PUCK'S SONG. Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon ; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the graves all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite In the church-way paths to glide: And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate's team, From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic: not a mouse Shall disturb this hallow'd house: I am sent with broom before, To sweep the dust behind the door. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Midsummer Night's Dream SONG. HARK, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Cymbeline. SONG. BLOW, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember'd not. Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. As You Like It. SONG. FEAR no more the heat o' the sun, Fear no more the frown o' the great; To thee, the reed is as the oak : Fear no more the lightning-flash, Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: No exorciser harm thee! WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Cymbeline 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, At his heels a stone. White his shroud as the mountain snow Larded with sweet flowers; Which bewept to the grave did go With true-love showers. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. THE NOBLE NATURE. Hamlet. It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that nigntIt was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be. BEN JONSON.1 1 BEN JONSON was born in Westminster in 1573. His family VIRTUE. SWEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, For thou must die. Sweet Rose, whose hue angry and brave Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. was of humble condition and he appears to have been taught the trade of a bricklayer. He received his education at Westminster School, and then went to Cambridge. He did not remain at the university, however, more than a month, but turned soldier in his sixteenth year and served in the wars in the Low Countries, where he gained distinction by his bravery. When he was nineteen he returned to England, married, and became an actor, and then a playwright. He was a friend of Shakespeare, and next to him, though at long distance, the most famous of the brilliant school of Elizabethan dramatists. In 1616 he was made poetlaureate of England, and died in 1637. He wrote many plays, of which the best and most famous are his early comedies. He was a witty, agreeable man, hot-tempered and quarrelsome, and always in conflict with his literary brethren. He was also a free liver, jovial and extravagant, and given to a profuse hospitality, so that despite his position as poet-laureate, and the success of nis plays he was always in money difficulties, and died in extreme poverty. Besides his plays, he wrote many short poems of great beauty of thought, language, and expression, of which the one given in this collection is an admirable example. |