FAIR is my Love and cruel as she’s fair;Her brow-shades frown, although her eyes are sunny,Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair,And her disdains are gall, her favours honey:A modest maid, deck’d with a blush of honour,Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love;The wonder of all eyes that look upon her,Sacred on earth, design’d a Saint above.Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes,Live reconcilèd friends within her brow;And had she Pity to conjoin with those,Then who had heard the plaints I utter now?For had she not been fair, and thus unkind,My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.
FAIR is my Love and cruel as she’s fair;Her brow-shades frown, although her eyes are sunny,Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair,And her disdains are gall, her favours honey:A modest maid, deck’d with a blush of honour,Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love;The wonder of all eyes that look upon her,Sacred on earth, design’d a Saint above.Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes,Live reconcilèd friends within her brow;And had she Pity to conjoin with those,Then who had heard the plaints I utter now?For had she not been fair, and thus unkind,My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.
FAIR is my Love and cruel as she’s fair;Her brow-shades frown, although her eyes are sunny,Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair,And her disdains are gall, her favours honey:A modest maid, deck’d with a blush of honour,Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love;The wonder of all eyes that look upon her,Sacred on earth, design’d a Saint above.Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes,Live reconcilèd friends within her brow;And had she Pity to conjoin with those,Then who had heard the plaints I utter now?For had she not been fair, and thus unkind,My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.
MY spotless love hovers with purest wings,About the temple of the proudest frame,Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things,Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame.My ambitious thoughts, confinèd in her face,Affect no honour but what she can give;My hopes do rest in limits of her grace;I weigh no comfort unless she relieve.For she, that can my heart imparadise,Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is;My Fortune’s wheel’s the circle of her eyes,Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss.All my life’s sweet consists in her alone;So much I love the most Unloving one.
MY spotless love hovers with purest wings,About the temple of the proudest frame,Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things,Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame.My ambitious thoughts, confinèd in her face,Affect no honour but what she can give;My hopes do rest in limits of her grace;I weigh no comfort unless she relieve.For she, that can my heart imparadise,Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is;My Fortune’s wheel’s the circle of her eyes,Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss.All my life’s sweet consists in her alone;So much I love the most Unloving one.
MY spotless love hovers with purest wings,About the temple of the proudest frame,Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things,Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame.My ambitious thoughts, confinèd in her face,Affect no honour but what she can give;My hopes do rest in limits of her grace;I weigh no comfort unless she relieve.For she, that can my heart imparadise,Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is;My Fortune’s wheel’s the circle of her eyes,Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss.All my life’s sweet consists in her alone;So much I love the most Unloving one.
AND yet I cannot reprehend the flightOr blame th’ attempt presuming so to soar;The mounting venture for a high delightDid make the honour of the fall the more.For who gets wealth, that puts not from the shore?Danger hath honour, great designs their fame;Glory doth follow, courage goes before;And though th’ event oft answers not the same—Suffice that high attempts have never shame.The mean observer, whom base safety keeps,Lives without honour, dies without a name,And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.—And therefore,Delia, ’tis to me no blotTo have attempted, tho’ attain’d thee not.
AND yet I cannot reprehend the flightOr blame th’ attempt presuming so to soar;The mounting venture for a high delightDid make the honour of the fall the more.For who gets wealth, that puts not from the shore?Danger hath honour, great designs their fame;Glory doth follow, courage goes before;And though th’ event oft answers not the same—Suffice that high attempts have never shame.The mean observer, whom base safety keeps,Lives without honour, dies without a name,And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.—And therefore,Delia, ’tis to me no blotTo have attempted, tho’ attain’d thee not.
AND yet I cannot reprehend the flightOr blame th’ attempt presuming so to soar;The mounting venture for a high delightDid make the honour of the fall the more.For who gets wealth, that puts not from the shore?Danger hath honour, great designs their fame;Glory doth follow, courage goes before;And though th’ event oft answers not the same—Suffice that high attempts have never shame.The mean observer, whom base safety keeps,Lives without honour, dies without a name,And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.—And therefore,Delia, ’tis to me no blotTo have attempted, tho’ attain’d thee not.
WHEN men shall find thy flow’r, thy glory, pass,And thou with careful brow, sitting alone,Receivèd hast this message from thy glass,That tells the truth and says thatAll is gone;Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad’st,Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining:I that have loved thee thus before thou fad’st—My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning.The world shall find this miracle in me,That fire can burn when all the matter’s spent:Then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see,And that thou wast unkind thou may’st repent.—Thou may’st repent that thou hast scorn’d my tears,When Winter snows upon thy sable hairs.
WHEN men shall find thy flow’r, thy glory, pass,And thou with careful brow, sitting alone,Receivèd hast this message from thy glass,That tells the truth and says thatAll is gone;Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad’st,Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining:I that have loved thee thus before thou fad’st—My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning.The world shall find this miracle in me,That fire can burn when all the matter’s spent:Then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see,And that thou wast unkind thou may’st repent.—Thou may’st repent that thou hast scorn’d my tears,When Winter snows upon thy sable hairs.
WHEN men shall find thy flow’r, thy glory, pass,And thou with careful brow, sitting alone,Receivèd hast this message from thy glass,That tells the truth and says thatAll is gone;Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad’st,Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining:I that have loved thee thus before thou fad’st—My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning.The world shall find this miracle in me,That fire can burn when all the matter’s spent:Then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see,And that thou wast unkind thou may’st repent.—Thou may’st repent that thou hast scorn’d my tears,When Winter snows upon thy sable hairs.
BEAUTY, sweet Love, is like the morning dew,Whose short refresh upon the tender greenCheers for a time, but till the sun doth show,And straight ’tis gone as it had never been.Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,Short is the glory of the blushing rose;The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years,Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth;And that, in Beauty’s Lease expired, appearsThe Date of Age, the Calends of our Death—But ah, no more!—this must not be foretold,For women grieve to think they must be old.
BEAUTY, sweet Love, is like the morning dew,Whose short refresh upon the tender greenCheers for a time, but till the sun doth show,And straight ’tis gone as it had never been.Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,Short is the glory of the blushing rose;The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years,Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth;And that, in Beauty’s Lease expired, appearsThe Date of Age, the Calends of our Death—But ah, no more!—this must not be foretold,For women grieve to think they must be old.
BEAUTY, sweet Love, is like the morning dew,Whose short refresh upon the tender greenCheers for a time, but till the sun doth show,And straight ’tis gone as it had never been.Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,Short is the glory of the blushing rose;The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years,Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth;And that, in Beauty’s Lease expired, appearsThe Date of Age, the Calends of our Death—But ah, no more!—this must not be foretold,For women grieve to think they must be old.
IMUST not grieve my Love, whose eyes would readLines of delight, whereon her youth might smile;Flowers have time before they come to seed,And she is young, and now must sport the while.And sport, Sweet Maid, in season of these years,And learn to gather flowers before they wither;And where the sweetest blossom first appears,Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither.Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise;Pity and smiles do best become the fair;Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise.Make me to say when all my griefs are gone,Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!
IMUST not grieve my Love, whose eyes would readLines of delight, whereon her youth might smile;Flowers have time before they come to seed,And she is young, and now must sport the while.And sport, Sweet Maid, in season of these years,And learn to gather flowers before they wither;And where the sweetest blossom first appears,Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither.Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise;Pity and smiles do best become the fair;Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise.Make me to say when all my griefs are gone,Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!
IMUST not grieve my Love, whose eyes would readLines of delight, whereon her youth might smile;Flowers have time before they come to seed,And she is young, and now must sport the while.And sport, Sweet Maid, in season of these years,And learn to gather flowers before they wither;And where the sweetest blossom first appears,Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither.Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise;Pity and smiles do best become the fair;Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise.Make me to say when all my griefs are gone,Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!
LET others sing of Knights and PaladinesIn agèd accents and untimely words,Paint shadows in imaginary lines,Which well the reach of their high wit records:But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyesAuthentic shall my verse in time to come;When yet th’ unborn shall say,Lo, where she lies!Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb!These are the arcs, the trophies I erect,That fortify thy name against old age;And these thy sacred virtues must protectAgainst the Dark, and Time’s consuming rage.Though th’ error of my youth in them appear,Suffice, they show I lived, and loved thee dear.
LET others sing of Knights and PaladinesIn agèd accents and untimely words,Paint shadows in imaginary lines,Which well the reach of their high wit records:But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyesAuthentic shall my verse in time to come;When yet th’ unborn shall say,Lo, where she lies!Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb!These are the arcs, the trophies I erect,That fortify thy name against old age;And these thy sacred virtues must protectAgainst the Dark, and Time’s consuming rage.Though th’ error of my youth in them appear,Suffice, they show I lived, and loved thee dear.
LET others sing of Knights and PaladinesIn agèd accents and untimely words,Paint shadows in imaginary lines,Which well the reach of their high wit records:But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyesAuthentic shall my verse in time to come;When yet th’ unborn shall say,Lo, where she lies!Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb!These are the arcs, the trophies I erect,That fortify thy name against old age;And these thy sacred virtues must protectAgainst the Dark, and Time’s consuming rage.Though th’ error of my youth in them appear,Suffice, they show I lived, and loved thee dear.
1563-1601
114.
FRA bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin,Ourhailit with my feeble fantasie;Like til a leaf that fallis from a tree,Or til a reed ourblawin with the win.Twa gods guides me: the ane of tham is blin,Yea and a bairn brocht up in vanitie;The next a wife ingenrit of the sea,And lichter nor a dauphin with her fin.Unhappy is the man for evermairThat tills the sand and sawis in the air;But twice unhappier is he, I lairn,That feidis in his hairt a mad desire,And follows on a woman throw the fire,Led by a blind and teachit by a bairn.
FRA bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin,Ourhailit with my feeble fantasie;Like til a leaf that fallis from a tree,Or til a reed ourblawin with the win.Twa gods guides me: the ane of tham is blin,Yea and a bairn brocht up in vanitie;The next a wife ingenrit of the sea,And lichter nor a dauphin with her fin.Unhappy is the man for evermairThat tills the sand and sawis in the air;But twice unhappier is he, I lairn,That feidis in his hairt a mad desire,And follows on a woman throw the fire,Led by a blind and teachit by a bairn.
FRA bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin,Ourhailit with my feeble fantasie;Like til a leaf that fallis from a tree,Or til a reed ourblawin with the win.
Twa gods guides me: the ane of tham is blin,Yea and a bairn brocht up in vanitie;The next a wife ingenrit of the sea,And lichter nor a dauphin with her fin.
Unhappy is the man for evermairThat tills the sand and sawis in the air;But twice unhappier is he, I lairn,That feidis in his hairt a mad desire,And follows on a woman throw the fire,Led by a blind and teachit by a bairn.
1563-1618
115.
WERE I as base as is the lowly plain,And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain,Ascend to heaven in honour of my love.Were I as high as heaven above the plain,And you, my Love, as humble and as lowAs are the deepest bottoms of the main,Wheresoe’er you were, with you my love should go.Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,My love should shine on you like to the Sun,And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,Till heaven wax’d blind, and till the world were done.Wheresoe’er I am,—below, or else above you—Wheresoe’er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
WERE I as base as is the lowly plain,And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain,Ascend to heaven in honour of my love.Were I as high as heaven above the plain,And you, my Love, as humble and as lowAs are the deepest bottoms of the main,Wheresoe’er you were, with you my love should go.Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,My love should shine on you like to the Sun,And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,Till heaven wax’d blind, and till the world were done.Wheresoe’er I am,—below, or else above you—Wheresoe’er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
WERE I as base as is the lowly plain,And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain,Ascend to heaven in honour of my love.Were I as high as heaven above the plain,And you, my Love, as humble and as lowAs are the deepest bottoms of the main,Wheresoe’er you were, with you my love should go.Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,My love should shine on you like to the Sun,And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,Till heaven wax’d blind, and till the world were done.Wheresoe’er I am,—below, or else above you—Wheresoe’er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
1563-1631
116.
IPRAY thee, leave, love me no more,Call home the heart you gave me!I but in vain that saint adoreThat can but will not save me.These poor half-kisses kill me quite—Was ever man thus servèd?Amidst an ocean of delightFor pleasure to be starvèd?Show me no more those snowy breastsWith azure riverets branchèd,Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,Yet is my thirst not stanchèd;O Tantalus, thy pains ne’er tell!By me thou art prevented:’Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell,But thus in Heaven tormented.Clip me no more in those dear arms,Nor thy life’s comfort call me,O these are but too powerful charms,And do but more enthral me!But see how patient I am grownIn all this coil about thee:Come, nice thing, let my heart alone,I cannot live without thee!
IPRAY thee, leave, love me no more,Call home the heart you gave me!I but in vain that saint adoreThat can but will not save me.These poor half-kisses kill me quite—Was ever man thus servèd?Amidst an ocean of delightFor pleasure to be starvèd?Show me no more those snowy breastsWith azure riverets branchèd,Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,Yet is my thirst not stanchèd;O Tantalus, thy pains ne’er tell!By me thou art prevented:’Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell,But thus in Heaven tormented.Clip me no more in those dear arms,Nor thy life’s comfort call me,O these are but too powerful charms,And do but more enthral me!But see how patient I am grownIn all this coil about thee:Come, nice thing, let my heart alone,I cannot live without thee!
IPRAY thee, leave, love me no more,Call home the heart you gave me!I but in vain that saint adoreThat can but will not save me.These poor half-kisses kill me quite—Was ever man thus servèd?Amidst an ocean of delightFor pleasure to be starvèd?
Show me no more those snowy breastsWith azure riverets branchèd,Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,Yet is my thirst not stanchèd;O Tantalus, thy pains ne’er tell!By me thou art prevented:’Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell,But thus in Heaven tormented.
Clip me no more in those dear arms,Nor thy life’s comfort call me,O these are but too powerful charms,And do but more enthral me!But see how patient I am grownIn all this coil about thee:Come, nice thing, let my heart alone,I cannot live without thee!
117.
SINCE there’s no help, come let us kiss and part—Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,That thus so cleanly I myself can free.Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,And when we meet at any time again,Be it not seen in either of our browsThat we one jot of former love retain.Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath,When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,And Innocence is closing up his eyes,—Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,From death to life thou might’st him yet recover.
SINCE there’s no help, come let us kiss and part—Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,That thus so cleanly I myself can free.Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,And when we meet at any time again,Be it not seen in either of our browsThat we one jot of former love retain.Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath,When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,And Innocence is closing up his eyes,—Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,From death to life thou might’st him yet recover.
SINCE there’s no help, come let us kiss and part—Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,That thus so cleanly I myself can free.Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,And when we meet at any time again,Be it not seen in either of our browsThat we one jot of former love retain.Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath,When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,And Innocence is closing up his eyes,—Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,From death to life thou might’st him yet recover.
118.
NEAR to the silverTrentSirenadwelleth;She to whom Nature lentAll that excelleth;By which the Muses lateAnd the neat GracesHave for their greater stateTaken their places;Twisting an anademWherewith to crown her,As it belong’d to themMost to renown her.On thy bank,In a rank,Let thy swans sing her,And with their musicAlong let them bring her.TagusandPactolusAre to thee debtor,Nor for their gold to usAre they the better:Henceforth of all the restBe thou the RiverWhich, as the daintiest,Puts them down ever.For as my precious oneO’er thee doth travel,She to pearl paragonTurneth thy gravel.On thy bank ...Our mournful Philomel,That rarest tuner,Henceforth in AperilShall wake the sooner,And to her shall complainFrom the thick cover,Redoubling every strainOver and over:For when my Love too longHer chamber keepeth,As though it suffer’d wrong,The Morning weepeth.On thy bank ...Oft have I seen the Sun,To do her honour,Fix himself at his noonTo look upon her;And hath gilt every grove,Every hill near her,With his flames from aboveStriving to cheer her:And when she from his sightHath herself turnèd,He, as it had been night,In clouds hath mournèd.On thy bank ...The verdant meads are seen,When she doth view them,In fresh and gallant greenStraight to renew them;And every little grassBroad itself spreadeth,Proud that this bonny lassUpon it treadeth:Nor flower is so sweetIn this large cincture,But it upon her feetLeaveth some tincture.On thy bank ...The fishes in the flood,When she doth angle,For the hook strive a-goodThem to entangle;And leaping on the land,From the clear water,Their scales upon the sandLavishly scatter;Therewith to pave the mouldWhereon she passes,So herself to beholdAs in her glasses.On thy bank ...When she looks out by night,The stars stand gazing,Like comets to our sightFearfully blazing;As wond’ring at her eyesWith their much brightness,Which so amaze the skies,Dimming their lightness.The raging tempests are calmWhen she speaketh,Such most delightsome balmFrom her lips breaketh.On thy bank ...In all ourBrittanyThere’s not a fairer,Nor can you fit anyShould you compare her.Angels her eyelids keep,All hearts surprising;Which look whilst she doth sleepLike the sun’s rising:She alone of her kindKnoweth true measure,And her unmatchèd mindIs heaven’s treasure.On thy bank ...FairDoveandDarwenclear,Boast ye your beauties,ToTrentyour mistress hereYet pay your duties:My Love was higher bornTow’rds the full fountains,Yet she doth moorland scornAnd thePeakmountains;Nor would she none should dreamWhere she abideth,Humble as is the streamWhich by her slideth.On thy bank ...Yet my poor rustic MuseNothing can move her,Nor the means I can use,Though her true lover:Many a long winter’s nightHave I waked for her,Yet this my piteous plightNothing can stir her.All thy sands, silverTrent,Down to theHumber,The sighs that I have spentNever can number.On thy bank,In a rank,Let thy swans sing her,And with their musicAlong let them bring her.
NEAR to the silverTrentSirenadwelleth;She to whom Nature lentAll that excelleth;By which the Muses lateAnd the neat GracesHave for their greater stateTaken their places;Twisting an anademWherewith to crown her,As it belong’d to themMost to renown her.On thy bank,In a rank,Let thy swans sing her,And with their musicAlong let them bring her.TagusandPactolusAre to thee debtor,Nor for their gold to usAre they the better:Henceforth of all the restBe thou the RiverWhich, as the daintiest,Puts them down ever.For as my precious oneO’er thee doth travel,She to pearl paragonTurneth thy gravel.On thy bank ...Our mournful Philomel,That rarest tuner,Henceforth in AperilShall wake the sooner,And to her shall complainFrom the thick cover,Redoubling every strainOver and over:For when my Love too longHer chamber keepeth,As though it suffer’d wrong,The Morning weepeth.On thy bank ...Oft have I seen the Sun,To do her honour,Fix himself at his noonTo look upon her;And hath gilt every grove,Every hill near her,With his flames from aboveStriving to cheer her:And when she from his sightHath herself turnèd,He, as it had been night,In clouds hath mournèd.On thy bank ...The verdant meads are seen,When she doth view them,In fresh and gallant greenStraight to renew them;And every little grassBroad itself spreadeth,Proud that this bonny lassUpon it treadeth:Nor flower is so sweetIn this large cincture,But it upon her feetLeaveth some tincture.On thy bank ...The fishes in the flood,When she doth angle,For the hook strive a-goodThem to entangle;And leaping on the land,From the clear water,Their scales upon the sandLavishly scatter;Therewith to pave the mouldWhereon she passes,So herself to beholdAs in her glasses.On thy bank ...When she looks out by night,The stars stand gazing,Like comets to our sightFearfully blazing;As wond’ring at her eyesWith their much brightness,Which so amaze the skies,Dimming their lightness.The raging tempests are calmWhen she speaketh,Such most delightsome balmFrom her lips breaketh.On thy bank ...In all ourBrittanyThere’s not a fairer,Nor can you fit anyShould you compare her.Angels her eyelids keep,All hearts surprising;Which look whilst she doth sleepLike the sun’s rising:She alone of her kindKnoweth true measure,And her unmatchèd mindIs heaven’s treasure.On thy bank ...FairDoveandDarwenclear,Boast ye your beauties,ToTrentyour mistress hereYet pay your duties:My Love was higher bornTow’rds the full fountains,Yet she doth moorland scornAnd thePeakmountains;Nor would she none should dreamWhere she abideth,Humble as is the streamWhich by her slideth.On thy bank ...Yet my poor rustic MuseNothing can move her,Nor the means I can use,Though her true lover:Many a long winter’s nightHave I waked for her,Yet this my piteous plightNothing can stir her.All thy sands, silverTrent,Down to theHumber,The sighs that I have spentNever can number.On thy bank,In a rank,Let thy swans sing her,And with their musicAlong let them bring her.
NEAR to the silverTrentSirenadwelleth;She to whom Nature lentAll that excelleth;By which the Muses lateAnd the neat GracesHave for their greater stateTaken their places;Twisting an anademWherewith to crown her,As it belong’d to themMost to renown her.On thy bank,In a rank,Let thy swans sing her,And with their musicAlong let them bring her.
TagusandPactolusAre to thee debtor,Nor for their gold to usAre they the better:Henceforth of all the restBe thou the RiverWhich, as the daintiest,Puts them down ever.For as my precious oneO’er thee doth travel,She to pearl paragonTurneth thy gravel.On thy bank ...
Our mournful Philomel,That rarest tuner,Henceforth in AperilShall wake the sooner,And to her shall complainFrom the thick cover,Redoubling every strainOver and over:For when my Love too longHer chamber keepeth,As though it suffer’d wrong,The Morning weepeth.On thy bank ...
Oft have I seen the Sun,To do her honour,Fix himself at his noonTo look upon her;And hath gilt every grove,Every hill near her,With his flames from aboveStriving to cheer her:And when she from his sightHath herself turnèd,He, as it had been night,In clouds hath mournèd.On thy bank ...
The verdant meads are seen,When she doth view them,In fresh and gallant greenStraight to renew them;And every little grassBroad itself spreadeth,Proud that this bonny lassUpon it treadeth:Nor flower is so sweetIn this large cincture,But it upon her feetLeaveth some tincture.On thy bank ...
The fishes in the flood,When she doth angle,For the hook strive a-goodThem to entangle;And leaping on the land,From the clear water,Their scales upon the sandLavishly scatter;Therewith to pave the mouldWhereon she passes,So herself to beholdAs in her glasses.On thy bank ...
When she looks out by night,The stars stand gazing,Like comets to our sightFearfully blazing;As wond’ring at her eyesWith their much brightness,Which so amaze the skies,Dimming their lightness.The raging tempests are calmWhen she speaketh,Such most delightsome balmFrom her lips breaketh.On thy bank ...
In all ourBrittanyThere’s not a fairer,Nor can you fit anyShould you compare her.Angels her eyelids keep,All hearts surprising;Which look whilst she doth sleepLike the sun’s rising:She alone of her kindKnoweth true measure,And her unmatchèd mindIs heaven’s treasure.On thy bank ...
FairDoveandDarwenclear,Boast ye your beauties,ToTrentyour mistress hereYet pay your duties:My Love was higher bornTow’rds the full fountains,Yet she doth moorland scornAnd thePeakmountains;Nor would she none should dreamWhere she abideth,Humble as is the streamWhich by her slideth.On thy bank ...
Yet my poor rustic MuseNothing can move her,Nor the means I can use,Though her true lover:Many a long winter’s nightHave I waked for her,Yet this my piteous plightNothing can stir her.All thy sands, silverTrent,Down to theHumber,The sighs that I have spentNever can number.On thy bank,In a rank,Let thy swans sing her,And with their musicAlong let them bring her.
119.
FAIR stood the wind for FranceWhen we our sails advance,Nor now to prove our chanceLonger will tarry;But putting to the main,At Caux, the mouth of Seine,With all his martial trainLanded King Harry.And taking many a fort,Furnish’d in warlike sort,Marcheth tow’rds AgincourtIn happy hour;Skirmishing day by dayWith those that stopp’d his way,Where the French gen’ral layWith all his power.Which, in his height of pride,King Henry to deride,His ransom to provideUnto him sending;Which he neglects the whileAs from a nation vile,Yet with an angry smileTheir fall portending.And turning to his men,Quoth our brave Henry then,‘Though they to one be tenBe not amazèd:Yet have we well begun;Battles so bravely wonHave ever to the sunBy fame been raisèd.‘And for myself (quoth he)This my full rest shall be:England ne’er mourn for meNor more esteem me:Victor I will remainOr on this earth lie slain,Never shall she sustainLoss to redeem me.‘Poitiers and Cressy tell,When most their pride did swell,Under our swords they fell:No less our skill isThan when our grandsire great,Claiming the regal seat,By many a warlike featLopp’d the French lilies.’The Duke of York so dreadThe eager vaward led;With the main Henry spedAmong his henchmen.Excester had the rear,A braver man not there;O Lord, how hot they wereOn the false Frenchmen!They now to fight are gone,Armour on armour shone,Drum now to drum did groan,To hear was wonder;That with the cries they makeThe very earth did shake:Trumpet to trumpet spake,Thunder to thunder.Well it thine age became,O noble Erpingham,Which didst the signal aimTo our hid forces!When from a meadow by,Like a storm suddenlyThe English archeryStuck the French horses.With Spanish yew so strong,Arrows a cloth-yard longThat like to serpents stung,Piercing the weather;None from his fellow starts,But playing manly parts,And like true English heartsStuck close together.When down their bows they threw,And forth their bilbos drew,And on the French they flew,Not one was tardy;Arms were from shoulders sent,Scalps to the teeth were rent,Down the French peasants went—Our men were hardy.This while our noble king,His broadsword brandishing,
FAIR stood the wind for FranceWhen we our sails advance,Nor now to prove our chanceLonger will tarry;But putting to the main,At Caux, the mouth of Seine,With all his martial trainLanded King Harry.And taking many a fort,Furnish’d in warlike sort,Marcheth tow’rds AgincourtIn happy hour;Skirmishing day by dayWith those that stopp’d his way,Where the French gen’ral layWith all his power.Which, in his height of pride,King Henry to deride,His ransom to provideUnto him sending;Which he neglects the whileAs from a nation vile,Yet with an angry smileTheir fall portending.And turning to his men,Quoth our brave Henry then,‘Though they to one be tenBe not amazèd:Yet have we well begun;Battles so bravely wonHave ever to the sunBy fame been raisèd.‘And for myself (quoth he)This my full rest shall be:England ne’er mourn for meNor more esteem me:Victor I will remainOr on this earth lie slain,Never shall she sustainLoss to redeem me.‘Poitiers and Cressy tell,When most their pride did swell,Under our swords they fell:No less our skill isThan when our grandsire great,Claiming the regal seat,By many a warlike featLopp’d the French lilies.’The Duke of York so dreadThe eager vaward led;With the main Henry spedAmong his henchmen.Excester had the rear,A braver man not there;O Lord, how hot they wereOn the false Frenchmen!They now to fight are gone,Armour on armour shone,Drum now to drum did groan,To hear was wonder;That with the cries they makeThe very earth did shake:Trumpet to trumpet spake,Thunder to thunder.Well it thine age became,O noble Erpingham,Which didst the signal aimTo our hid forces!When from a meadow by,Like a storm suddenlyThe English archeryStuck the French horses.With Spanish yew so strong,Arrows a cloth-yard longThat like to serpents stung,Piercing the weather;None from his fellow starts,But playing manly parts,And like true English heartsStuck close together.When down their bows they threw,And forth their bilbos drew,And on the French they flew,Not one was tardy;Arms were from shoulders sent,Scalps to the teeth were rent,Down the French peasants went—Our men were hardy.This while our noble king,His broadsword brandishing,
FAIR stood the wind for FranceWhen we our sails advance,Nor now to prove our chanceLonger will tarry;But putting to the main,At Caux, the mouth of Seine,With all his martial trainLanded King Harry.
And taking many a fort,Furnish’d in warlike sort,Marcheth tow’rds AgincourtIn happy hour;Skirmishing day by dayWith those that stopp’d his way,Where the French gen’ral layWith all his power.
Which, in his height of pride,King Henry to deride,His ransom to provideUnto him sending;Which he neglects the whileAs from a nation vile,Yet with an angry smileTheir fall portending.
And turning to his men,Quoth our brave Henry then,‘Though they to one be tenBe not amazèd:Yet have we well begun;Battles so bravely wonHave ever to the sunBy fame been raisèd.
‘And for myself (quoth he)This my full rest shall be:England ne’er mourn for meNor more esteem me:Victor I will remainOr on this earth lie slain,Never shall she sustainLoss to redeem me.
‘Poitiers and Cressy tell,When most their pride did swell,Under our swords they fell:No less our skill isThan when our grandsire great,Claiming the regal seat,By many a warlike featLopp’d the French lilies.’
The Duke of York so dreadThe eager vaward led;With the main Henry spedAmong his henchmen.Excester had the rear,A braver man not there;O Lord, how hot they wereOn the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone,Armour on armour shone,Drum now to drum did groan,To hear was wonder;That with the cries they makeThe very earth did shake:Trumpet to trumpet spake,Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,O noble Erpingham,Which didst the signal aimTo our hid forces!When from a meadow by,Like a storm suddenlyThe English archeryStuck the French horses.
With Spanish yew so strong,Arrows a cloth-yard longThat like to serpents stung,Piercing the weather;None from his fellow starts,But playing manly parts,And like true English heartsStuck close together.
When down their bows they threw,And forth their bilbos drew,And on the French they flew,Not one was tardy;Arms were from shoulders sent,Scalps to the teeth were rent,Down the French peasants went—Our men were hardy.
This while our noble king,His broadsword brandishing,
bilbos] swords, from Bilboa.
bilbos] swords, from Bilboa.
DOWN the French host did dingAs to o’erwhelm it;And many a deep wound lent,His arms with blood besprent,And many a cruel dentBruisèd his helmet.Gloster, that duke so good,Next of the royal blood,For famous England stoodWith his brave brother;Clarence, in steel so bright,Though but a maiden knight,Yet in that furious fightScarce such another.Warwick in blood did wade,Oxford the foe invade,And cruel slaughter madeStill as they ran up;Suffolk his axe did ply,Beaumont and WilloughbyBare them right doughtily,Ferrers and Fanhope.Upon Saint Crispin’s DayFought was this noble fray,Which fame did not delayTo England to carry.O when shall English menWith such acts fill a pen?Or England breed againSuch a King Harry?
DOWN the French host did dingAs to o’erwhelm it;And many a deep wound lent,His arms with blood besprent,And many a cruel dentBruisèd his helmet.Gloster, that duke so good,Next of the royal blood,For famous England stoodWith his brave brother;Clarence, in steel so bright,Though but a maiden knight,Yet in that furious fightScarce such another.Warwick in blood did wade,Oxford the foe invade,And cruel slaughter madeStill as they ran up;Suffolk his axe did ply,Beaumont and WilloughbyBare them right doughtily,Ferrers and Fanhope.Upon Saint Crispin’s DayFought was this noble fray,Which fame did not delayTo England to carry.O when shall English menWith such acts fill a pen?Or England breed againSuch a King Harry?
DOWN the French host did dingAs to o’erwhelm it;And many a deep wound lent,His arms with blood besprent,And many a cruel dentBruisèd his helmet.
Gloster, that duke so good,Next of the royal blood,For famous England stoodWith his brave brother;Clarence, in steel so bright,Though but a maiden knight,Yet in that furious fightScarce such another.
Warwick in blood did wade,Oxford the foe invade,And cruel slaughter madeStill as they ran up;Suffolk his axe did ply,Beaumont and WilloughbyBare them right doughtily,Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin’s DayFought was this noble fray,Which fame did not delayTo England to carry.O when shall English menWith such acts fill a pen?Or England breed againSuch a King Harry?
120.
YOU brave heroic mindsWorthy your country’s name,That honour still pursue;Go and subdue!Whilst loitering hindsLurk here at home with shame.Britons, you stay too long:Quickly aboard bestow you,And with a merry galeSwell your stretch’d sailWith vows as strongAs the winds that blow you.Your course securely steer,West and by south forth keep!Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoalsWhen Eolus scowlsYou need not fear;So absolute the deep.And cheerfully at seaSuccess you still enticeTo get the pearl and gold,And ours to holdVirginia,Earth’s only paradise.Where nature hath in storeFowl, venison, and fish,And the fruitfull’st soilWithout your toilThree harvests more,All greater than your wish.And the ambitious vineCrowns with his purple massThe cedar reaching highTo kiss the sky,The cypress, pine,And useful sassafras.To whom the Golden AgeStill nature’s laws doth give,No other cares attend,But them to defendFrom winter’s rage,That long there doth not live.When as the luscious smellOf that delicious landAbove the seas that flowsThe clear wind throws,Your hearts to swellApproaching the dear strand;In kenning of the shore(Thanks to God first given)O you the happiest men,Be frolic then!Let cannons roar,Frighting the wide heaven.And in regions far,Such heroes bring ye forthAs those from whom we came;And plant our nameUnder that starNot known unto our North.And as there plenty growsOf laurel everywhere—Apollo’s sacred tree—You it may seeA poet’s browsTo crown, that may sing there.ThyVoyagesattend,Industrious Hakluyt,Whose reading shall inflameMen to seek fame,And much commendTo after times thy wit.
YOU brave heroic mindsWorthy your country’s name,That honour still pursue;Go and subdue!Whilst loitering hindsLurk here at home with shame.Britons, you stay too long:Quickly aboard bestow you,And with a merry galeSwell your stretch’d sailWith vows as strongAs the winds that blow you.Your course securely steer,West and by south forth keep!Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoalsWhen Eolus scowlsYou need not fear;So absolute the deep.And cheerfully at seaSuccess you still enticeTo get the pearl and gold,And ours to holdVirginia,Earth’s only paradise.Where nature hath in storeFowl, venison, and fish,And the fruitfull’st soilWithout your toilThree harvests more,All greater than your wish.And the ambitious vineCrowns with his purple massThe cedar reaching highTo kiss the sky,The cypress, pine,And useful sassafras.To whom the Golden AgeStill nature’s laws doth give,No other cares attend,But them to defendFrom winter’s rage,That long there doth not live.When as the luscious smellOf that delicious landAbove the seas that flowsThe clear wind throws,Your hearts to swellApproaching the dear strand;In kenning of the shore(Thanks to God first given)O you the happiest men,Be frolic then!Let cannons roar,Frighting the wide heaven.And in regions far,Such heroes bring ye forthAs those from whom we came;And plant our nameUnder that starNot known unto our North.And as there plenty growsOf laurel everywhere—Apollo’s sacred tree—You it may seeA poet’s browsTo crown, that may sing there.ThyVoyagesattend,Industrious Hakluyt,Whose reading shall inflameMen to seek fame,And much commendTo after times thy wit.
YOU brave heroic mindsWorthy your country’s name,That honour still pursue;Go and subdue!Whilst loitering hindsLurk here at home with shame.
Britons, you stay too long:Quickly aboard bestow you,And with a merry galeSwell your stretch’d sailWith vows as strongAs the winds that blow you.
Your course securely steer,West and by south forth keep!Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoalsWhen Eolus scowlsYou need not fear;So absolute the deep.
And cheerfully at seaSuccess you still enticeTo get the pearl and gold,And ours to holdVirginia,Earth’s only paradise.
Where nature hath in storeFowl, venison, and fish,And the fruitfull’st soilWithout your toilThree harvests more,All greater than your wish.
And the ambitious vineCrowns with his purple massThe cedar reaching highTo kiss the sky,The cypress, pine,And useful sassafras.
To whom the Golden AgeStill nature’s laws doth give,No other cares attend,But them to defendFrom winter’s rage,That long there doth not live.
When as the luscious smellOf that delicious landAbove the seas that flowsThe clear wind throws,Your hearts to swellApproaching the dear strand;
In kenning of the shore(Thanks to God first given)O you the happiest men,Be frolic then!Let cannons roar,Frighting the wide heaven.
And in regions far,Such heroes bring ye forthAs those from whom we came;And plant our nameUnder that starNot known unto our North.
And as there plenty growsOf laurel everywhere—Apollo’s sacred tree—You it may seeA poet’s browsTo crown, that may sing there.
ThyVoyagesattend,Industrious Hakluyt,Whose reading shall inflameMen to seek fame,And much commendTo after times thy wit.
1564-93
121.
COME live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dales and fieldsOr woods or steepy mountain yields.And we will sit upon the rocks,And see the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.And I will 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 woolWhich 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.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, dales and fieldsOr woods or steepy mountain yields.And we will sit upon the rocks,And see the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.And I will 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 woolWhich 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.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, dales and fieldsOr woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,And see the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will 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 woolWhich 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.
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.
122.
(WRITTEN BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH)
IF all the world and love were young,And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,These pretty pleasures might me moveTo live with thee and be thy Love.But Time drives flocks from field to fold;When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;And Philomel becometh dumb;The rest complains of cares to come.The flowers do fade, and wanton fieldsTo wayward Winter reckoning yields:A honey tongue, a heart of gall,Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,Soon break, soon wither—soon forgotten,In folly ripe, in reason rotten.Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,Thy coral clasps and amber studs,—All these in me no means can moveTo come to thee and be thy Love.But could youth last, and love still breed,Had joys no date, nor age no need,Then these delights my mind might moveTo live with thee and be thy Love.
IF all the world and love were young,And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,These pretty pleasures might me moveTo live with thee and be thy Love.But Time drives flocks from field to fold;When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;And Philomel becometh dumb;The rest complains of cares to come.The flowers do fade, and wanton fieldsTo wayward Winter reckoning yields:A honey tongue, a heart of gall,Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,Soon break, soon wither—soon forgotten,In folly ripe, in reason rotten.Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,Thy coral clasps and amber studs,—All these in me no means can moveTo come to thee and be thy Love.But could youth last, and love still breed,Had joys no date, nor age no need,Then these delights my mind might moveTo live with thee and be thy Love.
IF all the world and love were young,And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,These pretty pleasures might me moveTo live with thee and be thy Love.
But Time drives flocks from field to fold;When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;And Philomel becometh dumb;The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fieldsTo wayward Winter reckoning yields:A honey tongue, a heart of gall,Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,Soon break, soon wither—soon forgotten,In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,Thy coral clasps and amber studs,—All these in me no means can moveTo come to thee and be thy Love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,Had joys no date, nor age no need,Then these delights my mind might moveTo live with thee and be thy Love.
1564-1616
123.
WHO is Silvia? What is she?That all our swains commend her?Holy, fair, and wise is she;The heaven such grace did lend her,That she might admirèd be.Is she kind as she is fair?For beauty lives with kindness:Love doth to her eyes repair,To help him of his blindness;And, being help’d, inhabits there.Then to Silvia let us sing,That Silvia is excelling;She excels each mortal thingUpon the dull earth dwelling:To her let us garlands bring.
WHO is Silvia? What is she?That all our swains commend her?Holy, fair, and wise is she;The heaven such grace did lend her,That she might admirèd be.Is she kind as she is fair?For beauty lives with kindness:Love doth to her eyes repair,To help him of his blindness;And, being help’d, inhabits there.Then to Silvia let us sing,That Silvia is excelling;She excels each mortal thingUpon the dull earth dwelling:To her let us garlands bring.
WHO is Silvia? What is she?That all our swains commend her?Holy, fair, and wise is she;The heaven such grace did lend her,That she might admirèd be.
Is she kind as she is fair?For beauty lives with kindness:Love doth to her eyes repair,To help him of his blindness;And, being help’d, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing,That Silvia is excelling;She excels each mortal thingUpon the dull earth dwelling:To her let us garlands bring.
124.
ON a day—alack the day!—Love, whose month is ever May,Spied a blossom passing fairPlaying in the wanton air:Through the velvet leaves the windAll unseen ’gan passage find;That the lover, sick to death,Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath.Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;Air, would I might triumph so!But, alack, my hand is swornNe’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;Youth so apt to pluck a sweet!Do not call it sin in meThat I am forsworn for thee;Thou for whom e’en Jove would swearJuno but an Ethiop were;And deny himself for Jove,Turning mortal for thy love.
ON a day—alack the day!—Love, whose month is ever May,Spied a blossom passing fairPlaying in the wanton air:Through the velvet leaves the windAll unseen ’gan passage find;That the lover, sick to death,Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath.Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;Air, would I might triumph so!But, alack, my hand is swornNe’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;Youth so apt to pluck a sweet!Do not call it sin in meThat I am forsworn for thee;Thou for whom e’en Jove would swearJuno but an Ethiop were;And deny himself for Jove,Turning mortal for thy love.
ON a day—alack the day!—Love, whose month is ever May,Spied a blossom passing fairPlaying in the wanton air:Through the velvet leaves the windAll unseen ’gan passage find;That the lover, sick to death,Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath.Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;Air, would I might triumph so!But, alack, my hand is swornNe’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;Youth so apt to pluck a sweet!Do not call it sin in meThat I am forsworn for thee;Thou for whom e’en Jove would swearJuno but an Ethiop were;And deny himself for Jove,Turning mortal for thy love.
125.
WHEN daisies pied and violets blue,And lady-smocks all silver-white,And cuckoo-buds of yellow hueDo paint the meadows with delight,The cuckoo then, on every tree,Mocks married men; for thus sings he,Cuckoo!Cuckoo, cuckoo!—O word of fear,Unpleasing to a married ear!When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,And maidens bleach their summer smocksThe cuckoo then, on every tree,Mocks married men; for thus sings he,Cuckoo!Cuckoo, cuckoo!—O word of fear,Unpleasing to a married ear!
WHEN daisies pied and violets blue,And lady-smocks all silver-white,And cuckoo-buds of yellow hueDo paint the meadows with delight,The cuckoo then, on every tree,Mocks married men; for thus sings he,Cuckoo!Cuckoo, cuckoo!—O word of fear,Unpleasing to a married ear!When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,And maidens bleach their summer smocksThe cuckoo then, on every tree,Mocks married men; for thus sings he,Cuckoo!Cuckoo, cuckoo!—O word of fear,Unpleasing to a married ear!
WHEN daisies pied and violets blue,And lady-smocks all silver-white,And cuckoo-buds of yellow hueDo paint the meadows with delight,The cuckoo then, on every tree,Mocks married men; for thus sings he,Cuckoo!Cuckoo, cuckoo!—O word of fear,Unpleasing to a married ear!
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,And maidens bleach their summer smocksThe cuckoo then, on every tree,Mocks married men; for thus sings he,Cuckoo!Cuckoo, cuckoo!—O word of fear,Unpleasing to a married ear!
126.
WHEN icicles hang by the wall,And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail,When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-whit!To-who!—a merry note.While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.When all aloud the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow,And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-whit!To-who!—a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
WHEN icicles hang by the wall,And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail,When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-whit!To-who!—a merry note.While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.When all aloud the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow,And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-whit!To-who!—a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
WHEN icicles hang by the wall,And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail,When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-whit!To-who!—a merry note.While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow,And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-whit!To-who!—a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
126.keel] skim.
126.keel] skim.
Fairy Land
127.
OVER hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire,I do wander everywhere.Swifter than the moonè’s sphere;And I serve the fairy queen,To dew her orbs upon the green:The cowslips tall her pensioners be;In their gold coats spots you see;Those be rubies, fairy favours,In those freckles live their savours:I must go seek some dew-drops here,And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
OVER hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire,I do wander everywhere.Swifter than the moonè’s sphere;And I serve the fairy queen,To dew her orbs upon the green:The cowslips tall her pensioners be;In their gold coats spots you see;Those be rubies, fairy favours,In those freckles live their savours:I must go seek some dew-drops here,And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
OVER hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire,I do wander everywhere.Swifter than the moonè’s sphere;And I serve the fairy queen,To dew her orbs upon the green:The cowslips tall her pensioners be;In their gold coats spots you see;Those be rubies, fairy favours,In those freckles live their savours:I must go seek some dew-drops here,And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
128.
YOU spotted snakes with double tongue,Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;Come not near our fairy queen.Philomel, with melody,Sing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm,Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good night, with lullaby.Weaving spiders, come not here;Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence!Beetles black, approach not near;Worm nor snail, do no offence.Philomel, with melody,Sing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm.Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good night, with lullaby.
YOU spotted snakes with double tongue,Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;Come not near our fairy queen.Philomel, with melody,Sing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm,Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good night, with lullaby.Weaving spiders, come not here;Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence!Beetles black, approach not near;Worm nor snail, do no offence.Philomel, with melody,Sing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm.Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good night, with lullaby.
YOU spotted snakes with double tongue,Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;Come not near our fairy queen.
Philomel, with melody,Sing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm,Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good night, with lullaby.
Weaving spiders, come not here;Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence!Beetles black, approach not near;Worm nor snail, do no offence.
Philomel, with melody,Sing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm.Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good night, with lullaby.
129.