To Phyllis

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.

Oh 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.

EAUTY clear and fair,

Where the air

Rather like a perfume dwells;
Where the violet and the rose
Their blue veins in blush disclose,
And come to honour nothing else;

Where to live near,

And planted there,

Is to live, and still live new;
Where to gain a favour is

More than light, perpetual bliss, -
Make me live by serving you.

Dear, again back recall

To this light,

A stranger to himself and all.

Both the wonder and the story

Shall be yours, and eke the glory;
I am your servant, and your thrall.

- Beaumont and Fletcher.

Invocation to Sleep

ARE-CHARMING Sleep, thou easer

of all woes,

Brother to Death, sweetly thyself

dispose

On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud

Or painful to his slumbers; - easy, sweet, And as a purling stream, thou son of night,

Pass by his troubled senses; sing his

pain

Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumber like a bride!

— Beaumont and Fletcher.