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WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, from “Love's Labour Lost.”
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 the pail ;
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit! tu-whoo! a merry note
Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marion's nose looks red and raw ;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit! Tu-whoo ! a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, from “ As You Like it.”
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind,
As man's ingratitude !
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh, ho I sing heigh, ho! unto the green holly,
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Then heigh, ho ! the holly !
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky;
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot!
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh, ho ! &c. &c.
CRABBED Age and Youth
Cannot live together,
Youth is full of pleasure-
Age is full of care.
Youth like summer morn-
Age like winter weather;
Youth like summer,
Age like winter bare ;
Youth is full of sport-
Age's breath is short ;
Youth is nimble, Age is lame,
Youth is hot and bold
Age is weak and cold ;
Youth is wild, and Age is tame;
Age, I do abhor thee-
Youth, I do adore thee,
Oh, my love—my love is gone.
Age, I do defy thee.
Oh, sweet shepherd, hie thee ;
Methinks thou stay'st too long.
“ This song,” says Bishop Percy, “is found in the little collection of Shakspeare's
sonnets, entitled "The Passionate Pilgrim.? In The Garland of the Good-will,' it is
reprinted with the addition of four more such stanzas, but evidently written by a meaner
HENCE all you vain delights
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy;
Oh, sweetest melancholy !
A sigh that, piercing, mortifies,
A look that's fastend to the ground,
A tongue chain’d up without a sound !
Fountain-heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves !
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls !
A midnight bell, a parting groan !
These are the sounds we feed upon ;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
Milton was possibly under some obligations to this song, when he wrote his " Il Penseroso." Hazlitt calls it "the perfection of this kind of writing." (Lectures on Dram. Lit. 1810, p. 208.) It is generally attributed to Fletcher, who introduced it in the play of “The Nice Valour," act iii. sc. 3; but the author was more probably Dr. William Strode. See “N nd Queries,” vol. i.
ROBERT SOUTHWELL, born 1562, died 1596.
Suun delays, they breed remorse,
Take thy time, while time is lent thee
Creeping snails have weakest force,
Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee:
Good is best when soonest wrought,
Lingering labour comes to nought.
Hoist up sail, while gale doth last,
Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure ;
Seek not time when time is past,
Sober speed is wisdom's leisure :
After-wits are dearly bought,
Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.
Time wears all his locks before,
Take thou hold upon his forehead ;
When he flies he turns no more,
And behind, his scalp is naked :
Works adjourn'd have many stays,
Long demurs breed new delays.
Seek thy salve while sore is green,
Festerd wounds ask deeper lancing; After-cures are seldom seen,
Often sought, scarce ever chancing : Time and place give best advice, Out of season, out of price.
GILES FLETCHER, born 1588, died 1623.
Love is the blossom where there blows,
Every thing that lives or grows ;
Love doth make the heavens to move,
And the sun doth burn in love :
Love, the strong and weak doth yoke,
And makes the ivy climb the oak,
Under whose shadows, lions wild,
Soften’d by love, grow tame and mild.
Love, no med'cine can appease ;
He burns the fishes in the seas;
Not all the skill his wounds can stanch.
Not all the sea his thirst can quench.
Love did make the bloody spear
Once a leafy coat to wear,
While in his leaves there shrouded lay
Sweet birds, for love that sing and play ;
And of all love's joyful flarne
I the bud and blossom am.
Only lend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing shall thy winning be! See, see, the flowers that below Now freshly as the morning blow, And of all, the virgin rose, That as bright Aurora shows; How they all unleaved die Losing their virginity: Like unto a summer shade, But now born, and now they fade, Every thing doth pass away ; There is danger in delay.
Come, come, gather then the rose;
Gather it, or it you lose.
All the sand of Tagus' shore,
In my bosom casts its ore:
All the valleys' swimming corn,
my house is yearly borne:
Every grape of every vine
Is gladly bruised to make me wine ;
While ten thousand kings, as proud
To carry up my train, have bow'd,
And a world of ladies send me
From my chamber to attend me:
All the stars in heaven that shine,
And ten thousand more, are mine.
Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing shall thy winning be!
THE COMMENDATION OF MUSIC.
WILLIAM STRODE, born 1600, died 1644.
When whispering strains do softly steal
With creeping passion through the heart,
And at every touch we feel
Our pulses heat, and bear a part ;
When threads can make
A heart-string quake;
Can scarce deny,
The soul consists of harmony.
Oh, lull me, lull me, charming air,
My senses rock'd with wonder sweet !
Like snow on wool thy fallings are,
Soft like a spirit’s are thy feet.
Grief, who need fear
That hath an ear ?
Down let him lie,
And slumbering die,
And change his soul for harmony.
From a Miscellany, entitled “ Wit Restored," 12mo. published 1658.