400.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
The wanton smiled, father wept
Mother cried, baby leapt;

More he crow'd, more we cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide:
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bliss,
For he left his pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

R. Greene

A Sweet Lullaby

'OME little babe, come, silly soul,

CON

Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,

Born as I doubt to all our dole,

And to thyself unhappy chief:

Sing lullaby and lap it warm,

Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.

Thou little think'st and less dost know
The cause of this thy mother's moan;
Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,
And I myself am all alone:

Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?
And know'st not yet what dost thou ail?

Come little wretch,

ah silly heart! Mine only joy, what can I more? If there be any wrong thy smart, That may the destinies implore: 'Twas I, I say, against my will; I wail the time, but be thou still.

And dost thou smile? O, thy sweet face!
Would God himself he might thee see!-
No doubt thou soon wouldst purchase grace,
I know right well, for thee and me:

But come to mother, babe, and play,
For father false is fled away.

Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance
Thy father home again to send,
If death do strike me with his lance,
Yet mayst thou me to him commend:
If any ask thy mother's name,

Tell how by love she purchased blame.

Then will his gentle heart soon yield:
I know him of a noble mind:

Although a lion in the field,

A lamb in town thou shalt him find;
Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid,
His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.

Then mayst thou joy and be right glad,
Although in woe I seem to moan;

401.

Thy father is no rascal lad,

A noble youth of blood and bone:
His glancing looks, if he once smile,
Right honest women may beguile.

Come, little boy, and rock asleep;
Sing lullaby and be thou still;
I, that can do naught else but weep,
Will sit by thee and wail my fill:
God bless my babe, and lullaby
From this thy father's quality.

N. Breton

A Child's Grace

ERE a little child I stand

HER

Heaving up my either hand;

Cold as paddocks though they be,

Yet I lift them up to Thee,

For a benison to fall

On our meat and on us all. Amen.

R. Herrick

402. When That I Was and a Little Tiny

Boy

HEN that I was and a little tiny boy,

WHEN

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

A foolish thing was but a toy,

For the rain it raineth every day.

403.

But when I came to man's estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came unto my beds,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain it raineth every day.

A

great while ago the world begun,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

But that's all one, our play is done,

And we'll strive to please you every day.

WHEN

Music

W. Shakespeare

HEN whispering strains with weeping wind
Distil soft passions through the heart;

And when at every touch we find

Our pulses beat and bear a part
When threads can make

A heart-string ache,

Philosophy

Can scarce deny

Our souls are made of harmony.

When unto heavenly joys we faine
Whate'er the soul affecteth most,
Which only thus we can explain
By music of the heavenly host;
Whose lays we think
Make stars to wink,
Philosophy

Can scarce deny

Our souls consist of harmony.

O, lull me, lull me, charming air!
My senses rock with wonder sweet;
Like snow on wool thy fallings are;
Soft like a spirit's are thy feet!
Grief who needs fear

That hath an ear ?

Down let him lie,

And slumbering die,

And change his soul for harmony.

W. Strode

404. Music to Hear, Why hear'st Thou

M

Music Sadly?

USIC to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly, Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?

If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,

They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.