I gave my love a cherry That had no stone I gave my love a chicken That had no bone I told my love a story That had no end I gave my love a baby With no crying.
How can there be a cherry That has no stone? And how can there be a chicken That has no bone? And how can there be a story That has no end? And how can there be a baby With no crying?
A cherry when it's blooming It has no stone A chicken when in the shell It has no bone The story of how I love you It has no end A baby when it's sleeping It's not crying.
O where ha you been, Lord Randal, my son! And where ha you been, my handsome young man!" "I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down."
"An wha met ye there, Lord Randal, my son? An wha met you there, my handsome young man?" "O I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down."
"And what did she give you, Lord Randal, my son? And what did she give you, my handsome young man?" "Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down."
"O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son! I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!" "O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down."
"What d'ye leave to your mother, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?" "Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"
"What d'ye leave to your sister, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?" "My gold and my silver; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"
"What d'ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?" "My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"
"What d'ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal my son? What d'ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man? "I leave her hell and fire; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"
"The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" Christopher Marlowe
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.
To Celia A Romance Poem Rendered in English by Ben Jonson
1....Drink to me only with thine eyes, 2....And I will pledge with mine; 3....Or leave a kiss within the cup, 4....And I'll not ask for wine 5....The thirst that from the soul doth rise, 6....Doth crave a drink divine; 7....But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 8....I would not change for thine
9....I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 10..Not so much honoring thee 11..As giving it a hope that there 12..It could not withered be; 13..But thou thereon didst only breathe 14..And sent'st back to me, 15..Since when it grows and smells, I swear, 16..Not of itself, but thee
"For Whom the Bell Tolls" Meditation XVII by John Donne
No man is an island
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less,
As well as if a promontory were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
SONG. by John Donne
GO and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the devil's foot, Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee, Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me, All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear, No where Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know, Such a pilgrimage were sweet; Yet do not, I would not go, Though at next door we might meet, Though she were true, when you met her, And last, till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two, or three.
TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME by Robert Herrick
GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying : And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may go marry : For having lost but once your prime You may for ever tarry.
On His Blindness by John Milton
WHEN I consider how my light is spent
E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State