These grey ades tat

When Tom came home from out,

Or Cismiling rost

Then merly we their sùm,

And nimbly went their toes.

Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary's days
On many a grassy plain;
But since of late, Elizabeth,
And later, James came in,
They never danced on any heath
As when the time hath been.

By which we note the Fairies
Were of the old Profession.
Their songs were 'Ave Mary's',
Their dances were Procession.
But now, alas, they all are dead;
Or gone beyond the seas;
Or farther for Religion fled;
Or else they take their ease.

A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure!
And whoso kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punished, sure;
It was a just and Christian deed
To pinch such black and blue.
Oh how the commonwealth doth want
Such Justices as you!

180

THOMAS HEYWOOD

[D. 1650 (?)]

PACK, CLOUDS, AWAY

PACK, clouds, away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft, mount, larks, 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 both I'll borrow

Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-brest,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill, 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!

181

THOMAS DEKKER
[1570 (?)-1614]

COUNTRY GLEE

HAYMAKERS, rakers, reapers, and mowers,
Wait on your Summer-Queen;

Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers,
Daffodils strew the green;

Sing, dance, and play,

'Tis holiday;

The sun does bravely shine

On our ears of corn.

Rich as a pearl

Comes every girl,

This is mine, this is mine, this is mine;

Let us die, ere away they be borne.

Bow to the Sun, to our queen, and that fair one

Come to behold our sports:

Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one

As those in princes' courts.

182

183

These and we

With country glee,

Will teach the woods to resound,
And the hills with echoes hollow:
Skipping lambs

Their bleating dams,

'Mongst kids shall trip it round; For joy thus our wenches we follow.

Wind, jolly huntsmen, your neat bugles shrilly,
Hounds make a lusty cry;

Spring up, you falconers, the partridges freely,
Then let your brave hawks fly.
Horses amain,

Over ridge, over plain,

The dogs have the stag in chase:
'Tis a sport to content a king.
So ho, ho! through the skies
How the proud bird flies,

And sousing kills with a grace!
Now the deer falls; hark, how they ring!

COLD'S THE WIND

COLD'S the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh be our good speed!

Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.

Troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl,
And here's, kind mate, to thee!

Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,
And down it merrily.

O SWEET CONTENT

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexèd?
O punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexèd
'To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;

Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?
O sweet content!

Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
O punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden bears
No burden bears, but in a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;

Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

184

FRANCIS BEAUMONT

[1584-1616]

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

MORTALITY, behold and fear

What a change of flesh is here!

Think how many royal bones

Sleep within these heaps of stones;

Here they lie, had realms and lands,

Who now want strength to stir their hands,
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
Here's an acre sown indeed

With the richest royallest seed
That the earth did e'er suck in

Since the first man died for sin:

Here the bones of birth have cried

'Though gods they were, as men they died!'