THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD., And we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks And I will make thee beds of roses, A gown made of the finest wool, A belt of straw and ivy buds, The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD. [ASCRIBED TO SIR WALTER RALEIGH.] IF all the world and love were young, THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD. But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold; And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complain of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, But could youth last, and love still breed, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 1564-1616. CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH. CRABBED age and youth Cannot live together; Youth is full of pleasance, Age is full of care; Youth like summer morn, Age like winter weather; Youth like summer brave, Age like winter bare. Youth is full of sport, Age's breath is short, Youth is nimble, age is lame: Youth is hot and bold, Age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, and age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee, Youth, I do adore thee; O, my love, my love is young! Age, I do defy thee; O sweet shepherd, hie thee, For methinks thou stay'st too long! SONG OF THE FAIRY. OVER hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, SONG. I do wander everywhere, In those freckles live their savours: SONG. ON a day, (alack the day!) Love, whose month was ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen, 'gan passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wished himself the heaven's breath. "Air," quoth he, "thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alas! my hand hath 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 Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were; WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. STANZAS. BEAUTY is but a vain and doubtful good, A flower that dies, when first it 'gins to bud; A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, And as goods lost are seld or never found, So beauty, blemished once, for ever's lost, SONNET. WHEN I do count the clock that tells the time, And sable curls all silvered o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, And nothing 'gainst time's scythe can make defence, |