Prologue
Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou
thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone,
and ta’en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers come to dust.
To Meadows
Ye have been fresh and green,
Ye have been fill’d with flowers:
And ye the Walks have been
Where Maids have spent their hours.
You have beheld, how they
With Wicker Arks did come
To kiss, and bear away
The richer Cowslips home.
Y’ave heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a Round:
Each Virgin, like a Spring,
With honey-suckles crown’d.
But now, we see, none here,
Whose silv’ry feet did tread,
And with dishevell’d Hair,
Adorn’d this smoother Mead.
Like Unthrifts, having spent
Your stock, and needy grown,
Y’are left here to lament
Your poor estates, alone. (Robert Herrick)
Interlude
Fear no more the frown o’ the great,
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak;
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finish’d joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone:
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.
White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded with sweet flowers:
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone:
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a
stone. (William Shakespeare from Hamlet)
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven’s sun doth gently
waste.
But my sun’s heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping
Softly! now softly lies sleeping!
Sleep is a reconciling,
A rest that peace begets;
Doth not the sun rise smiling,
When fair at e’en he sets?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes!
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping
Softly! now softly lies sleeping! (Anonymous)
Epilogue
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave! (William Shakespeare from Cymbeline)
© Christopher Brown 2011