[ANONYMOUS. 1635-1

THE FAIRY QUEEN.
COME follow, follow me,
You, fairy elves that be:
Which circle on the greene,

Come follow Mab your queene. Hand in hand let's dance around, For this place is fairye ground.

When mortals are at rest, And snoring in their nest; Unheard, and unespy'd, Through key-holes we do glide; Over tables, stools, and shelves, We trip it with our fairy elves.

And, if the house be foul
With platter, dish, or bowl,
Up stairs we nimbly creep,
And find the sluts asleep :

There we pinch their armes and thighes;
None escapes, nor none espies.

But if the house be swept, And from uncleanness kept, We praise the houshold maid, And duely she is paid: For we use before we goe To drop a tester in her shoe.

Upon a mushroome's head Our table-cloth we spread; A grain of rye, or wheat, Is manchet, which we eat ; Pearly drops of dew we drink In acorn cups fill'd to the brink,

The brains of nightingales, With unctuous fat of snailes, Between two cockles stew'd, Is meat that's easily chew'd; Tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice, Do make a dish that's wondrous nice.

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, Serve for our minstrelsie; Grace said, we dance a while, And so the time beguile : And if the moon doth hide her head, The gloe-worm lights us home to bed.

On tops of dewie grasse
So nimbly do we passe ;
The young and tender stalk

Ne'er bends when we do walk:
Yet in the morning may be seen
Where we the night before have been.

[SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 1593THE SOUL'S ERRAND. Go, soul, the body's guest,

Upon a thankless errand! Fear not to touch the best;

The truth shall be thy warrant. Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie.

Go, tell the Court-it glows

And shines like rotten wood;
Go, tell the Church-it shows
What's good, and doth no good.
If Church and Court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell Potentates-they live
Acting by others' action,
Not loved unless they give,

Not strong but by a faction.
If Potentates reply,
Give Potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition

That rule affairs of stateTheir purpose is ambition,

Their practice-only hate. And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,

They beg for more by spending Who, in their greatest cost,

Seek nothing but commending
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell Zeal-it lacks devotion;
Tell Love-it is but lust;
Tell Time-it is but motion;
Tell Flesh-it is but dust.
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

Tell Age-it daily wasteth;

Tell Honour-how it alters;
Tell Beauty-how she blasteth;
Tell Favour how it falters.
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell Wit-how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell Wisdom-she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness.
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

Tell Physic-of her boldness;
Tell Skill-it is pretension;
Tell Charity-of coldness;

Tell Law-it is contention.
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.

Tell Fortune-of her blindness;
Tell Nature-of decay;
Tell Friendship-of unkindness;
Tell Justice of delay.
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell Arts-they have no soundness.
But vary by esteeming;

Tell Schools-they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming.
If Arts and Schools reply,
Give Arts and Schools the lie.

Tell Faith-it's fled the City;
Tell-how the Country erreth;
Tell-Manhood shakes off pity;
Tell-Virtue least preferreth.
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

So when thou hast, as I

Commanded thee, done blabbing,
Although to give the lie

Deserves no less than stabbing,
Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the soul can kill.

DULCINA.

Having a thousand tongues to allure him
And but one to bid him go;
Where lips invite,

And eyes delight,

And cheeks, as fresh as rose in June, Persuade delay;

What boots she say,

Forego me now, come to me soon?

Accepts he night, or grants she noon; Left he her a maid,

Or not; she said,

Forego me now, come to me soon.

[G. WITHER. 1588-1667.]
SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP!

SLEEP, baby, sleep! what ails my dear,
What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear,
To hear me sing thy lullaby.
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?
What thing to thee can mischief do?
Thy God is now thy father dear,

His holy Spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Though thy conception was in sin,

A sacred bathing thou hast had; And though thy birth unclean hath been, A blameless babe thou now art made. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.

While thus thy lullaby I sing,

For thee great blessings ripening be; Thine Eldest Brother is a king,

And hath a kingdom bought for thee.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;
For whosoever thee offends
By thy protector threaten'd are,

And God and angels are thy friends.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

When God with us was dwelling here,
In little babes He took delight;
Such innocents as thou, my dear,

Are ever precious in his sight.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

A little infant once was He;

And strength in weakness then was laid

Upon His virgin mother's knee,

That power to thee might be convey'd. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

In this thy frailty and thy need

He friends and helpers doth prepare, Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed,

For of thy weal they tender are.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The King of kings, when he was born,
Had not so much for outward ease;
By Him such dressings were not worn,

Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Within a manger lodged thy Lord,

Where oxen lay, and asses fed:
Warm rooms we do to thee afford,
An easy cradle or a bed.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The wants that He did then sustain
Have purchased wealth, my babe, for
thee;

And by His torments and His pain

Thy rest and ease secured be.
My baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this,
A promise and an earnest got
Of gaining everlasting bliss,

Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not,
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR

SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?

Should my heart be griev'd or pin'd
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?

Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings, known,
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best,
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair:
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve:
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?

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I LOVED A LASS, A FAIR ONE.

I LOV'D a lass, a fair one,

As fair as e'er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba Queen.
But, fool as then I was,

I thought she lov'd me too:
But now, alas! she's left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Her hair like gold did glister,
Each eye was like a star,
She did surpass her sister,
Which pass'd all others far;
She would me honey call,
She'd, oh-she'd kiss me too:
But now, alas! she's left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Many a merry meeting

My love and I have had;

She was my only sweeting,
She made my heart full glad;
The tears stood in her eyes,
Like to the morning dew:
But now, alas! she's left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Her cheeks were like the cherry,
Her skin as white as snow;
When she was blythe and merry,
She angel-like did show;
Her waist exceeding small,

The fives did fit her shoe:
But now, alas! she's left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

In summer time or winter

She had her heart's desire; I still did scorn to stint her From sugar, sack, or fire; The world went round about, No cares we ever knew: But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo.

To maidens' vows and swearing Henceforth no credit give; You may give them the hearing,

But never them believe; They are as false as fair, Unconstant, frail, untrue: For mine, alas! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo.

[THOMAS HEYWOOD. 1607.] GOOD-MORROW.

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, larks, 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.
Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast;
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill

Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow;
You pretty elves, among yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.

YE LITTLE BIRDS THAT SIT

AND SING.

Faire Maide of the Exchange.

YE 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.

Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own,—
What are you when the rose is blown!
Ye curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passion understood
By your weak accents,-what's your
praise

When Philomel her voice shall raise?

So when my mistress shall be seen,
In sweetness of her looks and mind,

Tell me if she was not design'd Th' eclipse and glory of her kind.

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THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY

LIFE.

How happy is he born and taught

That serveth not another's will, Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepar'd for death, Untied unto the world by care

Of public fame or private breath.

Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Nor vice hath ever understood; How deepest wounds are given by praise, Nor rules of state, but rules of good.

Who hath his life from rumours freed,

Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great.

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend,
And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend.

This man is freed from servile hands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands, And having nothing, yet hath all.