English

Come out and walk. The last few drops of light
Drain silently out of the cloudy blue;
The trees are full of the dark-stooping night,
— — The fields are wet with dew.

All's quiet in the wood, but, far away,
Down the hillside and out across the plain,
Moves, with long trail of white that marks its way,
— — The softly panting train.

Come through the clearing. Hardly now we see
The flowers, save dark or light against the grass,
Or glimmering silver on a scented tree,
— — That trembles as we pass.

Come on, ye critics! Find one fault who dare,
For, read it backward like a witch's prayer,
'Twill do as well; throw not away your jests
On solid nonsense that abides all tests.
Wit, like tierce claret, when't begins to pall,
Neglected lies and's of no use at all;
But in its full perfection of decay,
Turns vinegar and comes again in play.
This simile shall stand in thy defence
'Gainst such dull rogues as now and then write sense.
He lies, dear Ned, who says thy brain is barren,
Where deep conceits, like vermin, breed in carren;

Come on, mama
Out to the edge of town
Come on, mama
Go to the edge of town
I know where there's a bird nest
Builded on the ground

If I was a bird, mama

If I was a bird, mama, I would
Find a nest in the heart of town
(Lord you gonna build it in the heart of town)
So when the times get lonesome
I'd be bird nest bound

Hard luck is at your front door
Blues are in your room
Hard luck is at your front door
Blues are in your room
Parted at your back door, what is

Come now, and let us wake them: time
It is that they arise!
But gently to the window climb,
Where love with love together sleeping lies.

I heard a gently flowing river:
Methought it was the Rhine.
And at her window, with his quiver,
Stood Cupid shooting at a love of mine.

I brake three lilies from their stem,
And in at the window threw:
Sleeping or waking, cherish them;
And rise, sweet love, and let me in to you.

" How would it be, were I asleep,
And could not let you in?

Come not to me for scarfs, nor plumes,
Nor from the needy look for gould;
Incense wee have, but noe perfumes,
Nor noe such fleece in all our Fold,
As Jason wonn,
But wooll home spunn
To keepe us from the winters cold;
And when our garments should be thinne,
We leave the Fleece and take the skinn;

Which heere we neither pinke, nor race,
Unlesse a bramble or a thorne,
Deriding of the printers place,
Supply his offices in scorne;
Nor yet much lesse
Strive to possesse

Come not near my songs,
You who are not my lover,
Lest from out that ambush
Leaps my heart upon you!

When my songs are glowing
As an almond thicket
With the bloom upon it,
Lies my heart in ambush
All amid my singing;
Come not near my songs,
You who are not my lover!

Do not hear my songs,
You who are not my lover,
Over-sweet the heart is
Where my love has bruised it,
Breathe you not that fragrance,
You who are not my lover!
Do not stoop above my heart
With its languor on you,

‘Come, neighbours, no longer be patient and quiet,
Come let us go kick up a bit of a riot;
I am hungry, my lads, but I've little to eat,
So we'll pull down the mills and seize all the meat:
I'll give you good sport, boys, as ever you saw,
So a fig for the justice, a fig for the law.’

Then his pitchfork Tom seized—‘Hold a moment,’ says Jack,
‘I'll show thee thy blunder, brave boy, in a crack.
And if I don't prove we had better be still,
I'll assist thee straightway to pull down every mill;

‘Come my own one, come my fond one,
Come my dearest unto me.
Will you wed with a jolly sailor lad
That's just returned from sea?’

‘You are ragged, love, you are dirty, love,
And you smell so much of the tar.
So begone, you saucy sailor boy,
So begone, you Jack Tar.’

‘If I'm ragged, love, if I'm dirty, love,
If I smell so much of the tar,
I got silver in my pocket, love,
And gold in bright store.’

So when she heard these words come from him,
On her bended knees she fell.

Come, my little Robert, near--
Fie! what filthy hands are here!
Who that e'er could understand
The rare structure of a hand,
With its branching fingers fine,
Work itself of hands divine,
Strong, yet delicately knit,
For ten thousand uses fit,
Overlaid with so clear skin
You may see the blood within,
And the curious palm, disposed
In such lines, some have supposed
You may read the fortunes there
By the figures that appear--
Who this hand would choose to cover
With a crust of dirt all over,

GOING TO TOWN ON A SUMMER'S MORNING .

ISAAC .

Come , Marget, come! — the team is at the gate;
Not ready yet — you always make me wait!

MARGET .

It is not later than the time you set;
For see the hour-glass! — see, 'tis running yet.
It took me up more time to feed thy jay,
Than you for Marget willingly would stay;
But when he learns to talk, his head I'll fill