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The Song.

Do not fear to put thy feet
Naked in the river sweet;

Think not leech or newt or toad

Will bite thy foot, when thou hast trod;
Nor let the water rising high,

As thou wad'st in, make thee cry

And sob; but ever live with me,
And not a wave shall trouble thee!

III.

THE SATYR.

Thou divinest, fairest, brightest,
Thou most powerful maid and whitest,
Thou most virtuous and most blessed,
Eyes of stars, and golden tressed
Like Apollo! tell me, sweetest,
What new service now is meetest
For the Satyr? Shall I stray
In the middle air, and stay
The sailing rack, or nimbly take
Hold by the moon, and gently make
Suit to the pale queen of night

For a beam to give thee light?
Shall I dive into the sea
And bring thee coral, making way
Through the rising waves that fall
Like snowy fleeces? Dearest, shall
I catch thee wanton fawns, or flies
Whose woven wings the summer dyes
Of many colours? get thee fruit,

Or steal from heaven old Orpheus' lute ?
All these I'll venture for, and more,
To do her service all these woods adore.

FROM THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.'

[By Shakespeare and Fletcher.]

Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden-pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;

Primrose, first-born child of Ver,
Merry spring-time's harbinger,
With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks'-heels trim.

All, dear Nature's children sweet,
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,
Blessing their sense!

Not an angel of the air,

Bird melodious or bird fair,
Be absent hence!

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor The boding raven, nor chough hoar, Nor chattering pie,

May on our bride-house perch or sing, Or with them any discord bring,

But from it fly!

FROM 'VALENTINIAN,'
[By Fletcher.]

I.

Hear, ye ladies that despise,

What the mighty Love has done; Fear examples and be wise :

Fair Calisto was a nun; Leda, sailing on the stream

To deceive the hopes of man, Love accounting but a dream,

Doated on a silver swan; Danaë, in a brazen tower, Where no love was, loved a shower.

Hear, ye ladies that are coy,

What the mighty Love can do ; Fear the fierceness of the boy :

The chaste moon he made to woo; Vesta, kindling holy fires,

Circled round about with spies,
Never dreaming loose desires,

Doting at the altar dies;
Ilion, in a short hour, higher
He can build, and once more fire.

II.

SONG TO BACCHUS.

God Lyæus, ever young,

Ever renown'd, ever sung;
Stain'd with blood of lusty grapes,
In a thousand lusty shapes,
Dance upon the mazer's brim,
In the crimson liquor swim;
From thy plenteous hand divine
Let a river run with wine;
God of youth, let this day here
Enter neither care nor fear.

III.

INVOCATION TO SLEEP.

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud
Or painful to his slumbers ;-easy, sweet,

ļ And as a purling stream, thou son of night,
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!

FROM THE QUEEN OF CORINTH.'
[By Fletcher.]

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan;
Sorrow calls no time that 's gone;
Violets plucked the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again;
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;
Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see;
Joys as winged dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo.

FROM 'THE NICE VALOUR.'
[By Fletcher.]

Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy;
O sweetest melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan,
These are the sounds we feed upon;

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley:
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

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