WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY

Oliver Goldsmith 1728-74

When lovely woman stoops to folly

And finds too late that men betray,

What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt can cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,

To give repentance to her lover

And wring his bosom is - to die.

-o0o-

DRAKE’S DRUM

 Henry Newbolt 1862-1938

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,    

    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)    

Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,    

    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.    

Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,             

    Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,    

An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin'    

    He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.    

  

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,    

    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),      

Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,    

    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe,    

"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,    

    Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;    

If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,      

    An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."     

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,    

    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),    

Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,    

    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.      

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,    

    Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;    

Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',    

    They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.    

-o=0=o-

ODE TO AUTUMN
John Keats 1795-1821 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

-o0o-

GOLDEN SLUMBERS

Thomas Dekker 1572-1632

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, 

Smiles awake you when you rise ; 

Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 

And I will sing a lullaby, 

Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you, 

You are care, and care must keep you ; 

Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 

And I will sing a lullaby, 

Rock them, rock them, lullaby.   

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-