She's in a frock of Lincoln green,
Which colour likes her sight,
And never hath her beauty seen,
But through a veil of white.

Than roses, richer to behold,
That dress up lovers' bowers,
The pansy and the marigold,
Though Phoebus' paramours.

Gorbo. Thou well describ'st the Daffodil :
It is not full an hour

Since, by the spring near yonder hill,
I saw that lovely flower.

Batte. Yet my fair flower thou didst not meet,
Nor news of her didst bring,

And yet my Daffodil's more sweet
Than that by yonder spring.

Gorbo. I saw a shepherd that doth keep
In yonder field of lilies,

Was making, as he fed his sheep,
A wreath of daffodillies.

Batte. Yet, Gorbo, thou delud'st me still,
My flower thou didst not see,

For know, my pretty Daffodil

Is worn of none but me.

Gorbo. Through yonder vale as I did pass,
Descending from the hill,

I met a smirking bonny lass,
They call her Daffodil,

Whose presence, as along she went,
The pretty flowers did greet,

As though their heads they downward bent
With homage to her feet;

And all the shepherds that were nigh,

From top of every hill,

Unto the vallies loud did cry,

There goes sweet Daffodil !

Batte. Aye, gentle shepherd, now with joy
Thou all my flocks dost fill;

That's she alone, kind shepherd's boy,
Let us to Daffodil.

SONNET.

[From "Idea."]

SINCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part:
Nay, I have done; you get no more of me:
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows

That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,

Now, if thou would'st, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.

To his coy Love.

A CANZONET.

I PRAY thee leave, love me no more,
Call home the heart you gave me ;

I but in vain that saint adore

That can, but will not, save me;

These poor half kisses kill me quite,
Was ever man thus served?

Amidst an ocean of delight,

For pleasure to be sterved.

Shew me no more those snowy breasts,
With azure riverets branched,
Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,
Yet is my thirst not stanched.
O, Tantalus! thy pains ne'er tell,
By me thou art prevented,
'Tis nothing to be plagued in hell,
But thus in heav'n tormented.

Clip me no more in those dear arms,
Nor thy life's comfort call me ;
O! these are but too powerful charms,
And do but more inthral me;
But see how patient I am grown,
In all this coil about thee;

Come, nice thing, let thy heart alone,
I cannot live without thee,

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE,

Born at Stratford-upon-Avon, 1564, and died there, 1616.

SONG.

[From "As you like it."]

BLOW, blow thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind,

As man's ingratitude!

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh, ho! sing heigh, ho! unto the green holly, Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. Then heigh, ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot!

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember'd not.

Heigh, ho! &c. &c.