He, making speedy way through spersed ayre,
  And through the world of waters wide and deepe,
  To Morpheus’ house doth hastily repaire: 
  Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe
  And low, where dawning day doth never peepe,
  His dwelling is; there Tethys his wet bed
  Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steepe
  In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed,
  Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black doth spred....

  And more to lulle him in his slumber soft,
  A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe,
  And ever-drizling raine upon the loft,
  Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne
  Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne. 
  No other noyse, nor people’s troublous cryes,
  As still are wont t’annoy the walled towne,
  Might there be heard; but careless quiet lyes
  Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enimyes.

[Footnote 94:  Rejoice.] [Footnote 95:  First, formerly.] [Footnote 96:  Spring.]

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.

SONNET XC.

  Then hate me when thou wilt:  if ever, now: 
    Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
  Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
    And do not drop in for an after loss. 
  Ah! do not when my heart hath scaped this sorrow,
    Come in the rearward of a conquered woe;
  Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
    To linger out a purposed overthrow. 
  If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
    When other petty griefs have done their spite;
  But in the onset come:  So shall I taste
    At first the very worst of fortune’s might;
  And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
    Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so.

SONG.

[From As You Like It.]

  Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
  Thou art not so unkind
      As man’s ingratitude;
  Thy tooth is not so keen,
  Because thou art not seen
      Although thy breath be rude. 
  Heigh ho!  Sing heigh ho! unto the green holly: 
  Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly,
  Then heigh ho! the holly! 
  This life is most jolly.

  Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
  Thou dost not bite so nigh
      As benefits forgot;
  Though thou the waters warp,
  Thy sting is not so sharp
      As friend remembered not. 
  Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! etc.

THE SLEEP OF KINGS.

[From Henry IV.—­Part II.]

  How many thousand of my poorest subjects
  Are at this hour asleep!  O sleep, O gentle sleep,
  Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
  That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
  And steep my senses in forgetfulness? 
  Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky