English Songs and Ballads | Page 5

CORYDON
IN the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
With a
troop of damsels playing
Forth I went forsooth a-maying.
When anon by a wood side,
Where, as May was in his pride,
I
espied, all alone,
Phillida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot!
He would love, and she would not,

She said, never man was true:
He says none was false to you;
He said he had lov'd her long;
She says love should have no wrong,

Corydon would kiss her then;
She says, maids must kiss no men,
Till they do for good and all,
When she made the shepherd call
All
the heavens to witness truth,
Never lov'd a truer 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