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And how, like laggards, wild about they range,

Scorning after reason to follow will : Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, what way they list?

Yet, for our sport, we fawn and flatter both,

To pass the time when nothing else can please, And train them on to yield, by subtle oath,

The sweet content that gives such humour ease; And then we say, when we their follies try, “ To play with fools, oh, what a fool was I !"


From MORLEY'S * Ballets," 1595.

May never was the month of love,

For May is full of flowers;
But rather April, wet by kind,

For love is full of showers.

With soothing words enthralling souls,

She claims in servile hands :
Her eye in silence hath a speech,

Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sours,

Short hap immortal harms;
Her loving looks are murdering darts,

Her songs bewitching charms.

Like winter rose and summer iee,

Her joys are still untimely ;
Before her, hope-behind, remorse;

Fair first-in fine unseemly.

Plough not the seas, sow not the sandı,

Leave off your idle pain ;
Seek other mistress for your mind;

Love's service is in vain.

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Love in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet;
Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:

Ah, wanton, will you?

And if I sleep, then pierceth he

With pretty slight,
And makes his pillow of my knee

The live-long night.
Strike I the lute,

he tunes the string ; He music plays if I but sing; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting:

Ah, wanton, will you ?


Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,
And bind you when you long to play,

I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,
I'll make


fast it for your sin, I'll count your power not worth a pin : Alas! what hereby shall I win,

If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod ?
He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.
Then sit thou softly on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in my eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid ! so thou pity me;

Spare not, but play thee.


SAMUEL DANYELL, born 1562, died 1619.

Love is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing ;
A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.

Why so?
If we enjoy it, soon it dies ;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries

Hey ho !

Love is a torment of the mind,

A tempest everlasting ;
A heaven has made it of a kind
Not well—nor full, nor fasting.

Why so ?
If we enjoy it, soon it dies ;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries

Hey ho!


WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, born 1564, died 1616. Set as a song or glec


Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,

Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea, and one on shore-
To one thing constant never.

Then sigh not so,

But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe

Into, Hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no more

Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy.

Then sigh not so,

But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe

Into, Hey nonny, nonny.

From "Much Ado about Nothing," att ii. sc. 3. This song is sung by Balthazar, and alirmed by Don Pedro to be “By my troth, a good song."



HARK, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

As Phæbus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes,
With every thing that pretty bin,-
My lady sweet, arise ;

Arise, arise.

From "Cymbeline:" sung by Cloten's musicians under the windows of Imogen's chamber,


WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. Music by W. LINLBY. The song has also been set by M. Galliard, William Jackson,

of Exeter, Mr. Frank Mori, and other composers.

TARE, oh, take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,

Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain.

Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow

Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow

Are of those that April wears :
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.

There is some doubt as to the authorship of this song. The first stanza is quoted in “ Measure for Measure.” Both of the stanzas appear in the “ Bloody Brother, or Rollo, Duke of Normandy,” by Beaumont and Fletcher. It does not follow, however, that any part of it is Shakspeare's because it is introduced in one of his plays. A note on this passage in Knight's edition of Shakspeare's plays says, " The question arises, is this song

to be attributed to Shakspeare or Fletcher? Malone justly observes, that all the songs introduced in our author's plays appear to have been his own composition. The idea in the line

•Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,' is found in the 1422 Sonnet. The image is also repeated in 'Venus and Adonis.' Weber, the editor of Beaumont and Fletcher, is of opinion that the first stanza was Shakspeare's, and that Fletcher added the second. There is no evidence, we apprehend, internal or external, by which the question can be settled.”


From JOHN DOWLAND'S “Second Book of Songs," 1600.

What poor astronomers are they

Take women's eyes for stars,
And set their thoughts in battle array,

To fight such idle wars ;
When, in the end, they shall approve
'Tis but a jest drawn out of love!

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