Hark! now the wags abroad do call Each other forth to rambling; Anon you'll see them in the hall, For nuts and apples scrambling. Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound; Anon they'll think the house goes round, For they the cellar's depth have found, And there they will be merry! The wenches with their wassail bowls About the streets are singing; The boys are come to catch the owls; The wild mare in is bringing; Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box; And to the dealing of the ox Our honest neighbours come by flocks, And here they will be merry! Now kings and queens poor sheep-cots have, And mate with everybody; The honest now may play the knave, And wise men play the noddy. Some youths will now a-mumming go, Some others play at Rowland-bo, And twenty other game, boys, mo, Because they will be merry! Then wherefore, in these merry days, Should we, I pray, be duller? No, let us sing some roundelays To make our mirth the fuller: And, while we thus inspirèd sing, Let all the streets with echoes ring; Woods, and hills, and everything, Bear witness we are merry! ASK ME NO MORE THOMAS CAREW Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more, whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For, in pure love, heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more, whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more, where those stars light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere. Ask me no more, if east or west, The phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies. NIGHT-PIECE TO JULIA ROBERT HERRICK Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee! No Will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee, Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee! But on, on thy way, Not making a stay, Since ghost there is none to affright thee. Let not the dark thee cumber; What though the moon does slumber? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number. Then Julia let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me; And, when I shall meet Thy silvery feet, My soul I'll pour into thee. THE MAD MAID'S SONG Good-morrow to the day so fair, Good-morrow, sir, to you; Good-morrow to my own torn hair, Bedabbled all with dew. Good-morrow to this primrose too; Good-morrow to each maid That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid.