XXXIV.

SERENADE.

HO is Silvia? what is she,

WHO

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her,

That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness:

Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness;
And, being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling;
To her let us garlands bring.

XXXV.

AMIENS' SONG. I.

NDER the greenwood tree

UNDER

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

XXXVI.

AMIENS' SONG. II.

LOW, blow, thou winter wind,

BLOW,

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 remembered not.

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.

XXXVII.

FESTE, THE JESTER'S SONG. I.

MISTRESS mine! where are you roaming?
O stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty ;
Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

XXXVIII.

FESTE, THE JESTER'S SONG. II.

'OME away, come away, death,

COME

And in sad cypress let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O! prepare it :

My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strown ;

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown : A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O! where

Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.

XXXIX.

O

SONG.

RPHEUS with his lute made trees,

And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves, when he did sing:
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers

There had made a lasting spring.

Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads, and then lay by.