FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER. 99 SECOND SONG. HOLD back thy hours, dark Night, till we have done; The Day will come too soon; Young maids will curse thee, if thou steal'st away Stay, stay, and hide The blushes of the bride. Stay, gentle Night, and with thy darkness cover The kisses of her lover; Stay, and confound her tears and her shrill cryings, Stay, and hide all : But help not, though she call. THIRD SONG. To bed, to bed! Come, Hymen, lead the bride, And lay her by her husband's side; Bring in the virgins every one That grieve to lie alone, That they may kiss while they may say a maid To-morrow 'twill be other kissed and said. Hesperus, be long a-shining, While these lovers are a-twining. ; HorM ASPATIA'S SONG. LAY a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; My love was false, but I was firm I FICKLENESS. COULD never have the power To love one above an hour, But my head would prompt mine eye Venus, fix thou mine eyes fast, Or, if not, give me all that I shall see at last. From JOHN FLETCHER'S The Faithful Shepherdess, n.d. [1609-10.] THE SATYR AND CLORIN. THROUGH yon same bending plain That flings his arms down to the main, And through these thick woods have I run, Whose bottom never kissed the sun Since the lusty spring began; All to please my Master Pan, And live: therefore on this mould Deign it, goddess, from my hand, Never better nor more true. Sweeter yet did never crown The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown For these black-eyed Dryope Hath decked their rising cheeks in red, Here be berries for a queen, These are of that luscious meat, The great god Pan himself doth eat: 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. GREAT GOD PAN. ING his praises that doth keep SING Our flocks from harm, Pan, the father of our sheep; And arm in arm Tread we softly in a round, Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground Fills the music with her sound. Pan, oh, great god Pan, to thee Thou that keep'st us chaste and free Ever be thy honour spoke, From that place the morn is broke, To that place day doth unyoke! |