 | The Workes of Benjamin Jonson |  |
282
Song.
[VVake, our mirth begins to die]
VVake
, our mirth begins to die:
Quicken it with tunes, and wine:
Raise your notes, you're out: fie, fie,
This drowzinesse is an ill signe.
Wee banish him the Quire of Gods,
That droops agen:
Then all are men,
For here's not one, but nods.
Herm.
Quicken it with tunes, and wine:
Raise your notes, you're out: fie, fie,
This drowzinesse is an ill signe.
Wee banish him the Quire of Gods,
283
Then all are men,
For here's not one, but nods.
Then , in a free and loftie straine,
Our broken tunes we thus repaire;
Cris.
And we answere them againe,
Running division on the panting ayre:
Ambo.
To celebrate this feast of sence,
As free from scandall, as offence.
Herm.
Here is beautie for the eye;
Cris.
For the eare, sweet melodie;
Herm.
Ambrosiack odours, for the smell;
Cris.
Delicious Nectar, for the taste;
Ambo.
For the touch, a ladies waste;
Which doth all the rest excell!
| The Workes of Benjamin Jonson | |