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Now let them drink till they nod and wink,

Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have the bliss

Good ale doth bring men to.
And all poor souls that have scoured bowls,

Or have them lustily troula,
God save the lives of them and their wives,

Whether they be young or old.
Back and side, &c.

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GEORGE GASCOIGNE.
A STRANGE PASSION OF A LOVER.
I Langh sometimes with little lust;

So jest I oft, and feel no joye;
Mine ease is builded all on trust,

And yet mistrust breeds mine annoye.
I live and lack, I lack and have,
I have, and miss the thing I crave.
Then like the lark, that past the night

In heavy sleep with cares opprest,
Yet when she spies the pleasant light,

She sends sweet notes from out her breast:
So sing I now, because I think
How joys approach when sorrows shrink.
And as fair Philomene again

Can watch and sing when others sleep,
And taketh pleasure in her pain,

To wray the woe that makes her weep:
So sing I now, for to bewray
The loathsome life I lead alway.
The which to thee, dear wench, I write,
That know'st my mirth, but not my moan;
I pray God grant thee deep delight,

To live in joys when I am gone.
I cannot live; it will not be,
I die to think to part from thee.

THE DOLE OF DESPAIR, Written by a Lover di sdainfully rejected, contrary to

former Promises.
I Must alledge, and thou canst tell

How faithfully I vow'd to serve:
And how thou seem'dst to like me well;

And how thou saidst I did deserve
To be thy Lord, thy Knight, thy King,
And how much more I list not sing.

And canst thou now, thou cruel one,

Condemn desert to deep despair?
Is all thy promise past and gone?

Is faith so fled into the air
If that be so, what rests for me,
But thus, in song, to say to thee:
If Cressid's name were not so known,

And written wide on every wall;
If bruit of pride were not so blown

Upon Angelica withall;
For hault disdain, you might be she;
Or Cressid for inconstancy.
And in reward of thy desert,

I hope at last to see thee paid
With deep repentance for thy part

Which thou hast now so lewdly play'd; Medoro, he must be thy make, Since thou Orlando dost forsake.

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

SONG. BLOW, blow thou Winter-wind,

Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude: Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath bé rude.
Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.

SONNET.
ON a day, (alack the day !)

Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom, passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air.
Through the velvet teaves the wind
All unseen 'gan passage find,
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air (quoth he) thy cheeks may blow;-
Air, would I might triumph so !
But, alack ! my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn.
Vow, alack ! for youth unmeet,
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet;
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou, for whom ev'n Jove would swear
Juno but an Æthiop were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.

SONG OF FAIRIES.

Now the

hungry lion roars,

And the wolf behowls the moon, Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,

All with weary task foredone. Now the wasted brands do glow;

Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe

In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night

That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his spright,

In the churchway paths to glide; And we Fairies, that do run

By the triple Hecat's team,
From the presence of the sun,

Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic. Not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallow'd house;
I am sent with broom before
To sweep the dust behind the door.

WINTER, A SONG. WHEN icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail;
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit! tu-whoo!

A merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot,
When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw ;

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