Echo, daughter of the air,

Babbling guest of rocks and hills, Knows the name of my fierce fair, And sounds the accents of my ills: Each thing pities my despair,

Whilst that she her lover kills.

Whilst that she, O cruel maid!

Doth me and my love despise,

My life's flourish is decay'd
That depended on her eyes:
But her will must be obey'd,

And well he ends for love who dies.

SONG.

[In "Hymen's Triumph."]

LOVE is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;

A plant that with most cutting grows ;
Most barren with best using :

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries,
Hey, ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,

A tempest everlasting;

And Jove hath made it of a kind

Not well, nor full, nor fasting :
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries,
Hey, ho!

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE,

Born 1564, died 1616.

SONNET.

[ In "England's Helicon," and "Love's Labour Lost."]

On a day, alack the day!

Love, whose month is ever May,

Spied a blossom, passing fair,

Playing in the wanton air.

Through the velvet leaves the wind

All unseen 'gan passage find,

That the lover, sick to death,

Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.

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‘Air," quoth he, "thy cheeks may blow;

Air, would I might triumph so!

But, alack! my hand is sworn

Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn;

Vow, alack ! for youth unmeet,

Youth so apt to pluck a sweet;

Do not call it sin in me,

That I am forsworn for thee:

Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear

Juno but an Æthiop were ;

And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love."

SONG.

[In "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 mo
Of dumps so dull and heavy;

The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy:

Then sigh not so,

But let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny; Converting all your sounds of woe

Into, hey! nonny, nonny.

SONG.

[In "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 ne'er find my grave,
To weep there!

SONG.

[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 heavens 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 helped, inhabits there.

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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.

SONG *.

TAKE, oh! take those lips away
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn :
But my kisses bring again,

Seals of love, but seal'd in vain!

Hide, oh! hide those hills of snow
Which thy frozen bosom bears;
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears:

But first set my poor heart free,

Bound in those icy chains by thee!

*This song has been ascribed to Fletcher, in whose tragedy of Rollo Duke of Normandy, printed in 1640, both stanzas are to be found. As the first, however, occurs in Shakspeare's play of Measure for Measure they are both claimed for him by Mr. Malone.-ELLIS.