Florizel.

I think you have

As little skill to fear, as I have purpose

To put you to 't. But, come; our dance, I pray;
Your hand, my Perdita; so turtles pair,

That never mean to part.

Perdita.

I'll swear for 'em.

Polixenes. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever Ran on the green-sward: nothing she does or seems

But smacks of something greater than herself,

Too noble for this place.

Camillo.

He tells her something,

That makes her blood look out: good sooth, she is
The queen of curds and cream.

W. Shakespeare.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

So now is come our joyfulst feast;
Let every man be jolly,

Each room with ivy leaves is drest

And every post with holly.

Though some churls at our mirth repine,

Round your foreheads garlands twine,
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,

And let us all be merry.

Young men and maids and girls and boys

Give life to one another's joys,

And you anon shall by their noise

Perceive that they are merry.

Rank misers now do sparing shun,
Their hall of music soundeth ;

And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things here aboundeth.

The country folk themselves advance,
For Crowdy-mutton's come out of France,
And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,
And all the town be merry.

Ned Swash hath fetched his bands from pawn, And all his best apparel;

Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn

With droppings of the barrel.

And those that hardly all the year

Had bread to eat or rags to wear,
Will have both clothes and dainty fare
And all the day be merry.

The wenches with their wassail-bowls
About the street are singing,
The boys are come to catch the owls,
The wild-mare in is bringing.
Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box,
And to the dealing of the ox

Onr honest neighbours come by flocks,

And here they will be merry.

Then wherefore in these merry days
Should we I pray be duller?
No let us sing our roundelays

To make our mirth the fuller:
And whilest thus inspired we sing
Let all the streets with echoes ring:
Woods, and hills, and everything
Bear witness we are merry.

G. Wither.

WINTER.

(Love's Labour's Lost.)

WHEN icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipped and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl.
Tu-whit;

Tu-who, a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;

Tu-who, a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel tae pot.

W. Shakespeare.

SUNRISE.

(Faery Queen.)

By this the northern waggoner had set
His sevenfold team behind the steadfast star
That was in ocean waves yet never wet,
But firm is fixt, and sendeth light from far
To all that in the wide deep wandering are;
And cheerful chanticleer with his note shrill
Hath warned once, that Phoebus' fiery car
In haste was climbing up the eastern hill,
Full envious that Night so long his room did fill.
E. Spenser.

MORNING SONG OF THE PRIEST OF PAN

(The Faithful Shepherdess.)

SHEPHERDS, rise, and shake off sleep!

See the blushing morn doth peep

Through the windows, while the sun

To the mountain-tops is run,

Gilding all the vales below

With his rising flames which grow
Greater by his climbing still.
Up, ye lazy grooms, and fill
Bag and bottle for the field!

Clasp your cloaks fast, lest they yield

To the bitter north-east wind.
Call the maidens up, and find
Who lay longest, that she may
Go without a friend all day;
Then reward your dogs, aud pray
Pan to keep you from decay :
So unfold, and then away!

G. Fletcher.

EVENING SONG OF THE PRIEST OF PAN.

(The Same.)

SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair,

Fold your flocks up, for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops how they kiss
Every little flower that is;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads,
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead Night from underground;
At whose rising mists unsound,
Damps and vapours fly apace,
Hovering o'er the wanton face
Of these pastures, where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom :
Therefore, from such danger lock
Everyone his lovèd flock;