14 With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold, For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold; And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, Among the young courtiers of the king, THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE. (FROM 'AN HOUR'S RECREATION IN MUSIC,' BY RICH. ALISON. 1606.) 1 There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow; 2 Those cherries fairly do enclose They look like rose-buds filled with snow: 3 Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, HALLO, MY FANCY. 1 In melancholic fancy, In the vulcan dancy, Just like a fairy elf; Out o'er the tops of highest mountains skipping, Out o'er the hills, the trees, and valleys tripping, Out o'er the ocean seas, without an oar or shipping. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 2 Amidst the misty vapours, What doth cause the tapers; Why the clouds benight us While we travel here below. Fain would I know what makes the roaring thunder, And what these lightnings be that rend the clouds asunder, And what these comets are on which we gaze and wonder. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 3 Fain would I know the reason Why the little ant, All the summer season, Layeth up provision On condition To know no winter's want: And how housewives, that are so good and painful, Do unto their husbands prove so good and gainful; And why the lazy drones to them do prove disdainful Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 4 Ships, ships, I will descry you Amidst the main; I will come and try you What's your end and aim. One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, Another stays to keep his country from invading, A third is coming home with rich wealth of lading. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 5 When I look before me, There I do behold There's none that sees or knows me; All the world's a-gadding, Running madding; None doth his station hold. He that is below envieth him that riseth, 6 Look, look, what bustling Here I do espy; Each another jostling, Every one turmoiling, The other spoiling, One sitteth musing in a dumpish passion, Another hangs his head, because he's out of fashion, Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 7 Amidst the foamy ocean, Fain would I know What doth cause the motion, And returning In its journeying, And doth so seldom swerve! And how these little fishes that swim beneath salt water, 8 Fain would I be resolved How things are done; And where the bull was calved Of bloody Phalaris, And where the tailor is That works to the man i' the moon! Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly; 9 In conceit like Phæton, I'll mount Phœbus' chair; Having ne'er a hat on, All my hair a-burning Fain would I hear his fiery horses neighing, And see how they on foamy bits are playing; 10 Oh, from what ground of nature That self-devouring creature, Prove so froward And untoward, Her vitals for to strain? And why the subtle fox, while in death's wounds is lying, Doth not lament his pangs by howling and by crying: And why the milk-white swan doth sing when she's adying. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 11 Fain would I conclude this, At least make essay, What similitude is; Flock and fly together, And lambs know beasts of prey: How Nature's alchemists, these small laborious creatures, 12 I'm rapt with admiration, When I do ruminate, Men of an occupation, How each one calls him brother, Yet each envieth other, And yet still intimate! |