LOVE'S MISTRESS; OR, THE QUEEN'S MASQUE.

THOU

THE PRAISES OF PAN.

THOU that art called the bright Hyperion, Wert thou more strong than Spanish Geryon That had three heads upon one man,

Compare not with our great god Pan.

They call thee son of bright Latona,
But girt thee in thy torrid zona,
Sweat, baste and broil, as best thou can;
Thou art not like our dripping Pan.

What cares he for the great god Neptune,
With all the broth that he is kept in;
Vulcan or Jove he scorns to bow to,
Hermes, or the infernal Pluto.

Then thou that art the heavens' bright eye,

Or burn, or scorch, or broil, or fry,

Be thou a god, or be thou man,
Thou art not like our frying Pan.

They call thee Phoebus, god of day,

Years, months, weeks, hours, of March and May;

Bring up thy army in the van,

We'll meet thee with our pudding Pan.

Thyself in thy bright chariot settle,
With skillet armed, brass-pot or kettle,
With jug, black-pot, with glass or can,
No talking to our warming Pan.

Thou hast thy beams thy brows to deck,
Thou hast thy Daphne at thy beck:
Pan hath his horns, Syrinx, and Phillis,
And I, Pan's swain, my Amaryllis.

FIRST PART OF KING EDWARD IV.

AGINCOURT.

AGINCOURT, Agincourt! know ye not Agincourt?

Where the English slew and hurt
All the French foemen?

With our guns and bills brown,
Oh, the French were beat down,
Morris-pikes and bowmen.

THE SILVER AGE.

HARVEST-HOME.

ITH fair Ceres, Queen of Grain,

WI

The reaped fields we roam, roam, roam:
Each country peasant, nymph, and swain,
Sing their harvest home, home, home;
Whilst the Queen of Plenty hallows
Growing fields, as well as fallows.

Echo, double all our lays,

Make the champaigns sound, sound, sound,

To the Queen of Harvest's praise,

That sows and reaps our ground, ground, ground.

Ceres, Queen of Plenty, hallows

Growing fields, as well as fallows.

THE FAIR MAID OF THE EXCHANGE.

YE

GO, PRETTY BIRDS.

E little birds that sit and sing
Amidst the shady valleys,

And see how Phillis sweetly walks,
Within her garden-alleys;
Go, pretty birds, about her bower;
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;
Ah, me! methinks I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go, tell her, through your chirping bills,
As you by me are bidden,
To her is only known my love,

Which from the world is hidden.
Go, pretty birds, and tell her so;
See that your notes strain not too low,
For still, methinks, I see her frown,
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go, tune your voices' harmony,
And sing, I am her lover;

Strain loud and sweet, that every note
With sweet content may move her.
And she that hath the sweetest voice,
Tell her I will not change my choice;
Yet still, methinks, I see her frown.
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Oh, fly! make haste! see, see, she falls
Into a pretty slumber.

Sing round about her rosy bed,
That waking, she may wonder.
Say to her, 'tis her lover true
That sendeth love to you, to you;
And when you hear her kind reply,
Return with pleasant warblings.

A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY.

THE NATIONS.

THE Spaniard loves his ancient slop;
A Lombard the Venetian;

And some like breechless women go,
The Russe, Turk, Jew, and Grecian :

The thrifty Frenchman wears small waist,
The Dutch his belly boasteth;
The Englishman is for them all,

And for each fashion coasteth.

The Turk in linen wraps his head,
The Persian his in lawn too,

The Russe with sables furs his cap,
And change will not be drawn to.

The Spaniard's constant to his block,
The French inconstant ever;
But of all felts that may be felt,
Give me your English beaver.

The German loves his coney-wool,

The Irishman his shag too,

The Welch his Monmouth loves to wear,

And of the same will brag too.

Some love the rough, and some the smooth,
Some great, and others small things;
But oh, your liquorish Englishman,

He loves to deal in all things.

The Russ drinks quasse; Dutch, Lubeck's beer, And that is strong and mighty;

The Briton he Metheglen quaffs,

The Irish aqua vitæ.

The French affects the Orleans grape,

The Spaniard sips his sherry,

The English none of these can 'scape,
But he with all makes merry.

The Italian in her high chioppine,*
Scotch lass, and lovely Erse too,
The Spanish donna, French madam,
He doth not fear to go to.

Nothing so full of hazard, dread,
Nought lives above the centre,
No health, no fashion, wine or wench,
On which he dare not venture.†

*Choppine, a clog or patten.

+ This song is introduced into the Rape of Lucrece.

THE GOLDEN AGE.

DIANA'S NYMPHS.

AIL, beauteous Dian, queen of shades,

HALL

That dwell'st beneath these shadowy glades, Mistress of all those beauteous maids

That are by her allowed.

Virginity we all profess,
Abjure the worldly vain excess,
And will to Dian yield no less

Than we to her have vowed.

The shepherds, satyrs, nymphs, and fawns,
For thee will trip it o'er the lawns.

Come, to the forest let us go,
And trip it like the barren doe;
The fawns and satyrs still do so,
And freely thus they may do.
The fairies dance and satyrs sing,
And on the grass tread many a ring,
And to their caves their venison bring;
And we will do as they.

The shepherds, satyrs, &c., &c.

Our food is honey from the bees,
And mellow fruits that drop from trees;
In chace we climb the high degrees
Of every steepy mountain.
And when the weary day is past,
We at the evening hie us fast,
And after this, our field repast,
We drink the pleasant fountain.

The shepherds, satyrs, &c., &c.