Nor chattering pie,

May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!

THE DIRGE OF THE THREE KINGS.

URNS and odours bring away!
Vapours, sighs, darken the day!

Our dole more deadly looks than dying;
Balms, and gums, and heavy cheers,
Sacred vials filled with tears,

And clamours through the wild air flying!
Come, all sad and solemn shows,
That are quick-eyed Pleasure's foes!
We convent nought else but woes.

THE JAILOR'S DAUGHTER.

FOR I'll cut my green coat, a foot above my knee;

And I'll clip my yellow locks, an inch below mine
Hey, nonny, nonny, nonny.

He's buy me a white cut, forth for to ride,

[eye.

And I'll go seek him through the world that is so wide: Hey, nonny, nonny, nonny.

THE WOMAN-HATER.

INVOCATION TO SLEEP.

YOME, Sleep, and, with thy sweet deceiving,

COME

Lock me in delight awhile;

Let some pleasing dreams beguile
All my fancies; that from thence
I may feel an influence,

All my powers of care bereaving!

here enumerating the birds that are not to be permitted to perch or sing on the bride-house.

Though but a shadow, but a sliding,
Let me know some little joy!
We that suffer long annoy
Are contented with a thought,
Through an idle fancy wrought:
Oh, let my joys have some abiding!

THE NICE VALOUR; OR, THE PASSIONATE MADMAN.*

LOVE, SHOOT MORE!

THOU deity, swift-wingèd Love,

Sometimes below, sometimes above,
Little in shape, but great in power;
Thou that makest a heart thy tower,
And thy loop-holes ladies' eyes,

From whence thou strikest the fond and wise;

Did all the shafts in thy fair quiver

Stick fast in my ambitious liver,

Yet thy power would I adore,

And call upon thee to shoot more,
Shoot more, shoot more!

LOVE, SHOOT NO MAID AGAIN!

OH, turn thy bow!

Thy power we feel and know;
Fair Cupid, turn away thy bow!
They be those golden arrows,

Bring ladies all their sorrows;

And 'till there be more truth in men,

Never shoot at maid again!

* Ascribed to Fletcher.

HE

MELANCHOLY.

ENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy,

Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes,
A sight that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

A

CURSE

THE PASSIONATE LORD.

upon thee, for a slave!

Art thou here, and heardst me rave?

Fly not sparkles from mine eye,
To shew my indignation nigh?
Am I not all foam and fire,

With voice as hoarse as a town-crier?

How my back opes and shuts together

With fury, as old men's with weather!
Couldst thou not hear my teeth gnash hither?
Death, hell, fiends, and darkness!

I will thrash thy mangy carcase.
There cannot be too many tortures
Spent upon those lousy quarters.

Thou nasty, scurvy, mungrel toad,
Mischief on thee!

Light upon thee

All the plagues that can confound thee,
Or did ever reign abroad!

Better a thousand lives it cost,
Than have brave anger spilt or lost.

LAUGHING SONG.

[For several voices.]

OH, how my lungs do tickle! ha, ha, ha.

Oh, how my lungs do tickle! ho, ho, ho, ho!
Set a sharp jest
Against my breast,

Then how my lungs do tickle!

As nightingales,

And things in cambric rails,

Sing best against a prickle.*
Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!

Laugh! Laugh! Laugh! Laugh!
Wide! Loud! And vary!

A smile is for a simpering novice,

One that ne'er tasted caviare,

Nor knows the smack of dear anchovies.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!

A giggling waiting wench for me,

That shows her teeth how white they be!

* A multitude of examples might be cited of the use of this favourite allusion by the old poets. Giles Fletcher assigns a reason for the painful pose of the nightingale while she is singing:

'Ne ever lets sweet rest invade her eyes,

But leaning on a thorn her dainty chest,
For fear soft sleep should steal into her breast,
Expresses in her song grief not to be expressed.'

Christ's Victory.

A thing not fit for gravity,

For theirs are foul and hardly three.
Ha, ha, ha!

Ho, ho, ho!

Democritus, thou ancient fleerer,

How I miss thy laugh, and ha' since!*
There thou named the famous[est] jeerer,
That e'er jeered in Rome or Athens.
Ha, ha, ha!

Ho, ho, ho.

How brave lives he that keeps a fool,
Although the rate be deeper!
But he that is his own fool, sir,
Does live a great deal cheaper.
Sure I shall burst, burst, quite break,

Thou art so witty.

'Tis rare to break at court,

For that belongs to the city.

Ha, ha! my spleen is almost worn

To the last laughter.

Oh, keep a corner for a friend;
A jest may come hereafter.

THOMAS MIDDLETON.

1570-1627.

[MR. DYCE conjectures that Thomas Middleton was born about 1570. His father was settled in London, where the poet was born. The materials gathered for his biography are scanty. He seems to have been admitted a member of Gray's Inn, to have been twice married, and to have contributed numerous pieces to the stage, sometimes in connection with

* Changed by Seward to

'How I miss thy laugh, and ha-sense.'

The change helps little towards clearing up the obscurity.