Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, 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! 8 The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Spring! the sweet Spring! 1600. 13 Thomas Nash. TO THE NIGHTINGALE As it fell upon a day, In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring; Save the nightingale alone. ΤΟ To the Nightingale That, to hear her so complain, "Ah!" (thought I) "thou mourn'st in vain; None takes pity on thy pain; Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee; All thy friends are lapped in lead: Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled, Is no friend in misery. Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find. Every man will be thy friend Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend; 'Bountiful' they will him call; 20 30 40 They that fawned on him before, 1598. He that is thy friend indeed, He will help thee in thy need; 50 If thou sorrow, he will weep; Richard Barnfield. WHEN DAISIES PIED From L. L. L. WHEN daisies pied and violets blue, Do paint the meadows with delight, Cuckoo, cuckoo!-O word of fear, When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, 1598. Over Hill, Over Dale And maidens bleach their summer smocks, Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo, cuckoo!-O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear! 18 William Shakespeare. OVER HILL, OVER DALE From M. N. Dream OVER hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Thorough flood, thorough fire, 1600. William Shakespeare. 10 THE FAIRY LIFE From The Tempest I WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I: There I couch, when owls do cry: On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough! II Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Courtsied when you have and kiss'd The wild waves whist, Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear. Hark, hark! Bow-wow. The watch-dogs bark: Bow-wow. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer 1623. 10 20 William Shakespeare. |