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"gether, or dividing themselves into companies, they go some to the woods and groves, some to the hills and "mountains, some to one place, some to another, where "they spend all the night in pleasant pastimes; and in the "morning they return, bringing with them birch boughs "and branches of trees to deck their assemblies withal : "but their chiefest jewell is the maypole, which they bring "home with great veneration, as thus: they have twenty or forty yoke of oxen, every ox having a sweet nosegay "of flowers tied to the tip of his horns, and these oxen "draw home the maypole, which they cover all over with "flowers and herbs, bound round with strings from the top "to the bottom, and sometimes painted with variable co"lours, having two or three hundred men, women, and chil"dren following it with great devotion; and thus equipped, "it is reared with handkerchiefs and flags streaming on "the top. They strew the ground round about; they bind "green boughs about it; they set up summer-halls, bowers, "and arbours hard by it; and then fall they to banqueting "and feasting, to leaping and dancing about it, as the "heathen people did at the dedication of their idols."

On the 30th of May, in the fourth year of Queen Mary's reign, there was a goodly May-game in Fenchurch Street, with drums, and guns, and pikes; and there was also a Morris-dance, and an Elephant and Castle; and the Lord and Lady of the May appeared to make up the show.

Robin Hood and Maid Marian occasionally presided over the sports of the day.

HENRY YOULL

Was, as he styles himself, a practitioner in the art of music; and in 1608 published a "Set of twenty-four Can

"zonets to Three voices;" dedicated to "the virtuous gen"tlemen, Mr. Nicholas Bacon, Mr. Philip Bacon, Mr. Na"thaniel Bacon, and Mr. Lionel Bacon, sons to the wor"shipful Mr. Edward Bacon, Esquire."

CCCXLIV.

Slow, slow, fresh fount; keep time with my salt tears: Yet slower-yet, O faintly, gentle springs;

List to the heavy part the music bears,

Woe weeps out her division when she sings.
Droop herbs and flow'rs,

Fall grief in show'rs,

Our beauties are not ours.

Oh! could I still, like melting snow

Upon some craggy hill,

Drop, drop, since nature's pride is now

A wither'd daffodil !

From a comic satire by Ben Jonson, called " Cynthia's "Revels, or the Fountain of Self-love." It was acted in 1600 by the children of the Chapel Royal.

CCCXLV.

Once I thought to die for love,
Till I found that women prove
Traitors in their smiling;

They say men inconstant be,

But they themselves love change we see,
And all is but beguiling.

CCCXLVI.

The shepherds' daughters all are gone,
Leaving their flocks to feed alone,
From the greenwood fresh May to bring.
So sweetly they play,

And sing all the way*,

That fields and groves with heav'nly music ring.
Behold where they return along,

With Daphne fair their troops among ;

Upon whose golden locks they all have set,

Of fragrant flow'rs a seemly coronet,

Sounding on high, in Daphne's praise,
Pleasant songs and roundelays.

CCCXLVII.

Cease, restless thoughts, to vex my careful mind,
And bid adieu to vain delights of love;
Since Phillis, she, alas! has prov'd unkind,
Whom my complaints cannot to pity move.
Farewell, unkind! my silly sheep and I
Henceforth will join in equal sympathy.

The sheep, as in duty bound, invariably sympathize in their master's sorrows.

"The feeble flocks refuse their former food,

“And hang their heads as they would learn to weep.”

Spenser.-Shepherds' Calendar.

* These two lines are in Spenser's Shepherds' Calendar (April) in praise of Elizabeth.

GEORGE KIRBYE.

Besides one composition in the Triumphs of Oriana, Kirbye is only known to have published a set of Madrigals for four, five, and six voices, twenty-five in number, printed in the year 1597.

CCCXLVIII.

Lo! here my heart I leave with her remaining,
That never yet vouchsaf'd to do me pleasure;
And when I seek to move her with complaining,

She scorns my sighs and tears, alas! past measure.
Sweet Love, O turn her heart at last, and joy me,
Or else her deep disdain will soon destroy me.

CCCXLIX.

What can I do, of the sweet light deprived

Of thy fair eyes, by which I still have lived?

How can my soul endure, thus charged with sadness, Exile from thy dear sight so full of gladness?

CCCL.

Farewell! my love-I part contented;

Since 't is ordain'd that I must leave thee;

O might I stay, altho' tormented,

The pain next death would little grieve me.
No greater torment can be prov'd
Than thus to part from my belov'd.

CCCLI.

Sleep now, my muse, and henceforth take thy rest, Which all too long thyself in vain hast wasted; Let it suffice, I still must live opprest,

And of my pains the fruit must ne'er be tasted. Then sleep, my muse, fate cannot be withstood; 'Tis better sleep, than wake to do no good.

CCCLII.

Ah! sweet, alas! when first I saw those eyes,
So rich with crystal majesty,

Their wounding beauty 'gan to tyrannize,

And made mine eyes bleed tears full piteously.

I felt the wound, yet feared not the deed;
Till, ah! I found my tears did inward bleed.

CCCLIII.

Up, then, Melpomene! the mournful'st Muse of nine

Such cause of mourning never had afore;

Up, grisly ghosts, and up, my rueful line,

Matter of mirth now shalt thou have no more.

For dead she is that made thee mirth of

Dido my dear, alas! is dead:

Dead, and lieth wrapt in lead,

O heavy hearse !

yore.

Let streaming tears be poured out in store,

O careful verse!