SONGS.

A MORNING SONG FOR IMOGEN.

[From Cymbeline.]

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

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.

SILVIA.

[From The Two Gentlemen of Verona.]

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.

SIGH NO MORE, LADIES.

[From Much Ado about Nothing.]

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

A LOVER'S LAMENT.

[From Twelfth Night.]

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, O, 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!

ARIEL'S SONG.

[From The Tempest.]

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.

A SEA DIRGE.

[From The Tempest.]

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 :

Ding-dong.

Hark! now I hear them,-Ding-dong, bell.

IN THE GREENWOOD.

[From As You Like It.]

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

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

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.

VOL. I.

WINTER.

[From Love's Labour's Lost.]

When icicles hang by the wall

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
And Tom bears logs into the hall

And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;

Tu-who, a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow
And coughing drowns the parson's saw
And birds sit brooding in the snow
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,

Hh

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit ;

Tu-who, a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

SONG OF AUTOLYCUS.

[From The Winter's Tale.]

When daffodils begin to peer,

With heigh! the doxy over the dale,
Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year;
For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,

With heigh the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;

For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

The lark, that tirra-lyra chants,

With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts,

While we lie tumbling in the hay.

But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?
The pale moon shines by night :
And when I wander here and there,
I then do most go right.

If tinkers may have leave to live,
And bear the sow-skin budget,
Then my account I well may give,
And in the stocks avouch it.

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
And merrily hent the stile-a :
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.