There, in calm and cooling sleep, We our eyes shall never steep, But eternal watch shall keep, Attending
Pleasures such as shall pursue Me immortalized, and you; And fresh joys, as never too Have ending.
Charm me asleep, and melt me so With thy delicious numbers, That being ravish'd, hence I go Away in easy slumbers.
Ease my sick head,
And make my bed,
Thou Power that canst sever
From me this ill;
And quickly still,
Though thou not kill
Thou sweetly canst convert the same From a consuming fire,
Into a gentle-licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep My pains asleep,
And give me such reposes, That I, poor I,
May think, thereby,
I live and die
'Mongst roses.
Fall on me like a silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers,
Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptism o'er the flowers.
Melt, melt my pains With thy soft strains; That having ease me given, With full delight,
I leave this light, And take my flight
For Heaven.
Shapcot to thee the Fairy State I with discretion dedicate:
Because thou prizest things that are Curious and unfamiliar,
Take first the feast; these dishes gone, We'll see the Fairy-court anon.
A little mushroom-table spread, After short prayers, they set on bread, A moon-parch'd grain of purest wheat, With some small glitt'ring grit, to eat His choice bits with; then in a trice They make a feast less great than nice. But all this while his eye is served, We must not think his ear was sterved; But that there was in place to stir His spleen, the chirring grasshopper, The merry cricket, puling fly, The piping gnat for minstrelsy. And now, we must imagine first,
The elves present, to quench his thirst, A pure seed-pearl of infant dew, Brought and besweeten'd in a blue And pregnant violet; which done, His kitling eyes begin to run
Quite through the table, where he spies The horns of papery butterflies, Of which he eats; and tastes a little
Of that we call the cuckoo's spittle;
A little fuz-ball pudding stands By, yet not blessèd by his hands,
That was too coarse; but then forthwith He ventures boldly on the pith
Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sagge And well-bestrutted bees' sweet bag; Gladding his palate with some store Of emmet's eggs; what would he more? But beards of mice, a newt's stew'd thigh, A bloated earwig, and a fly;
With the red-capt worm, that's shut Within the concave of a nut,
Brown as his tooth. A little moth,
Late fatten'd in a piece of cloth ;
With wither'd cherries, mandrakes' ears, Moles' eyes to these the slain stag's tears ; The unctuous dew-laps of a snail, The broke-heart of a nightingale O'ercome in music; with a wine
Ne'er ravish'd from the flattering vine, But gently prest from the soft side Of the most sweet and dainty bride, Brought in a dainty daisy, which
He fully quaffs up, to bewitch
His blood to height; this done, commended Grace by his priest; The feast is ended.
Live, live with me, and thou shalt see The pleasures I'll prepare for thee: What sweets the country can afford Shall bless thy bed, and bless thy board. The soft sweet moss shall be thy bed, With crawling woodbine over-spread : By which the silver-shedding streams Shall gently melt thee into dreams. Thy clothing next, shall be a gown Made of the fleeces' purest down.
The tongues of kids shall be thy meat; Their milk thy drink; and thou shalt eat The paste of filberts for thy bread With cream of cowslips butterèd: Thy feasting-table shall be hills With daisies spread, and daffadils ; Where thou shalt sit, and Red-breast by, For meat, shall give thee melody. I'll give thee chains and carcanets Of primroses and violets.
A bag and bottle thou shalt have, That richly wrought, and this as brave; So that as either shall express The wearer's no mean shepherdess. At shearing-times, and yearly wakes, When Themilis his pastime makes, There thou shalt be; and be the wit, Nay more, the feast, and grace of it. On holydays, when virgins meet To dance the heys with nimble feet, Thou shalt come forth, and then appear The Queen of Roses for that year. And having danced ('bove all the best) Carry the garland from the rest, In wicker-baskets maids shall bring To thee, my dearest shepherdling, The blushing apple, bashful pear,
And shame-faced plum, all simp'ring there. Walk in the groves, and thou shalt find The name of Phillis in the rind
Of every straight and smooth-skin tree; Where kissing that, I'll twice kiss thee. To thee a sheep-hook I will send, Be-prank'd with ribbands, to this end, This, this alluring hook might be Less for to catch a sheep, than me. Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine, Not made of ale, but spicèd wine; To make thy maids and self free mirth,
All sitting near the glitt'ring hearth. Thou shalt have ribbands, roses, rings,
Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes, and strings Of winning colours, that shall move
Others to lust, but me to love.
-These, nay, and more, thine own shall be If thou wilt love, and live with me.
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