U

MADRIGAL

From MERCHANT OF VENICE

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

JELL me where is Fancy bred,

Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourishèd? Reply, reply.

It is engender'd in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies:
Let us all ring Fancy's knell ;
I'll begin it, — ding, dong, bell.
-Ding, dong, bell.

WHO IS SYLVIA?

From THE Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

HO is Sylvia? what is she,

WHO

That all the swains commend her?

Holy, fair, and wise, is she;

The heavens such grace did lend her That she might adorèd be.

Is she kind, or is she fair?

For beauty lives with kindness. Love does to her eyes repair

To help him of his blindnessAnd, being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Sylvia let us sing
That Sylvia is excelling ;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling;
To her let us garlands bring.

HOW SHOULD I YOUR TRUE LOVE KNOW?

From HAMLET

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

OW should I your true love know

From another one?

By his cockle hat and staff,

And his sandal shoon.

He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone,

At his head a grass-green turf,

At his heels a stone.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,

Larded with sweet flowers,

Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.

A

THE NIGHTINGALE

From CYNTHIA, ETC.

RICHARD BARNFIELD

S it fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,

Trees did grow and plants did spring,
Everything did banish moan

Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefullest ditty
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;

Tereu, tereu, by and by:

That to hear her so complain

Scarce I could from tears refrain ;

For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.

- Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees they cannot hear thee;
King Pandion, he is dead,

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee
None alive will pity me.