MASQUE OF PLEASURE AND

VIRTUE.

SONG I.

COME on, come on, and where you go
So interweave the curious knot
As even the Observer scarce may
know

Which lines are pleasure, and which not:

First figure out the doubtful way At which awhile the youth should stay

Where she and Virtue did contend Which should have Hercules to friend.

Then as all actions of mankind
Are but a labyrinth or maze,
So let your dances be entwined,
Yet not perplex men unto gaze:
But measured, and so numerous too,
As men may read each act they do;
And, when they see your graces
meet,

Admire the wisdom of your feet:
For dancing is an exercise
Not only shows the mover's wit,
But maketh the beholder wise,
As he hath power to rise to it.

SONG II.

O more and more, this was so well
As praise wants half his voice to tell.
Again yourselves compose,
And now put all the aptness on
Of figure, that proportion
Or color can disclose:

That, if those silent arts were lost,
Design and Picture, they might boast
From you a newer ground
Instructed by the heightening sense
Of dignity and reverence

In their true motions found.

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Begin, begin; for look, the pair
Do longing listen to what air
You form your second touch
That they may vent their murmuring
hymns

Just to the tune you move your limbs,
And wish their own were such.
Make haste, make haste, for this
The labyrinth of Beauty is.

SONG III.

It follows now you are to prove The subtlest maze of all, that's Love,

And, if you stay too long, The fair will think you do them wrong.

Go choose among them, with a mind
As gentle as the stroking wind
Runs o'er the gentler flowers,
And so let all your actions smile,
As if they meant not to beguile
The ladies, but the hours.

Grace, laughter, and discourse
may meet,

And yet the beauty not go less:
For what is noble should be sweet,
But not dissolved in wantonness.

Will you that I give the law
To all your sport, and sum it
It should be such should envy draw,
But overcome it.

SONG.

BEN JONSON.

SHAKE off your heavy trance,
And leap into a dance,
Such as no mortals use to tread,
Fit only for Apollo-

To play to, for the moon to lead,
And all the stars to follow!

O blessed youth! for Jove doth pause,
Laying aside his graver laws

433

For this device:

And at the wedding such a pair
Each dance is taken for a prayer,

Each song a sacrifice.
You should stay longer if we durst;
Away! Alas! that he that first
Gave Time wild wings to fly away,
Ias now no power to make him stay.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

MARY DONNELLY.

OH! lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best!

If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest.

Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,

How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock. Red rowans warm in sunshine and

wetted in a shower,

Can ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up; Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup; Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine;

It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before; No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sang a song, that took my heart away.

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet; The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung; Your smile is always in my heart,

your name beside my tongue; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

Oh, you're the flower of womankind in country or in town;

The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.

If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

The happiest there, from their pastime returning,

At sunset, still weep when thy story is told.

The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses

Her dark flowing hair, for some festival day,

Will think of thy fate, till, neglecting her tresses,

She mournfully turns from her mirror away.

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero! forget thee;

Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start;

Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee,

Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.