CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. 1 Get up, get up for shame; the blooming morn The dew bespangling herb and tree: When all the birds have matins said, And sung their thankful hymns; 'tis sin, When as a thousand virgins on this day, 2 Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen Retires himself, or else stands still green, Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying; Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying! 3 Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green, and trimm'd with trees; see how Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this Made up of whitethorn newly interwove, And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; 4 There's not a budding boy or girl this day Back, and with whitethorn laden home: And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth, Many a jest told of the key's betraying This night, and locks pick'd; yet we 're not a-Maying! 5 Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, We shall grow old apace, and die And, as a vapour, or a drop of rain, Lies drown'd with us in endless night. Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying! JEPHTHAH'S Daughter. 10 thou, the wonder of all days! Of all the maiden train! we come, 2 Thus, thus, and thus we compass round And other flowers lay upon The altar of our love, thy stone. 3 Thou wonder of all maids! list here, Of this smooth green, And all sweet meads, from whence we get 4 Too soon, too dear did Jephthah buy, His was the bond and cov'nant; yet Thou paid'st the debt, Lamented maid! He won the day, 5 Thy father brought with him along And, in the purchase of our peace, 6 For which obedient zeal of thine, And fresh thy hearse-cloth, we will here Four times bestrew thee every year. 7 Receive, for this thy praise, our tears; Receive this offering of our hairs; Receive these crystal vials, fill'd With tears distill'd From teeming eyes; to these we bring, Each maid, her silver filleting, 8 To gild thy tomb; besides, these cauls, When we conduct her to her groom: 9 No more, no more, since thou art dead, Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed; No more at yearly festivals We cowslip balls Or chains of columbines shall make 10 No, no; our maiden pleasures be One seed of life left, 'tis to keep 11 Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, And make this place all paradise: May sweets grow here! and smoke from hence Let balm and cassia send their scent 12 May no wolf howl or screech-owl stir A wing upon thy sepulchre! No boisterous winds or storms To starve or wither Thy soft, sweet earth! but, like a spring, 13 May all thy maids, at wonted hours, Upon thine altar! then return And leave thee sleeping in thy urn. |