Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all-triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
The region cloud hath masked him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth:
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sunstaineth.

THE expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Is lust in action; and till action, lust

Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;

Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.

All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

FANCY

TELL me where is Fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.

It is engendered in the eyes;
With gazing fed; and Fancy dies

In the cradle where it lies:
Let us all ring Fancy's knell;

I'll begin it,-Ding, dong, bell.
Ding, dong, bell.

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE

UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throatCome hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall he 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 getsCome hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

FAIRIES

COME unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands:

Courtsied when you have, and kissed,

The wild waves whist,

Foot it featly here and there;

And sweet Sprites the burthen bear.

Hark, hark!

Bow-bow.

The watch-dogs bark:

Bow-wow.

Hark, hark! I hear

The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!

COME AWAY

COME away, come away, Death, And in sad cypres let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it!

My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet
On my black coffin let there be strown;

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown; A thousand, thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O where

Sad true lover ne'er may find my grave
To weep there.

FULL FATHOM FIVE

FULL fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:

Hark! now I hear them,-
Ding, dong, bell.

DIRGE

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.

SONG

TAKE, O take those lips away
That so sweetly were forsworn,
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,

Bring again

Seals of love, but sealed in vain,
Sealed in vain!

Hide, O hide those hills of snow,

Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow Are of those that April wears. But first set my poor heart free Bound in those icy chains by thee.

SONG

How should I your true love know

From another one?

By his cockle hat and staff

And his sandal shoon.

He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;

And at his head a green grass turf
And at his heels a stone.

White his shroud as mountain snow, Larded with sweet showers, Which bewept to the grave did go, With true love showers.

ANONYMOUS

TOM O' BEDLAM

THE morn's my constant mistress,

And the lovely owl my marrow;

The flaming drake,

And the night-crow, make

Me music to my sorrow.