Get up, get up for shame!  the blooming morn
     Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
     See how Aurora throws her fair
     Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
     Get up, sweet-slug-a-bed, and see
     The dew bespangling herb and tree.
     Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
     Above an hour since; yet you not drest,
     Nay!  not so much as out of bed?
     When all the birds have matins said,
     And sung their thankful hymns:  'tis sin,
     Nay, profanation, to keep in,—
     Whenas a thousand virgins on this day,
     Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

     Rise; and put on your foliage, and be seen
     To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and green,
     And sweet as Flora.  Take no care
     For jewels for your gown, or hair:
     Fear not; the leaves will strew
     Gems in abundance upon you:
     Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
     Against you come, some orient pearls unwept:
     Come, and receive them while the light
     Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
     And Titan on the eastern hill
     Retires himself, or else stands still
     Till you come forth.  Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
     Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying.

     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
     Devotion gives each house a bough
     Or branch:  each porch, each door, ere this,
     An ark, a tabernacle is
     Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove;
     As if here were those cooler shades of love.
     Can such delights be in the street,
     And open fields, and we not see't?
     Come, we'll abroad:  and let's obey
     The proclamation made for May:
     And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
     But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

     There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day,
     But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
     A deal of youth, ere this, is come
     Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
     Some have dispatch'd their cakes and cream,
     Before that we have left to dream:
     And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
     And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
     Many a green-gown has been given;
     Many a kiss, both odd and even:
     Many a glance, too, has been sent
     From out the eye, love's firmament:
     Many a jest told of the keys betraying
     This night, and locks pick'd:—yet we're not a Maying.

     —Come, let us go, while we are in our prime;
     And take the harmless folly of the time!
     We shall grow old apace, and die
     Before we know our liberty.
     Our life is short; and our days run
     As fast away as does the sun:—
     And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
     Once lost, can ne'er be found again:
     So when or you or I are made
     A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
     All love, all liking, all delight
     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.

     The May-pole is up,
     Now give me the cup;
     I'll drink to the garlands around it;
     But first unto those
     Whose hands did compose
     The glory of flowers that crown'd it.

     A health to my girls,
     Whose husbands may earls
     Or lords be, granting my wishes,
     And when that ye wed
     To the bridal bed,
     Then multiply all, like to fishes.

     Come, Anthea, let us two
     Go to feast, as others do:
     Tarts and custards, creams and cakes,
     Are the junkets still at wakes;
     Unto which the tribes resort,
     Where the business is the sport:
     Morris-dancers thou shalt see,
     Marian, too, in pageantry;
     And a mimic to devise
     Many grinning properties.
     Players there will be, and those
     Base in action as in clothes;
     Yet with strutting they will please
     The incurious villages.
     Near the dying of the day
     There will be a cudgel-play,
     Where a coxcomb will be broke,
     Ere a good word can be spoke:
     But the anger ends all here,
     Drench'd in ale, or drown'd in beer.
     —Happy rusticks!  best content
     With the cheapest merriment;
     And possess no other fear,
     Than to want the Wake next year.

     Come, Sons of Summer, by whose toil
     We are the lords of wine and oil:
     By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
     We rip up first, then reap our lands.
     Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
     And, to the pipe, sing Harvest Home.

     Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
     Drest up with all the country art.
     See, here a maukin, there a sheet,
     As spotless pure, as it is sweet:
     The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
     Clad, all, in linen white as lilies.
     The harvest swains and wenches bound
     For joy, to see the Hock-Cart crown'd.
     About the cart, hear, how the rout
     Of rural younglings raise the shout;
     Pressing before, some coming after,
     Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
     Some bless the cart; some kiss the sheaves;
     Some prank them up with oaken leaves:
     Some cross the fill-horse; some with great
     Devotion, stroke the home-borne wheat:
     While other rustics, less attent
     To prayers, than to merriment,
     Run after with their breeches rent.
     —Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth,
     Glitt'ring with fire; where, for your mirth,
     Ye shall see first the large and chief
     Foundation of your feast, fat beef;
     With upper stories, mutton, veal
     And bacon, which makes full the meal,
     With sev'ral dishes standing by,
     As here a custard, there a pie,
     And here, all tempting frumenty.
     And for to make the merry cheer,
     If smirking wine be wanting here,
     There's that which drowns all care, stout beer:
     Which freely drink to your lord's health
     Then to the plough, the common-wealth;
     Next to your flails, your fanes, your vats;
     Then to the maids with wheaten hats:
     To the rough sickle, and crookt scythe,—
     Drink, frolic, boys, till all be blythe.
     Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat,
     Be mindful, that the lab'ring neat,
     As you, may have their fill of meat.
     And know, besides, ye must revoke
     The patient ox unto the yoke,
     And all go back unto the plough
     And harrow, though they're hang'd up now.
     And, you must know, your lord's word's true,
     Feed him ye must, whose food fills you;
     And that this pleasure is like rain,
     Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
     But for to make it spring again.

     This day, my Julia, thou must make
     For Mistress Bride the wedding-cake:
     Knead but the dough, and it will be
     To paste of almonds turn'd by thee;
     Or kiss it thou but once or twice,
     And for the bride-cake there'll be spice.

     Holy-Rood, come forth and shield
     Us i' th' city and the field;
     Safely guard us, now and aye,
     From the blast that burns by day;
     And those sounds that us affright
     In the dead of dampish night;
     Drive all hurtful fiends us fro,
     By the time the cocks first crow.

     From noise of scare-fires rest ye free
     From murders, Benedicite;
     From all mischances that may fright
     Your pleasing slumbers in the night
     Mercy secure ye all, and keep
     The goblin from ye, while ye sleep.
     —Past one a clock, and almost two,—
     My masters all, 'Good day to you.'

     Command the roof, great Genius, and from thence
     Into this house pour down thy influence,
     That through each room a golden pipe may run
     Of living water by thy benizon;
     Fulfil the larders, and with strength'ning bread
     Be ever-more these bins replenished.
     Next, like a bishop consecrate my ground,
     That lucky fairies here may dance their round;
     And, after that, lay down some silver pence,
     The master's charge and care to recompence.
     Charm then the chambers; make the beds for ease,
     More than for peevish pining sicknesses;
     Fix the foundation fast, and let the roof
     Grow old with time, but yet keep weather-proof.

     Though clock,
     To tell how night draws hence, I've none,
     A cock
     I have to sing how day draws on:
     I have
     A maid, my Prue, by good luck sent,
     To save
     That little, Fates me gave or lent.
     A hen
     I keep, which, creeking day by day,
     Tells when
     She goes her long white egg to lay:
     A goose
     I have, which, with a jealous ear,
     Lets loose
     Her tongue, to tell what danger's near.
     A lamb
     I keep, tame, with my morsels fed,
     Whose dam
     An orphan left him, lately dead:
     A cat
     I keep, that plays about my house,
     Grown fat
     With eating many a miching mouse:
     To these
     A Trasy I do keep, whereby
     I please
     The more my rural privacy:
     Which are
     But toys, to give my heart some ease:—
     Where care
     None is, slight things do lightly please.

     THE SPEAKERS: MIRTILLO, AMINTAS, AND AMARILLIS

     AMIN. Good day, Mirtillo.  MIRT. And to you no less;
     And all fair signs lead on our shepherdess.
     AMAR. With all white luck to you.  MIRT. But say,
     What news
     Stirs in our sheep-walk?  AMIN. None, save that my
     ewes,
     My wethers, lambs, and wanton kids are well,
     Smooth, fair, and fat; none better I can tell:
     Or that this day Menalchas keeps a feast
     For his sheep-shearers.  MIRT. True, these are the least.
     But dear Amintas, and sweet Amarillis,
     Rest but a while here by this bank of lilies;
     And lend a gentle ear to one report
     The country has.  AMIN. From whence?  AMAR. From
     whence?  MIRT. The Court.
     Three days before the shutting-in of May,
     (With whitest wool be ever crown'd that day!)
     To all our joy, a sweet-faced child was born,
     More tender than the childhood of the morn.
     CHORUS:—Pan pipe to him, and bleats of lambs and
     sheep
     Let lullaby the pretty prince asleep!
     MIRT. And that his birth should be more singular,
     At noon of day was seen a silver star,
     Bright as the wise men's torch, which guided them
     To God's sweet babe, when born at Bethlehem;
     While golden angels, some have told to me,
     Sung out his birth with heav'nly minstrelsy.
     AMIN. O rare!  But is't a trespass, if we three
     Should wend along his baby-ship to see?
     MIRT. Not so, not so.  CHOR. But if it chance to prove
     At most a fault, 'tis but a fault of love.
     AMAR.  But, dear Mirtillo, I have heard it told,
     Those learned men brought incense, myrrh, and gold,
     From countries far, with store of spices sweet,
     And laid them down for offerings at his feet.
     MIRT. 'Tis true, indeed; and each of us will bring
     Unto our smiling and our blooming King,
     A neat, though not so great an offering.
     AMAR.  A garland for my gift shall be,
     Of flowers ne'er suck'd by th' thieving bee;
     And all most sweet, yet all less sweet than he.
     AMIN. And I will bear along with you
     Leaves dropping down the honied dew,
     With oaten pipes, as sweet, as new.
     MIRT. And I a sheep-hook will bestow
     To have his little King-ship know,
     As he is Prince, he's Shepherd too.
     CHOR. Come, let's away, and quickly let's be drest,
     And quickly give:—the swiftest grace is best.
     And when before him we have laid our treasures,
     We'll bless the babe:—then back to country pleasures.

     My dearest Love, since thou wilt go,
     And leave me here behind thee;
     For love or pity, let me know
     The place where I may find thee.

     AMARIL.  In country meadows, pearl'd with dew,
     And set about with lilies;
     There, filling maunds with cowslips, you
     May find your Amarillis.

     HER.  What have the meads to do with thee,
     Or with thy youthful hours?
     Live thou at court, where thou mayst be
     The queen of men, not flowers.

     Let country wenches make 'em fine
     With posies, since 'tis fitter
     For thee with richest gems to shine,
     And like the stars to glitter.

     AMARIL.  You set too-high a rate upon
     A shepherdess so homely.
     HER.  Believe it, dearest, there's not one
     I' th' court that's half so comely.

     I prithee stay.  AMARIL.  I must away;
     Let's kiss first, then we'll sever;
     AMBO  And though we bid adieu to day,
     We shall not part for ever.

     LACON.  For a kiss or two, confess,
     What doth cause this pensiveness,
     Thou most lovely neat-herdess?
     Why so lonely on the hill?
     Why thy pipe by thee so still,
     That erewhile was heard so shrill?
     Tell me, do thy kine now fail
     To fulfil the milking-pail?
     Say, what is't that thou dost ail?

     THYR.  None of these; but out, alas!
     A mischance is come to pass,
     And I'll tell thee what it was:
     See, mine eyes are weeping ripe.
     LACON.  Tell, and I'll lay down my pipe.

     THYR.  I have lost my lovely steer,
     That to me was far more dear
     Than these kine which I milk here;
     Broad of forehead, large of eye,
     Party-colour'd like a pye,
     Smooth in each limb as a die;
     Clear of hoof, and clear of horn,
     Sharply pointed as a thorn;
     With a neck by yoke unworn,
     From the which hung down by strings,
     Balls of cowslips, daisy rings,
     Interplaced with ribbonings;
     Faultless every way for shape;
     Not a straw could him escape,
     Ever gamesome as an ape,
     But yet harmless as a sheep.
     Pardon, Lacon, if I weep;
     Tears will spring where woes are deep.
     Now, ai me!  ai me!  Last night
     Came a mad dog, and did bite,
     Ay, and kill'd my dear delight.

     LACON  Alack, for grief!
     THYR.  But I'll be brief.
     Hence I must, for time doth call
     Me, and my sad playmates all,
     To his evening funeral.
     Live long, Lacon; so adieu!

     LACON Mournful maid, farewell to you;
     Earth afford ye flowers to strew!

     MONTANO, SILVIO, AND MIRTILLO, SHEPHERDS

     MON.  Bad are the times.  SIL.  And worse than they are we.
     MON.  Troth, bad are both; worse fruit, and ill the tree:
     The feast of shepherds fail.  SIL.  None crowns the cup
     Of wassail now, or sets the quintel up:
     And he, who used to lead the country-round,
     Youthful Mirtillo, here he comes, grief-drown'd.
     AMBO.  Let's cheer him up.  SIL. Behold him weeping-ripe.
     MIRT. Ah, Amarillis!  farewell mirth and pipe;
     Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play
     To these smooth lawns, my mirthful roundelay.
     Dear Amarillis!  MON.  Hark!  SIL.  Mark!  MIRT.  This
     earth grew sweet
     Where, Amarillis, thou didst set thy feet.
     AMBO  Poor pitied youth!  MIRT.  And here the breath
     of kine
     And sheep grew more sweet by that breath of thine.
     This dock of wool, and this rich lock of hair,
     This ball of cowslips, these she gave me here.
     SIL.  Words sweet as love itself.  MON.  Hark!—
     MIRT.  This way she came, and this way too she went;
     How each thing smells divinely redolent!
     Like to a field of beans, when newly blown,
     Or like a meadow being lately mown.
     MON.  A sweet sad passion——
     MIRT.  In dewy mornings, when she came this way,
     Sweet bents would bow, to give my Love the day;
     And when at night she folded had her sheep,
     Daisies would shut, and closing, sigh and weep.
     Besides (Ai me!) since she went hence to dwell,
     The Voice's Daughter ne'er spake syllable.
     But she is gone.  SIL.  Mirtillo, tell us whither?
     MIRT.  Where she and I shall never meet together.
     MON.  Fore-fend it, Pan!  and Pales, do thou please
     To give an end...  MIRT.  To what?  SIL.  Such griefs
     as these.
     MIRT.  Never, O never!  Still I may endure
     The wound I suffer, never find a cure.
     MON.  Love, for thy sake, will bring her to these hills
     And dales again.  MIRT.  No, I will languish still;
     And all the while my part shall be to weep;
     And with my sighs call home my bleating sheep;
     And in the rind of every comely tree
     I'll carve thy name, and in that name kiss thee.
     MON.  Set with the sun, thy woes!  SIL.  The day
     grows old;
     And time it is our full-fed flocks to fold.
     CHOR.  The shades grow great; but greater grows
     our sorrow:—
     But let's go steep
     Our eyes in sleep;
     And meet to weep
     To-morrow.

     Thou art to all lost love the best,
     The only true plant found,
     Wherewith young men and maids distrest
     And left of love, are crown'd.

     When once the lover's rose is dead
     Or laid aside forlorn,
     Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head,
     Bedew'd with tears, are worn.

     When with neglect, the lover's bane,
     Poor maids rewarded be,
     For their love lost their only gain
     Is but a wreath from thee.

     And underneath thy cooling shade,
     When weary of the light,
     The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid,
     Come to weep out the night.

     DEDICATED TO MR JOHN MERRIFIELD,
     COUNSELLOR AT LAW

     RARE TEMPLES THOU HAST SEEN, I KNOW,
     AND RICH FOR IN AND OUTWARD SHOW;
     SURVEY THIS CHAPEL BUILT, ALONE,
     WITHOUT OR LIME, OR WOOD, OR STONE.
     THEN SAY, IF ONE THOU'ST SEEN MORE FINE
     THAN THIS, THE FAIRIES' ONCE, NOW THINE.

     THE TEMPLE

     A way enchaced with glass and beads
     There is, that to the Chapel leads;
     Whose structure, for his holy rest,
     Is here the Halcyon's curious nest;
     Into the which who looks, shall see
     His Temple of Idolatry;
     Where he of god-heads has such store,
     As Rome's Pantheon had not more.
     His house of Rimmon this he calls,
     Girt with small bones, instead of walls.
     First in a niche, more black than jet,
     His idol-cricket there is set;
     Then in a polish'd oval by
     There stands his idol-beetle-fly;
     Next, in an arch, akin to this,
     His idol-canker seated is.
     Then in a round, is placed by these
     His golden god, Cantharides.
     So that where'er ye look, ye see
     No capital, no cornice free,
     Or frieze, from this fine frippery.
     Now this the Fairies would have known,
     Theirs is a mixt religion:
     And some have heard the elves it call
     Part Pagan, part Papistical.
     If unto me all tongues were granted,
     I could not speak the saints here painted.
     Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis,
     Who 'gainst Mab's state placed here right is.
     Saint Will o' th' Wisp, of no great bigness,
     But, alias, call'd here FATUUS IGNIS.
     Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Filly;—
     Neither those other saint-ships will I
     Here go about for to recite
     Their number, almost infinite;
     Which, one by one, here set down are
     In this most curious calendar.

     First, at the entrance of the gate,
     A little puppet-priest doth wait,
     Who squeaks to all the comers there,
     'Favour your tongues, who enter here.
     'Pure hands bring hither, without stain.'
     A second pules, 'Hence, hence, profane!'
     Hard by, i' th' shell of half a nut,
     The holy-water there is put;
     A little brush of squirrels' hairs,
     Composed of odd, not even pairs,
     Stands in the platter, or close by,
     To purge the fairy family.
     Near to the altar stands the priest,
     There offering up the holy-grist;
     Ducking in mood and perfect tense,
     With (much good do't him) reverence.
     The altar is not here four-square,
     Nor in a form triangular;
     Nor made of glass, or wood, or stone,
     But of a little transverse bone;
     Which boys and bruckel'd children call
     (Playing for points and pins) cockall.
     Whose linen-drapery is a thin,
     Subtile, and ductile codling's skin;
     Which o'er the board is smoothly spread
     With little seal-work damasked.
     The fringe that circumbinds it, too,
     Is spangle-work of trembling dew,
     Which, gently gleaming, makes a show,
     Like frost-work glitt'ring on the snow.
     Upon this fetuous board doth stand
     Something for shew-bread, and at hand
     (Just in the middle of the altar)
     Upon an end, the Fairy-psalter,
     Graced with the trout-flies' curious wings,
     Which serve for watchet ribbonings.
     Now, we must know, the elves are led
     Right by the Rubric, which they read:
     And if report of them be true,
     They have their text for what they do;
     Ay, and their book of canons too.
     And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells,
     They have their book of articles;
     And if that Fairy knight not lies
     They have their book of homilies;
     And other Scriptures, that design
     A short, but righteous discipline.
     The bason stands the board upon
     To take the free-oblation;
     A little pin-dust, which they hold
     More precious than we prize our gold;
     Which charity they give to many
     Poor of the parish, if there's any.
     Upon the ends of these neat rails,
     Hatch'd with the silver-light of snails,
     The elves, in formal manner, fix
     Two pure and holy candlesticks,
     In either which a tall small bent
     Burns for the altar's ornament.
     For sanctity, they have, to these,
     Their curious copes and surplices
     Of cleanest cobweb, hanging by
     In their religious vestery.
     They have their ash-pans and their brooms,
     To purge the chapel and the rooms;
     Their many mumbling mass-priests here,
     And many a dapper chorister.
     Their ush'ring vergers here likewise,
     Their canons and their chaunteries;
     Of cloister-monks they have enow,
     Ay, and their abbey-lubbers too:—
     And if their legend do not lie,
     They much affect the papacy;
     And since the last is dead, there's hope
     Elve Boniface shall next be Pope.
     They have their cups and chalices,
     Their pardons and indulgences,
     Their beads of nits, bells, books, and wax-
     Candles, forsooth, and other knacks;
     Their holy oil, their fasting-spittle,
     Their sacred salt here, not a little.
     Dry chips, old shoes, rags, grease, and bones,
     Beside their fumigations.
     Many a trifle, too, and trinket,
     And for what use, scarce man would think it.
     Next then, upon the chanter's side
     An apple's-core is hung up dried,
     With rattling kernels, which is rung
     To call to morn and even-song.
     The saint, to which the most he prays
     And offers incense nights and days,
     The lady of the lobster is,
     Whose foot-pace he doth stroke and kiss,
     And, humbly, chives of saffron brings
     For his most cheerful offerings.
     When, after these, he's paid his vows,
     He lowly to the altar bows;
     And then he dons the silk-worm's shed,
     Like a Turk's turban on his head,
     And reverently departeth thence,
     Hid in a cloud of frankincense;
     And by the glow-worm's light well guided,
     Goes to the Feast that's now provided.

     SHAPCOT!  TO THE THE FAIRY STATE
     I WITH DISCRETION DEDICATE:
     BECAUSE THOU PRIZEST THINGS THAT ARE
     CURIOUS AND UNFAMILIAR.
     TAKE FIRST THE FEAST; THESE DISHES GONE,
     WE'LL SEE THE FAIRY COURT ANON.

     A little mushroom-table spread,
     After short prayers, they set on bread,
     A moon-parch'd grain of purest wheat,
     With some small glitt'ring grit, to eat
     His choice bits with; then in a trice
     They make a feast less great than nice.
     But all this while his eye is served,
     We must not think his ear was sterved;
     But that there was in place to stir
     His spleen, the chirring grasshopper,
     The merry cricket, puling fly,
     The piping gnat for minstrelsy.
     And now, we must imagine first,
     The elves present, to quench his thirst,
     A pure seed-pearl of infant dew,
     Brought and besweeten'd in a blue
     And pregnant violet; which done,
     His kitling eyes begin to run
     Quite through the table, where he spies
     The horns of papery butterflies,
     Of which he eats; and tastes a little
     Of that we call the cuckoo's spittle;
     A little fuz-ball pudding stands
     By, yet not blessed by his hands,
     That was too coarse; but then forthwith
     He ventures boldly on the pith
     Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sagge
     And well-bestrutted bees' sweet bag;
     Gladding his palate with some store
     Of emmets' eggs; what would he more?
     But beards of mice, a newt's stew'd thigh,
     A bloated earwig, and a fly;
     With the red-capt worm, that's shut
     Within the concave of a nut,
     Brown as his tooth.  A little moth,
     Late fatten'd in a piece of cloth;
     With wither'd cherries, mandrakes' ears,
     Moles' eyes:  to these the slain stag's tears;
     The unctuous dewlaps of a snail,
     The broke-heart of a nightingale
     O'ercome in music; with a wine
     Ne'er ravish'd from the flattering vine,
     But gently prest from the soft side
     Of the most sweet and dainty bride,
     Brought in a dainty daisy, which
     He fully quaffs up, to bewitch
     His blood to height; this done, commended
     Grace by his priest; The feast is ended.

     Please your Grace, from out your store
     Give an alms to one that's poor,
     That your mickle may have more.
     Black I'm grown for want of meat,
     Give me then an ant to eat,
     Or the cleft ear of a mouse
     Over-sour'd in drink of souce;
     Or, sweet lady, reach to me
     The abdomen of a bee;
     Or commend a cricket's hip,
     Or his huckson, to my scrip;
     Give for bread, a little bit
     Of a pease that 'gins to chit,
     And my full thanks take for it.
     Flour of fuz-balls, that's too good
     For a man in needy-hood;
     But the meal of mill-dust can
     Well content a craving man;
     Any orts the elves refuse
     Well will serve the beggar's use.
     But if this may seem too much
     For an alms, then give me such
     Little bits that nestle there
     In the pris'ner's pannier.
     So a blessing light upon
     You, and mighty Oberon;
     That your plenty last till when
     I return your alms again.

     The Hag is astride,
     This night for to ride,
     The devil and she together;
     Through thick and through thin,
     Now out, and then in,
     Though ne'er so foul be the weather.

     A thorn or a bur
     She takes for a spur;
     With a lash of a bramble she rides now,
     Through brakes and through briars,
     O'er ditches and mires,
     She follows the spirit that guides now.

     No beast, for his food,
     Dares now range the wood,
     But hush'd in his lair he lies lurking;
     While mischiefs, by these,
     On land and on seas,
     At noon of night are a-working.

     The storm will arise,
     And trouble the skies
     This night; and, more for the wonder,
     The ghost from the tomb
     Affrighted shall come,
     Call'd out by the clap of the thunder.

     Good morrow to the day so fair;
     Good morning, sir, to you;
     Good morrow to mine own torn hair,
     Bedabbled with the dew.

     Good morning to this primrose too;
     Good morrow to each maid;
     That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
     Wherein my Love is laid.

     Ah!  woe is me, woe, woe is me,
     Alack and well-a-day!
     For pity, sir, find out that bee,
     Which bore my Love away.

     I'll seek him in your bonnet brave;
     I'll seek him in your eyes;
     Nay, now I think they've made his grave
     I' th' bed of strawberries.

     I'll seek him there; I know, ere this,
     The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
     But I will go, or send a kiss
     By you, sir, to awake him.

     Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
     He knows well who do love him;
     And who with green turfs rear his head,
     And who do rudely move him.

     He's soft and tender, pray take heed,
     With bands of cowslips bind him,
     And bring him home;—but 'tis decreed
     That I shall never find him.

     One silent night of late,
     When every creature rested,
     Came one unto my gate,
     And knocking, me molested.

     Who's that, said I, beats there,
     And troubles thus the sleepy?
     Cast off; said he, all fear,
     And let not locks thus keep ye.

     For I a boy am, who
     By moonless nights have swerved;
     And all with showers wet through,
     And e'en with cold half starved.

     I pitiful arose,
     And soon a taper lighted;
     And did myself disclose
     Unto the lad benighted.

     I saw he had a bow,
     And wings too, which did shiver;
     And looking down below,
     I spied he had a quiver.

     I to my chimney's shine
     Brought him, as Love professes,
     And chafed his hands with mine,
     And dried his dropping tresses.

     But when he felt him warm'd,
     Let's try this bow of ours
     And string, if they be harm'd,
     Said he, with these late showers.

     Forthwith his bow he bent,
     And wedded string and arrow,
     And struck me, that it went
     Quite through my heart and marrow

     Then laughing loud, he flew
     Away, and thus said flying,
     Adieu, mine host, adieu,
     I'll leave thy heart a-dying.

     Love, like a gipsy, lately came,
     And did me much importune
     To see my hand, that by the same
     He might foretell my fortune.

     He saw my palm; and then, said he,
     I tell thee, by this score here,
     That thou, within few months, shalt be
     The youthful Prince D'Amour here.

     I smiled, and bade him once more prove,
     And by some cross-line show it,
     That I could ne'er be Prince of Love,
     Though here the Princely Poet.

     Let's now take our time,
     While we're in our prime,
     And old, old age is afar off;
     For the evil, evil days
     Will come on apace,
     Before we can be aware of.

     Fly me not, though I be gray,
     Lady, this I know you'll say;
     Better look the roses red,
     When with white commingled.
     Black your hairs are; mine are white;
     This begets the more delight,
     When things meet most opposite;
     As in pictures we descry
     Venus standing Vulcan by.

     Honour to you who sit
     Near to the well of wit,
     And drink your fill of it!

     Glory and worship be
     To you, sweet Maids, thrice three,
     Who still inspire me;

     And teach me how to sing
     Unto the lyric string,
     My measures ravishing!

     Then, while I sing your praise,
     My priest-hood crown with bays
     Green to the end of days!

     So Good-Luck came, and on my roof did light,
     Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night;
     Not all at once, but gently,—as the trees
     Are by the sun-beams, tickled by degrees.

     HERE, Here I live with what my board
     Can with the smallest cost afford;
     Though ne'er so mean the viands be,
     They well content my Prue and me:
     Or pea or bean, or wort or beet,
     Whatever comes, Content makes sweet.
     Here we rejoice, because no rent
     We pay for our poor tenement;
     Wherein we rest, and never fear
     The landlord or the usurer.
     The quarter-day does ne'er affright
     Our peaceful slumbers in the night:
     We eat our own, and batten more,
     Because we feed on no man's score;
     But pity those whose flanks grow great,
     Swell'd with the lard of other's meat.
     We bless our fortunes, when we see
     Our own beloved privacy;
     And like our living, where we're known
     To very few, or else to none.

     From the dull confines of the drooping west,
     To see the day spring from the pregnant east,
     Ravish'd in spirit, I come, nay more, I fly
     To thee, blest place of my nativity!
     Thus, thus with hallow'd foot I touch the ground,
     With thousand blessings by thy fortune crown'd.
     O fruitful Genius!  that bestowest here
     An everlasting plenty year by year;
     O place!  O people!  manners!  framed to please
     All nations, customs, kindreds, languages!
     I am a free-born Roman; suffer then
     That I amongst you live a citizen.
     London my home is; though by hard fate sent
     Into a long and irksome banishment;
     Yet since call'd back, henceforward let me be,
     O native country, repossess'd by thee!
     For, rather than I'll to the west return,
     I'll beg of thee first here to have mine urn.
     Weak I am grown, and must in short time fall;
     Give thou my sacred reliques burial.

     Give me a man that is not dull,
     When all the world with rifts is full;
     But unamazed dares clearly sing,
     Whenas the roof's a-tottering;
     And though it falls, continues still
     Tickling the Cittern with his quill.