That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace: Heigh ho, fair Rosalind!

Her lips are like two budded roses,
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses,
Apt to entice a deity:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprisoned lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind!

Her paps are centres of delight,

Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, Where Nature moulds the dew of light, To feed perfection with the same:

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red,

With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind!

Nature herself her shape admires,
The gods are wounded in her sight,
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosalind,

Since for her fair there's fairer none,

'T was I, I say, against my will;
I wail the time, but be thou still.
And dost thou smile? O, thy sweet face,
Would God himself he might thee see! 20
No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace,
I know right well, for thee and me:
But come to mother, babe, and play,
For father false is fled away.

Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance
Thy father home again to send,

25

If death do strike me with his lance,
Yet mayst thou me to him commend:
If any ask thy mother's name,
Tell how by love she purchased blame. 30
Then will his gentle heart soon yield,
I know him of a noble mind;
Although a lion in the field,

A lamb in town thou shalt him find:
Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid,
His sugared words hath me betrayed.
Then mayst thou joy and be right glad,
Although in woe I seem to moan;

Thy father is no rascal lad,

A noble youth of blood and bone:
His glancing looks, if he once smile,
Right honest women may beguile.
Come, little boy, and rock a-sleep,
Sing lullaby and be thou still;
I that can do naught else but weep,
Will sit by thee and wail my fill:
God bless my babe, and lullaby,
From this thy father's quality.

1594

35

40

45

Nicholas Breton (1545?-1626?)

A SWEET LULLABY

COME, little babe, come, silly soul,

Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,

Born, as I doubt, to all our dole,
And to thyself unhappy chief:

PHYLLIDA AND CORYDON

IN the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
Forth I walked by the wood-side,
When as May was in her pride:

She said, never man was true;

10

1595

He said, none was false to you.
He said, he had loved her long;
She said, love should have no wrong.
Corydon would kiss her then;
She said, maids must kiss no men,
Till they did for good and all;
Then she made the shepherd call
All the heavens to witness truth:
Never loved a truer youth.
Thus with many a pretty oath,
Yea and nay, and faith and troth,
Such as silly shepherds use
When they will not love abuse,
Love, which had been long deluded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded;
And Phyllida, with garlands gay,
Was made the Lady of the May.

1600

Robert Southwell (1561?-1595)

THE BURNING BABE

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And, if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing.
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

Thomas Nashe (1567-1601)

DEATH'S SUMMONS

1599

15

20

10

Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes, shame and scorns.

The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals,

The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defilèd souls,

For which, as now on fire I am, to work them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.'

I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade,
All things to end are made;

10

The plague full swift goes by:
I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower,
Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air,

Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closèd Helen's eye:
I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave,
Swords may not fight with fate,
Earth still holds ope her gate.
Come, come, the bells do cry:
I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonness,
Tasteth death's bitterness;
Hell's executioner

Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply:
I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!
Haste therefore each degree
To welcome destiny;
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage:
Mount we unto the sky:
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)/

ON A DAY, ALACK THE DAY!

ON a day, alack the day!

25

30

35

35

40

Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen, gan passage find;

5

That the lover, sick to death,

Wished himself the heaven's breath.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;

Tu-whit, tu-who- a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

30

35

1598

WHO IS SILVIA

WHO is Silvia? what is she?

That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she;

IT WAS A LOVER AND HIS LASS It was a lover and his lass,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass,

In the spring time, the only pretty ring

time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; 5 Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, These pretty country folks would lie,

In the spring time, etc.

This carol they began that hour,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that a life was but a flower

In the spring time, etc.

And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino;
For love is crownèd with the prime
In the spring time, etc.

1623

O MISTRESS MINE

O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming?
O! stay and hear; your true love's coming.
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,

Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 't is not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

1623

10

15

5

10

L

FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O'TH' SUN

FEAR no more the heat o' th' sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' th' great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:

Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak: The scepter, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

Nothing ill come near thee!

FULL FATHOM FIVE THY FATHER LIES
FULL fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes:

Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.

✓ Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell;

Ding-dong.

Hark! now I hear them, - Ding-dong, bell.

WHERE THE BEE SUCKS

WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I

There I couch when owls do cry.

In a cowslip's bell I lie;

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily:

10

Merrily, merrily shall I live now

bough.

1623

5

5

Under the blossom that hangs on the

1623

Youth is full of sport,