Orpheus, with his Lute
(King Henry VIII)
Orpheus, with his lute, made trees
And the mountain tops that freeze
Bow themselves, when he did sing;
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung, as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring;
Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart.
Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.
When Icicles Hang by the Wall
(Love’s Labour Lost)
1. When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick, the shepherd, blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-who!
Tu-whit! to-who! A merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
2. When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing, drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-who!
Tu-whit! to-who! A merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
Come Away, Come Away, Death
(Twelfth Night)
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath,
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it;
My part of death, no one so true,
did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, oh, where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.
When Daisies Pied
(Love’s Labour Lost)
When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And ladysmocks all silver white,
And cuckoo buds of yellow hue,
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo, then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he,
Cuckoo,
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,
And turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo, then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he,
Cuckoo,
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.
Who Is Silvia
(Two Gentlemen of Verona)
Who is Silvia? what is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Who is Silvia? what is she?
Holy, fair and wise is she;
The heavens such grace did lend her,
That she might admired be.
Is she kind as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness.
Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness;
And, being helped, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling;
To her let us garlands bring.
Fear No More the Heat o’ th’ Sun
(Cymbeline)
Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done;
Home art gone and ta’en thy wages.
Golden lads and girls all must
As chimney sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o’ th’ great,
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke.
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak.
The sceptre, learning, physick, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone.
Fear not slander, censure rash,
Thou hast finished joy and moan.
Ah, lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee,
Nor no witchcraft charm thee.
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have,
And renowned be thy grave!
Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind
(As You Like It)
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho, sing, heigh-ho, unto the green holly,
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly;
Then heigh-ho, the holly,
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot;
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho, sing, heigh-ho, unto the green holly,
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly;
Then heigh-ho, the holly,
This life is most jolly.
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
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