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At morning and at evening both I had a dagger : what did I with that?
You merry were and glad, Killed an infant to have his fat :
So little care of sleepe and sloth A piper it got, at a church-ale:
These prettie ladies had. I bade him again blow wind i’ the taile. When Tom came home from labor, 7 Witch.
Or Ciss to milking rose,
Then merrily went their tabour,
Were footed in queen Maries dayes
On many a grassy playne.
But since of late Elizabeth blacke,
And later James came in,
They never danc'd on any heath,
As when the time had been. A purset, to keep sir Cranion in. 9 Witch.
By which wee note the fairies And I h' beene plucking (plants among)
Were of the old profession ; Hemlock, henbane, adders tongue,
Their songs were Ave Maries,
Their dances were procession.
But now, alas ! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas,
Or farther for religion fled,
A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure; Kill’d the blacke cat, and here is the braine.
And whoso kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punish'd sure:
Now they have left our quarters;
A Register they have,
A man both wise and grave.
To William for the same.
To William Churne of Staffordshire, $ 109. The Fairies Farewell.
Give laud and praises due, This humorous old song fell from the hand of the witty Dr. Corbet, afterwards bishop of Norwich,
Who every meale can mend your cheare &c. In his Poetica Stromata it is called " A pro
With tales both old and true; per new Ballad, intituled, The Fairies Farewell, To William all give audience, or God-a-mercy Will : to be sung or whistled to the tune of the Meadow Brow, by the learned; by For all the fairies evidence
And pray yee for his noddle; the unlearned, to the tune of Fortune." FAREWELL, rewards and Fairies !
Were lost, if it were addle. Good housewives now may say;
$ 110. Unfading Beauty. For now foule sluts in dairies
This little beautiful Sonnet is reprinted from a small Doe fare as well as they ;
volume of " Poems by Thomas Carew, Esq. one of And though they sweepe their hearths no less
the gentlemen of the privie-chamber, and sewer in Than mayds were wont to doe,
ordinary to his majesty Charles I. 'Lond. 1640."
This elegant, and almost forgotten writer, whose Yet who of late for cleanliness
poems have been deservedly revived, died in the Finds six-pence in her shoe ?
prime of his age, in 1639.
In the original follows a third stanza, which, nol Lament, lament, old abbies,
being of general application, nor of equal merit, I The fairies lost command !
have ventured to omit. They did but change priests babies,
Hee that loves a rosie cheeke,
Or corall lip admires,
Fuell to maintaine his fires;
As old time makes these decay, For love of your demaines.
So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and stedfaste mind,
Allow me to muse and to sigh, Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Nor talk of the change that ye find; Hearts with equal love combin’d,
None, once, was so watchful as I :Kindle never-dying fires ;
I have left my dear Phillis behind. Where these are not, I despise
Now I know what it is to have strove Lovely cheekes, or lips, or eyes.
With the torture of doubt and desire;
What it is to admire and to love, $ 111. The Hermit. BEATTIE.,
And to leave her we love and admire. At the close of the day, when the hamlet is Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each evening repel : still,
(prove, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness, Alas! I am faint and forlorn : When nought but the torrent is heard on the
I have bade my dear Phillis farewell. hill,
[grove-Since Phillis vouchsaf'd me a look, And nought but the nightingale's song in the I never once dream'd of my vine : 'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain re- May I lose both my pipe and my crook, clinid,
If I knew of a kid that was mine! A hermit his nightly complaint thus began : I priz'd every hour that went by, Though mournful his numbers, his soul was Beyond all that had pleas'd me before ; resign'd;
(man. But now they are pass'd, and I sigh, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a And I grieve that I priz’d them no more. “Ah! why, thus abandon’d to darkness and But why do I languish in vain ? woe,
(strain ?! Why, thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad, Why wander thus pensively here ?
O, why did I come from the plain, For spring shall return, and a lover bestow;
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear ? And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. They tell me, my favorite maid, Yet, if pity inspire thee, O cease not thy lay ! Mourn, sweetest companion! man calls thee Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
The pride of that valley, is flown ; to mourn:
I could wander with pleasure alone.
What anguish I felt at my heart ! “ Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,
Yet I thought, but it might not be so,
'Twas with pain when she saw me depart. he moon, half extinct, a dim crescent displays;
She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew; But lately I mark’d, when majestic on high
My path I could hardly discern; She shone, and the planets were lost in her So sweetly she bade me adieu, blaze.
I thought that she bade me return.
If he bear but a relic away,
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain ! | Thus, widely remov'd from the fair, “ 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, [for you;
Soft hope is the relic I bear, I mourn ; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not
And my solace wherever I go. For morn is approaching, your charms to re
2. HOPE. store, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glittring My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep; with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ;
My grottos are shaded with trees, Kind Nature the embryo-blossom shall save:
And my hills are white over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss, But when shall spring visit the mouldering
Such health do my fountains bestow; urn ? (, when shall it dawn on the night of the My fountains, all border'd with moss,
Where the hare-bell and violet grow :
Not a pine in my grove is there seen, 0 112. A pastoral Ballad. In Four Parts.
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; SHENSTONE.
Not a beech's more beautiful green, 1. ABSENCE.
But a sweet-brier twines it around. YE shepherds so cheerful and gay,
Not my fields in the prime of the year Whose flocks never carelessly roam ; More charms than my cattle unfold ; Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Not a brook that is limpid and clear, O call the poor wanderers home.
But it glitters with fishes of gold.
One would think she might like to retire When he sings, may the nymphs of the town To the bow'r I have labor’d to rear;
Come trooping, and listen the while ; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
Nay, on him let not Phillida frown ;But I hasted and planted it there.
But I cannot allow her to smile. O how sudden the jessamine strove
For when Paridel tries in the dance With the lilach to render it gay!
Any favor with Phillis to find, Already it calls for my love,
O how, with one trivial glance, To prune the wild branches away.
Might she ruin the peace of my mind! From the plains, from the woodlands, and In ringlets he dresses his hair, groves,
And his crook is bestudded around; What strains of wild melody flow! And his pipe-0 may Phillis beware How the nightingales warble their loves, Of a magic there is in the sound !
From thickets of roses that blow ! And when her bright form shall appear,
'Tis his with mock passion to glow; Each bird shall harmoniously join
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold,
“ How her face is as bright as the snow, In a concert so soft and so clear, As she may not be fond to resign.
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold;
How the nightingales labor the strain, I have found out a gift for my fair,
With the notes of his charmer to vie ;
Repine at her triumphs, and die."
And pillages every sweet ;
He throws it at Phillis's feet.
“O Phillis,” he whispers,“ more fair, I have heard her with sweetness unfold
More sweet, than the jessamine's flow'r ! How that pity was due to a dove,
What are pinks in a morn, to compare ?
What is eglantine after a shower ?
Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom; Let her speak, and whatever she say, Then the violets die with despite,
Methinks, I should love her the more. And the woodbines give up their perfume." Can a bosom so gentle remain
Thus glide the soft numbers along, Unmov’d, when her Corydon sighs ?
And he fancies no shepherd his peer; Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
Yet I never should
song, These plains and this valley despise ?
Were not Phillis to lend it an ear. Dear regions of silence and shade!
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound, Soft scenes of contentment and ease! So Phillis the trophy despise ; Where I could have pleasingly stray'd, Let his forehead with laurels be crownd', If aught in her absence could please.
So they shine not in Phillis's eyes. But where does my Phillida stray ?
The language that flows from the heart And where are her grots and her bowers ?
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue'; Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
Yet may she beware of his art! And the shepherds as gentle, as ours ?
Or sure I must envy the song. The groves may perhaps be as fair,
4. DISAPPOINTMENT. And the face of the valleys as fine ; The swains may in manners compare,
Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay, But their love is not equal to mine.
And take no more heed of my sheep :
They have nothing to do but to stray, 3. SOLICITUDE.
I have nothing to do but to weep. Why will you my passion reprove,
Yet do not my folly reprove: Why term it a folly to grieve,
She was fair, and my passion begun; Ere I show you the charms of my love ? She smil'd, and I could not but love; She is fairer than you can believe.
She is faithless, and I am undone.
Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
That a nymph so complete would be sought She is every way pleasing to me.
By a swain more engaging than me. () you that have been of her train,
Ah! love ev'ry hope can inspire :
It banishes wisdom the while;
That will sing but a song in her praise Seems for ever adorn’d with a smile!
She is faithless, and I am undone ;
Sweet music went with us both all the wood Ye that witness the woes I endure,
through, Let reason instruct you to shun
The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; What it cannot instruct you to cure. Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, Beware how you loiter in vain
And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. Amid nymphs of a higher degree :
But now she is absent, though still they sing on, It is not for me to explain
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone! llow fair and how fickle they be.
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Alas! from the day that we met,
Gives every thing else its agreeable sound. What hope of an end to my woes, Will no pitying power that hears me complain, When I cannot endure to forget
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain ? The glance that undid my repose ? To be cur'd, thou must, Colin, thy passion reYet time may diminish the pain :
move, The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree, But what swain is so silly to live without love? Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return; In time may have comfort for me.
For ne'er was poor shepherd só sadly forlorn. The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair : The sound of a murmuring stream,
Take heed, all yé swains, how ye love one so fair, The peace which from solitude flows, Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme.
Ø 114. A pastoral Ballad. Rowe. High transports are shown to the sight, DESPAIRING beside a clear strcam,
But we are not to find them our own. A shepherd forsaken was laid; Fate never bestow'd such delight,
And, while a false nymph was his theme, As I with my Phillis had known.
A willow supported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,
To his sighs with a sigh did reply;
And the brook, in return to his pain, I would vanish from every eye.
Ran mournfully murmuring by. Yet my reed shall resound through the grove “ Alas! silly swain that I was !"
With the same sad complaint it begun; (Thus, sadly complaining, he cried ;) How she smild, and I could not but love; “ When first I beheld that fair face, Was faithless, and I am undone!
'Twere better by far I had died.
She talk'd, and I bless'd her dear tongue; Ø 113. Phæbe. A Pastoral. Byrom.
When she smild, it was pleasure too great ;
I listen'd, and cried, when she sung;
Was nightingale ever so sweet!
Or go clad, like our maidens, in gray,
Or live in a cottage on love! And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phæbe was there," What though I have skill to complain, It was pleasant to look at,'twas music to hear! Though the muses my temples have crown'd; But now she is absent, I walk by its side, What though, when they hear my soft strain, And, still as it murmurs, do nothing but chide : The virgins sit weeping around; Must you be so cheerful, whilst I go in pain ?
Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain, Peace, there, with your bubbling, and hear me Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; complain.
Thy fair one inclines to a swain
Whose music is sweeter than thine.
“ All you, my companions so dear, And Phæbe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said,
Who sorrow to see me betray’d, “Come hither, poor fellow!" and patted his Whatever I suffer, forbear, head :
Forbear to accuse the false maid. But now, when he's fawning, I, with a sour
Though through the wide world I should range, Cry, “Sirrah !" and give him a blow with my 'Twas hers to be false, and to change ;
'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly; crook : And I'll give him another; for why should not
'Tis mine to be constant, and die. Tray
“ If, while my hard fate I sustain, Be dull as his master, when Phæbe's away? In her breast any pity is found ;
Let her come, with the nymphs of the plain, Now, whilst he gaz'd, a gallant, dress'd
In faunting robes above the rest,
With awful accent cried :
Has here presum'd to hide ?"
At this the swain, whose vent'rous soul
No fears of magic art control, Be finest at ev'ry fine show,
Advanc'd in open sight; And frolic it all the long day:
“ Nor have I cause of dread," he said, While Colin, forgotten and gone,
“ Who view, by no presumption led, No more shall be talk'd of or seen,
Your revels of the night.
Amid the nightly dew."
“ 'Tis well,” the gallant cries again, When midnight fairies daunc'd the maze,
“ We fairies never injure men Liv'd Edwin of the Green;
Who dare to tell us true.
Be mine the task, or ere we part,
To make thee grief resign ; To measure height against his head,
Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce; And lift itself above;
Whilst I with Mab, my partner, daunce, Yet, spite of all that Nature did
Pe little Mable thine." To make his uncouth form forbid,
He spoke, and, all a sudden, there This creature dar'd to love.
Light music floats in wanton air; He felt the charms of Edith's eyes,
The Monarch leads the Queen :Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,
The rest their fairie partners found : Could ladies look within ;
And Mable trimly tript the ground
With Edwin of the Green.
The dauncing past, the board was laid,
And siker such a feast was made With slighted passion paced along
As heart and lip desire: All in the moony light;
Withouten hands the dishes fly, 'Twas near an old enchanted court,
The glasses with a wish come nigh, Where sportive fairies made resort,
And with a wish retire. To revel out the night.
But now, to please the fairie king, His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd, Full every deal they laugh and sing, 'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost
And antic feats devise;
In Edwin's wond'ring eyes.
Till one, at last, that Robin hight, But scant he lays him on the floor,
Renown'd for pinching maids at night, When hollow winds remove the door,
Has bent him up aloof; A trembling rocks the ground :
And full against the beam he flung, And, well I ween to count aright,
Where by the back the youth he hung,
To sprawl unneath the roof.
From thence, “Reverse my charm," he cries Now sounding feet approachen near,
“ And let it fairly now suffice, And now the sounds increase:
The gambol has been shown." And, from the corner where he lay,
But Oberon answers, with a smile, He sees a train, profusely gay,
“ Content thee, Edwin, for a while, Come prankling o'er the place.
The vantage is thine own."-But (trust me gentles) never yet,
Here ended all the phantom-play
They smelt the fresh approach of day,
And heard a cock to crow;
To warn them all to go.