I THE MALTWORM'S MADRIGAL DRINK of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe; At noon I dream on the settle; at night I cannot sleep; For my love, my love it groweth; I waste me all the day; And when I see sweet Alison, I know not what to say. The sparrow when he spieth his Dear upon the tree, He beateth-to his little wing; he chirketh lustily; But when I see sweet Alison, the words begin to fail; I wot that I shall die of Love-an I die not of Ale. Her lips are like the muscadel; her brows are black as ink; Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink; But when she sees me coming, she shrilleth out— "Te-Hee! Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me?" "Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin! Why be thine eyes so small? Why go thy legs tap-lappetty like men that fear to fall? Why is thy leathern doublet besmeared with stain and spot? Go to. Thou art no man (she saith)-thou art a Pottle-pot!" "No man," i'faith. "No man!" she saith And "Pottle-pot" thereto ! "Thou sleepest like our dog all day; thou drink'st as fishes do." I would that I were Tibb the dog; he wags at her his tail; Or would that I were fish, in truth, and all the sea were Ale! So I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe; All day I dream in the sunlight; I dream and eke I weep, But little lore of loving can any flagon teach, For when my tongue is looséd most, then most I lose my speech. AN APRIL PASTORAL He. W HITHER away, fair Neat-herdess? She. She. Shepherd, I go to tend my kine He. Stay thou, and watch this flock of mine. She. With thee? Nay, that were idleness. He. Thy kine will pasture none the less. Not so they wait me and my sign. I'll pipe to thee beneath the pine. Thy pipe will soothe not their distress. Dost thou not hear beside the spring How the gay birds are carolling? I hear them. But it may not be. He. She. He. She. He. She. He. Farewell then, Sweetheart! Farewell now. A NEW SONG OF THE SPRING COME GARDENS To the Burden of "Rogues All." OME hither ye gallants, come hither ye maids, To the trim gravelled walks, to the shady arcades ; Come hither, come hither, the nightingales call ;— Sing Tantarara,-Vauxhall! Vauxhall! Come hither, ye cits, from your Lothbury hives! Come hither, ye husbands, and look to your wives ! For the sparks are as thick as the leaves in the Mall; Sing Tantarara,-Vauxhall! Vauxhall! Here the 'prentice from Aldgate may ogle a Toast! Here his Worship must elbow the Knight of the Post! For the wicket is free to the great and the small; Sing Tantarara,-Vauxhall! Vauxhall! |