MATIN-SONG From "The Rape of Lucrece"

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day, With night we banish sorrow.

Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To give my Love good-morrow!

Wings from the wind to please her mind Notes from the lark I'll borrow: Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast, Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each hill, let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow!

Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and c.o.c.k-sparrow, You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Sing, birds, in every furrow!

Thomas Heywood [?--1650?]

THE ROSE

Sweet, serene, sky-like flower, Haste to adorn her bower; From thy long-cloudy bed, Shoot forth thy damask head.

New-startled blush of Flora, The grief of pale Aurora (Who will contest no more), Haste, haste to strew her floor!

Vermilion ball that's given From lip to lip in Heaven; Love's couch's coverled, Haste, haste to make her bed.

Dear offspring of pleased Venus And jolly, plump Silenus, Haste, haste to deck the hair Of the only sweetly fair!

See! rosy is her bower, Her floor is all this flower Her bed a rosy nest By a bed of roses pressed.

But early as she dresses, Why fly you her bright tresses?

Ah! I have found, I fear,-- Because her cheeks are near.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]

SONG

See, see, she wakes! Sabina wakes!

And now the sun begins to rise; Less glorious is the morn that breaks From his bright beams, than her fair eyes.

With light united, day they give; But different fates ere night fulfil; How many by his warmth will live!

How many will her coldness kill!

William Congreve [1670-1729]

MARY MORISON

O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour!

Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stour A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison!

Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Though this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sighed, and said amang them a', "Ye arena Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?

Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee?

If love for love thou wiltna gie, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

WAKE, LADY!

Up! quit thy bower! late wears the hour, Long have the rooks cawed round the tower; O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee, And the wild kid sports merrily.

The sun is bright, the sky is clear: Wake, lady, wake! and hasten here.

Up! maiden fair, and bind thy hair, And rouse thee in the breezy air!

The lulling stream that soothed thy dream Is dancing in the sunny beam.

Waste not these hours, so fresh and gay; Leave thy soft couch, and haste away!

Up! Time will tell the morning bell Its service-sound has chimed well; The aged crone keeps house alone, The reapers to the fields are gone.

Lose not these hours, so cool and gay: Lo! while thou sleep'st they haste away!

Joanna Baillie [1762-1851]

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile-- Though shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still wear a smile And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks And mantle o'er her neck of snow: Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks What most I wish--and fear to know!

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!

Her fair hands folded on her breast: --And now, how like a saint she sleeps!

A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above control Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee: And may the secret of thy soul Remain within its sanctuary!

Samuel Rogers [1763-1855]