XLII

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,
Thou 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 ! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere foily :

Then, heigh ho ! the holly !
This life is most jolly.

W. Shakespeare

XLIII

MADRIGAL

My thoughts hold mortal strife ;

Y

I And with lamenting cries Peace to my soul to bring Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize :

But he, grim grinning King,

Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize, Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb, Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

W. Drummond

XLIV

DIRGE OF LOVE

COM

'OME away, come away, Death,

And in sad cypres 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 corpse, 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.

W. Shakespeare

XLV

FIDELE

For the furious winter's rages ;

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun

Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta’en thy wages :

Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finish'd joy and moan : All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.

W. Shakespeare

XLVI

A SEA DIRGE

ULL fathom five thy father lies :

Those are pearls that were his eyes :

Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange ;
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :
Hark! now I hear them, -
Ding, dong, Bell.

W. Shakespeare

XLVII

A LAND DIRGE
*ALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren,

And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm
And (when gay tombs are robb’d) sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he 'll dig them up again.

7. Webster

XLVIII

POST MORTEM

F Thou survive my well-contented day

I When that cery weathe my nenes with dust shall

cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover;

Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme
Exceeded by the height of happier men.

O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought --
‘Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage •

But since he died, and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'

W. Shakespeare

XLIX

THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH

O longer mourn

Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world, that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell ;

Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it ; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.

O if, I say, you

look upon

this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let

your love even with my life decay ;

Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone.

W. Shakespeare

L

TE

MADRIGAL
'ELL me where is Fancy bred,

Or in the heart, or in the head ?
How begot, how nourished ?

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