King Pandion he is dead,

All thy friends are lapped in lead. All thy fellow birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing.

Even so poor bird like thee,

None alive will pity me.

THOMAS HEYWOOD,

LX.

1575?-1650?

A MESSAGE TO PHILLIS.

E little birds that sit and sing

YE

Amidst the shady valleys,
And see how Phillis sweetly walks
Within her garden alleys;

Go pretty birds about her bower,

Sing pretty birds, she may not lower,

Ah me

methinks I see her frown,

Ye pretty wantons warble.

Go tell her through your chirping bills,
As you by me are bidden,

To her is only known my love,

Which from the world is hidden:

Go pretty birds and tell her so,

See that your notes strain not too low,

For still methinks I see her frown,

Ye pretty wantons warble.

Go tune your voices harmony,

And sing I am her lover;

Strain loud and sweet, that every note,

With sweet content may move her: And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice, Yet still methinks I see her frown, Ye pretty wantons warble.

O fly, make haste, see, see, she falls
Into a pretty slumber,

Sing round about her rosy bed,

That waking she may wonder;

Say to her, 'tis her lover true,

That sendeth love to you, to you;

And when you have heard her kind reply,

Return with pleasant warblings.

LXI.

VALERIUS' SONG.

ACK clouds away, and welcome day,

PACK

With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft,

To give my love good-morrow.

Wings from the wind to please her mind,

Notes from the lark I'll borrow;

Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing;

To give my love good-morrow.

To give my love good-morrow,

Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin-red-breast,
Sing birds in every furrow;
And from each bill, let music shrill,
Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow;
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.
To give my love good-morrow,
Sing birds in every furrow.

LXII.

ORIANA'S SONG.

JOHN FLETCHER,

1576-1625.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT,

1586-1615.

OME sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving,

COM

Lock me in delight awhile;

Let some pleasing dreams beguile

All my fancies; that from thence,

I may feel an influence,

All my powers of care bereaving!

Though but a shadow, but a sliding,
Let me know some little joy!
We that suffer long annoy
Are contented with a thought,
Through an idle fancy wrought:
Oh! let my joys have some abiding.