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Love is the fire and sighs the smoke,

The ashes, shame and scorns; The fuel Justice layethon,

And Mercy blows the coals;
The metal in this furnace wrought

Are men's defiled souls;
For which, as now on fire I am

To work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath

To wash them in my blood.” With this He vanish'd out of sight,

And swiftly shrunk away, And straight I called unto mind

That it was Christmas-day.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
llad joys no date?, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move.
To live with thee and be thy love.

PILGRIM TO PILGRIM As you came from the holy land

Of Walsinghame,
Met you not with my true love

By the way as you came?

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair linéd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

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SIR WALTER RALEIGH (1552 7-1618) *

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPIIERD If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love.

7 end
† An ancient Priory in Norfolk, with a famous

shrine of Our Lady, the object of many pil-
grimages until its dissolution in 1538 (Eng.
Lit., p. 79). "A lover growing or grown old, it
would seem, has been left in the lurch by the
object of his affections. As all the world
thronged to Walsingham the lover supposes
that she too must have gone that way; and
meeting a pilgrim returning from that Eng.
lish Holy Land, asks him if he has seen any.
thing of her runaway ladyship."-J. W. Hales,

* Neither of the two poems here given as Raleigh's

can be ascribed to him with much confidence. The first appeared in England's Helicon over the name "Ignoto.” The MS. of the second bears the initials "$r. W. R.”



What's the cause that she leaves you alone, | Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly: And a new way doth take,

Most frien-lship is feigning, most loving mere Who loved you once as her own,

folly: And her joy did you make ?

Then, heigh ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly.
I have loved her all my youth,
But now old, as you see,

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Love likes not the falling fruit

Thou dost not bite so nigh From the withered tree.

As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp, Know that Love is a careless child,

Thy sting is not so sharp
And forgets promise past;

As friend remember'd not.
He is blind, he is deaf when he list,
And in faith never fast.

32 Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere His desire is a durelessi content, And a trustless joy;

Then, heigh ho! the holly! He is won with a world of despair

This life is most jolly. And is lost with a toy.

F'Rom MEASURE FOR MEASURE Of womankind such indeed is the love,

Take, o, take those lips away, Or the word love abused,

That so sweetly were forsworn; Under which many childish desires

And those eyes, the break of clay, And conceits are excusèd.

Lights that do mislead the morn: But true love is a durable fire,

But thy kisses bring again, In the mind ever burning,

Bring again, Never sick, never oli, never dead,

Seals of love, but sealed in vain, From itself never turning.

Sealed in vain!


Come away, come away, Death,
Under the greenwood tree

And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Who loves to lie with me,

Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
And turn his merry note

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
Unto the sweet bird's throat-

O prepare it!
Come hither, come hither, come hither!

Vy part of death, no one so true
Here shall he see

Did share it.
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet
Who doth ambition shun

On my black coffin let there be strown;
And loves to live i' the sun,

Not a friend, not a friend greet
Seeking the food he eats

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be
And pleased with what he gets-

thrown: Come hither, come hither, come hither!

| A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Here shall he see

Lay me, where
No enemy

Sad true lover never find my grave,
But winter and rough weather.

To weep there.

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. i unenduring 2 trifle

How should I your true love know.

From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,

And his sandal shoon.4

| 4 Pilgrims wore cockle shells in their hats in sign

3 modulate

of their heving crossed the sea to the Holy Land. and lovers not infrequently assumed this disguise.

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Work apace! apace! apace! apace!
Honest labour bears a lovely face.
Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney!


CHERRY-RIPE There is a garden in her face

Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow;

6 who (the French general) 7 i. e., sending an order * In the course of the Hundred Years' War the

English won three great victories over the French in the face of enormous odds-Crécy in 1346, Poitiers in 1356, and Agincourt in 1415. The last was won by Henry the Fifth. and so well was the glory of it remembered that after nearly two hundred years Drayton could celebrate it in this ballad, which bids fair to stand as the supreme national ballad of England. Breathless from the first word to the last, rude and rhythmic as the tread of an army, it arouses the martial spirit as few things but its imitators can.

5 thickly strewn

And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then: “ Though they to one be ten

Be not amazed!
Yet have we well begun:
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun

By Fame been raised!


That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the weather. None from his fellow starts; But, playing manly parts, And like true English hearts,

Stuck close together.
When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilboeso drew,
And on the French they flew:

Not one was tarıly.
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went:

Our men were hardy.

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The Duke of York so dread
The eager vanward led;
With the main, Henry sped

Amongst his henchmen:
Exeter had the rear,
A braver man not there!
O Lord, how hot they were

On the false Frenchmen!


This while our noble King,
His broad sword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,

As to o’erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent;
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.
Gloucester, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
Fcr famous England stood

With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another!
Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford, the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up.
Suffolk his axe did ply;
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily;

Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon Saint Crispin's Day Fought was this noble Fray; Which Fame did not delay

To England to carry. O when shall English men With such acts fill a pen? Or England breed again

Such a King Harry?


They now to fight are gone;
Armour on armour shone;
Drum now to drum did groan:

To hear, was wonder;
That, with the cries they make,
The very earth did shake;
Trumpet to trumpet spake;

Thunder to thunder.




Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingnam,
Which didst the signal aim

To our hid forces !
When, from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery

Stuck the French horses.

BEN JONSON (1573?-1637)

To CELIA Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup

And I'll not look for wine.

With Spanish yew so strong; Arrows a cloth-yard long,

B resolution

9 swords

Through swords, through seas, whither si

would ride.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there

It could not wither'd be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe

And sent’st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself but thee!

Do but look on her eyes, they clo light

All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright

As Love's star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead smoother

Than words that soothe her;
And from her arched brows, such a grace

Sheds itself through the face
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements


THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS See the chariot at hand here of Love,

Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,

And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty

Unto her beauty; And enamour'd, do wish, so they might

But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side,

Have you seen but a bright lily grow,

Before rulle hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of the snow

Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver ?

Or swan's down ever ?
Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar?

Or the nard in the fire ? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? | Oh so white! Oh so soft! Oh so sweet is she

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