ALL ye woods, and trees, and bowers, All ye virtues and ye powers That inhabit in the lakes, In the pleasant springs or brakes, Move your feet To our sound, Whilst we greet, All this ground, With his honour and his name That defends our flocks from blame. He is great and he is just, He is ever good, and must Thus be honoured. Daffodillies, Roses, pinks, and loved lilies, Let us fling, Whilst we sing, Ever holy, Ever holy, Ever honoured, ever young! Thus great Pan is ever sung. ASPATIA'S SONG LAY a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say, I died true. My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth! _JOHN FLETCHER_ BEAUTY CLEAR AND FAIR BEAUTY clear and fair, Where the air Rather like a perfume dwells; Where the violet and the rose Their blue veins and blush disclose, And come to honour nothing else: Where to live near And planted there Is to live, and still live new; Where to gain a favour is More than light, perpetual bliss-- Make me live by serving you! Dear, again back recall To this light, A stranger to himself and all! Both the wonder and the story Shall be yours, and eke the glory; I am your servant, and your thrall. LET THE BELLS RING, AND LET THE BOYS SING LET the bells ring, and let the boys sing, The young lasses skip and play; Let the cups go round, till round goes the ground, Our learned old vicar will stay. Let the pig turn merrily, merrily, ah And let the fat goose swim; For verily, verily, verily, oh! Our vicar this day shall be trim. The stewed cock shall crow, cock-a-loodle-loo, A loud cock-a-loodle shall he crow; The duck and the drake shall swim in a lake Of onions and claret below. Our wives shall be neat, to bring in our meat To thee our most noble adviser; Our pains shall be great, and bottles shall sweat, And we ourselves will be wiser. We'll labour and smirk, we'll kiss and we'll drink, And tithes shall come thicker and thicker; We'll fall to our plough, and have children enow, And thou shalt be learned old vicar. WEEP NO MORE WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that's gone: Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again. Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see. Joys as winged dreams fly fast, Why should sadness longer last? Grief is but a wound to woe; Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe. PAN SING his praises that doth keep Our flocks from harm, Pan, the father of our sheep; And arm in arm Tread we softly in a round, Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground Fills the music with her sound. Pan, O great god Pan, to thee Thus do we sing! Thou who keep'st us chaste and free As the young spring: Ever be thy honour spoke, From that place the morn is broke, To that place day doth unyoke! GOD LYAEUS