MILK W. What song was it, I pray? Was it Come Shepherds deck your heads? or, As at noon Dulcina rested? or, Philida flouts me? or, Chevy Chase? or, Johnny Armstrong? or, Troy Town? *

Pisc. No, it is none of those; it is a song that your daughter sung the first part, and you sung the answer to it.

MILK W. O, I know it now: I learned the first part in my golden age, when was about the age of my poor daughter; and the latter part, which indeed fits me best now, but two or three years ago, when the cares of the world began to take hold of me : but you shall, God willing, hear them both, and sung as well as we can, for we both love Anglers. Come Maudlin, sing the first part to the gentlemen, with a merry heart, and I'll sing the second.

THE MILKMAID'S SONG.

Come live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, or hills, or field,
Or woods and steepy mountains yield.
Where we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the Shepherds feed our flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

The songs As at Noon, Chevy Chase, Johnny Armstrong, and Troy Town, are printed in Percy's Reliques. Philida flouts me will be found in the Theatre of Compliments, 1689. Come Shepherds deck your heads, has been discovered in MS. in the collection of the late Mr. Heber.-See Compl. Angl. 1836.

Shakspere has introduced a few snatches of Marlow's song, in the Merry Wives of Windsor, where Sir Hugh Evans, to "cheer his melancholies," sings:

To shallow rivers by whose falls,
Melodious birds sings madrigals;

There will we make our peds of roses,

And a thousand fragrant posies.-Act. iii. 8. i.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And then a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat,
As precious as the Gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be

Prepar'd each day for thee and me.

The Shepherd-Swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight each May-morning :
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Love.

VEN. Trust me, Master, it is a choice song, and

sweetly sung by honest Maudlin.

I now see it was not without cause that our good Queen Elizabeth did so often wish herself a milk-maid all the month of May, because they are not troubled with fears and cares, but sing sweetly all the day, and sleep securely all the night and without doubt, honest, innocent, pretty Maudlin does so. I'll bestow Sir Thomas Overbury's Milk-maid's wish upon her, “That she may die in the spring, and being dead, may have good store of flowers stuck round about "her winding sheet."*

"The Wife, with new Characters and many Witty Conceits." By Sir Thomas Overbury, 1638. No. 51, "A faire and happy Milk-Maid;" (doubtlessly the original of Walton's "honest Maudlin,") "is a countrey wench, that is so farre from making

THE MILK-MAID'S MOTHER'S ANSWER.

If all the world and love where young,
And truth in every Shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy Love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,
Then Philomel becometh dumb,

And age complains of care to come.

her selfe beautifull by art, that one looke of her's is able to put all face physicke out of countenance. She knowes that a faire looke is but a dumbe orator to commend vertue, therefore minds it not. All her excellencies stand in her so silently, as if they had stolne upon her without her knowledge. The lining of her apparele (which is her selfe), is farre better than outsides of tissew; for though she be not arrayed in the spoile of the silk-worme, shee is deckt in innocency, a far better wearing. She doth not, with lying long a-bed, spoile both her complexion and conditions: nature hath taught her, too immoderate sleep is ruste to the soule: she rises therefore with chaunticleare, her dame's cock, and at night makes the lamb her corfew. In milking a cow, a straining the teats through her fingers, it seems that so sweet a milk-presse makes the milk the whiter or sweeter; for never came almond-glove or aromatique oyntment on her palme to taint it. The golden eares of corne fall and kisse her feet when shee reapes them, as if they wish to be bound and led prisoners by the same hand that felled them. Her breath is her own, which scents all the yeare long of June, like a new made haycock. She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with pitty; and when winter evenings fall early, (sitting at her mery wheele,) she sings a defiance to the giddy wheele of fortune. She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance will not suffer her to doe ill, being her mind is to doe well. Shee bestowes her yeares wages at next faire, and in chusing her garments, counts no bravery i' th' world like decency. The garden and bee-hive are all her physick and chyrurgery, and she lives the longer for't. She dares goe alone and unfold sheepe i' th' night, and fears no manner of ill, because she meanes none; yet, to say truth, she never is alone, for she is still accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not palled with ensuing idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreames are so chaste, that shee dare tell them; only a Fridaies dreame is all her superstition; that she conceales for feare of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is, she may die in the Spring time, to have store of flowers stucke upon her winding sheet."

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields,
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, tby kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy Love.
What should we talk of dainties then,
Of better meat than's fit for men?
These are but vain: that's only good
Which God hath blest, and sent for food.

But could youth last, and love still breed;
Had joys no date, nor age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy Love.

PISC. Well sung, good Woman; I thank you; I'll give you another dish of fish one of these days, and then beg another song of you. Come, Scholar, let Maudlin alone; do not you offer to spoil her voice. Look, yonder comes mine Hostess, to call us to supper. How, now; is my brother Peter come?

HOST. Yes, and a friend with him; they are both glad to hear that you are in these parts, and long to see you; and long to be at supper, for they be very hungry.

PISC. Well met, brother Peter; I heard you and a friend would lodge here to night, and that hath made me to bring my friend to lodge here too. My friend is one that would fain be a brother of the Angle; he hath been an Angler but this day, and I