If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, Sit thee down and put them on; And Christe receive thy saule. If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane, The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane; From Whinny-muir when thou may'st pass, To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last; From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass, To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last; And Christe receive thy saule. I2 16 20 24 If ever thou gavest meat or drink, -Every nighte and alle, The fire sall never make thee shrink; And Christe receive thy saule. 28 If meat or drink thou ne'er gav'st nane, The fire will burn thee to the bare bane; 32 1623. THE SUN" From Cymbeline FEAR no more the heat o' the sun, Thou thy worldly task hast done, Fear no more the frown o' the great, To thee the reed is as the oak: Fear no more the lightning-flash Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Thou hast finished joy and moan: William Shakespeare. 12 18 1623. A SEA DIRGE From The Tempest FULL fathom five thy father lies: But doth suffer a sea-change bell! William Shakespeare. THE SHROUDING OF THE From The Duchess of Malfi HARK! Now everything is still, The screech-owl and the whistler shrill, Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly don her shroud! Much you had of land and rent; Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping? And the foul end more to check A crucifix let bless your neck: 'T is now full tide 'tween night and day; End your groan and come away. 1612? 1623. 8 34 18 John Webster. A DIRGE From The White Devil. CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren, The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And (when gay tombs are robb’d) sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that 's foe to men, For with his nails he 'll dig them up again. 1612. John Webster. MINSTREL'S SONG From Ella Он sing unto my roundelay! Oh drop the briny tear with me! Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; Oh! he lies by the willow-tree! ΙΟ 7 II 15 Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing 19 |