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The dogs have the stag in chase:
'Tis a sport to content a king.

So hol hol through the skies

How the proud bird flies,
And sousing, kills with a grace!
Now the deer falls; hark! how they ring.

Thomas Dekker


QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep;
Seated in thy silver chair
State in wonted manner keep:

Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close;

Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal shining quiver
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever,

Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.

Ben Jonson

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THE owl is abroad, the bat, and the toad,

And so is the cat-a-mountain;
The ant and the mole sit both in a hole,

And the frog peeps out o' the fountain.
The dogs they do bay, and the timbrels play,

The spindle is now a-turning;
The moon it is red, and the Stars are fled,

But all the sky is a-burning :
The ditch is made, and our nails the spade,
With pictures full, of wax and of wool;
Their livers I stick with needles quick;
There lacks but the blood to make up the flood.
Quickly, dame, then, bring your part in!
Spur, spur, upon little Martin,
Merrily, merrily, make him sail,
A worm in his mouth and a thorn in his tail,
Fire. above, and fire below,
With a whip in your hand, to make him go!

Ben Jonson



CUPID and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple on his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win:
And last he set her both his eyes
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

John Lyly



PACK, clouds, away, and welcome day,

With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft

To give my Love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind

Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
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.

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Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,

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.

Thomas Heywood


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