bear a noble mind,Where they want of riches find.Think what with them they would doThat without them dare to woo;And unless that mind I see,What care I how great she be?Great, or good, or kind, or fair,I will ne'er the more despair;If she love me, this believe,I will die ere she shall grieve:If she slight me when I woo,I can scorn and let her go;For if she be not for me,What care I for whom she be?
Shall I, wasting in despair,Die because a woman's fair?Or make pale my cheeks with care'Cause another's rosy are?Be she fairer than the day,Or the flow'ry meads in May,If she be not so to me,What care I how fair she be?
Should my heart be griev'd or pin'd'Cause I see a woman kind?Or a well-disposèd natureJoinèd with a lovely feature?Be she meeker, kinder thanTurtle-dove or pelican,If she be not so to me,What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or her well-deservings, known,Make me quite forget my own?Be she with that goodness blestWhich may gain her name of best,If she be not such to me,What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,Shall I play the fool and die?Those that bear a noble mind,Where they want of riches find.Think what with them they would doThat without them dare to woo;And unless that mind I see,What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,I will ne'er the more despair;If she love me, this believe,I will die ere she shall grieve:If she slight me when I woo,I can scorn and let her go;For if she be not for me,What care I for whom she be?
I lov'd a lass, a fair one,As fair as e'er was seen;She was indeed a rare one,Another Sheba Queen.But, fool as then I was,I thought she lov'd me too:But now, alas! she's left me,Falero, lero, loo.Her hair like gold did glister,Each eye was like a star,She did surpass her sister,Which pass'd all others far;She would me honey call,She'd, oh—she'd kiss me too:But now, alas! she's left me,Falero, lero, loo.Many a merry meetingMy love and I have had;She was my only sweeting,She made my heart full glad;The tears stood in her eyes,Like to the morning dew:But now, alas! she's left me,Falero, lero, loo.Her cheeks were like the cherry,Her skin as white as snow;When she was blythe and merry,She angel-like did show;Her waist exceeding small,The fives did fit her shoe:But now, alas! she's left me,Falero, lero, loo.In summer time or winterShe had her heart's desire;I still did scorn to stint herFrom sugar, sack, or fire;The world went round about,No cares we ever knew:But now, alas! she's left me,Falero, lero, loo.To maidens' vows and swearingHenceforth no credit give;You may give them the hearing,But never them believe;They are as false as fair,Unconstant, frail, untrue:For mine, alas! hath left me,Falero, lero, loo.
I lov'd a lass, a fair one,As fair as e'er was seen;She was indeed a rare one,Another Sheba Queen.But, fool as then I was,I thought she lov'd me too:But now, alas! she's left me,Falero, lero, loo.
Her hair like gold did glister,Each eye was like a star,She did surpass her sister,Which pass'd all others far;She would me honey call,She'd, oh—she'd kiss me too:But now, alas! she's left me,Falero, lero, loo.
Many a merry meetingMy love and I have had;She was my only sweeting,She made my heart full glad;The tears stood in her eyes,Like to the morning dew:But now, alas! she's left me,Falero, lero, loo.
Her cheeks were like the cherry,Her skin as white as snow;When she was blythe and merry,She angel-like did show;Her waist exceeding small,The fives did fit her shoe:But now, alas! she's left me,Falero, lero, loo.
In summer time or winterShe had her heart's desire;I still did scorn to stint herFrom sugar, sack, or fire;The world went round about,No cares we ever knew:But now, alas! she's left me,Falero, lero, loo.
To maidens' vows and swearingHenceforth no credit give;You may give them the hearing,But never them believe;They are as false as fair,Unconstant, frail, untrue:For mine, alas! hath left me,Falero, lero, loo.
So now is come our joyfullest part;Let every man be jolly;Each room with ivy-leaves is dressed,And every post with holly.Though some churls at our mirth repine,Round your foreheads garlands twine,Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,And let us all be merry!Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,And Christmas-blocks are burning;Their ovens they with baked meat choke,And all their spits are turning.Without the door let sorrow lie;And, if for cold it hap to die,We'll bury it in a Christmas pieAnd evermore be merry!Rank misers now do sparing shun;Their hall of music soundeth;And dogs thence with whole shoulders run;So all things there aboundeth.The country folks themselves advanceWith crowdy-muttons out of France;And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,And all the town be merry!Good farmers in the country nurseThe poor that else were undone;Some landlords spend their money worse,On lust and pride in London.There the roysters they do play,Drab and dice their lands away,Which may be ours another day,And therefore let's be merry!The client now his suit forbears;The prisoner's heart is easèd;The debtor drinks away his cares,And for the time is pleasèd.Though other's purses be more fat,Why should we pine or grieve at that?Hang sorrow! care will kill a cat,And therefore let's be merry!Hark! now the wags abroad do callEach other forth to rambling;Anon you'll see them in the hall,For nuts and apples scrambling.Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound;Anon they'll think the house goes round,For they the cellar's depth have found,And there they will be merry!The wenches with their wassail bowlsAbout the streets are singing;The boys are come to catch the owls;The wild mare in is bringing;Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box;And to the dealing of the oxOur honest neighbours come by flocks,And here they will be merry!Now kings and queens poor sheep-cots have,And mate with everybody;The honest now may play the knave,And wise men play the noddy.Some youths will now a-mumming go,Some others play at Rowland-bo,And twenty other game, boys, mo,Because they will be merry!Then wherefore, in these merry days,Should we, I pray, be duller?No, let us sing some roundelaysTo make our mirth the fuller:And, while we thus inspirèd sing,Let all the streets with echoes ring;Woods, and hills, and everything,Bear witness we are merry!
So now is come our joyfullest part;Let every man be jolly;Each room with ivy-leaves is dressed,And every post with holly.Though some churls at our mirth repine,Round your foreheads garlands twine,Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,And let us all be merry!
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,And Christmas-blocks are burning;Their ovens they with baked meat choke,And all their spits are turning.Without the door let sorrow lie;And, if for cold it hap to die,We'll bury it in a Christmas pieAnd evermore be merry!
Rank misers now do sparing shun;Their hall of music soundeth;And dogs thence with whole shoulders run;So all things there aboundeth.The country folks themselves advanceWith crowdy-muttons out of France;And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,And all the town be merry!
Good farmers in the country nurseThe poor that else were undone;Some landlords spend their money worse,On lust and pride in London.There the roysters they do play,Drab and dice their lands away,Which may be ours another day,And therefore let's be merry!
The client now his suit forbears;The prisoner's heart is easèd;The debtor drinks away his cares,And for the time is pleasèd.Though other's purses be more fat,Why should we pine or grieve at that?Hang sorrow! care will kill a cat,And therefore let's be merry!
Hark! now the wags abroad do callEach other forth to rambling;Anon you'll see them in the hall,For nuts and apples scrambling.Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound;Anon they'll think the house goes round,For they the cellar's depth have found,And there they will be merry!
The wenches with their wassail bowlsAbout the streets are singing;The boys are come to catch the owls;The wild mare in is bringing;Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box;And to the dealing of the oxOur honest neighbours come by flocks,And here they will be merry!
Now kings and queens poor sheep-cots have,And mate with everybody;The honest now may play the knave,And wise men play the noddy.Some youths will now a-mumming go,Some others play at Rowland-bo,And twenty other game, boys, mo,Because they will be merry!
Then wherefore, in these merry days,Should we, I pray, be duller?No, let us sing some roundelaysTo make our mirth the fuller:And, while we thus inspirèd sing,Let all the streets with echoes ring;Woods, and hills, and everything,Bear witness we are merry!
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,When June is past, the fading rose;For in your beauties orient deepThese flowers, as in their causes, sleep.Ask me no more, whither do strayThe golden atoms of the day;For, in pure love, heaven did prepareThose powders to enrich your hair.Ask me no more, whither doth hasteThe nightingale, when May is past;For in your sweet dividing throatShe winters, and keeps warm her note.Ask me no more, where those stars light,That downwards fall in dead of night;For in your eyes they sit, and thereFixed become, as in their sphere.Ask me no more, if east or west,The phœnix builds her spicy nest;For unto you at last she flies,And in your fragrant bosom dies.
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,When June is past, the fading rose;For in your beauties orient deepThese flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more, whither do strayThe golden atoms of the day;For, in pure love, heaven did prepareThose powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more, whither doth hasteThe nightingale, when May is past;For in your sweet dividing throatShe winters, and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more, where those stars light,That downwards fall in dead of night;For in your eyes they sit, and thereFixed become, as in their sphere.
Ask me no more, if east or west,The phœnix builds her spicy nest;For unto you at last she flies,And in your fragrant bosom dies.
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,The shooting stars attend thee;And the elves also,Whose little eyes glowLike the sparks of fire, befriend thee!No Will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee,Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee!But on, on thy way,Not making a stay,Since ghost there is none to affright thee.Let not the dark thee cumber;What though the moon does slumber?The stars of the nightWill lend thee their light,Like tapers clear without number.Then Julia let me woo thee,Thus, thus to come unto me;And, when I shall meetThy silvery feet,My soul I'll pour into thee.
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,The shooting stars attend thee;And the elves also,Whose little eyes glowLike the sparks of fire, befriend thee!
No Will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee,Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee!But on, on thy way,Not making a stay,Since ghost there is none to affright thee.
Let not the dark thee cumber;What though the moon does slumber?The stars of the nightWill lend thee their light,Like tapers clear without number.
Then Julia let me woo thee,Thus, thus to come unto me;And, when I shall meetThy silvery feet,My soul I'll pour into thee.
Good-morrow to the day so fair,Good-morrow, sir, to you;Good-morrow to my own torn hair,Bedabbled all with dew.Good-morrow to this primrose too;Good-morrow to each maidThat will with flowers the tomb bestrewWherein my love is laid.Ah, woe is me; woe, woe is me;Alack and well-a-day!For pity, sir, find out that beeWhich bore my love away.I'll seek him in your bonnet brave;I'll seek him in your eyes;Nay, now I think they've made his graveIn the bed of strawberries.I'll seek him there, I know ere thisThe cold, cold earth doth shake him;But I will go, or send a kissBy you, sir, to awake him.Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,He knows well who do love him,And who with green turfs rear his head,And who so rudely move him.He's soft and tender, pray take heed;With bands of cowslips bind him,And bring him home; but 'tis decreedThat I shall never find him.
Good-morrow to the day so fair,Good-morrow, sir, to you;Good-morrow to my own torn hair,Bedabbled all with dew.
Good-morrow to this primrose too;Good-morrow to each maidThat will with flowers the tomb bestrewWherein my love is laid.
Ah, woe is me; woe, woe is me;Alack and well-a-day!For pity, sir, find out that beeWhich bore my love away.
I'll seek him in your bonnet brave;I'll seek him in your eyes;Nay, now I think they've made his graveIn the bed of strawberries.
I'll seek him there, I know ere thisThe cold, cold earth doth shake him;But I will go, or send a kissBy you, sir, to awake him.
Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,He knows well who do love him,And who with green turfs rear his head,And who so rudely move him.
He's soft and tender, pray take heed;With bands of cowslips bind him,And bring him home; but 'tis decreedThat I shall never find him.
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,Why do you fall so fast?Your date is not so past,But you may stay yet here awhile,To blush and gently smile,And go at last.What! were ye born to beAn hour or half's delight,And so to bid good-night?'Tis pity nature brought ye forthMerely to show your worth,And lose you quite.But you are lovely leaves, where weMay read how soon things haveTheir end, though ne'er so brave:And after they have shown their pride,Like you awhile, they glideInto the grave.
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,Why do you fall so fast?Your date is not so past,But you may stay yet here awhile,To blush and gently smile,And go at last.
What! were ye born to beAn hour or half's delight,And so to bid good-night?'Tis pity nature brought ye forthMerely to show your worth,And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where weMay read how soon things haveTheir end, though ne'er so brave:And after they have shown their pride,Like you awhile, they glideInto the grave.
Fair daffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon;As yet the early-rising sunHas not attained his noon:Stay, stay,Until the hast'ning dayHas runBut to the even-song;And having prayed together, weWill go with you along!We have short time to stay as you;We have as short a spring;As quick a growth to meet decay,As you or any thing:We die,As your hours do; and dryAwayLike to the summer's rain,Or as the pearls of morning-dew,Ne'er to be found again.
Fair daffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon;As yet the early-rising sunHas not attained his noon:Stay, stay,Until the hast'ning dayHas runBut to the even-song;And having prayed together, weWill go with you along!
We have short time to stay as you;We have as short a spring;As quick a growth to meet decay,As you or any thing:We die,As your hours do; and dryAwayLike to the summer's rain,Or as the pearls of morning-dew,Ne'er to be found again.
Some asked me where the rubies grew,And nothing did I say,But with my finger pointed toThe lips of Julia.Some asked how pearls did grow, and where,Then spake I to my girl,To part her lips, and show me thereThe quarelets of pearl.One asked me where the roses grew,I bade him not go seek;But forthwith bade my Julia shewA bud in either cheek.
Some asked me where the rubies grew,And nothing did I say,But with my finger pointed toThe lips of Julia.
Some asked how pearls did grow, and where,Then spake I to my girl,To part her lips, and show me thereThe quarelets of pearl.
One asked me where the roses grew,I bade him not go seek;But forthwith bade my Julia shewA bud in either cheek.
Gather the rose-buds 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.That age is best which is the first,When youth and blood are warmer;But, being spent, the worse, and worstTime shall succeed the former.Then be not coy, but use your time,And while you may, go marry;For, having lost but once your prime,You may for ever tarry.
Gather the rose-buds 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.
That age is best which is the first,When youth and blood are warmer;But, being spent, the worse, and worstTime shall succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,And while you may, go marry;For, having lost but once your prime,You may for ever tarry.
Now, now the mirth comes,With the cake full of plums,Where bean's the king of the sport here;Beside, we must know,The pea alsoMust revel as queen in the court here.Begin then to choose,This night, as ye use,Who shall for the present delight here;Be a king by the lot,And who shall notBe Twelfth-day queen for the night here.Which known, let us makeJoy-sops with the cake;And let not a man then be seen here,Who unurged will not drink,To the base from the brink,A health to the king and the queen here.Next crown the bowl fullWith gentle lamb's-wool;Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger,With store of ale, too;And thus ye must doTo make the wassail a swinger.Give them to the kingAnd queen wassailing;And though with ale ye be wet here;Yet part ye from hence,As free from offence,As when ye innocent met here.
Now, now the mirth comes,With the cake full of plums,Where bean's the king of the sport here;Beside, we must know,The pea alsoMust revel as queen in the court here.
Begin then to choose,This night, as ye use,Who shall for the present delight here;Be a king by the lot,And who shall notBe Twelfth-day queen for the night here.
Which known, let us makeJoy-sops with the cake;And let not a man then be seen here,Who unurged will not drink,To the base from the brink,A health to the king and the queen here.
Next crown the bowl fullWith gentle lamb's-wool;Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger,With store of ale, too;And thus ye must doTo make the wassail a swinger.
Give them to the kingAnd queen wassailing;And though with ale ye be wet here;Yet part ye from hence,As free from offence,As when ye innocent met here.
About the sweet bag of a bee,Two Cupids fell at odds;And whose the pretty prize should be,They vowed to ask the gods.Which Venus hearing, thither came,And for their boldness stript them;And taking thence from each his flame,With rods of myrtle whipt them.Which done, to still their wanton cries,When quiet grown she'ad seen them,She kissed and wiped their dove-like eyesAnd gave the bag between them.
About the sweet bag of a bee,Two Cupids fell at odds;And whose the pretty prize should be,They vowed to ask the gods.
Which Venus hearing, thither came,And for their boldness stript them;And taking thence from each his flame,With rods of myrtle whipt them.
Which done, to still their wanton cries,When quiet grown she'ad seen them,She kissed and wiped their dove-like eyesAnd gave the bag between them.
Lord, Thou hast given me a cellWherein to dwell;A little house, whose humble roofIs weatherproof;Under the spars of which I lieBoth soft and dry.Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,Hast set a guardOf harmless thoughts, to watch and keepMe while I sleep.Low is my porch, as is my fate,Both void of state;And yet the threshold of my doorIs worn by the poor,Who hither come, and freely getGood words or meat.Like as my parlour, so my hall,And kitchen small;A little buttery, and thereinA little bin,Which keeps my little loaf of breadUnchipt, unflead.Some brittle sticks of thorn or brierMake me a fire,Close by whose living coal I sit,And glow like it.Lord, I confess, too, when I dineThe pulse is Thine,And all those other bits that beThere placed by Thee.The worts, the purslain, and the messOf water-cress,Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent:And my contentMakes those, and my beloved beet,To be more sweet.'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearthWith guiltless mirth;And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,Spiced to the brink.Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping handThat sows my land:All this, and better, dost Thou sendMe for this end:That I should render for my partA thankful heart,Which, fired with incense, I resignAs wholly Thine:But the acceptance—that must be,O Lord, by Thee.
Lord, Thou hast given me a cellWherein to dwell;A little house, whose humble roofIs weatherproof;Under the spars of which I lieBoth soft and dry.Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,Hast set a guardOf harmless thoughts, to watch and keepMe while I sleep.Low is my porch, as is my fate,Both void of state;And yet the threshold of my doorIs worn by the poor,Who hither come, and freely getGood words or meat.Like as my parlour, so my hall,And kitchen small;A little buttery, and thereinA little bin,Which keeps my little loaf of breadUnchipt, unflead.Some brittle sticks of thorn or brierMake me a fire,Close by whose living coal I sit,And glow like it.Lord, I confess, too, when I dineThe pulse is Thine,And all those other bits that beThere placed by Thee.The worts, the purslain, and the messOf water-cress,Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent:And my contentMakes those, and my beloved beet,To be more sweet.'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearthWith guiltless mirth;And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,Spiced to the brink.Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping handThat sows my land:All this, and better, dost Thou sendMe for this end:That I should render for my partA thankful heart,Which, fired with incense, I resignAs wholly Thine:But the acceptance—that must be,O Lord, by Thee.
Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tearsSpeak grief in you,Who were but bornJust as the modest mornTeemed her refreshing dew?Alas! you have not known that showerThat mars a flower,Nor felt the unkindBreath of a blasting wind;Nor are ye worn with years,Or warped as we,Who think it strange to seeSuch pretty flowers, like to orphans young,Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make knownThe reason whyYe droop and weep;Is it for want of sleep,Or childish lullaby?Or that ye have not seen as yetThe violet?Or brought a kissFrom that sweet heart to this?No, no; this sorrow shownBy your tears shed,Would have this lecture read—'That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.'
Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tearsSpeak grief in you,Who were but bornJust as the modest mornTeemed her refreshing dew?Alas! you have not known that showerThat mars a flower,Nor felt the unkindBreath of a blasting wind;Nor are ye worn with years,Or warped as we,Who think it strange to seeSuch pretty flowers, like to orphans young,Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.
Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make knownThe reason whyYe droop and weep;Is it for want of sleep,Or childish lullaby?Or that ye have not seen as yetThe violet?Or brought a kissFrom that sweet heart to this?No, no; this sorrow shownBy your tears shed,Would have this lecture read—'That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.'
A sweet disorder in the dress[A happy kind of carelessness;]A lawn about the shoulders thrownInto a fine distraction;An erring lace, which here and thereEnthralls the crimson stomacher;A cuff neglectful, and therebyRibands that flow confusedly;A winning wave, deserving noteIn the tempestuous petticoat;A careless shoe-string, in whose tieI see a wild civility;Do more bewitch me, than when artIs too precise in every part.
A sweet disorder in the dress[A happy kind of carelessness;]A lawn about the shoulders thrownInto a fine distraction;An erring lace, which here and thereEnthralls the crimson stomacher;A cuff neglectful, and therebyRibands that flow confusedly;A winning wave, deserving noteIn the tempestuous petticoat;A careless shoe-string, in whose tieI see a wild civility;Do more bewitch me, than when artIs too precise in every part.
Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,Full and fair ones—come and buy;If so be you ask me whereThey do grow?—I answer: There,Where my Julia's lips do smile—There's the land, or cherry-isle;Whose plantations fully showAll the year where cherries grow.
Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,Full and fair ones—come and buy;If so be you ask me whereThey do grow?—I answer: There,Where my Julia's lips do smile—There's the land, or cherry-isle;Whose plantations fully showAll the year where cherries grow.
Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so brightThe bridal of the earth and sky;The dews shall weep thy fall to-night;For thou must die.Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;Thy root is ever in its grave;And thou must die.Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses;A box where sweets compacted lie;Thy music shows ye have your closes;And all must die.Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like seasoned timber never gives;But, though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.
Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so brightThe bridal of the earth and sky;The dews shall weep thy fall to-night;For thou must die.
Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;Thy root is ever in its grave;And thou must die.
Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses;A box where sweets compacted lie;Thy music shows ye have your closes;And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like seasoned timber never gives;But, though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.
Some years of late, in eighty-eight,As I do well remember,It was, some say, the middle of May,And some say in September,And some say in September.The Spanish train launch'd forth amain,With many a fine bravado,Their (as they thought, but it prov'd not)Invincible Armado,Invincible Armado.There was a man that dwelt in SpainWho shot well with a gun a,Don Pedro hight, as black a wightAs the Knight of the Sun a,As the Knight of the Sun a.King Philip made him Admiral,And bid him not to stay a,But to destroy both man and boyAnd so to come away a,And so to come away a.Their navy was well victualledWith bisket, pease, and bacon,They brought two ships, well fraught with whips,But I think they were mistaken,But I think they were mistaken.Their men were young, munition strong,And to do us more harm a,They thought it meet to joyn their fleetAll with the Prince of Parma,All with the Prince of Parma.They coasted round about our land,And so came in by Dover:But we had men set on 'em then,And threw the rascals over,And threw the rascals over.The Queen was then at Tilbury,What could we more desire a?Sir Francis Drake for her sweet sakeDid set them all on fire a,Did set them all on fire a.Then straight they fled by sea and land,That one man kill'd threescore a,And had not they all run away,In truth he had kill'd more a,In truth he had kill'd more a.Then let them neither bray nor boast,But if they come again a,Let them take heed they do not speedAs they did you know when a,As they did you know when a.
Some years of late, in eighty-eight,As I do well remember,It was, some say, the middle of May,And some say in September,And some say in September.
The Spanish train launch'd forth amain,With many a fine bravado,Their (as they thought, but it prov'd not)Invincible Armado,Invincible Armado.
There was a man that dwelt in SpainWho shot well with a gun a,Don Pedro hight, as black a wightAs the Knight of the Sun a,As the Knight of the Sun a.
King Philip made him Admiral,And bid him not to stay a,But to destroy both man and boyAnd so to come away a,And so to come away a.
Their navy was well victualledWith bisket, pease, and bacon,They brought two ships, well fraught with whips,But I think they were mistaken,But I think they were mistaken.
Their men were young, munition strong,And to do us more harm a,They thought it meet to joyn their fleetAll with the Prince of Parma,All with the Prince of Parma.
They coasted round about our land,And so came in by Dover:But we had men set on 'em then,And threw the rascals over,And threw the rascals over.
The Queen was then at Tilbury,What could we more desire a?Sir Francis Drake for her sweet sakeDid set them all on fire a,Did set them all on fire a.
Then straight they fled by sea and land,That one man kill'd threescore a,And had not they all run away,In truth he had kill'd more a,In truth he had kill'd more a.
Then let them neither bray nor boast,But if they come again a,Let them take heed they do not speedAs they did you know when a,As they did you know when a.
I tell thee, Dick, where I have been;Where I the rarest things have seen;Oh, things without compare!Such sights again can not be foundIn any place on English ground,Be it at wake or faer.At Charing Cross, hard by the wayWhere we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,There is a house with stairs;And there did I see coming downSuch folks as are not in our town;Vorty at least, in pairs.Amongst the rest one pest'lent fine(His beard no bigger tho' than thine)Walk'd on before the rest;Our landlord looks like nothing to him;The King (God bless him), 'twould undo him,Should he go still so drest.At Course-a-park, without all doubt,He should have first been taken outBy all the maids i' the town:Though lusty Roger there had been,Or little George upon the green,Or Vincent of the crown.But wot you what? The youth was goingTo make an end of all his wooing:The parson for him staid:Yet by his leave, for all his haste,He did not so much wish all past,Perchance as did the maid.The maid (and thereby hangs a tale)For such a maid no Whitson-aleCould ever yet produce;No grape that's kindly ripe could beSo round, so plump, so soft as she,Nor half so full of juyce.Her finger was so small, the ringWould not stay on which they did bring;It was too wide a peck:And, to say truth (for out it must),It look'd like the great collar (just)About our young colt's neck.Her feet beneath her petticoat,Like little mice stole in and out,As if they fear'd the light:But oh! she dances such a way;No sun upon an Easter dayIs half as fine a sight.Her cheeks so rare, a white was on,No daisie make comparison(Who sees them is undone);For streaks of red were mingled there,Such as are on a Kath'rine pear,The side that's next the sun.Her lips were red; and one was thin,Compared to what was next her chin(Some bee had stung it newly);But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,I durst no more upon them gaze,Than on a sun in July.Her mouth so small, when she does speak,Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did breakThat they might passage get;But she so handled still the matter,They came as good as ours, or better,And are not spent a whit.Passion, oh me! how I run on!There's that that would be thought upon,I trow, beside the bride.The business of the kitchen's great;For it is fit that men should eat,Nor was it there denied.Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice,And all the waiters in a triceHis summons did obey;Each serving man, with dish in hand,March'd boldly up like our train'd band,Presented, and away.When all the meat was on the table,What man of knife, or teeth, was ableTo stay to be entreated?And this the very reason was,Before the parson could say graceThe company was seated.Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;Healths first go round, and then the house,The bride's came thick and thick;And when 'twas named another's health,Perhaps he made it her's by stealth,(And who could help it, Dick?)O' th' sudden up they rise and dance;Then sit again, and sigh, and glance:Then dance again, and kiss:Thus several ways the time did pass,Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place,And ev'ry man wish'd his.By this time all were stolen asideTo counsel and undress the bride;But that he must not know:But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mindAnd did not mean to stay behindAbove an hour or so.
I tell thee, Dick, where I have been;Where I the rarest things have seen;Oh, things without compare!Such sights again can not be foundIn any place on English ground,Be it at wake or faer.
At Charing Cross, hard by the wayWhere we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,There is a house with stairs;And there did I see coming downSuch folks as are not in our town;Vorty at least, in pairs.
Amongst the rest one pest'lent fine(His beard no bigger tho' than thine)Walk'd on before the rest;Our landlord looks like nothing to him;The King (God bless him), 'twould undo him,Should he go still so drest.
At Course-a-park, without all doubt,He should have first been taken outBy all the maids i' the town:Though lusty Roger there had been,Or little George upon the green,Or Vincent of the crown.
But wot you what? The youth was goingTo make an end of all his wooing:The parson for him staid:Yet by his leave, for all his haste,He did not so much wish all past,Perchance as did the maid.
The maid (and thereby hangs a tale)For such a maid no Whitson-aleCould ever yet produce;No grape that's kindly ripe could beSo round, so plump, so soft as she,Nor half so full of juyce.
Her finger was so small, the ringWould not stay on which they did bring;It was too wide a peck:And, to say truth (for out it must),It look'd like the great collar (just)About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat,Like little mice stole in and out,As if they fear'd the light:But oh! she dances such a way;No sun upon an Easter dayIs half as fine a sight.
Her cheeks so rare, a white was on,No daisie make comparison(Who sees them is undone);For streaks of red were mingled there,Such as are on a Kath'rine pear,The side that's next the sun.
Her lips were red; and one was thin,Compared to what was next her chin(Some bee had stung it newly);But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,I durst no more upon them gaze,Than on a sun in July.
Her mouth so small, when she does speak,Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did breakThat they might passage get;But she so handled still the matter,They came as good as ours, or better,And are not spent a whit.
Passion, oh me! how I run on!There's that that would be thought upon,I trow, beside the bride.The business of the kitchen's great;For it is fit that men should eat,Nor was it there denied.
Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice,And all the waiters in a triceHis summons did obey;Each serving man, with dish in hand,March'd boldly up like our train'd band,Presented, and away.
When all the meat was on the table,What man of knife, or teeth, was ableTo stay to be entreated?And this the very reason was,Before the parson could say graceThe company was seated.
Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;Healths first go round, and then the house,The bride's came thick and thick;And when 'twas named another's health,Perhaps he made it her's by stealth,(And who could help it, Dick?)
O' th' sudden up they rise and dance;Then sit again, and sigh, and glance:Then dance again, and kiss:Thus several ways the time did pass,Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place,And ev'ry man wish'd his.
By this time all were stolen asideTo counsel and undress the bride;But that he must not know:But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mindAnd did not mean to stay behindAbove an hour or so.