LOVE'S MISTRESS; OR, THE QUEEN'S MASQUE. THOU THE PRAISES OF PAN. THOU that art called the bright Hyperion, Wert thou more strong than Spanish Geryon That had three heads upon one man, Compare not with our great god Pan. They call thee son of bright Latona, What cares he for the great god Neptune, Then thou that art the heavens' bright eye, Or burn, or scorch, or broil, or fry, Be thou a god, or be thou man, They call thee Phoebus, god of day, Years, months, weeks, hours, of March and May; Bring up thy army in the van, We'll meet thee with our pudding Pan. Thyself in thy bright chariot settle, Thou hast thy beams thy brows to deck, FIRST PART OF KING EDWARD IV. AGINCOURT. AGINCOURT, Agincourt! know ye not Agincourt? Where the English slew and hurt With our guns and bills brown, THE SILVER AGE. HARVEST-HOME. ITH fair Ceres, Queen of Grain, WI The reaped fields we roam, roam, roam: Echo, double all our lays, Make the champaigns sound, sound, sound, To the Queen of Harvest's praise, That sows and reaps our ground, ground, ground. Ceres, Queen of Plenty, hallows Growing fields, as well as fallows. THE FAIR MAID OF THE EXCHANGE. YE GO, PRETTY BIRDS. E little birds that sit and sing And see how Phillis sweetly walks, Go, tell her, through your chirping bills, Which from the world is hidden. Go, tune your voices' harmony, Strain loud and sweet, that every note Oh, fly! make haste! see, see, she falls Sing round about her rosy bed, A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY. THE NATIONS. THE Spaniard loves his ancient slop; And some like breechless women go, The thrifty Frenchman wears small waist, And for each fashion coasteth. The Turk in linen wraps his head, The Russe with sables furs his cap, The Spaniard's constant to his block, The German loves his coney-wool, The Irishman his shag too, The Welch his Monmouth loves to wear, And of the same will brag too. Some love the rough, and some the smooth, He loves to deal in all things. The Russ drinks quasse; Dutch, Lubeck's beer, And that is strong and mighty; The Briton he Metheglen quaffs, The Irish aqua vitæ. The French affects the Orleans grape, The Spaniard sips his sherry, The English none of these can 'scape, The Italian in her high chioppine,* Nothing so full of hazard, dread, *Choppine, a clog or patten. + This song is introduced into the Rape of Lucrece. THE GOLDEN AGE. DIANA'S NYMPHS. AIL, beauteous Dian, queen of shades, HALL That dwell'st beneath these shadowy glades, Mistress of all those beauteous maids That are by her allowed. Virginity we all profess, Than we to her have vowed. The shepherds, satyrs, nymphs, and fawns, Come, to the forest let us go, The shepherds, satyrs, &c., &c. Our food is honey from the bees, The shepherds, satyrs, &c., &c. |