94

ORPHEUS.

ORPHEUS.

ORPHEUS with his lute made trees,
And the mountain-tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing.
To his music plants and flowers
Ever

sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.

Everything that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing Care and Grief of Heart
Fall asleep, or hearing, die!

W. Shakespeare.

PRAISE OF MUSIC.

95

PRAISE OF MUSIC.

WHEN whispering strains do softly steal
With creeping passion through the heart,
And when at ev'ry touch we feel

Our pulses beat and bear a part;

When threads can make
A heart-string quake,
Philosophy

Can scarce deny

The soul consists of harmony.

O lull me, lull me, charming air,

My sense is rock'd with wonder sweet! Like snow on wool thy fallings are

Soft like a spirit's are thy feet.

Grief who need fear

That hath an ear?

Down let him lie,

And slumb'ring die,

And change his soul for harmony.

William Strode.

96

A BRIDAL SONG.

A BRIDAL SONG.

ROSES, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden-pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;

Primrose, first-born child of Ver,
Merry spring-time's harbinger,
With her bells dim;

Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Lark-heels trim.

All, dear Nature's children sweet,
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,
Blessing their sense!

Not an angel of the air,

Bird melodious, or bird fair,

Be absent hence!

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough hoar,
Nor chattering pie,

May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,

But from it fly!

F. Beaumont.

Elder Poets.

A FOREST-DITTY.

A FOREST-DITTY.

UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to lie i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,

And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

W. Shakespeare.

ལ

97

98

ARCHERS THREE.

ARCHERS THREE.

WE three Archers be,

Rangers that rove through the north countree,
Lovers of ven❜son and liberty,

That value not honours or money.

We three good fellows be,

That never yet ran from three times three.
Quarterstaff, broadsword, or bowmanry,
But give us fair play for our money.

We three merry men be,

At a lass or a glass under greenwood tree;
Jocundly chaunting our ancient glee,

Though we had not a penny of money.

Anonymous.