THE FAIRY LIFE

From The Tempest

I

WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie;

There I couch, when owls do cry:

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!

II

Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands:

Courtsied when you have and kiss'd

The wild waves whist,

Foot it featly here and there;

And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.

Hark, hark!

Bow-wow.

The watch-dogs bark:

Bow-wow.

Hark, hark! I hear

The strain of strutting chanticleer

Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!

1623.

ΙΟ

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William Shakespeare.

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE

1623.

From As You Like It

UNDER 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 we 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.

8

16

William Shakespeare.

WHEN -ICICLES HANG BY THE

WALL

From L. L. L.

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,
When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!

To-who!-a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!

To-who!-a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

1598.

William Shakespeare.

18

THE SIRENS' SONG

STEER, hither steer your wingèd pines,
All beaten mariners!

Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,
A prey to passengers-

Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest.
Fear not your ships,

Nor any to oppose you save our lips;

But come on shore,

Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. 10

For swelling waves our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,
Exchange, and be awhile our guests:

For stars gaze on our eyes.

The compass Love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.

-Then come on shore,

Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

1614. 1772.

William Browne, of Tavistock.

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INVOCATION

PHŒBUS, arise!

And paint the sable skies

With azure, white, and red;

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed,
That she thy career may with roses spread;
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing;
Make an eternal spring!

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And emperor-like decore

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:

Chase hence the ugly night,

ΙΟ

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

This is that happy morn,

That day, long wished day

Of all my life so dark

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And fates not hope betray),

Which only white deserves

A diamond for ever should it mark:

This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
Fair King, who all preserves,

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