O pass not by, but from your eye
Be pity’s gracious virtue shed!
Let me not harp in vain; for blest
Is he alone who gives away;
And may this merry Easter-feast
Be for the poor no fasting day!
Another Burgher.
Upon a Sunday or a holiday,
No better talk I know than war and warlike rumors,
When in Turkey far away,
The nations fight out their ill humors.
We sit i’ the window, sip our glass at ease,
And see how down the stream the gay ships gently glide;
Then wend us safely home at even-tide,
Blessing our stars we live in times of peace.
Third Burgher.
Yea, neighbor, there you speak right wisely;
Ev’n so do I opine precisely.
They may split their skulls, they may,
And turn the world upside down,
So long as we, in our good town,
Keep jogging in the good old way.
Old Woman. [to the Burghers’ Daughters.]
Hey-day, how fine! these be of gentle stuff,
The eyes that would not look on you are blind.
Only not quite so high! ’Tis well enough—
And what you wish I think I know to find.
First Burgher’s Daughter.
Agatha, come! I choose not to be seen
With such old hags upon the public green;
Though on St. Andrew’s night she let me see
My future lover bodily.
Second Burgher’s Daughter.
Mine too, bold, soldier-like, she made to pass,
With his wild mates, before me in a glass;
I hunt him out from place to place,
But nowhere yet he shows his face.
Soldiers.
Castles and turrets
And battlements high,
