SECOND SONG.

HOLD back thy hours, dark Night, till we have done ;

The Day will come too soon;

Young maids will curse thee, if thou steal'st away
And leav'st their losses open to the day :

Stay, stay, and hide

The blushes of the bride.

Stay, gentle Night, and with thy darkness cover

The kisses of her lover;

Stay, and confound her tears and her shrill cryings, Her weak denials, vows, and often-dyings;

Stay, and hide all :

But help not, though she call.

THIRD SONG.

To bed, to bed! Come, Hymen, lead the bride,

And lay her by her husband's side;

Bring in the virgins every one

That grieve to lie alone,

That they may kiss while they may say a maid;
To-morrow 'twill be other kissed and said.

Hesperus, be long a-shining,

While these lovers are a-twining.

ASPATIA'S SONG.

LAY a garland on my hearse

Of the dismal yew;

Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say, I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!

FICKLENESS.

COULD never have the power

To love one above an hour,
But my head would prompt mine eye
On some other man to fly.

Venus, fix thou mine eyes fast,

Or, if not, give me all that I shall see at last.

From JOHN FLETCHER'S The Faithful Shepherdess, n.d. [1609-10.]

THE SATYR AND CLORIN.

'HROUGH yon same bending plain

THR

That flings his arms down to the main,
And through these thick woods have I run,
Whose bottom never kissed the sun

Since the lusty spring began;
All to please my Master Pan,
Have I trotted without rest
To get him fruit; for at a feast
He entertains, this coming night,
His paramour, the Syrinx bright.
But, behold a fairer sight!
By that heavenly form of thine,
Brightest fair, thou art divine,
Sprung from great immortal race
Of the gods; for in thy face
Shines more awful majesty,
Than dull weak mortality
Dare with misty eyes behold,

And live: therefore on this mould

Lowly do I bend my knee

In worship of thy deity.

Deign it, goddess, from my hand,
To receive whate'er this land
From her fertile womb doth send
Of her choice fruits; and but lend

Belief to that the Satyr tells:
Fairer by the famous wells

To this present day ne'er grew,
Never better nor more true.
Here be grapes, whose lusty blood
Is the learned poet's good,

Sweeter yet did never crown

The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown
Than the squirrel's teeth that crack them;
Deign, oh fairest fair, to take them!
For these black-eyed Dryope

Hath often-times commanded me
With my clasped knee to climb:
See how well the lusty time

Hath decked their rising cheeks in red,
Such as on your lips is spread!

Here be berries for a queen,

Some be red, some be green;

These are of that luscious meat,

The great god Pan himself doth eat:

All these, and what the woods can yield,
The hanging mountain, or the field,

I freely offer, and ere long

Will bring you more, more sweet and strong;

Till when, humbly leave I take,

Lest the great Pan do awake,

That sleeping lies in a deep glade,

Under a broad beech's shade.

I must go, I must run

Swifter than the fiery sun.

GREAT GOD PAN.

SING his praises that doth keep

Our flocks from harm,

Pan, the father of our sheep;
And arm in arm

Tread we softly in a round,

Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground

Fills the music with her sound.

Pan, oh, great god Pan, to thee

Thus do we sing!

Thou that keep'st us chaste and free

As the young spring;

Ever be thy honour spoke,

From that place the morn is broke,

To that place day doth unyoke!