Voices above.

HECATE AND THE WITCHES.

OME away, come away,

Co

Hecate, Hecate, come away.
Hecate. I come, I come, I come, I come,

And Hoppo too, and Hellwain too;
We lack but you, we lack but you;

Come away, make up the count.

Hecate. I will but 'noint, and then I mount.

[A spirit like a cat descends.

Voice above. There's one comes down to fetch his dues,

Hecate.

A kiss, a coll, a sip of blood;

And why thou stayest so long
I muse, I muse,

Since the air's so sweet and good.

O, art thou come?

What news, what news?

Spirit. All goes still to our delight :

Either come, or else

Refuse, refuse.

Hecate. Now I'm furnished for the flight.
Now I go, now I fly,

Malkin my sweet spirit and I.
O what a dainty pleasure 'tis

To ride in the air

When the moon shines fair,

And sing and dance, and toy and kiss!
Over woods, high rocks, and mountains,
Over seas, our mistress' fountains,
Over steeples, towers, and turrets,

We fly by night, 'mongst troops of spirits:
No ring of bells to our ears sounds,
No howls of wolves, no yelps of hounds;
No, not the noise of water's breach,
Or cannon's throat our height can reach.

Round, around, around, about, about!

All ill come running in, all good keep out!

I Witch. Here's the blood of a bat.

Hecate. Put in that, O put in that!

2 Witch. Here's libbard's bane.

Hecate. Put in again!

I Witch. The juice of toad, the oil of adder; 2 Witch. Those will make the younker madder. Hecate. Put in-there's all-and rid the stench. Firestone. Nay, here's three ounces of the red-haired wench.

All. Round, around, around, about, about!

From The Widow, 1652.1

THE THIEVES' SONG.

HOW round the world goes, and every thing that's

in it!

The tides of gold and silver ebb and flow in a minute: From the usurer to his sons, there a current swiftly runs ; From the sons to queans in chief, from the gallant to the thief;

From the thief unto his host, from the host to husband

men;

From the country to the court; and so it comes to us again.

How round the world goes, and every thing that's in it! The tides of gold and silver ebb and flow in a minute.

1 Ascribed to Jonson, Fletcher, and Middleton. Written circ. 1616.

From THOMAS MIDDLETON'S

More Dissemblers

Women, 1657.1

THE GIPSIES.

'OME, my dainty doxies,

Gipsy Captain. COM

Chorus.

besides

My dells, my dells most dear;
We have neither house nor land,

Yet never want good cheer.
We never want good cheer.

Gipsy Captain. We take no care for candle rents,

2 Gipsy. We lie.

3 Gipsy. We snort.

Gipsy Captain. We sport in tents,

Then rouse betimes and steal our

Our store is never taken

[dinners.

Without pigs, hens, or bacon,
And that's good meat for sinners:
At wakes and fairs we cozen
Poor country folks by dozen ;
If one have money, he disburses;
Whilst some tell fortunes, some pick
Rather than be out of use, [purses ;
We'll steal garters, hose or shoes,
Boots, or spurs with gingling rowels,
Shirts or napkins, smocks or towels.

Come live with us, come live with us,
All you that love your eases;
He that's a gipsy

May be drunk or tipsy

At any hour he pleases.

Chorus. We laugh, we quaff, we roar, we scuffle;
We cheat, we drab, we filch, we shuffle.

1 Written not later than 1623. 2 Cant term for "maids."

THE DAY

3

From The Mountebank's Masque, performed February, 1617-8.

MUST HAVE HER NIGHT, THE SPRING

HER FALL.

THE hour of sweety night decays apace,

And now warm beds are better than this place. -All time is long that is unwilling spent,

But hours are minutes when they yield content.-
The gathered flowers we love that breathe sweet scent,
But loathe them, their sweet odours being spent.-
It is a life is never ill

To lie and sleep in roses still.

The rarer pleasure is it is more sweet,

And friends are kindest when they seldom meet.-
Who would not hear the nightingale still sing,
Or who grew ever weary of the spring?—
The day must have her night, the spring her fall,
All is divided, none is lord of all.—

It were a most delightful thing
To live in a perpetual spring.

From Histriomastix, 1610.

THE NUT-BROWN ALE.

HE nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,

TH

Puts down all drink when it is stale!

The toast, the nutmeg, and the ginger
Will make a sighing man a singer.
Ale gives a buffet in the head,

But ginger under-props the brain;
When ale would strike a strong man dead
Then nutmeg tempers it again.
The nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,
Puts down all drink when it is stale!