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So jest I oft, and feel no joye;
And yet mistrust breeds mine annoye.
In heavy sleep with cares opprest,
She sends sweet notes from out her breast: So sing I now,
because I think How joys approach when sorrows shrink. And as fair Philomene again
Can watch and sing when others sleep,
To wray the woe that makes her weep:
To live in joys when I am gone.
THE DOLE OF DESPAIR, Written by a Lover disdainfully rejected, contrary to
former Promises. I Must alledge, and thou canst tell
How faithfully I vow'd to serve: And how thou seem'dst to like me well;
And how thou saidst I did deserve To be thy Lord, thy Knight, thy King, And how much more I list not sing,
And canst thou now, thou cruel one,
Condemn desert to deep despair?
Is faith so fled into the air?
And written wide on every wall;
Upon Angelica withall;
I hope at last to see thee paid
Which thou hast now so lewdly play'd ; Medoro, he must be thy make, Since thou Orlando dost forsake.
SONG. 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.
As benefits forgot:
Love, whose month is, ever May,
SONG OF FAIRIES.
Now the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon, Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task foredone. Now the wasted brands do glow;
Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his spright,
In the churchway paths to glide; And we Fairies, that do run
By the triple Hecat's team,
Following darkness like a dream,
WINTER, A SONG. 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;
A merry note,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw ;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
A merry note,
A SONG ON FANCY. TELL me, where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head;
Let us all ring Fancy's knell:
In a cowslip's bell I lie,
DIRGE. FEAR no more the heat o' th’ sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages ;
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages,