English Songs and Ballads | Page 5

youth.
Then with many a pretty oath,?Yea and nay, 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 Phillida with garlands gay?Was made the lady of May.
_THOMAS NASH_
SPRING
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;?Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,?Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,?Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay,?Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,?And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,?Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet?Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,?In every street these tunes our ears do greet,?Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!?Spring! the sweet Spring!
_SIR EDWARD DYER_
MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS
My mind to me a kingdom is,?Such perfect joy therein I find,?That it excels all other bliss?That God or nature hath assigned:?Though much I want that most would have,?Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
No princely port, nor wealthy store,?Nor force to win a victory;?No wily wit to salve a sore,?No shape to win a loving eye;?To none of these I yield as thrall,?For why, my mind despise them all.
I see that plenty surfeits oft,?And hasty climbers soonest fall;?I see that such as are aloft,?Mishap doth threaten most of all;?These get with toil, and keep with fear:?Such cares my mind can never bear.
I press to bear no haughty sway;?I wish no more than may suffice;?I do no more than well I may,?Look what I want, my mind supplies;?Lo, thus I triumph like a king,?My mind's content with any thing.
I laugh not at another's loss,?Nor grudge not at another's gain;?No worldly waves my mind can toss;?I brook that is another's bane;?I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend;?I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.
My wealth is health and perfect ease,?And conscience clear my chief defence,?I never seek by bribes to please,?Nor by desert to give offence;?Thus do I live, thus will I die;?Would all do so as well as I!
_JAMES SHIRLEY_
DEATH THE LEVELLER
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,?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 the dust.
_THOMAS HEYWOOD_
YE LITTLE BIRDS THAT SIT AND SING
Yz, little birds that sit and sing?Amidst the shady valleys,?And see how Phillis sweetly walks?Within her garden-alleys;?Go, pretty birds, about her bower;?Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;?Ah me! methinks I see her frown!?Ye pretty wantons, warble.
Go tell her through your chirping bills,?As you by me are bidden,?To her is only known my love,?Which from the world is hidden.?Go, pretty birds, and tell her so,?See that your notes strain not too low,?For still methinks I see her frown;?Ye pretty wantons, warble.
Go tune your voices' harmony?And sing, I am her lover;?Strain loud and sweet, that every note?With sweet content may move her:?And she that hath the sweetest voice,?Tell her I will not change my choice:?--Yet still methinks I see her frown!?Ye pretty wantons, warble.
O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls?Into a pretty slumber!?Sing round about her rosy bed?That waking she may wonder:?Say to her, 'tis her lover true?That sendeth love to you, to you!?And when you hear her kind reply,?Return with pleasant warblings.
PACK CLOUDS, AWAY
PACK clouds, away, and welcome, day!?With night we banish sorrow.?Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft?To give my Love good-morrow!?Wings from the wind to please her mind,?Notes from the lark I'll borrow;?Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing!?To give my Love good-morrow!?To give my Love good-morrow?Notes from them all I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast!?Sing, birds, in every furrow!?And from each bill let music shrill?Give my fair Love good-morrow!?Blackbird and thrush in every bush,?Stare, linnet, and cocksparrow,?You pretty elves, among yourselves?Sing my fair Love good-morrow!?To give my Love good-morrow!?Sing, birds, in every furrow!
_BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER_
SLEEP
COME, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving?Lock me in delight awhile;?Let some pleasing dreams beguile?All my fancies; that from thence?I may feel an influence?All my powers of care bereaving!
Though but a shadow, but a sliding,?Let me know some little joy!?We that suffer long annoy?Are contented with a thought?Through an idle fancy wrought:?O let my joys have some abiding!
SONG TO PAN
ALL ye woods, and trees, and bowers,?All ye virtues and ye powers?That inhabit in the lakes,?In the pleasant springs or brakes,?Move