A

TO PAN.

LL ye woods, and trees, and bowers,
All ye virtues and ye powers

That inhabit in the lakes,

In the pleasant springs or brakes,
Move your feet

To our sound,

Whilst we greet

All this ground

With his honour and his name

That defends our flocks from blame.

He is great, and he is just,

He is ever good, and must
Thus be honoured. Daffadillies,

Roses, pinks, and loved lilies,
Let us fling,

Whilst we sing,

Ever holy,

Ever holy,

Ever honoured, ever young!

Thus great Pan is ever sung.

THE SATYR'S LEAVE-TAKING.

HOU divinest, fairest, brightest,

TH

Thou most powerful maid, and whitest,

Thou most virtuous and most blessed,

Eyes of stars, and golden-tressed

Like Apollo! tell me, sweetest,

What new service now is meetest

For the Satyr? Shall I stray

In the middle air, and stay

The sailing rack, or nimbly take

Hold by the moon, and gently make
Suit to the pale queen of night
For a beam to give thee light?
Shall I dive into the sea,
And bring thee coral, making way
Through the rising waves that fall
In snowy fleeces? Dearest, shall
I catch thee wanton fawns, or flies
Whose woven wings the summer dyes
Of many colours? get thee fruit,

Or steal from Heaven old Orpheus' lute?
All these I'll venture for, and more,
To do her service all these woods adore.

Holy virgin, I will dance

Round about these woods as quick
As the breaking light, and prick'
Down the lawns and down the vales
Faster than the wind-mill sails.
So I take my leave, and pray
All the comforts of the day,
Such as Phoebus' heat doth send
On the earth, may still befriend
Thee and this arbour !

1 Speed.

From JOHN FLETCHER'S The
Captain, 1647.1

TELL ME, DEAREST, WHAT IS LOVE?

ELL me, dearest, what is love?

TELL

'Tis a lightning from above;

'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire,

'Tis a boy they call Desire.

'Tis a grave,
Gapes to have

Those poor fools that long to prove.

Tell me more, are women true?
Yes, some are, and some as you.

Some are willing, some are strange,2

Since you men first taught to change.
And till troth

Be in both,

All shall love, to love anew.

Tell me more yet, can they grieve?

Yes, and sicken sore, but live,

And be wise, and delay,

When you men are as wise as they.

Then I see,

Faith will be,

Never till they both believe.

1 Produced in 1613.-The play is mainly by Fletcher, but a second author's hand is distinguishable. (We find the first two stanzas of the song, with variations, in The Knight of the Burning Pestle.)

2 Coy.

I

FAREWELL, FALSE LOVE!

AWAY, delights! go seek some other dwelling,

For I must die.

Farewell, false love! thy tongue is ever telling
Lie after lie.

For ever let me rest now from thy smarts;
Alas, for pity, go,

And fire their hearts

That have been hard to thee! mine was not so.

Never again deluding love shall know me,
For I will die ;

And all those griefs that think to overgrow me,
Shall be as I :

For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry, "Alas, for pity, stay,

And let us die

With thee! men cannot mock us in the clay.”

COME HITHER, YOU THAT LOVE.

COME

'OME hither, you that love, and hear me sing
Of joys still growing,

Green, fresh, and lusty as the pride of spring,
And ever blowing.

Come hither, youths that blush, and dare not know
What is desire;

And old men, worse than you, that cannot blow
One spark of fire;

And with the power of my enchanting song,
Boys shall be able men, and old men young.

Come hither, you that hope, and you that cry;
Leave off complaining;

Youth, strength, and beauty, that shall never die,
Are here remaining.

Come hither, fools, and blush you stay so long
From being blessed;

And mad men, worse than you, that suffer wrong,
Yet seek no rest;

And in an hour, with my enchanting song,

You shall be ever pleased, and young maids long.