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.

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.

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 grow.

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 must 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 gone,
Old age creeps on.

LVII.

LULLABY SONG,

[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.