The Blossom

The Blossom

by William Shakespeare

ON a day--alack the day!--

Love, whose month is ever May,

Spied a blossom passing fair

Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind

All unseen 'gan passage find;

That the lover, sick to death,

Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.

Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;

Air, would I might triumph so!

But, alack, my hand is sworn

Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:

Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;

Youth so apt to pluck a sweet!

Do not call it sin in me

That I am forsworn for thee;

Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear

Juno but an Ethiop were;

And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love.

Spring and Winter

WHEN daisies pied and violets blue,

And lady-smocks 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,

When 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!

Three Songs

Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands:

Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd,--

The wild waves whist--

Foot it featly here and there;

And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.

Hark, hark!

Bow, wow,

The watch-dogs bark:

Bow, wow.

Hark, hark! I hear

The strain of strutting chanticleer

Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!

--from The Tempest

Tell me where is Fancy bred,

Or in the heart or in the head?

How begot, how nourishèd?

Reply, reply.

It is engender'd in the eyes;

With gazing fed; and Fancy dies

In the cradle where it lies.

Let us all ring Fancy's knell:

I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell!

All. Ding, dong, bell!

--from The Merchant of Venice

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:

In a cowslip's bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily:

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

-from The Tempest