SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRICS.

BEN JONSON, Pan's Anniversary,

1631; acted before 1625.

THE SHEPHERDS' HOLIDAY.

THUS, thus begin the yearly rites

Are due to Pan on these bright nights;
His morn now riseth and invites

To sports, to dances, and delights:

All envious and profane, away,
This is the shepherds' holiday.

Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground
With every flower, yet not confound;
The primrose-drop, the spring's own spouse,
Bright day's-eyes and the lips of cows,
The garden-star, the queen of May,
The rose, to crown the holiday.

Drop, drop, you violets; change your hues,
Now red, now pale, as lovers use;

And in your death go out as well

As when you lived unto the smell,
That from your odor all may say,
This is the shepherds' holiday.

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HYMN

TO PAN.

OF Pan we sing, the best of singers, Pan,

That taught us swains how first to tune our lays, And on the pipe more airs than Phœbus can.

Hear, O you groves, and hills resound his praise.

Of Pan we sing, the best of leaders, Pan,

That leads the Naiads and the Dryads forth; And to their dances more than Hermes can.

Hear, O you groves, and hills resound his worth.

Of Pan we sing, the best of hunters, Pan,

That drives the hart to seek unused ways,

And in the chase more than Silvanus can.

Hear, O you groves, and hills resound his praise.

Of Pan we sing, the best of shepherds, Pan,

That keeps our flocks and us, and both leads forth

To better pastures than great Pales can.

Hear, O you groves, and hills resound his worth ;
And, while his powers and praises thus we sing,
The valleys let rebound and all the rivers ring.

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THOMAS DEKKER, The Sun's Darling, 1656; written before 1625.

COUNTRY GLEE.

HAYMAKERS, rakers, reapers, and mowers,

Wait on your summer-queen;

Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers,
Daffodils strew the green;

Sing, dance, and play,

'Tis holiday;

The sun does bravely shine

On our ears of corn.

Rich as a pearl

Comes every girl:

This is mine! this is mine! this is mine!

Let us die, ere away they be borne.

Bow to the sun, to our queen, and that fair one

Come to behold our sports:

Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one,

As those in princes' courts.

These and we

With country glee,

Will teach the woods to resound,

And the hills with echo's holloa :
Skipping lambs

Their bleating dams,

'Mongst kids shall trip it round;

For joy thus our wenches we follow.

Wind, jolly huntsmen, your neat bugles shrilly,
Hounds make a lusty cry;

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Spring up, you falconers, the partridges freely,

Then let your brave hawks fly.

Now the deer falls; hark, how they ring!

CAST AWAY CARE.

CAST away care, he that loves sorrow
Lengthens not a day, nor can buy to-morrow;
Money is trash; and he that will spend it,
Let him drink merrily, Fortune will send it.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, O ho!

Play it off stiffly, we may not part so.

Wine is a charm, it heats the blood too,
Cowards it will arm, if the wine be good too;
Quickens the wit, and makes the back able,
Scorns to submit to the watch or constable.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, O ho!

Play it off stiffly, we may not part so.

Pots fly about, give us more liquor,

Brothers of a rout, our brains will flow quicker;
Empty the cask; score up, we care not;
Fill all the pots again; drink on and spare not.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, O ho!

Play it off stiffly, we may not part so.

From Christ Church MS. I. 4. 78; date uncertain.

TO TIME.

VICTORIOUS Time, whose wingèd feet do fly
More swift than eagles in the azure sky,
Haste to thy prey, why art thou tardy now
When all things to thy powerful fate do bow?
O give an end to cares and killing fears,
Shake thy dull sand, unravel those few years

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Are yet untold, since nought but discontents
Clouds all our earthly joys with sad laments,
That, when thy nimble hours shall cease to be,
We may be crowned with blest eternity.

THOMAS MAY, The Old Couple, 1658; acted 1625.

LOVE'S PRIME.

DEAR, do not your fair beauty wrong
In thinking still you are too young;
The rose and lily in your cheek
Flourish, and no more ripening seek;
Those flaming beams shot from your eye
Do show love's midsummer is nigh;
Your cherry-lip, red, soft, and sweet,
Proclaims such fruit for taste is meet;
Love is still young, a buxom boy,
And younglings are allowed to toy;
Then lose no time, for Love hath wings

And flies away from agèd things.

EDMUND WALLER, Poems, 1645; written 1627.

SONG.

STAY, Phoebus, stay!

The world to which you fly so fast,

Conveying day

From us to them, can pay your haste

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With no such object, nor salute your rise

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With no such wonder as De Mornay's eyes.