How that a life was but a flower

In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.

And therefore take the present time,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, For love is crowned with the prime

In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.

As You Like It.

TO SILVIA

WHO is Silvia? What is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her,

That she might admired be.

Is she kind, as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness;
Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness:
And, being help'd, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling;
To her let us garlands bring.

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.

SONGS OF THE GREENWOOD

I

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 he see

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.

II

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember'd not.

Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

Then, heigh ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly.

As You Like It.

On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!

Cymbelin

LOVE FORSWORN

TAKE, O take those lips away
That so sweetly were forsworn,
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,

Bring again

Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,
Seal'd in vain!,

Measure for Measure.

SIGH NO MORE, LADIES!

SIGH no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea, and one on shore;
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into, Hey, nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no moe
Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,

Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into, Hey, nonny, nonny.

Much Ado About Nothing.

THE LOVER'S DESPAIR

COME away, come away, Death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid ;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
prepare it:

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;
Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where

Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.

Twelfth Night.

A SEA DIRGE.

FULL fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made;

Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :
Hark! now I hear them, -
Ding, dong, bell.

The Tempest.

OPHELIA'S SONGS

I

How should I your true love know

From another one?

By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon.

He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone;

At his head, a grass-green turf,

At his heels a stone.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded with sweet flowers;
Which bewept to the grave did go,
With true-love showers.

II

They bore him barefaced on the bier;
Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny;
And in his grave rain'd many a tear:
For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.

And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
No, no, he is dead,

Go to thy death-bed :

He never will come again.

His beard was as white as snow,

All flaxen was his poll;

He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan: God ha' mercy on his soul!

Hamlet.