A little more toward the light;-- Me miserable! Here's one that's white; And one that's turning; Adieu to song and "salad days;" My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's, And order mourning. We must reform our rhymes, my Dear,-- Renounce the gay for the severe,-- Be grave, not witty; We have, no more, the right to find That Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined,-- That Chloe's pretty. Young Love's for us a farce that's played; Light canzonet and serenade No more may tempt us; Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams; From aught but sour didactic themes Our years exempt us. Indeed! you really fancy so? You think for one white streak we grow At once satiric? A fiddlestick! Each hair's a string To which our ancient Muse shall sing A younger lyric. The heart's still sound. Shall "cakes and ale" Grow rare to youth because _we_ rail At schoolboy dishes? Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chant When neither Time nor Tide can grant Belief with wishes. VARIA. THE MALTWORM'S MADRIGAL. I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe; At noon I dream on the settle; at night I cannot sleep; For my love, my love it groweth; I waste me all the day; And when I see sweet Alison, I know not what to say. The sparrow when he spieth his Dear upon the tree, He beateth-to his little wing; he chirketh lustily; But when I see sweet Alison, the words begin to fail; I wot that I shall die of Love--an I die not of Ale. Her lips are like the muscadel; her brows are black as ink; Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink; But when she sees me coming, she shrilleth out--"Te-Hee! Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me?" "Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin! Why be thine eyes so small? Why go thy legs tap-lappetty like men that fear to fall? Why is thy leathern doublet besmeared with stain and spot? Go to. Thou art no man (she saith)--thou art a Pottle-pot!" "No man," i'faith. "No man!" she saith. And "Pottle-pot" thereto! "Thou sleepest like our dog all day; thou drink'st as fishes do." I would that I were Tibb the dog; he wags at her his tail; Or would that I were fish, in truth, and all the sea were Ale! So I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe; All day I dream in the sunlight; I dream and eke I weep, But little lore of loving can any flagon teach, For when my tongue is loosed most, then most I lose my speech. AN APRIL PASTORAL.