In another part of the same Play, the Fool gives also the Foote of other popular songs.

MOROS. THE FOOL.

I have twentie mo songs yet,
"A fond woman to my mother,"
As I war wont in her lappe to sit,
She taught me these and many other.

I can sing a song of Robin Redbreast,
And my little pretie Nightingale,

There dwelleth a jolly Foster here by the West,
Also, I com to drink som of your Christmas ale.
Whan I walke by my selfe alone,

It doth me good my songs to render.

In another part of the same Play, the Fool sings what follows, as a Catch, with other voyces:

FOOL.

I have a prety tytmouse

Come pecking on my to.

THREE OTHERS. Gossuppe with you I purpose

FOOL.

My brigle lieth on the selfe,
you will have any more,
Vouchsafe to sing it yourselfe,

If

For here you have all my stoare.

SONG.

Spring, the sweete spring, is the yeres pleasant king
Then bloomes eche thing, then maydes daunce in a ring,
Cold doeth not sting, the pretty birds doe sing
Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we to witta woo.

The palme and may make countrey houses gay,
Lambs friske and play, the shepherds pype all day,
And we heare aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we to witta woo

The fields breathe sweete, the dayzies kisse our feete,
Young lovers meete, old wives a sunning sit,

In

every streete these tunes our eares doe greete, Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we to witta woo.

Spring, the sweet spring.

From a pleasant Comedie, called Summers Last Will and Testament, by Thomas Nash. 1600.

SONG.

SONG.

OF NYMPHS TO DIANA.

Haile, beauteous Dian, queene of shades,
That dwells beneath these shadowie glades,
Mistresse of all these beauteous maids,
That are by her allowed.
Virginitie we all professe,

Adjure the worldlie vain excesse,
And will to Dyan yield no lesse

Then we to her have vowed.

The shepheards, satirs, nymphs and fawnes,
For thee will trip it ore the lawnes.

Come, to the forrest let us goe,
And trip it like the barren doe,
The fawnes and satirs still do so,

And freelie thus they may do.
The faries daunce, and satirs sing;
And on the grasse tread manie a ring,
And to their caves their venson bring;
And we will do as they do.
The shepheards, satirs, &c. &c.

Our food is honie from the bees,

And mellow fruits that drop from trees.
In chace we clime the high degrees

Of everie steepie mountaine.
And when the wearie day is past,
We at the evening hie us fast,
And after this our field repast
We drinke the pleasant fountain.
The shepheards, satirs, &c.

VOL. II.

E

From

From the Golden Age, a Historical Play, by

If love be banished the heart,

The joy of nature, not of art?
Whats honor, worth, or high descent,
Or ample wealth,

If cares do breed us discontent,
Or want of health?

D. It is the order of the fates,

That these should wait on highest states.

CHORUS. Love only does our soules refine,
And by his skill

Turnes humane things into divine,

And guides our will.

Then let us of his praises sing;

Of love that sweetens every thing.

From the Shepheards Holy-day, a Pastoral Tragi-comedy, by Joseph Rutter. 1635.

SONG.

CHOR.

CHOR.

CHOR.

CIOR.

SONG.

BY VENUS AND THE GRACES!

Come, lovely boy, unto my court,
And leave these uncouth woods, and all
That feed thy fancy with loves gall,
But keepe away the honey and the sport.

Come unto me,

And with variety

Thou shalt be fed, which nature loves and Í.

There is no musique in a voice

That is but one and still the same.

Inconstancy is but a name

To fright poore lovers from a better choice.

Come then to me, &c,

Orpheus that on Euridice

Spent all his love, on others scorne,
Now on the bankes of Heber torne,
Finds the reward of foolish constancy.

Come then to me

And sigh no more for one love lost,
I have a thousand Cupids here,
Shall recompence with better cheere

Thy mis-spent labours and thy better cost.
Come then to me-