Nature and Elements

Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.

I must go seek some dew drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.

I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and make him smile When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly foal: And sometimes lurk I in a gossip’s bowl, In very likeness of a roasted crab.

Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire.

To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon.

England, bound in with the triumphant sea, Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of watery Neptune.

The setting sun, and music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in remembrance more than things long past.

Saint George, that swing’d the dragon, and e’er since Sits on his horse back at mine hostess’ door.

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.

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, Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

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!

At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May’s newfangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows.

O! how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day!

Forward, I pray, since we have come so far, And be it moon, or sun, or what you please. And if you please to call it a rush-candle, Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.

Forward, I pray, since we have come so far, And be it moon, or sun, or what you please. And if you please to call it a rush-candle, Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.

The eagle suffers little birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby.

This silent war of lilies and of roses, Which Tarquin view’d in her fair face’s field.

The kingdom of perpetual night.

That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York.

The owl, night’s herald.

The owl, night’s herald.

The lamb will never cease to follow him.