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Foot it featly1 here and there,
Bow-wow. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.
Full fathom five thy father lies:
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
But doth suffer a sea-change 5
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark! now I hear them,—Ding-dong, bell!
Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry;
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily. 5 Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
Hey nonny no! Men are fools that wish to die!
Hey nonny no!
THOMAS CAMPION (1667-1620)
When to her lute Corinna sings,
But when she doth of mourning speak, 5
E'en with her sighs the strings do break.
And as her lute doth live or die,
Led by her passion, so must I:
For when of pleasure she doth sing,
My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring; 10
But if she doth of sorrow speak,
E'en from my heart the strings do break.
WHEN THOU MUST HOME
When thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White lope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finished love 5 From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;
Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,
Of journeys and great challenges of knights,
And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake; 10
When thou hast told these honors done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me.
COME, CHEERFUL DAY
Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me;
But O ye nights, ordained for barren rest, How are my days deprived of life in you
NOW WINTER NIGHTS ENLARGE
Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours;
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze, 5
And cups o'erflow with wine,
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love; 10
While youthful revels, masques, and
courtly sights, Sleep's leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense With lovers' long discourse; Much speech hath some defence, 15 Though beauty no remorse. All do not all things well:Some measures comely tread, Some knotted riddles tell, Some poems smoothly read. 20 The summer hath his joys, And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights.
There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: There cherries grow, which none may buy s
Till"Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose
Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 15 All that attempt, with eye or hand, Those sacred cherries to come nigh Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.
CHANCE AND CHANGE
What if a day, or a month, or a year, Crown thy delights, with a thousand sweet contentings? Cannot a chance of a night or an hour Cross thy desires with as many sad tor- mentings? Fortune, honor, beauty, youth, 5
Are but blossoms dying; Wanton pleasure, doting love,
Are but shadows flying; All our joys are but toys,
Idle thoughts deceiving; 10 None have power of an hour
In their life's bereaving.
Earth's but a point to the world, and a man Is but a point to the world's compared centre; 14
Shall then a point of a point be so vain As to triumph in a silly point's adventure? All is hazard that we have,
There is nothing biding;
Through fair meadows gliding. 20 Weal and woe, Time doth go,
Time is never turning: Secret fates guide our states,
Both in mirth and mourning.
THOMAS DEKKER (1672?-/i. 1832) O SWEET CONTENT
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
O punishment! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers golden numbers? 6 O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face, Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
Canst drink the waters of the crisped1 spring? 11 O sweet content!
Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;
You are care, and care must keep you;
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby:
Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 10
MICHAEL DRAYTON (1663-1631)
Fair stood the wind for France,
Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, 5 At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort, 10
Marcheth towards Agincourt
In happy hour;
With all his power.
Which,2 in his height of pride,
1 not. 'the French general.Which3 he neglects the while,
And turning to his men, 25 Quoth our brave Henry then:
Be not amazed!
By fame been raised.
"And for myself," quoth he,
Nor more esteem me.
Loss to redeem me. 40
"Poitiers and Cressy tell,
No less our skill is,
Lopped the French lilies."
The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward5 led; 50
With the main,6 Henry sped
Amongst his henchmen:
On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone:
To hear, was wonder; 60 That,7 with the cries they make,
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became, 65 O noble Erpingham,
1 the command to send a ransom.
Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces; When, from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly, 70 The English archery
Stuck the French horses,
With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, 75
Piercing the weather;
Stuck close together. 80
When down their bows they threw,
Not one was tardy:
Our men were hardy.
This while our noble King, His broad sword brandishing, 90 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 95
Bruised his helmet.
Gloucester, that duke so good,
With his brave brother, 100 Clarence, in steel so bright;
Scarce such another.
Which fame did not delay 115
To England to carry.
Such a King Harry? 120
BEN JONSON (1673?-1637)
Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, 5 Goddess excellently bright.
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 wished sight, Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart
And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart 15 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,
And I'll not look for wine.
Doth ask a drink divine;
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee 10 As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
And sent'st it back to me; 14 Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.
THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS
See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth!
And well the car Love guideth.
Unto her beauty;
But enjoy such a sight,
Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
0 so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she! 30
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor muse can praise too much. Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways 5
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;For silliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er ad-
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
Muses; 26 For if I thought my judgment were of
years, I should commit2 thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine, Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line. 30
And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honor thee, I would not seek For names, but call forth thundering
^Eschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, 35 To life again, to hear thy buskin tread, And shake a stage; or when thy socks were
on, Leave th' for the comparison Of all' \. "Greece or haughty
R tou-. Sent \_unk~ Ti their ashes