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Now the wasted brands do glow;
Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud,

Puts the wretch, that lies in woe,
In remembrance of a shroud.

Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide,

COME away, come away, death,
Every one lets forth his spite,

And in sad cypress let me be laid; In the churchway paths to glide;

Fly away, fly away, breath, And we Fairies, that do run

I am slain by a fair cruel maid. By the triple Hecat's team,

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, From the presence of the Sun,

O prepare it ; Following darkness like a dream,

My part of death no one so true Now are frolic; not a monse

Did share it. Shall disturb this hallow'd house:

Not a flower, not a flower sweet I ain sent with broom before

On my black coffin let there be strown; To sweep the dust behind the door.

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 de'er find my grave,

To weep there!

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It is engender'd in the eyes ;
With gazing fed ; and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring Fancy's knell:
I'll begin it.-Ding, dong, bell.
Ding, dong, bell.

Fear no more the heat o' th' Sun,

Nor the furious Winter's rages;
Thou tby worldly task hast doue,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o'th' great,

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat,

To thee the reed is as the oak.
The sceptre, learning, physic, mast
All follow this, and come to dust.



Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie; . .
There I couch when owls do cry;
On the bat's back I do fly,

After summer, merrily;
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,

Nor th' all-dreaded thunder stone;
Pear not slander, censure rash,
I Thou hast finished joy and moan.
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust:

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor do witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
From it consummation have,
And renowned be thy grave!

And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall he see

No enemy
But winter and rough weather.


Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i' the sun ;
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy | But winter and rough weather

UNDER the green-wood tree Who loves to lie with me,

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