SONGS. MASQUE OF PLEASURE AND VIRTUE. SONG I. COME on, come on, and where you go Which lines are pleasure, and which not: First figure out the doubtful way At which awhile the youth should stay Where she and Virtue did contend Which should have Hercules to friend. Then as all actions of mankind Admire the wisdom of your feet: SONG II. O more and more, this was so well Again yourselves compose, Or color can disclose: That, if those silent arts were lost, Design and Picture, they might boast From you a newer ground Instructed by the heightening sense Of dignity and reverence In their true motions found. Begin, begin; for look, the pair Just to the tune you move your limbs, SONG III. It follows now you are to prove The subtlest maze of all, — that's Love, And, if you stay too long, The fair will think you do them wrong. Go choose among them, with a mind Grace, laughter, and discourse And yet the beauty not go less: Will you that I give the law SONG. SHAKE off your heavy trance, To play to, for the moon to lead, O blessed youth! for Jove doth pause, And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung; Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. Oh, you're the flower of womankind in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. Oh might we live together in a lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! Oh might we live together in a cottage mean and small; With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! Oh! lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress. It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go! SONG. ALLINGHAM. The happiest there, from their pastime returning, At sunset, still weep when thy story is told. The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses Her dark flowing hair, for some festival day, Will think of thy fate, till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from her mirror away. Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero! forget thee; Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start; Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee, Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart. |