Ye little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phillis sweetly walks Within her garden-alleys; Go, pretty birds, about her bower; Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; Ah me! methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble. Go tell her through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so, See that your notes strain not too low. For still methinks I see her frown; Ye pretty wantons, warble. Go tune your voices’ harmony And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her: And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice: --Yet still methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble. O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber! Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder: Say to her, ’tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you! And when you hear her kind reply, Return with pleasant warblings. JOHN FLETCHER 1579-1625 _207._ _Sleep_ Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving Lock me in delight awhile; Let some pleasing dreams beguile All my fancies; that from thence I may feel an influence All my powers of care bereaving! Though but a shadow, but a sliding, Let me know some little joy! We that suffer long annoy Are contented with a thought Through an idle fancy wrought: O let my joys have some abiding! _208._ _Bridal Song_ Cynthia, to thy power and thee We obey. Joy to this great company! And no day Come to steal this night away Till the rites of love are ended, And the lusty bridegroom say, Welcome, light, of all befriended! Pace out, you watery powers below; Let your feet, Like the galleys when they row, Even beat; Let your unknown measures, set To the still winds, tell to all That gods are come, immortal, great, To honour this great nuptial! _209._ _Aspatia’s Song_ Lay a garland on my herse 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! _210._ _Hymn to 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.