SONG OF FAIRIES. Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon, Whilft the heavy ploughman fnores, All with weary task foredone. Now the wafted brands do glow; Whilft the fcritch-owl, fcritching loud, That the graves, all gaping wide, To sweep the duft behind the door. SONG. SIGH no more, ladies, figh no more; Men were deceivers ever. One foot on fea, and one on fhore, To one thing constant never, Then figh not fo, But let them go, And be you blythe and bonny; Converting all your founds of woe Into, Hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, fing no mo 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 fings the staring owl, Tu-whit! tu-whoo! A merry note, While greafy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And Marian's nofe looks red and raw; When roafted crabs hifs in the bowl, A merry note, While greafy Joan doth keel the pot. A SONG ON FANCY. TELL me, where is Fancy bred, It is engender'd in the eyes; Let us all ring Fancy's knell : ARIEL'S SONG. WHERE the bee fucks, there lurk I; In a cowflip's bell I lie, There I couch when owls do cry; On the bat's back I do fly, After fun-fet merrily; Merrily, merrily fhall I live now Under the bloffom that hangs on the bough. SONG. COME away, come away death, I am flain by a fair cruel maid. My part of death no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be ftrown ; Not a friend, not a friend greet Mypoor corpse,where my bones shall be thrown, A thousand thousand fighs to fave; Lay me, O! where True lover never find my grave, 66 SONG. WHO is Silvia? what is she, "That all our fwains commend her ?" Holy, fair, and wife is fhe, The heav'ns fuch grace did lend her, That the might admired be. "Is fhe kind as she is fair? "For beauty lives with kindness :" Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; And, being help'd, inhabits there. Then to Sylvia let us fing, FEAR DIRGE. no more the heat o' th' fun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task haft done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages, Golden lads and girls all muft, As chimney-fweepers, come to duft. Fear no more the frown o' th' great, F |