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XXXV.

AMIENS' SONG. I.

UNDER

NDER 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.

XXXVI.

AMIENS' SONG. II.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude ;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho ! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly :
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.

Then, heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh

benefits forgot :
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remembered not.
Heigh ho ! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.

Then, heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

XXXVII.

FESTE, THE JESTER'S SONG.

I.

O

MISTRESS mine! where are you roaming ?

O! stay and hear ; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low. Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; Journeys end in lovers meeting,

Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter ;
Present mirth hath present laughter ;

What's to come is still unsure :
In delay there lies no plenty ;
Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty,

Youth's a stuff will not endure.

XXXVIII.

FESTE, THE JESTER'S SONG. II.

COME

OME 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 friend greet

My poor corse, 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.

XXXIX.

SONG.

And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves, when he did sing :
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung ; as sun and showers

There had made a lasting spring.

Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads, and then lay by.

In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart

Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

XL.

SERENADE.

HARK, hark the lark at heaven’s gate sings,

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.

XLI.

A DIRGE.

FEAR

'EAR no more the heat o' the sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages :
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

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