XXXV. AMIENS' SONG. I. NDER the greenwood tree UNDER 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. LOW, blow, thou winter wind, BLOW, 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 As 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. MISTRESS mine! where are you roaming? O stay and hear; your true love's coming, What is love? 'tis not hereafter; XXXVIII. FESTE, THE JESTER'S SONG. OME away, come away, death, COME And in sad cypress let me be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. II. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, My part of death, no one so true Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown; Not a friend, not a 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, XXXIX. Ο SONG. RPHEUS with his lute made trees, There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Fall asleep, or hearing, die. XL. SERENADE. 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; XLI. A DIRGE. EAR no more the heat o' the sun, FEA Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. |