Slender's Ghost. Vide Shakespeare

Beneath a churchyard yew, Decay'd and worn with age, At dusk of eve methought I spy'd Poor Slender's Ghost, that whimp'ring cry'd, " O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"

Ye gentle Bards! give ear, Who talk of am'rous rage, Who spoil the lily, rob the rose, Come learn of me to weep your woes: " O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"

Why should such labour'd strains Your formal Muse engage? I never dream'd of flame or dart, That fir'd my breast or pierc'd my heart, But sigh'd, "O sweet Anne Page!"

And you! whose love-sick minds No med'cine can assuage, Accuse the leech's art no more, But learn of Slender to deplore; " O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"

And ye! whose souls are held Like linnets in a cage, Who talk of fetters, links, and chains, Attend, and imitate my strains; " O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"

And you! who boast or grieve What horrid wars ye wage, Of wounds receiv'd from many an eye, Yet mean as I do, when I sigh " O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"

Hence ev'ry fond conceit Of shepherd or of sage; 'Tis Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way, Expresses all you have to say, " O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"