37.

· All

Shear sheep that have them, cry we still,

But see that no man 'scape

To drink of the sherry,

That makes us so merry,
And plump as the lusty grape.

W. Browne

Ralph, the May-Lord

ONDON, to thee I do present
The merry month of May;

Let each true subject be content
To hear me what I say:
For from the top of conduit-head,
As plainly may appear,

I will both tell my name to you,
And wherefore I came here.
My name is Ralph, by due descent,
Though not ignoble I,

Yet far inferior to the flock

Of gracious grocery;

And by the common counsel of

My fellows in the Strand,

With gilded staff and crossèd scarf,

The May-lord here I stand.
Rejoice, oh, English hearts, rejoice!
Rejoice, oh, lovers dear!

Rejoice, oh, city, town, and country,
Rejoice eke every shire!

For now the fragrant flowers do spring
And sprout in seemly sort,

The little birds do sit and sing,

The lambs do make fine sport;
And now the birchen-tree doth bud,
That makes the schoolboy cry;
The morris rings, while hobby-horse
Doth foot it feateously;

The lords and ladies now abroad,
For their disport and play,
Do kiss sometimes upon the grass,
And sometimes in the hay.
Now butter with a leaf of sage
Is good to purge the blood;
Fly Venus and phlebotomy,

For they are neither good!
Now little fish on tender stone
Begin to cast their bellies,

And sluggish snails, that erst were mewed, out of their shellies;

Do creep

The rumbling rivers now do warm,

For little boys to paddle;

The sturdy steed now goes to grass,
And up they hang the saddle;
The heavy hart, the bellow ing buck,
The rascal, and the pricket,
Are now among the yeoman's pease,
And leave the fearful thicket;
And be like them, oh, you, I say,

Of this same noble town,
And lift aloft your velvet heads,
And slipping off your gown,

With bells on legs, and napkins clean
Unto your shoulders tied,

With scarfs and garters as you please,
And "Hey for our town!" cried,
March out and show your willing minds,
By twenty and by twenty,
To Hogsdon, or to Newington,
Where ale and cakes are plenty;
And let it ne'er be said for shame,
That we the youths of London
Lay thrumming of our caps at home,
And left our custom undone.
Up then, I say, both young and old,
Both man and maid a-maying,
With drums and guns that bounce aloud,
And merry tabour playing!

Which to prolong, God save our king,
And send his country peace,

And rout out treason from the land!

And so, my friends, I cease.

F. Beaumont

38.

An Ode

Now each creature joys the other,

Passing happy days and hours;

One bird reports unto another

In the fall of silver showers;

Whilst the Earth, our common mother,

Hath her bosom decked with flowers.

39.

Whilst the greatest torch of heaven
With bright rays warms Flora's lap,
Making nights and days both even,
Cheering plants with fresher sap;
My field of flowers quite bereaven,
Wants refresh of better hap.

Echo, daughter of the air,

Babbling guests of rocks and hills,
Knows the name of my fierce fair,
And sounds the accents of my ills.
Each thing pities my despair,

Whilst that she her lover kills.

Whilst that she O cruel maid!

Doth me and my true love despise,
My life's flourish is decayed,
That depended on her eyes:
But her will must be obeyed,

And well he ends, for love who dies.

Under the Greenwood Tree

Amiens sings:

INDER the greenwood tree,

UNDER

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

S. Daniel

Come 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 gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Jaques replies:

If it do come to pass

That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame:
Here shall he see

Gross fools as he,

An if he will come to me.

W. Shakespeare

40. Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May

GA

ATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting.