LXII.

JOHN FLETCHER, 1576-1625. FRANCIS BEAUMONT,

1586-1615.

ORIANA'S SONG.

OME sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving,

COM

Lock me in delight awhile;

Let some pleasing dreams beguile
All my fancies; that from thence,
I may feel an influence,

All my powers of care bereaving!

Though but a shadow, but a sliding,
Let me know some little joy!
We that suffer long annoy
Are contented with a thought,
Through an idle fancy wrought:

Oh! let my joys have some abiding.

'Gins to thicken, and the sun

Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops how they kiss
Every little flower that is;

Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads;
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from under ground;
At whose rising mists unsound,
Damps and vapours fly apace,
Hovering o'er the wanton face
Of these pastures, where they come
Striking dead both bud and bloom :
Therefore from such danger lock
Every one his loved flock;

And let your dogs lie loose without,

Lest the wolf come as a scout

From the mountain, and, ere day,

Bear a lamb or kid away;
Or the crafty thievish fox
Break upon your simple flocks.
To secure yourselves from these,
Be not too secure in ease;

Let one eye his watches keep
While the other eye doth sleep;

So you shall good shepherds prove,
And for ever hold the love

Of our great god. Sweetest slumbers,
And soft silence, fall in numbers
On your eye-lids! So, farewell!

Thus I end my evening's knell.

LXIV.

A

SONG 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,

LXV.

With his honour and his name

That defends our flocks from blame.

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 over-grow 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.'

LXVI.

G

SONG.

OD Lyæus, ever young,

Ever honoured, ever sung;
Stained with blood of lusty grapes,
In a thousand lusty shapes,
Dance upon the mazer's brim,
In the crimson liquor swim;
From thy plenteous hand divine,
Let a river run with wine.

God of youth, let this day here
Enter neither care nor fear!