Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my Love good-morrow;

To give my Love good-morrow
Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-brest,
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, amongst yourselves
Sing my fair Love good-morrow;

To give my Love good-morrow
Sing, birds, in every furrow!

181

THOMAS DEKKER

[1570 (?)-1614]

COUNTRY GLEE

HAYMAKERS, rakers, reapers, and mowers,
Wait on your Summer-Queen;

Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers,
Daffodils strew the green;

Sing, dance, and play,

'Tis holiday;

The sun does bravely shine

On our ears of corn.

Rich as a pearl

Comes every girl,

This is mine, this is mine, this is mine;

Let us die, ere away they be borne.

Bow to the Sun, to our queen, and that fair one

Come to behold our sports:

Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one

As those in princes' courts.

182

These and we

With country glee,

Will teach the woods to resound,
And the hills with echoes hollow:
Skipping lambs

Their bleating dams,

'Mongst kids shall trip it round; For joy thus our wenches we follow.

Wind, jolly huntsmen, your neat bugles shrilly,
Hounds make a lusty cry;

Spring up, you falconers, the partridges freely,
Then let your brave hawks fly.
Horses amain,

Over ridge, over plain,

The dogs have the stag in chase:
'Tis a sport to content a king.
So ho, ho! through the skies
How the proud bird flies,

And sousing kills with a grace!
Now the deer falls; hark, how they ring!

COLD'S THE WIND

COLD'S the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh be our good speed!

Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.

Troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl,
And here's, kind mate, to thee!

Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,
And down it merrily.

183

O SWEET CONTENT

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexèd?
O punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexèd
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;

Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?
O sweet content!

Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
O punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden bears
No burden bears, but in a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;

Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

184

6

FRANCIS BEAUMONT

[1584-1616]

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

MORTALITY, behold and fear

What a change of flesh is here!

Think how many royal bones

Sleep within these heaps of stones; .
Here they lie, had realms and lands,

Who now want strength to stir their hands,
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
Here's an acre sown indeed

With the richest royallest seed

That the earth did e'er suck in

Since the first man died for sin:

Here the bones of birth have cried

Though gods they were, as men they died!'

Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings:
Here's a world of pomp and state
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

185

MASTER FRANCIS BEAUMONT'S LETTER TO
BEN JONSON

Written before he and Master Fletcher came to London,

THE sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring
To absent friends, because the self-same thing
They know they see, however absent) is
Here our best haymaker (forgive me this;
It is our country's style): in this warm shine
I lie, and dream of your full Mermaid Wine.
O, we have Winter mixed with claret lees,
Drink apt to bring in drier heresies

Than beer, good only for the sonnet's strain,
With fustian metaphors to stuff the brain;
So mixed, that, given to the thirstiest one,
'Twill not prove alms, unless he have the stone:
I think with one draught man's invention fades,
Two cups had quite spoiled Homer's Iliads!
'Tis liquor that will find out Sutcliff's wit,

Lie where he will, and make him write worse yet.
Filled with such moisture, in most grievous qualms,
Did Robert Wisdom write his singing Psalms;
And so must I do this: and yet I think

It is our potion sent us down to drink,

By special Providence, keeps us from fights,

Makes us not laugh, when we make legs to Knights: 'Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our states;

A medicine to obey our Magistrates;

For we do live more free than you; no hate,
No envy at one another's happy state,
Moves us; we are equal every whit;

Of land that God gives men, here is their wit,

If we consider fully; for our best

And gravest man will with his main-house-jest
Scarce please you: we want subtlety to do
The city-tricks; lie, Hate, and flatter too:
Here are none that can bear a painted show,
Strike, when you wince, and then lament the blow;
Who (like mills set the right way for to grind)
Can make their gains alike with every wind:
Only some fellows with the subtlest pate
Amongst us, may perchance equivocate
At selling of a horse; and that's the most.
Methinks the little wit I had is lost

Since I saw you; for wit is like a rest
Held up at tennis, which men do the best

With the best gamesters. What things have we seen
Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been
So nimble, and so full of subtle flame,

As if that every one (from whence they came)
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,

And had resolved to live a fool the rest

Of his dull life;-then when there hath been thrown
Wit able enough to justify the town

For three days past; wit that might warrant be
For the whole city to talk foolishly

Till that were cancelled; and, when we were gone,
We left an air behind us; which alone

Was able to make the two next companies

(Right witty; though but downright fools) more wise!

When I remember this, and see that now The country gentlemen begin to allow

My wit for dry bobs, then I needs must cry,

'I see my days of ballating grow nigh!'

I can already riddle, and can sing

Catches, sell bargains: and I fear shall bring
Myself to speak the hardest words I find

Over as oft as any, with one wind,

That takes no medicines. But one thought of thee Makes me remember all these things to be

The wit of our young men, fellows that show