From "Pleasant Dialogues and Dramas,” by Thomas HEYWOOD, 1607.

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,

With night we banish sorrow ;
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, larks, aloft,

To give my love good-morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,

Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing ; nightingale, sing,

To give my love good-morrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast;

Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill

Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird and thrush in every bus.,

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow;
You pretty elves, among yourselves,

Sing my fair love good-morrow.

I PRITHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART.

Sir John SUCKLING, born 1613, died 1641.
I PRITHEE send me back

my

heart,
Since I cannot have thine;
For if from yours you will not part,

Why, then, shouldst thou have mine?
Yet now I think on't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain ;
For thou'st a thief in either eye

Would steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one brcast lic,

And yet not lodge together ?
O Love! where is thy sympathy,

If thus our breasts thou sever?
But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out;
For when I think I'm best resolved,

Then I am most in doubt.
Then farewell care, and farewell wce;

I will no longer pine ;
For I'll believe I have her heart,

As much as she has mine.

THE DEW NO MORE SHALL WEEP.

RICHARD CRASHAW, born about 1615, died 1652.
The dew no more shall weep,

The primrose's pale cheek to deck;
The dew no more shall sleep,

Nuzzled in the lily's neck:
Much rather would it tremble here,
And leave them both to be thy tear.
Not the soft gold which

Steals from the amber-weeping tree,
Makcs sorrow half so rich

As the drops distill'd from thee:

Sorrow's best jewels be in these
Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keys.

When sorrow would be seen

In her bright majesty-
For she is a queen!

Then is she dress'd by none but thce:
Then, and only then, she wears
Her richest pearls ;--I mean, thy tears.

Not in the evening's eyes,

When they red with weeping are
For the sun that dies,

Sits Sorrow with a face so fair :
Nowhere but here doth meet
Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweci.

I NEVER YET COULD SEE THAT FACE.

ABRAHAM COWLEY, born 1618, died 1637.

I NEVER yet could see that face

Which had no dart for me ; From fifteen years to fifty's space,

They all victorious be.

Colour or shape, good limbs or faes,

Goodness or wit, in all I find; In motion or in speech a grace ;

If all fail, yet ’tis womankind.

If tall, the name of proper stays ;

If fair, she's pleasant as the light; If low, her prettiness does please ;

If black, what lover loves not night?

The fat, like plenty, fills my heart;

The lean, with love makes me too so; If straight, her body's Cupid's dart;

To me, if crooked, 'tis his bow.

Thus with unwearied wings I flee

Through all Love's garden and his fields;
And, like the wise industrious bee,

No weed but honey to me yields. This song is an abridgment of a poem in Cowley's “ Mistress," from which several incongruous stanzas and parts of anzas have been judiciously omitted by the music composer.

The glory of your ladies be

But metaphors of things,
And but resemble what we see

Each common object brings.
Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,

Lilies their whiteness stain : What fool is he that shadow seeks,

And may the substance gain ?
Then if thou'lt have me love a lass,

Let it be one that's kind;
Else I'm a servant to the glass
That's with canary

lined.

AH, HOW SWEET!

JOHN DRYDEN, born 1631, died 1701.
Az, how sweet it is to love!
Ah, how

young

desire ! And what pleasing pains we prove

When we first approach love's fire :
Pains of love are sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.

gay is

Sighs which are from lovers blown

Do but gently heave the heart; E’en the tears they shed alone

Cure, like trickling balm, their smart:
Lovers, when they lose their breath,
Bleed
away

in
easy

death.
Love and Time with reverence use,

Treat them like a parting friend ; Nor the golden gifts refuse

Which in youth sincere they send : For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before. Love, like spring-tides full and high,

Swells in every youthful vein ; But each tide does less supply,

Till they quite shrink in again. If a flow in age appear, 'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.