3 songs on British verse

Diana and her darlings dear
Walked once, as you shall hear,
Through woods and waters clear themselves to play.
The leaves were gay and green,
And pleasant to be seen,
They went the trees between in cool array.
So long that at the last they found a place
Of waters full clear:
So pure and fair a bath ne'er was found many a year.
There she went fair and gent
Her to sport as was her wonted sort,
In such desirous sort.
Thus goeth the report:
Diana dainteously began herself therein to bathe,
And her body for to lave, 
So curious and brave. 
As they in water stood, 
Bathing in their lively blood : 
Actaeon in the wood, 
chanc'd to come by: 
And view'd their bodies bare, 
Marveling what they were, 
And stil devoid of care, 
on them cast his eye : 
But when the Nymphs had perceived him, 
aloud then they cried, 
Enclosed her, and thought to hide her skin, 
which he had spied : 
But too true I tell you, 
She seen was, for in height she did pass
each dame of her race.
Hark then Actaeon's case
When Diana did perceivee where Acteon did stand
she took her bow in her hand, 
and to shoot she began. 
As she began to shoot,
Actaeon ran about, 
To hide he thought no boot,
his sights were dim: 
And as he thought to 'scape, 
Changed was Actaeon's shape, 
Such was unlucky fate, 
yielded to him : 
For Diana brought it thus to pass,
and play'd her part, 
So that poor Actaeon changed was 
to a hugie Hart, 
And did bear, naught but hair: 
In this change, which is as true as strange,
and thus did he range, 
abroad in total change;
By his very hunting dogs Actaeon was betorn:
deer and man, he died forlorn,
thus for him we all may mourn.

I am confirmed a woman can 
Love this, or that, or any other man ;
This day she's melting hot,
To-morrow swears she knows you not;
If she but a new object find,
Then straight she's of another mind.
  Then hang me, ladies, at your door,
  If e'er I doat upon you more.

Yet still I love the fairsome (why?
For nothing but to please my eye);
And so the fat and soft-skinn'd dame
I'll flatter to appease my flame ;
For she that's musical I'll long,
When I am sad, to sing a song.
  Then hang me, ladies, at your door,
  If e'er I doat upon you more.

I'll give my fancy leave to range
Through everywhere to find out change;
The black, the brown, the fair shall be
But objects of variety;
I'll court you all to serve my turn,
But with such flames as shall not burn.
  Then hang me, ladies, at your door,
  If e'er I doat upon you more.

[ ... ]

Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,
Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,
Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,
And winds, austere and pure:

Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,
Hills of home! and to hear again the call;
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,
And hear no more at all.