Omnes.

1 Fairy.

2 Fairy.

3 Fairy.

FAIRY REVELS.

PINCH him, pinch him, black and blue,

Saucy mortals must not view

What the queen of stars is doing,
Nor pry into our fairy wooing.

Pinch him blue

And pinch him black

Let him not lack

Sharp nails to pinch him blue and red,
Till sleep has rocked his addlehead.
4 Fairy. For the trespass he hath done,
Spots o'er all his flesh shall run.
Kiss Endymion, kiss his eyes,
Then to our midnight heidegyes.1

1 Rustic dances.

O

From JOHN LYLY'S Galathea, 1592.

CUPID ARRAIGNED.

YÉS, O yes! if any maid

Whom leering Cupid has betrayed
To frowns of spite, to eyes of scorn,
And would in madness now see torn
The boy in pieces, let her come
Hither, and lay on him her doom.

O yes, O yes! has any lost

A heart which many a sigh hath cost?
Is any cozened of a tear

Which as a pearl disdain does wear?
Here stands the thief; let her but come
Hither, and lay on him her doom.

Is any one undone by fire,

And turned to ashes through desire?

Did ever any lady weep,

Being cheated of her golden sleep

Stolen by sick thoughts?—the pirate's found,

And in her tears he shall be drowned.

Read his indictment, let him hear

What he's to trust to. Boy, give ear !

MY

From JOHN LYLY's Midas, 1592.

DAPHNE.

Y Daphne's hair is twisted gold,
Bright stars a-piece her eyes do hold,
My Daphne's brow enthrones the graces,
My Daphne's beauty stains all faces;
On Daphne's cheek grow rose and cherry,
On Daphne's lip a sweeter berry;
Daphne's snowy hand but touched does melt,
And then no heavenlier warmth is felt;
My Daphne's voice tunes all the spheres,
My Daphne's music charms all ears;
Fond am I thus to sing her praise,
These glories now are turned to bays.

SYRINX.

PAN'S Syrinx was a girl indeed,

Though now she's turned into a reed; From that dear reed Pan's pipe does come, A pipe that strikes Apollo dumb;

Nor flute, nor lute, nor gittern can
So chant it as the pipe of Pan:
Cross-gartered swains and dairy girls,
With faces smug and round as pearls,
When Pan's shrill pipe begins to play,
With dancing wear out night and day;
The bagpipe's drone his hum lays by,
When Pan sounds up his minstrelsy;
His minstrelsy! O base! this quill,
Which at my mouth with wind I fill,
Puts me in mind, though her I miss,
That still my Syrinx' lips I kiss.

SONG TO APOLLO.

ING to Apollo, god of day,

SIN

Whose golden beams with morning play,

And make her eyes so brightly shine,

Aurora's face is called divine;

Sing to Phoebus and that throne
Of diamonds which he sits upon.
Io, pæans let us sing

To Physic's and to Poesy's king!

Crown all his altars with bright fire,
Laurels bind about his lyre,
A Daphnean coronet for his head,
The Muses dance about his bed ;
When on his ravishing lute he plays,
Strew his temple round with bays.
Io, pæans let us sing

To the glittering Delian king!