"COME AWAY, COME AWAY, 1623. DEATH" From Twelfth Night COME away, come away, death, I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown; My poor corpse, where my bones shall A thousand thousand sighs to save, Sad true lover never find my grave, William Shakespeare. 8 16 HARK, HARK! THE LARK From Cymbeline HARK, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes; With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise; COME live with me and be my Love, And we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks And I will make thee beds of roses A gown made of the finest wool A belt of straw and ivy-buds With coral clasps and amber studs: The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 1599-1600. 8 12 16 20 24 Christopher Marlowe. II HER REPLY IF all the world and love were young, My Lady's Tears But Time drives flocks from field to fold, The rest complains of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, But could youth last, and love still breed, 1599-1600. Sir Walter Raleigh. MY LADY'S TEARS From John Dowland's Second Book of Songs or Airs I SAW my Lady weep, And Sorrow proud to be advanced so In those fair eyes where all perfections keep. 99 8 12 16 20 24 756523 A But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts. Sorrow was there made fair, And Passion wise; Tears a delightful thing; 6 And all things with so sweet a sadness move O fairer than aught else The world can show, leave off in time to grieve! Enough, enough: your joyful look excels: Tears kill the heart, believe. O strive not to be excellent in woe, Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow! 18 1600. Anonymous. WEEP YOU NO MORE, SAD FOUNTAINS From John Dowland's Third and Last Book of WEEP you no more, sad fountains; Sleeping. 9 |