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I am sent with broom before,

To sweep the dust behind the door.

Through the house give glimmering light,

By the dead and drowsy fire:

Every elf and fairy sprite

Hop as light as bird from brier;

And this ditty, after me,
Sing, and dance it trippingly.

First, rehearse your song by rote,
To each word a warbling note:
Hand in hand, with fairy grace,
Will we sing, and bless this place.

Now, until the break of day,
Through this house each fairy stray.
To the best bride-bed will we,

Which by us shall blesséd be;

And the issue there create

Ever shall be fortunate!

So shall all the couples three
Ever true in loving be;

And the blots of Nature's hand

Shall not in their issue stand;
Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,
Nor mark prodigious, such as are
Despised in nativity,

Shall upon their children be.

With this field-dew consecrate,

Every fairy take his gait :

And each several chamber bless,

Through this palace, with sweet peace ;

And the owner of it blest

Ever shall in safety rest.

Trip away; make no stay;

Meet me all by break of day.

XXVI

A SINNER TORMENTED

IE on sinful fantasy!

FIE

Fie on lust and luxury !

Lust is but a bloody fire

Kindled with unchaste desire,

Fed in heart, whose flames aspire

As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher.
Pinch him, fairies, mutually;

Pinch him for his villany;

Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about,

Till candles and starlight and moonshine be out

XXVII

THE WISDOM OF THE FOOL

FATHERS that wear rags

Do make their children blind;

But fathers that bear bags

Shall see their children kind.

Fortune, that arrant whore,

Ne'er turns the key to the poor.

That, Sir, which serves and seeks for gain

And follows but for form,

Will pack when it begins to rain,

And leave thee in the storm.

But I will tarry; the fool will stay,
And let the wise man fly;

The knave turns fool that runs away;

The fool no knave, perdy.

XXVIII

THE PEDLAR'S SONG

WHEN daffodils begin to peer,

With heigh! the doxy over the dale,

Why then comes in the sweet o' the year;
For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,

With heigh the sweet birds, O, how they sing!

Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;

For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

The lark, that tirra-lyra chants,

With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and

the jay,

Are summer songs for me and my aunts,

While we lie tumbling in the hay.

D

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