SONGS. MASQUE OF PLEASURE AND VIRTUE. SONG I. COME on, come on, and where you go Which lines are pleasure, and which not: First figure out the doubtful way At which awhile the youth should stay Where she and Virtue did contend Which should have Hercules to friend. Then as all actions of mankind Admire the wisdom of your feet: SONG II. O more and more, this was so well That, if those silent arts were lost, Begin, begin; for look, the pair Just to the tune you move your limbs, SONG III. It follows now you are to prove The subtlest maze of all, - that's Love, And, if you stay too long, The fair will think you do them wrong. Go choose among them, with a mind Grace, laughter, and discourse And yet the beauty not go less: Will you that I give the law SONG. BEN JONSON. SHAKE off your heavy trance, To play to, for the moon to lead, O blessed youth! for Jove doth pause, For this device: And at the wedding such a pair Each song a sacrifice. MARY DONNELLY. OH! lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest. Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock. Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted in a shower, Can ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power. Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up; Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup; Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine; It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine. The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before; No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sang a song, that took my heart away. When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet; The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised. And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung; Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. Oh, you're the flower of womankind in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. Oh might we live together in a lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! Oh might we live together in a cottage mean and small; With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! Oh! lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress. It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go! SONG. ALLINGHAM. SPRING all the graces of the age, Add all the softnesses of Courts, The looks, the laughters, and the sports: And mingle all their sweets and salts That none may say the triumph halts. BEN JONSON: Neptune's Triumph. SONG TO CERES. THOU that art our Queen again, And may in the sun be seen again, Come, Ceres, come, For the War's gone home, And the fields are quiet and green again. Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, Like the wind of the South o'er a summer lute blowing, And hushed all its music, and withered its frame. But long upon Araby's green sunny highlands, Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb. And still when the merry date-season is burning, And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, The happiest there, from their pastime returning, At sunset, still weep when thy story is told. The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses Her dark flowing hair, for some festival day, Will think of thy fate, till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from her mirror away. Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero! forget thee; Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start; Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee, Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart. A ROMAIC BALLAD. THOU that hast a daughter For one to woo and wed, Give her to a husband With snow upon his head; Oh, give her to an old man, Though little joy it be, Before the best young sailor That sails upon the sea! How luckless is the sailor No sweetheart standing by. As none beside thee can. Thou says't to me, "Stand, stand up;" I say to thee, take hold, My hands and feet are cold. With handkerchiefs be bound; There, take my love's gold handkerchief, And tie it tightly round. Now bring the chart, the doleful chart; See, where these mountains meet The clouds are thick around their head, The mists around their feet: Cast anchor here; 'tis deep and safe Within the rocky cleft; The little anchor on the right, The great one on the left. And now to thee, O captain, Most earnestly I pray, That they may never bury me In church or cloister gray; But on the windy sea-beach, At the ending of the land, All on the surfy sea-beach, Deep down into the sand. For there will come the sailors, Their voices I shall hear, And at casting of the anchor The yo-ho loud and clear; |