Make holiday; your rye-straw hats put on,
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one
In country footing.

[Enter certain Reapers, properly habited; they join with the Nymphs in a graceful dance.]

LVII. KING HENRY'S AMBITION.

From the Third Part of King Henry VI., Act ii. Scene 5. Shakespeare's part in the play is probably very small; but he may have contributed these and other lines to it about 1592.

KING HENRY speaks.

THIS battle fares like to the morning's war,

When dying clouds contend with growing light,
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea
Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea,
Forced to retire by fury of the wind.

Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;
Now one the better, then another best;
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror nor conquered:
So is the equal poise of this fell war.
Here on this molehill will I sit me down.
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,
Have chid me from the battle; swearing both,
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead! if God's good will were so;
For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O God! methinks it were a happy life,

To be no better than a homely swain;

To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete;
How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year;
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean1;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Pass'd over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thousandfold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sheep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,

Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,

His body couched in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.

1ean, bear.

LVIII. YOUTH AND AGE.

From W. Jaggard's piratical volume, The Passionate Pilgrim (1599). These lines have not been assigned to any other writer than Shakespeare, and may be his.

RABBED age and youth cannot live together:

CRA

Youth is full of pleasure, age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport, age's breath is short;
Youth is nimble, age is lame;

Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and age is tame.

Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee;
O, my love, my love is young!

Age, I do defy thee: O, sweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stay'st too long.

ROBERT JONES.

(flor. 1616.)

LIX. MY LOVE.

From the Second Book of Songs and Airs (1601).

Y love is neither young nor old,

MY

Not fiery-hot nor frozen-cold,
But fresh and fair as springing-briar
Blooming the fruit of love's desire;
Not snowy-white nor rosy-red,
But fair enough for shepherd's bed;
And such a love was never seen
On hill or dale or country-green.

IGNOTO.

LX. PHILLIS.

Printed by Mr. A. H. Bullen from the British Museum Addl. MS. 18936, in his Lyrics from Elisabethan Song-Books.

PHILLIS, a herd-maid dainty,

Who hath no peer for beauty,

By Thyrsis was requested

To hear the wrongs wherewith his heart was wrested;
But she Diana servèd,

And would not hear how Love poor lovers starvèd.

Phillis, more white than lilies,

More fair than Amaryllis,

More cold than crystal fountain,

More hard than craggy rock or stony mountain,

O tiger, fierce and spiteful,

Why hatest thou love sith love is so delightful?

THOMAS CAMPION.

(?-1619.)

LXI. AMARYLLIS.

From Campion and Rosseter's Book of Airs (1601). Campion's works, long neglected, have been edited by Mr. A. H. Bullen.

CARE not for these ladies

That must be woo'd and pray'd,

Give me kind Amaryllis,

The wanton country maid:

Nature art disdaineth,

Her beauty is her own:

Her when we court and kiss,

She cries, Forsooth, let go!'

But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say 'No'.

If I love Amaryllis,

She gives me fruit and flowers; But if we love these ladies,

We must give golden showers. Give them gold that sell love,

Give me the nut-brown lass,

Who when we court and kiss,

She cries, Forsooth, let go!'

But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say 'No'.

These ladies must have pillows
And beds by strangers wrought;

Give me a bower of willows,

Of moss and leaves unbought; And fresh Amaryllis,

With milk and honey fed,

Who when we court and kiss,

She cries, Forsooth, let go!'

But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say 'No'.

LXII. JACK AND JOAN.

From Two Books of Airs (circa 1613).

JACK and Joan, they think no ill,

But loving live, and merry still;
Do their week-day's work, and pray
Devoutly on the holy day: