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EVENSONG.

I freely offer, and ere long

Will bring you more, more sweet and strong;
Till when, humbly leave I take,

Lest the great Pan do awake,

That sleeping lies in a deep glade,
Under a broad beech's shade.

I must go, I must run

Swifter than the fiery sun.

F. Fletcher.

EVENSONG.

SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks up, for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops how they kiss
Every little flower that is,
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads:
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead Night from under ground;
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapours fly apace,
Hovering o'er the wanton face
Of these pastures, where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom:
Therefore, from such danger lock
Every one his lovèd flock;

And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout
From the mountain, and, ere day,
Bear a lamb or kid away;

105

106

MATIN SONG.

Or the crafty thievish fox
Break upon your simple flocks.
To secure yourselves from these,
Be not too secure in ease;

Let one eye his watches keep,
Whilst the other eye doth sleep;
So you shall good shepherds prove,
And for ever hold the love

Of our great god. Sweetest slumbers,
And soft silence, fall in numbers
On your eye-lids! So, farewell!

Thus I end my evening's knell.

J. Fletcher.

MATIN-SONG.

HARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chalic'd flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes,

With every thing that pretty bin;-
My lady sweet, arise!

W. Shakespeare.

DAWN-SONG.

107

DAWN-SONG.

THE lark now leaves his watery nest
And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings,
He takes this window for the East,
And to implore your light, he sings.

Awake! awake! the morn will never rise
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star;
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are

Who look for day before his mistress wakes.
Awake! awake! break through your veils of lawn!
Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn.

Sir William Davenant.

1.08

GOOD-MORROW.

GOOD-MORROW.

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, larks, aloft,
To give my love good-morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing; nightingale, sing,
To give my love good-morrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast;
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow;
You pretty elves, among yourselves
Sing my fair love good-morrow.

T. Heywood.

SERENADE TO SYLVIA.

109

SERENADE TO SYLVIA.

WHO is Sylvia? what is she,

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair, and wise is she;

The heavens such grace did lend her,

That she might admiréd 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 helped, inhabits there.

Then to Sylvia let us sing,
That Sylvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.

W. Shakespeare.

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