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And canst thou now, thou cruel one,
Condemn desert to deep despair?
Is all thy promise past and gone?
Is faith so fled into the air?
If that be so, what rests for me,
But thus, in song, to say to thee:
If Cressid's name were not so known,
And written wide on every wall;
If bruit of pride were not so blown
Upon Angelica withall;
For hault disdain, you might be she;
Or Cressid for inconstancy.
And in reward of thy desert,
I hope at last to see thee paid
With deep repentance for thy part
Which thou hast now so lewdly play'd;
Medoro, he must be thy make,
Since thou Orlando dost forsake.
JWILLIAM SHAKSPEAR.E. SONG. LOW, blow thou Winter-wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude: Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude.
Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
N a day, (alack the day!)
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom, passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air.
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All 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 sol
But, alack my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn.
Wow, alack for youth unmeet,
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet;
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou, for whom ev’n Jove would swear
Juno but an AEthiop were; -
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal forthy love.
Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon, Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task foredone. Now the wasted brands do glow; Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his spright, In the churchway paths to glide; "And we Fairies, that do run , By the triple Hecat's team,” - From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic. Not a mouse Shall disturb this hallow'd house; I am sent with broom before To sweep the dust behind the door.
WINTER, A SONG.
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 nipt, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit! tu-whoo!
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,
Tu-whit! tu-whoo ! -
A merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
TELL me, where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head;
How begot, how nourished?" -
It is engender'd in the eyes; . *
With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies. -
Let us all ring Fancy's knell:
I'll begin it. Ding dong bell...
Fear no more the frown o' th' great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke,
Care no more to clothe and eat, .
To thee the reed is as the oak.
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash,
North' all-dreaded thunder stone;
Fear no slander, censure rash,
Thou hast finish’d joy and moan.
A* it fell upon a day *
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made;
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan, .
Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn;
And there sung the mournful'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity:
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry ;
Tereu, tereu, by and by;
That to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs, so lively shown,
Made me think upon my own.
Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain;
None takes pity on thy pain;
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee,
King Pandion he is dead;
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead;
All thy fellow-birds do sing, -
Careless of thy sorrowing;