INS

4

The Song of Autolycus

The lark, that tirra-lyra chants,

With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the

jay,

Are summer songs for me and my aunts,
While we lie tumbling in the hay.

But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?
The pale moon shines by night:
And when I wander here and there,
I then do most go right.

If tinkers may have leave to live
And bear the sow-skin budget,
Then my account I well may give
And in the stocks avouch it.

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
And merrily hent the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad, tires in a mile-a.

- William Shakespeare.

OME away, come away, Death,
And in sad cypress 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

bad Hus lover never find my grave,

To weep there.

-William Shakespeare.

HAT time of

When yellow leaves, or none, or few,

do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang:

In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by:

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere

ET me not to the marriage of true

minds

Admit impediments.

love

Love is not

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to re

move:

O no! it is an ever-fixèd mark

That looks on tempests, and is never

shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;