First figure out the doubtful way At which awhile the youth should stay

Where she and Virtue did contend Which should have Hercules to friend.

Then as all actions of mankind
Are but a labyrinth or maze,
So let your dances be entwined,
Yet not perplex men unto gaze:
But measured, and so numerous too,
As men may read each act they do;
And, when they see your graces
meet,

Admire the wisdom of your feet:
For dancing is an exercise
Not only shows the mover's wit,
But maketh the beholder wise,
As he hath power to rise to it.

SONG II.

O more and more, this was so well
As praise wants half his voice to tell.
Again yourselves compose,
And now put all the aptness on
Of figure, that proportion
Or color can disclose:

That, if those silent arts were lost,
Design and Picture, they might boast
From you a newer ground
Instructed by the heightening sense
Of dignity and reverence
In their true motions found.

Begin, begin; for look, the pair
Do longing listen to what air
You form your second touch
That they may vent their murmuring
hymns

Just to the tune you move your limbs,
And wish their own were such.
Make haste, make haste, for this
The labyrinth of Beauty is.

SONG III.

wrong.

Go choose among them, with a mind
As gentle as the stroking wind
Runs o'er the gentler flowers,
And so let all your actions smile,
As if they meant not to beguile
The ladies, but the hours.

Grace, laughter, and discourse
may meet,

And yet the beauty not go less:
For what is noble should be sweet,
But not dissolved in wantonness.

Will you that I give the law
To all your sport, and sum it
It should be such should envy draw,
But overcome it.

SONG.

BEN JONSON.

SHAKE off your heavy trance,
And leap into a dance,
Such as no mortals use to tread,
Fit only for Apollo ·

To play to, for the moon to lead,
And all the stars to follow!

O blessed youth! for Jove doth pause,
Laying aside his graver laws

For this device:
And at the wedding such a pair
Each dance is taken for a prayer,

Each song a sacrifice.
You should stay longer if we durst;
Away! Alas! that he that first
Gave Time wild wings to fly away,
Has now no power to make him stay.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

MARY DONNELLY.

On! lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best!

If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest.

Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,

How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock. Red rowans warm in sunshine and

wetted in a shower,

Can ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up; Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup;

Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so

weighty and so fine;

It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before; No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sang a song, that took my heart away.

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet:

The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung; Your smile is always in my heart,

your name beside my tongue; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

Oh, you're the flower of womankind
in country or in town;
The higher I exalt you, the lower
I'm cast down.

If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

Oh might we live together in a lofty palace hall,

Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!

Oh might we live together in a cottage mean and small;

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!

Oh! lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress.

It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go! ALLINGHAM.

SONG.

SPRING all the graces of the age,
And all the Loves of time;
Bring all the pleasures of the stage,
And relishes of rhyme:

Add all the softnesses of Courts, The looks, the laughters, and the sports:

And mingle all their sweets and salts That none may say the triumph halts. BEN JONSON: Neptune's Triumph.

SONG TO CERES.

THOU that art our Queen again. And may in the sun be seen again, Come, Ceres, come,

For the War's gone home, And the fields are quiet and green again.

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.

Soon as the woods on shore look dim,

We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.

Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,

The rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl.

But, when the wind blows off the shore,

Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,

The rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Utawas' tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges

soon.

Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,

Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast.

The rapids are near and the daylight's past. MOORE.

A ROMAIC BALLAD.

THOU that hast a daughter
For one to woo and wed,
Give her to a husband

With snow upon his head; Oh, give her to an old man, Though little joy it be, Before the best young sailor That sails upon the sea!

How luckless is the sailor
When sick and like to die;
He sees no tender mother,

No sweetheart standing by. Only the captain speaks to him,Stand up, stand up, young man, And steer the ship to haven,

As none beside thee can.

Thou says't to me, "Stand, stand up;"

I say to thee, take hold.
Lift me a little from the deck,

My hands and feet are cold.
And let my head, I pray thee,

With handkerchiefs be bound: There, take my love's gold handkerchief,

And tie it tightly round.

Now bring the chart, the doleful chart;

See, where these mountains meet The clouds are thick around their head,

The mists around their feet:
Cast anchor here; 'tis deep and safe
Within the rocky cleft;

The little anchor on the right,
The great one on the left.

And now to thee, O captain,

Most earnestly I pray, That they may never bury me

In church or cloister gray;But on the windy sea-beach,

At the ending of the land, All on the surfy sea-beach, Deep down into the sand.

For there will come the sailors, Their voices I shall hear, And at casting of the anchor The yo-ho loud and clear;