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The ferryman's slim and the ferryman's young, With just a soft tang in the turn of his tongue; And he's fresh as a pippin and brown as a berry, And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town.

"Ahoy! and O-ho! and it's I'm for the ferry,"

(The briar's in bud and the sun going down) "And it's late as it is and I haven't a penny

Oh! how can I get me to Twickenham Town?" She'd a rose in her bonnet, and oh! she looked sweet As the little pink flower that grows in the wheat, With her cheeks like a rose and her lips like a cherry— It's sure but you're welcome to Twickenham Town.

"Ahoy! and O-ho!"-You're too late for the ferry, (The briar's in bud and the sun has gone down) And he's not rowing quick and he's not rowing steady; It seems quite a journey to Twickenham Town. Ahoy! and O-ho!" you may call as you will;

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The young moon is rising o'er Petersham Hill;

And, with Love like a rose in the stern of the wherry, There's danger in crossing to Twickenham Town. Théophile Marzials [1850

THE HUMOR OF LOVE

SONG

I PRITHEE send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine:

For if from yours you will not part,
Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain,

For thou hast a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?

O love, where is thy sympathy,
If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out:

For when I think I'm best resolved,

I then am most in doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe!

I will no longer pine;

For I'll believe I have her heart,

As much as she hath mine.

John Suckling [1609-1642]

TO CHLOE JEALOUS

DEAR Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! Thy check all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled: Prithee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says), Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.

How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy: More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping.

To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ,

Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong: You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit: Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song? What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows

The difference there is betwixt nature and art:

I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose:

And they have my whimsies; but thou hast my heart.

The god of us verse-men (you know, Child) the sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest;
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run;
At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast.

So when I am wearied with wandering all day;
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come:
No matter what beauties I saw in my way:
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.

Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war;

And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree:

For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,

As he was a poet sublimer than me.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]

A HUE AND CRY AFTER FAIR AMORET

FAIR Amoret is gone astray

Pursue and seek her, every lover;
I'll tell the signs by which you may

The wandering Shepherdess discover.

Coquette and coy at once her air,

Both studied, though both seem neglected;

Careless she is, with artful care,

Affecting to seem unaffected.

Jack and Joan

With skill her eyes dart every glance,

Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them,
For she'd persuade they wound by chance,
Though certain aim and art direct them.

She likes herself, yet others hates

For that which in herself she prizes;
And, while she laughs at them, forgets

She is the thing that she despises.

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William Congreve [1770-1729]

SONG

WHEN thy beauty appears

In its graces and airs

All bright as an angel new-dropped from the sky,
At distance I gaze and am awed by my fears:

So strangely you dazzle my eye!

But when without art

Your kind thoughts you impart,

When your love runs in blushes through every vein;
When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart,
Then I know you're a woman again.

There's a passion and pride

In our sex (she replied),

And thus, might I gratify both, I would do!

Still an angel appear to each lover beside,

But still be a woman to you.

Thomas Parnell [1679-1718]

JACK AND JOAN

JACK and Joan they think no ill,
But loving live, and merry still;
Do their week-days' work, and pray

Devoutly on the holy day:

Skip and trip it on the green,

And help to choose the Summer Queen;

Lash out, at a country feast,
Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy ale,
And tell at large a winter tale;
Climb up to the apple loft,

And turn the crabs till they be soft.

Tib is all the father's joy,

And little Tom the mother's boy.

All their pleasure is content;

And care, to pay their yearly rent.

Joan can call by name her cows,

And deck her windows with green boughs;
She can wreaths and tuttyes make,
And trim with plums a bridal cake.
Jack knows what brings gain or loss;
And his long flail can stoutly toss:
Makes the hedge which others break;
And ever thinks what he doth speak.

Now, you courtly dames and knights,
That study only strange delights;
Though you scorn the home-spun gray,
And revel in your rich array:
Though your tongues dissemble deep,
And can your heads from danger keep;
Yet, for all your pomp and train,

Securer lives the silly swain.

Thomas Campion { ? -1619]

PHILLIS AND CORYDON

PHILLIS kept sheep along the western plains,
And Corydon did feed his flocks hard by:
This shepherd was the flower of all the swains
That traced the downs of fruitful Thessaly;
And Phillis, that did far her flocks surpass
In silver hue, was thought a bonny lass.

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