UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE

1623.

From As You Like It

UNDER the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat

Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall we see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun

And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats

And pleased with what he gets-
Come hither, come hither, come hither!

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

8

16

William Shakespeare.

WHEN ICICLES HANG BY THE

WALL

From L. L. L.

WHEN icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!

To-who!-a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!

To-who!-a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

1598.

William Shakespeare.

18

THE SIRENS' SONG

STEER, hither steer your wingèd pines,
All beaten mariners!

Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,
A prey to passengers-

Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest.
Fear not your ships,

Nor any to oppose you save our lips;

But come on shore,

Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. 10

For swelling waves our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,
Exchange, and be awhile our guests:
For stars gaze on our eyes.

The compass Love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.

-Then come on shore,

Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. 20

1614. 1772.

William Browne, of Tavistock.

INVOCATION

PHEBUS, arise!

And paint the sable skies

With azure, white, and red;

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed,
That she thy career may with roses spread;
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing;
Make an eternal spring!

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And emperor-like decore

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:

Chase hence the ugly night,

10

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

This is that happy morn,

That day, long wished day

Of all my life so dark

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And fates not hope betray),

Which only white deserves

A diamond for ever should it mark:

This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
Fair King, who all preserves,

20

Echo

But show thy blushing beams,

And thou two sweeter eyes

Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams
Did once thy heart surprise:

Nay, suns, which shine as clear

As thou when two thou did to Rome appear.
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:

If that ye, winds, would hear

A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Your stormy chiding stay;

Let zephyr only breathe

And with her tresses play,

Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.

The winds all silent are;

And Phoebus in his chair

Ensaffroning sea and air
Makes vanish every star:
Night like a drunkard reels

30

40

Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels:
The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue:
Here is the pleasant place-

And everything, save Her, who all should grace.

Within thy airy shell

By slow Meander's margent green,