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78
(„AS YOU LIKE IT").
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth it not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As beneflts forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend rememberM not.
(„CYMBELINE«).
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate
And Phoebus ’gins arise,
sings,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that Hes;
And winking mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With every thing that pretty is,
My Lady sweet, arise:
Arise, arise!
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