Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept :
Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
And Titan on the eastern hill

Retires himself, or else stands still

Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying: Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark
How each field turns a street; each street a park
Made green, and trimmed with trees: see how
Devotion gives each house a bough

Or branch each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is

Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street,
And open fields, and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey
The proclamation made for May:

And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
Some have dispatched their cakes and cream,
Before that we have left to dream:

And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:

Many a green-gown has been given ;

Many a kiss, both odd and even :

9

Many a glance, too, has been sent

From out the eye, love's firmament:

Many a jest told of the keys betraying

This night, and locks picked :-yet we're not a Maying.

-Come, let us go, while we are in our prime ;
And take the harmless folly of the time!

We shall grow old apace, and die

Before we know our liberty.

Our life is short; and our days run
As fast away as does the sun :—
And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again :
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade :
All love, all liking, all delight

:

Lies drowned with us in endless night.

-Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,

Come, my Corinna! come, let's go a Maying.

R. Herrick.

THE SHEARING-FEAST.

(A Winter's Tale.)

FLORIZEL-POLIXENES-CAMILLO-SHEPHERD-PERDITA.

Shepherd. Fie, daughter! when my old wife lived, upon This day she was both pantler, butler, cook,

Both dame and servant; welcomed all, served all :
Would sing her song and dance her turn; now here,
At upper end o' the table, now i' the middle;

On his shoulder, and his; her face o' fire
With labour and the thing she took to quench it,
She would to each one sip. You are retired,
As if you were a feasted one and not
The hostess of the meeting: pray you, bid
These unknown friends to a welcome; for it is
A way to make us better friends, more known.
Come, quench your blushes and present yourself
That which you are, mistress o' the feast: come on,
And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,

As your good flock shall prosper.

Perdita.

[To Polixenes.] Sir, welcome :

It is my father's will I should take on me

The hostess-ship o' the day. [To Camillo.] You're welcome, sir.

Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend sirs,

For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep

Seeming and savour all the winter long:

Grace and remembrance be to you both,

And welcome to our shearing!

Polixenes.

Shepherdess,―

A fair one are you-well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter.

Perdita.

Sir, the year growing ancient,

Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth

Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' the season

Are our carnations, and streaked gillyvors,

Which some call nature's bastards; of that kind
Our rustic garden's barren; and I care not

To get slips of them.

Polixenes.

Do you neglect them?

Perdita.

Wherefore, gentle maiden,

For I have heard it said

There is an art which in their piedness shares
With great creating nature.

Polixenes.

Say there be;

Yet nature is made better by no mean

But nature makes that mean: so, over that art
Which you say adds to nature, is an art

That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry
A gentler scion to the wildest stock,

And make conceive a bark of baser kind

By bud of nobler race; this is an art

Which does mend nature, change it rather; but

The art itself is nature.

Polixenes. Then make your garden rich in gillyvors, And do not call them bastards.

Perdita.

I'll not put

The dibble in earth to set one slip of them;

No more than were I painted I would wish

This youth should say 'twere well and only therefore
Desire to breed by me. Here's flowers for you;
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram ;
The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun,
And with him rises weeping: these are flowers
Of middle summer, and, I think they are given
To men of middle age. You're very welcome.

Camillo. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,
And only live by gazing.

Perdita.

Out, alas!

You'ld be so lean, that blasts of January

Would blow you through and through. Now, my fair'st friend,

I would I had some flowers o' the spring that might

Become your time of day; and yours,

and yours,
That wear upon your virgin branches yet
Your maidenheads growing; O Proserpina,

For the flowers now, that, frighted thou let'st fall
From Dis's waggon! daffodils,

That come before the swallow dares, and take

The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength-a malady
Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and
The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,
The flower-de-luce being one! O, these I lack,
To make you garlands of; and my sweet friend,
To strew him o'er and o'er!

Florizel.

What, like a corse?

Perdita. No, like a bank for love to lie and play on; Not like a corse; or if, not to be buried,

But quick and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers: Methinks I play as I have seen them do

In Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mine

Doth change my disposition.

Florizel.

What you do

Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,

I'ld have you do it ever : when you sing,

I'ld have you buy and sell so, so give alms,

Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs,

To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do

Nothing but that; move still, still so,

And own no other function: each your doing,
So singular in each particular,

Crowns what you are doing in the present deed,
That all your acts are queens.

Perdita.

O Doricles,

Your praises are too large: but that your youth,
And the true blood which peepeth fairly through 't,

Do plainly give you out an unstained shepherd,

With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,

You wooed me the false way.