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MY LADY GREENSLEEVES

189

For we,

which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

MY LADY GREENSLEEVES

Alas! my love, you do me wrong

To cast me off discourteously;
And I have loved you so long,
Delighting in your company.

Greensleeves was all my joy!
Greensleeves was my delight!
Greensleeves was my heart of gold!

And who but my Lady Greensleeves!

I bought thee petticoats of the best,

The cloth so fine as fine as might be;
I gave thee jewels for thy chest,
And all this cost I spent on thee.

Greensleeves was all my joy!
Greensleeves was my delight!
Greensleeves was my heart of gold!

And who but my Lady Greensleeves!

Thy smock of silk, both fair and white,

With gold embroidered gorgeously;
Thy petticoat of sendal right:
And these I bought thee gladly.

Greensleeves was all my joy!
Greensleeves was my delight!
Greensleeves was my heart of gold!

And who but my Lady Greensleeves!

Greensleeves now farewell! adieu!

God I pray to prosper thee!
For I am still thy lover true:
Come once again and love me!

Greensleeves was all my joy!
Greensleeves was my delight!
Greensleeves was my heart of gold!
And who but my Lady Greensleeves!

ANONYMOUS

THE BANKS O' DOON

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon,

How can ye blume sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae fu'o' care?

Thou 'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,

That sings upon the bough: Thou minds me o' the happy days

When my fause Luve was true!

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings beside thy mate:
I sat,

I

sang, And wist na o' my fate!

For sae

and sae

Aft hae I roved by bonie Doon

To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And sae did I o' mine.

SONG

191 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree,

fause luver staw my rose, But left the thorn wi' me.

ROBERT BURNS

And my

SONG

Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauties orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

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Ask me no more, whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more, whither doth haste
The nightingale, when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light,
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere,

Ask me no more, if east or west,
The phenix builds her spicy nest;

For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

THOMAS CAREW

A RED, RED ROSE

O my Luve's like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,

So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
O I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

ROBERT BURNS

THE GLORIES OF OUR BLOOD AND

STATE

The glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:

Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,

DIRGE FROM CYMBELINE

193

And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill: But their strong nerves at last must yield; . They tame but one another still:

Early or late

They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds:

Your heads must come

To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

JAMES SHIRLEY

DIRGE FROM “CYMBELINE”

FEAR no more the heat o' the 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.

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