APPENDIX 
171 
When daisies pied and violets blue 
And lady-smocks all silver-white 
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue 
Do paint the meadows with delight. 
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws. 
ii. 904. 
ii. 913. 
When all aloud the wind doth blow 
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw 
And birds sit brooding in the snow 
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw, 
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
Tu-whit; 
Tu-who, a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 
V. ii. 931. 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 
But earthlier happy is the rose distill’d, 
Than that which withering on the virgin thorn 
Grows, lives and dies in single blessedness. 
I. i. 76. 
Lys. How now, my love ! Why is your cheek so pale ? 
How chance the roses there to fade so fast ? 
I. i. 128. 
And your tongue’s sweet air 
More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear, 
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. 
I. i. 183. 
Lys. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold : 
To-morrow night, when Phoebe doth behold 
Her silver visage in the wat’ry glass, 
Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass, 
A time that lovers’ flights doth still conceal, 
Through Athens’ gates have we devis’d to steal. 
Her. And in the wood, where often you and I 
Upon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie, 
Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet, 
There my Lysander and myself shall meet. 
I. i. 208. 
Bot. I will discharge it either in your straw-colour beard, 
your orange-tawny beard. 
I. ii. 93. 
