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My mouth refuse the food,

That should my limbs sustain,
Let sorrow sink into my breast,

And ransack every vein :
You furies all at once,

On me your torments try:
Why should I live since that I hear,

Damon my friend shall die.

Gripe me, you greedy griefs,

And present pangs of deaths, You sisters three with cruel hands,

With speed now stop my breath :
Shrine me in clay alive,

Some good man stop mine eye : Oh death come now, seeing I hear

Damon my friend must die.

LII.

OLD TITHON.

(From the old Comedy of Wily Beguiled.]

Old Tithon must forsake his dear,

The lark doth chant her chearful lay; Aurora smiles with merry cheer,

To welcome in a happy day.

The beasts do' skip,

The sweet birds sing ;
The wood nymphs dance,

The echoes ring.

The hollow caves with joy resound,
And pleasures ev'ry where abound:
The graces linking hand in hand,
In love have knit a glorious band.

[graphic]

LIII.

THREE-MAN'S SONG.

[From "The Shomaker's Holyday." 1600.]

O THE month of May, the merry month of May,
So frolick, so gay, and so green, so green, so green,
O and then did I unto my true love say,
Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my summer's queen.

Now the nightingale, the pretty nightingale,
The sweetest singer in all the forest's quire,
Intreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true love's tale,
Lo yonder she sitteth, her breast against a brier,

But O, I spy the cuckow, the cuckow, the cuckow,
See where she sitteth, come away my joy:
Come away, I prithee, I do not like the cuckow
Should sing where my Peggy and I kiss and toy.

O the month of May, the merry month of May,
So frolick, so gay, and so green, so green,
O and then did I unto

my
true love

say,
Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my summer's queen,

LIV,

THREE-MAN'S SONG.

[From "The Shomaker's Holyday.", 1600. ]

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain,

Saint Hugh be our good speed :
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,

Nor helps good hearts in need.

Trowl the bowl, the jolly-nut-brown bowl,

And here kind mate to thee: Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,

And down it merrily.

Down a down, hey down a down,

Hey derry derry down a down, Ho, well done, to me let come,

Ring compass gentle joy.

Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl,

And here kind mate to thee,
Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,

And down it merrily.

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain,

Saint Hugh be our good speed,
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,

Nor helps good hearts in need.

LV.

SONG

From Heywood's “ Fayre Maide of the Exchange.” 1615.

Ye little birds that sit and sing
Amidst the shady vallies,
And see how Phillis sweetly walks
Within her garden alleys ;
Go, pretty birds, about her bower,
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower,
Ah me, methinks I see her frown,

Ye pretty wantons warble.

[graphic]

Go tell her through your chirping bills,
As you by me are bidden,
To her is only known my love,
Which from the world is hidden.

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