A Book of English Literature, Selected and Ed

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From ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA Come, thou monarch of the vine, Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne!2 In thy vats our cares be drowned, With thy grapes our hairs be crowned! Cup us, till the world go round, Cup us, till the world go round!

From CYMBELINE

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds at water at those springs
On chaliced3 flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise!
Arise, arise!

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the 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,

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;" Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!

For while thou view'st me with thy fading light,

Part of my life doth still depart with thee, And I still onward haste to my last night.

Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly: 5 So every day we live a day we die.

But Oye nights, ordained for barren rest,

How are my days deprived of life in you When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest, By feigned death life sweetly to renew!

Part of my life in that, you life deny:
So every day we live, a day we die.

ΙΟ

Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces;
When, from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery

Stuck the French horses,

With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But, playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbows 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 broad sword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,1

As to o'erwhelm it;

And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,2
And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

Gloucester, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brother,
Clarence, in steel so bright;
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,

And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up; Suffolk his axe did ply, Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray;

1 strike.

85 Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close: 10
Bless us then with wishèd sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

100

Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.

SONG TO CELIA

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

? besprinkled.

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee
As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me;

ΤΟ

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

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