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EVANS'S
COLLECTION OF OLD
BALLADS, Continued
LI.
PITHIAS'S LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF DAMON.
[From the very rare old Drama of Damon and Pithias.]
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AWAKE ye woeful
wights
That long have
wept in woe,
Resign to me your plaints and tears,
My hapless hap
to show:
My woe no
tongue can tell,
Ne pen can well
descry:
O what a death is this to hear,
Damon my friend
must die.
The loss of
worldly wealth
Man's wisdom
may restore,
And physick hath provided too
A calve for
every sore;
But my true
friend once lost,
No art can well
supply:
Then what a death is this to hear,
Damon my friend
must die.
My mouth refuse
the food,
That should my
limbs sustain,
Let sorrow sink into my breast,
And ransack
every vein:
You furies all
at once,
On me your
torments try:
Why should I live since that I hear,
Damon my friend
shall die.
Gripe me, you
greedy griefs,
And present
pangs of deaths,
You sisters three with cruel hands,
With speed now
stop my breath:
Shrine me in
clay alive,
Some good man
stop mine eye:
Oh death come now, seeing I hear
Damon my friend
must die.
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LII.
OLD
TITHON.
[From the old Comedy of
Wily Beguiled.]
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OLD Tithon must forsake his dear,
The lark doth
chant her chearful lay;
Aurora smiles with merry cheer,
To welcome in a
happy day.
The beasts
do skip,
The
sweet birds sing;
The wood
nymphs dance,
The
echoes ring.
The hollow caves with joy resound,
And pleasures ev'ry where abound:
The graces linking hand in hand,
In love have knit a glorious band.
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THREE-MAN'S SONG,
[From "The Shoemaker's Holyday." 1600.]
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O THE month of May, the merry month of May,
So frolick, so gay, and so green, so
green, so green,
O and then did
I unto my true love say,
Sweet Peg, thou
shalt be my summer's queen,
Now the nightingale, the pretty nightingale,
The sweetest singer in all the forest's quire,
Intreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true love's tale,
Lo yonder she sitteth, her breast against a brier,
But O, I spy the cuckow, the cuckow, the cuckow,
See where she sitteth, come away my joy:
Come away, I prithee, I do not like the cuckow
Should sing where my Peggy and I kiss and toy.
O the month of
May, the merry month of May,
So frolick, so
gay, and so green, so green,
O and then did
I unto my true love say;
Sweet Peg, thou
shalt be my summer's queen.
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LIV.
THREE-MAN'S
SONG.
[From "The Shomaker's
Holyday." 1600.]
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COLD 's the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh be
our good speed:
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good
hearts in need.
Trowl the bowl, the jolly-nut-brown bowl,
And here kind
mate to thee:
Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,
And down it
merrily.
Down a down, hey down a down,
Hey derry derry
down a down,
Ho, well done, to me let come,
Ring compass
gentle joy.
Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl,
And here kind mate to thee,
Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,
And down it merrily.
Gold's the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh be
our good speed,
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good
hearts in need.
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LV.
SONG
From
Heywood's "Fayre Maide of the Exchange." 1615.
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YE little birds that sit and sing
Amidst the shady vallies,
And see how Phillis sweetly walks
Within her garden alleys;
Go, pretty birds, about her bower,
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower,
All me, methinks I see her frown,
Ye pretty wantons
warble.
Go tell her through your chirping bills,
As you by me are bidden,
To her is only known my love,
Which from the world is hidden.
Go, pretty birds, and tell her so,
See that your notes strain not too low,
For still methinks I see her frown,
Ye pretty
wantons warble.
Go tune your voices harmony
And sing I am her lover;
Strain loud and sweet, that every note
With sweet content may move her,
And she that hath the sweetest voice,
Tell her I will not change my choice.
Yet still methinks I see her frown,
Ye pretty
wantons warble.
O fly, make haste, see, see she falls
Into a pretty slumber;
Sing round about her rosy bed,
That waking she may wonder.
Say to her 'tis her lover true
That sendeth love by you and you;
And when you hear her kind reply
Return with
pleasant warblings.
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LVI.
HEDONE.
From the
rare Drama called "Apollo Shroving."
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HEDONE, Queen Hedone, sweet Hedone,
Dame Nature's care and noblest birth,
The joy and crown of heaven and earth,
The aim and centre of desire,
The fuel of most sacred fire,
By me, and
this, and this,
She sends you
all her bliss.
Among the gods she hath her place,
They all stand gazing on her face,
The clouds do from her presence fly;
'Tis sunshine where she casts her eye.
Wher'er she
treads on earth below,
A rose, or
lilly, up do grow.
Her breath a gale of spices brings;
Mute are the Muses when she sings;
What'er she touches turns to nectar,
What man but can and must affect her?
No heart so hard but needs must melt
When once her kindly heat is felt.
She, she
vouchsafes to call you to her,
And wooing
prays you now to woo her.
By study soon fresh youth doth break,
The fair grow foul, the strong grow weak:
Leave, leave this musing bookish trade:
Enjoy yourselves before youth fade.
Time must be
gone,
Old age creeps
on.
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LVII.
LULLABY
SONG.
[From the Slaughter of the Innocents, acted at Coventry in
the reign of Henry the Eighth, and reprinted in Mr. Douce's excellent
Illustrations of Shakspeare.]
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LULLA, lulla, thou littell tine childe,
By by lully
lullay,
Lully lullay thou littell tine childe,
By by hilly
lullay.
O sisters too, how may we do,
For to preserve
this day,
This pore youngling, for whom we do singe
By by Iully
lullay.
Herod the king, in his raging,
Chargid he hath
this day;
His men of might, in his owne sight,
All yonge
children to slay.
That wo is me pore childe for thee,
And ever morne
and say
For thi parting, nether say nor sing
By by lully
lullay.
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LVIII.
LULLABY
SONG.
[From a
rare collection of songs printed in 1530,
and reprinted by Mr. Douce.]
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BY by lullaby
Rockyd I my child,
In a dre late as I lay
Me thought I hard a maydyn say
And spak thes wordys mylde
My lytil sone with thee I play,
And ever she song by lullay.
Thus rockyd she hyr child,
By by lullabi,
Rockid I my child by by.
Then merveld I ryght sore of this
A mayde to have a chyld I wys,
By by lullay
Thus rockyd she her child
By by lullaby, rockyd I my child.
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LIX.
LULLABY
SONG.
[From
"The Pleasant Comodie of Patient Grissill." 1603.]
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GOLDEN slumbers, kisse your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise:
Sleepe, pretty wantons, doe not cry,
And I will sing a lullabie.
Care is heavy, therefore sleepe you,
You are care, and care must keep you:
Sleepe, pretty wantons, doe not cry,
And I will sing a lullabie,
Rocke them, rocke them, lullabie.
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LX.
THE MAY
POLE,
[From
Actæon and Diana.]
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COME, ye young men, come along,
With your musick, dance, and song,
Bring your lasses in your hands,
Fox 'tis that which love commands;
Then to the
May-pole come away,
For it is now a
holyday.
It is the choice time of the year,
For the violets now appear;
Now the rose receives its birth,
And pretty primrose decks the earth.
Then to the
May-pole come away,
For it is now a
holyday.
Here each bachelor may choose
One that will not faith abuse,
Nor repay with coy disdain,
Love that should be loved again:
Then to the
May-pole come away,
For it is now a
holyday.
And when you well reckoned have,
What kisses you your sweethearts gave,
Take them all again and more,
It will never make them poor.
Then to the
May-pole come away,
For it is now a
holyday.
When you thus have spent the time,
Till the day be past its prime,
To your beds repair at night,
And dream there of your days delight.
Then to the
May-pole come away,
For it is now a
holyday.
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