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Go, pretty birds, and tell her so,
See that your notes strain not too low,
For still methinks I see her frown,

Ye pretty wantons warble.

Go tune your voices harmony
And sing I am her lover ;
Strain loud and sweet, that every

note With sweet content may move her, And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice. Yet still methinks I see her frown,

Ye pretty wantons warble.

O fly, make haste, see, see she falls
Into a pretty slumber;
Sing round about her rosy bed,
That waking she may wonder.
Say to her 'tis her lover true
That sendeth love by you and you ;
And when you hear her kind reply

Return with pleasant warblings.



From the rare Drama called “ Apollo Shroving."

HEDONE, Queen Hedone, sweet Hedone,
Dame Nature's care and noblest birth,
The joy and crown of heaven and earth,
The aim and centre of desire,
The fuel of most sacred fire,

By me, and this, and this,
She sends you all her bliss.

Among the gods she hath her place,
They all stand gazing on her face,
The clouds do from her presence fly,
"Tis sunshine where she casts her eye.
Wher'er she treads on earth below,
A rose, or lilly, up do


Her breath a gale of spices brings;
Mute are the Muses when she sings;
What'er she touches turns to nectar,
What man but can and must affect her?


No heart so hard but needs most melt
When once her kindly heat is felt.

She, she vouchsafes to call you to her,
And wooing prays you now to woo her.

By study soon fresh youth doth break,
The fair grow foul, the strong grow weak :
Leave, leave this musing bookish trade :
Enjoy yourselves before youth fade.
Time must be


age creeps on.




[From the Slaughter of the Innocents, acted at Coventry

in the reign of Henry the Eighth, and reprinted in Mr. Douce's excellent Illustrations of Shakspeare.]

Lulla, lulla, thou littell tine childe,

By by lully lullay,
Lully lullay thou littell tine childe,

By by lully lullay.

O sisters too, how may we do,

For to preserve this day,
This pore youngling, for whom we do singe

By by lully lullay.

Herod the king, in his raging,

Chargid he hath this day,
His men of might, in his owne sight,

All yonge children to slay.

That wo is me pore childe for thee,

And ever morne and say
For thi parting, nether say nor sing

By by lully lullay.



(From a rare collection of songs printed in 1530, and

reprinted by Mr. Douce.]

By by lullaby
Rockyd I my, child,
In a dre late as I lay

Me thought I hard a maydyn say

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And spak thes wordys mylde
My lytil sone with thee I play,
And ever she song by lullay.
Thus rockyd she hyr child,
By by lullabi,
Rockid I my child by by.
Then merveld I ryght sore of this
A mayde to have a chyld'I wys,
By by lullay
Thus rockyd she her child
By by lullaby, rockyd I my child.



(From “ The Pleasant Comodie of Patient Grissill.” 1603.)

GOLDEN slumbers kisse your eyes,
Smiles awake



rise : Sleepe, pretty wantons, doe not cry, And I will sing a lullabie.

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