Chapter XI: Introduction: To the Poem on the Soul of Man (3)

17 But now, then, for these parts he must
Be enstyled Lewis the Just,
Great Henry's lawful heir;
When to his style to add more words,
They'd better call him King of Birds,
Than of the great Navarre.

18 He hath besides a pretty quirk,
Taught him by nature, how to work
In iron with much ease;
Sometimes to the forge he goes,
There he knocks and there he blows,
And makes both locks and keys;

19 Which puts a doubt in every one,
Whether he be Mars' or Vulcan's son,
Some few believe his mother;
But let them all say what they will,
I came resolved, and so think still,
As much the one as th' other.

20 The people too dislike the youth,
Alleging reasons, for, in truth,
Mothers should honour'd be;
Yet others say, he loves her rather
As well as ere she loved her father,
And that's notoriously.

21 His queen,[1] a pretty little wench,
Was born in Spain, speaks little French,
She's ne'er like to be mother;
For her incestuous house could not
Have children which were not begot
By uncle or by brother.

22 Nor why should Lewis, being so just,
Content himself to take his lust
With his Lucina's mate,
And suffer his little pretty queen,
From all her race that yet hath been,
So to degenerate?

23 'Twere charity for to be known
To love others' children as his own,
And why? it is no shame,
Unless that he would greater be
Than was his father Henery,
Who, men thought, did the same.

[1] Anne of Austria.

FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES.

1 Farewell, rewards and fairies,
Good housewives now may say,
For now foul sluts in dairies
Do fare as well as they.
And though they sweep their hearths no less
Than maids were wont to do,
Yet who of late, for cleanliness,
Finds sixpence in her shoe?

2 Lament, lament, old Abbeys,
The fairies lost command;
They did but change priests' babies,
But some have changed your land;
And all your children sprung from thence
Are now grown Puritans;
Who live as changelings ever since,
For love of your domains.

3 At morning and at evening both,
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleep or sloth
These pretty ladies had;
When Tom came home from labour,
Or Cis to milking rose,
Then merrily went their tabor,
And nimbly went their toes.

4 Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary's days
On many a grassy plain;
But since of late Elizabeth,
And later, James came in,
They never danced on any heath
As when the time hath been.

5 By which we note the fairies
Were of the old profession,
Their songs were Ave-Maries,
Their dances were procession:
But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas;
Or further for religion fled,
Or else they take their ease.

6 A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure,
And whoso kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punish'd sure;
It was a just and Christian deed,
To pinch such black and blue:
Oh, how the commonwealth doth need
Such justices as you!

BEN JONSON.

As 'rare Ben' chiefly shone as a dramatist, we need not recount at length the events of his life. He was born in 1574; his father, who had been a clergyman in Westminster, and was sprung from a Scotch family in Annandale, having died before his birth. His mother marrying a bricklayer, Ben was brought up to the same employment. Disliking this, he enlisted in the army, and served with credit in the Low Countries. When he came home, he entered St John's College, Cambridge; but his stay there must have been short, since he is found in London at the age of twenty, married, and acting on the stage. He began at the same time to write dramas. He was unlucky enough to quarrel with and kill another performer, for which he was committed to prison, but released without a trial. He resumed his labours as a writer for the stage; but having failed in the acting department, he forsook it for ever. His first hit was, 'Every Man in his Humour,' a play enacted in 1598, Shakspeare being one of the actors. His course afterwards was chequered. He quarrelled with Marston and Dekker,--he was imprisoned for some reflections on the Scottish nation in one of his comedies,--he was appointed in 1619 poet- laureate, with a pension of 100 marks,--he made the same year a journey to Scotland on foot, where he visited Drummond at Hawthornden, and they seem to have mutually loathed each other,'--he fell into habits of intemperance, and acquired, as he said himself,

'A mountain belly and a rocky face.'

His favourite haunts were the Mermaid, and the Falcon Tavern, Southwark. He was engaged in constant squabbles with his contemporaries, and died at last, in 1637, in miserably poor circumstances. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, under a square tablet, where one of his admirers afterwards inscribed the words,

'O rare Ben Jonson!'

Of his powers as a dramatist we need not speak, but present our readers with some rough and racy specimens of his poetry.

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother; Death! ere thou hast slain another, Learn'd and fair, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee!

THE PICTURE OF THE BODY.

Sitting, and ready to be drawn, What make these velvets, silks, and lawn, Embroideries, feathers, fringes, lace, Where every limb takes like a face?

Send these suspected helps to aid Some form defective, or decay'd; This beauty, without falsehood fair, Needs nought to clothe it but the air.

Yet something to the painter's view, Were fitly interposed; so new, He shall, if he can understand, Work by my fancy, with his hand.

Draw first a cloud, all save her neck, And, out of that, make day to break; Till like her face it do appear, And men may think all light rose there.

Then let the beams of that disperse The cloud, and show the universe; But at such distance, as the eye May rather yet adore, than spy.

TO PENSHURST.

(FROM 'THE FOREST')

Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row Of polish'd pillars, or a roof of gold: Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told; Or stair, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile, And these grudged at, are reverenced the while. Thou joy'st in better marks of soil and air, Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair. Thou hast thy walks for health as well as sport; Thy mount to which the dryads do resort, Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade; That taller tree which of a nut was set At his great birth where all the Muses met. There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names Of many a Sylvan token with his flames. And thence the ruddy Satyrs oft provoke The lighter Fauns to reach thy Ladies' Oak. Thy copse, too, named of Gamage, thou hast here That never fails, to serve thee, season'd deer, When thou would'st feast or exercise thy friends. The lower land that to the river bends, Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed: The middle ground thy mares and horses breed. Each bank doth yield thee conies, and the tops Fertile of wood. Ashore, and Sidney's copse, To crown thy open table doth provide The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side: The painted partridge lies in every field, And, for thy mess, is willing to be kill'd. And if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish, Thou hast thy ponds that pay thee tribute fish, Fat, aged carps that run into thy net, And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat, As both the second draught or cast to stay, Officiously, at first, themselves betray. Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land, Before the fisher, or into his hand. Thou hast thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. The early cherry with the later plum, Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come: The blushing apricot and woolly peach Hang on thy walls that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the country stone, They're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's groan; There's none that dwell about them wish them down; But all come in, the farmer and the clown, And no one empty-handed, to salute Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. Some bring a capon, some a rural cake, Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make The better cheeses, bring them, or else send By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend This way to husbands; and whose baskets bear An emblem of themselves, in plum or pear. But what can this (more than express their love) Add to thy free provision, far above The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow With all that hospitality doth know! Where comes no guest but is allow'd to eat Without his fear, and of thy lord's own meat: Where the same beer, and bread, and selfsame wine That is his lordship's shall be also mine. And I not fain to sit (as some this day At great men's tables) and yet dine away. Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by, A waiter doth my gluttony envy: But gives me what I call, and lets me eat; He knows below he shall find plenty of meat; Thy tables hoard not up for the next day, Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray For fire, or lights, or livery: all is there, As if thou, then, wert mine, or I reign'd here. There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay. This found King James, when hunting late this way With his brave son, the Prince; they saw thy fires Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires Of thy Penates had been set on flame To entertain them; or the country came, With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here. What (great, I will not say, but) sudden cheer Did'st thou then make them! and what praise was heap'd On thy good lady then, who therein reap'd The just reward of her high housewifery; To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh, When she was far; and not a room but drest As if it had expected such a guest! These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all; Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste withal. His children * * * * * have been taught religion; thence Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence. Each morn and even they are taught to pray, With the whole household, and may, every day, Head, in their virtuous parents' noble parts, The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts. Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see Those proud ambitious heaps, and nothing else, May say their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US.

To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor Muse can praise too much, 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest ignorance on these would light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise. But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. I therefore will begin: Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakspeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further off, to make thee room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still, while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, I mean with great but disproportion'd Muses: For if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine, Or sporting Kyd or Marlow's mighty line, And though thou had small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honour thee I will not seek For names; but call forth thund'ring Aeschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To live again, to hear thy buskin tread, And shake a stage: or when thy socks were on Leave thee alone for the comparison Of all, that insolent Greece or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age, but for all time! And all the Muses still were in their prime, When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury, to charm! Nature herself was proud of his designs, And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines, Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please; But antiquated and deserted lie, As they were not of nature's family, Yet must I not give nature all; thy art, My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part, For though the poet's matter nature be, His art doth give the fashion; and, that he Who casts to write a living line, must sweat (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same, And himself with it, that he thinks to frame; Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn; For a good poet's made as well as born, And such wert thou! Look how the father's face Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines In his well-turned and true-filed lines; In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were To see thee in our water yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames That so did take Eliza and our James! But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there! Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage, Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage, Which since thy flight from hence hath mourn'd like night, And despairs day, but for thy volume's light!

ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKSPEARE.

(UNDER THE FRONTISPIECE TO THE FIRST EDITION OF HIS WORKS: 1623.)

This figure that thou here seest put, It was for gentle Shakspeare cut, Wherein the graver had a strife With nature, to outdo the life: Oh, could he but have drawn his wit, As well in brass, as he hath hit His face; the print would then surpass All that was ever writ in 'brass: But since he cannot, reader, look Not on his picture but his book.

VERE, STORRER, &c.

In the same age of fertile, seething mind which produced Jonson and the rest of the Elizabethan giants, there flourished some minor poets, whose names we merely chronicle: such as Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford, born 1534, and dying 1604, who travelled in Italy in his youth, and returned the 'most accomplished coxcomb in Europe,' who sat as Grand Chamberlain of England upon the trial of Mary Queen of Scots, and who has left, in the 'Paradise of Dainty Devices,' some rather beautiful verses, entitled, 'Fancy and Desire;'--as Thomas Storrer, a student of Christ Church, Oxford, and the author of a versified 'History of Cardinal Wolsey,' in three parts, who died in 1604;--as William Warner, a native of Oxfordshire, born in 1558, who became an attorney of the Common Pleas in London, and died suddenly in 1609, having made himself famous for a time by a poem, entitled 'Albion's England,' called by Campbell 'an enormous ballad on the history, or rather the fables appendant to the history of England,' with some fine touches, but heavy and prolix as a whole;--as Sir John Harrington, who was the son of a poet and the favourite of Essex, who was created a Knight of the Bath by James I., and who wrote some pointed epigrams and a miserable translation of Ariosto, in which heeffectually tamed that wild Pegasus; --as Henry Perrot, who collected, in 1613, a book of epigrams, entitled, 'Springes for Woodcocks;'--as Sir Thomas Overbury, whose dreadful and mysterious fate, well known to all who read English history, excited such a sympathy for him, that his poems, 'A Wife,' and 'The Choice of a Wife,' passed through sixteen editions before the year 1653, although his prose 'Characters,' such as the exquisite and well-known 'Fair and Happy Milkmaid,' are far better than his poetry;--as Samuel Rowlandes, a prolific pamphleteer in the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I., author also of several plays and of a book of epigrams;--as Thomas Picke, who belonged to the Middle Temple, and published, in 1631, a number of songs, sonnets, and elegies;--as Henry Constable, born in 1568, and a well-known sonneteer of his day;--as Nicholas Breton, author of some pretty pastorals, who, it is conjectured, was born in 1555, and died in 1624;--and as Dr Thomas Lodge, born in 1556, and who died in 1625, after translating Josephus into English, and writing some tolerable poetical pieces.

THOMAS RANDOLPH.

This was a true poet, although his power comes forth principally in the drama. He was born at Newnham, near Daventry, Northamptonshire, in 1605, being the you of Lord Zouch's steward. He became a King's Scholar at Westminster, and subsequently a Fellow in Trinity College, Cambridge. Ben Jonson loved him, and he reciprocated the attachment. Whether from natural tendency or in imitation of Jonson, who called him, as well as Cartwright, his adopted son, he learned intemperate habits, and died, in 1634, at the age of twenty-nine. His death took place at the house of W. Stafford, Esq. of Blatherwyke, in his native county, and he was buried in the church beside, where Sir Christopher, afterwards Lord Hatton, signalised the spot of his rest by a monument. He wrote five dramas, which are imperfect and formal in plan, but written with considerable power. Some of his miscellaneous poems discover feeling and genius.

THE PRAISE OF WOMAN.

He is a parricide to his mother's name, And with an impious hand murders her fame, That wrongs the praise of women; that dares write Libels on saints, or with foul ink requite The milk they lent us! Better sex! command To your defence my more religious hand, At sword or pen; yours was the nobler birth, For you of man were made, man but of earth-- The sun of dust; and though your sin did breed His fall, again you raised him in your seed. Adam, in's sleep again full loss sustain'd, That for one rib a better half regain'd, Who, had he not your blest creation seen In Paradise, an anchorite had been. Why in this work did the creation rest, But that Eternal Providence thought you best Of all his six days' labour? Beasts should do Homage to man, but man shall wait on you; You are of comelier sight, of daintier touch, A tender flesh, and colour bright, and such As Parians see in marble; skin more fair, More glorious head, and far more glorious hair; Eyes full of grace and quickness; purer roses Blush in your cheeks; a milder white composes Your stately fronts; your breath, more sweet than his, Breathes spice, and nectar drops at every kiss.

* * * * *

If, then, in bodies where the souls do dwell, You better us, do then our souls excel?

No. * * * * Boast we of knowledge, you are more than we, You were the first ventured to pluck the tree; And that more rhetoric in your tongues do lie, Let him dispute against that dares deny Your least commands; and not persuaded be, With Samson's strength and David's piety, To be your willing captives.

* * * * *

Thus, perfect creatures, if detraction rise Against your sex, dispute but with your eyes, Your hand, your lip, your brow, there will be sent So subtle and so strong an argument, Will teach the stoic his affections too, And call the cynic from his tub to woo.

TO MY PICTURE.

When age hath made me what I am not now, And every wrinkle tells me where the plough Of Time hath furrow'd, when an ice shall flow Through every vein, and all my head be snow; When Death displays his coldness in my cheek, And I, myself, in my own picture seek, Not finding what I am, but what I was, In doubt which to believe, this or my glass; Yet though I alter, this remains the same As it was drawn, retains the primitive frame, And first complexion; here will still be seen, Blood on the cheek, and down upon the chin: Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye, The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye. Behold what frailty we in man may see, Whose shadow is less given to change than he.

TO A LADY ADMIRING HERSELF IN A LOOKING-GLASS.

Fair lady, when you see the grace Of beauty in your looking-glass; A stately forehead, smooth and high, And full of princely majesty; A sparkling eye, no gem so fair, Whose lustre dims the Cyprian star; A glorious cheek, divinely sweet, Wherein both roses kindly meet; A cherry lip that would entice Even gods to kiss at any price; You think no beauty is so rare That with your shadow might compare; That your reflection is alone The thing that men must dote upon. Madam, alas! your glass doth lie, And you are much deceived; for I A beauty know of richer grace,-- (Sweet, be not angry,) 'tis your face. Hence, then, oh, learn more mild to be, And leave to lay your blame on me: If me your real substance move, When you so much your shadow love, Wise Nature would not let your eye Look on her own bright majesty; Which, had you once but gazed upon, You could, except yourself, love none: What then you cannot love, let me, That face I can, you cannot see.

'Now you have what to love,' you'll say, 'What then is left for me, I pray?' My face, sweet heart, if it please thee; That which you can, I cannot see: So either love shall gain his due, Yours, sweet, in me, and mine in you.

ROBERT BURTON.

The great, though whimsical author of the 'Anatomy of Melancholy' was born at Lindley, in Leicestershire, 1576, and educated at Christ Church, Oxford. He became Rector of Seagrave, in his native shire. He was a man of vast erudition, of integrity and benevolence, but his happiness, like that of Burns, although in a less measure, 'was blasted _ab origine_ by an incurable taint of hypochondria;' and although at times a most delightful companion, at other times he was so miserable, even when a young student at Oxford, that he had no resource but to go down to the river-side, where the coarse jests of the bargemen threw him into fits of laughter. This surely was a violent remedy, and one that must have reacted into deeper depression. In 1621, he wrote and published, as a safety-valve to his morbid feelings, his famous 'Anatomie of Melancholy, by Democritus Junior.' It became instantly popular, and sold so well, that the publisher is said to have made a fortune by it. Nothing more of consequence is recorded of the author, who died in 1640. Although

'Melancholy mark'd him for her own,'

she failed to kill him till he had passed his grand climacteric. He was buried in Christ Church, with the following epitaph, said to have been composed by himself:--

'Paucis notus, paucioribus ignotus.
Hic jacet Democritus Junior,
Cui vitam pariter et mortem
Dedit _Melancholia_!

'Known [by name] to few, unknown [as the author of the "Anatomy"]
to fewer, here lies D. J., who owes his death [as a man] and his
life [as an author] to Melancholy.'

His work is certainly a most curious and bewitching medley of thought, information, wit, learning, personal interest, and poetic fancy. We all know it was the only book which ever drew the lazy Johnson from his bed an hour sooner than he wished to rise. The subject, like the flesh of that 'melancholy' creature the hare, may be dry, but, as with that, an astute cookery prevails to make it exceedingly piquant; the sauce is better than the substance. Burton's melancholy is not, like Johnson's, a deep, hopeless, 'inspissated gloom,' thickened by memories of remorse, and lighted up by the lurid fires of feared perdition; it is not, like Byron's, dashed with the demoniac element, and fretted into universal misanthropy; it is not, like Foster's, the sad, fixed fascination of a pure intelligence contemplating the darker side of things, as by a necessity of nature, and ignoring, without denying, the existence of the bright; nor is it, like that of the 'melancholy Jacques,' in 'As you Like it,' a wild, woodland, fantastical habit of thought, as of one living collaterally and aside to the world, and which often explodes into laughter at itself and at all things else;--Burton's is a wide- spread but tender shade, like twilight, diffused over the whole horizon of his thought, and is nourished at times into a luxury, and at times paraded as a peculiar possession. In his form of melancholy there are pleasures as well as pains. 'Most pleasant it is,' he says, 'to such as are to melancholy given, to lie in bed whole days and keep their chambers; to walk alone in some solitary grove, betwixt wood and water, by a brook-side, to meditate upon some delightsome and pleasant subject; and a most incomparable delight it is so to melancholise and build castles in the air.' Religious considerations have little to do with Burton's melancholy, and remorse or fear apparently nothing. Hence his book, although its theme be sadness, never shadows the spirit, but, on the contrary, from his dark, Lethean poppies, his readers are made to extract an element of joyful excitement, and the anatomy, and the cure, of the evil, are one and the same.

As a writer, Burton ranks, in some points, with Montaigne, and in others with Sir Thomas Browne. He resembles the first in simplicity, _bonhommie_, and miscellaneous learning, and the other in rambling manner, quaint phraseology, and fantastic imagination. Neither of the three could be said to write books, but they accumulated vast storehouses, whence thousands of volumes might be, and have been compiled. There is nothing in Burton so low as in many of the 'Essays' of Montaigne, but there is nothing so lofty as in passages of Browne's 'Religio Medici' and 'Urn-Burial.' Burton has been a favourite quarry to literary thieves, among whom Sterne, in his 'Tristram Shandy,' stands pre-eminent. To his 'Anatomy' he prefixes a poem, a few stanzas of which we extract.

ON MELANCHOLY.

1 When I go musing all alone,
Thinking of divers things foreknown,
When I build castles in the air,
Void of sorrow, void of fear,
Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet
Methinks the time runs very fleet.
All my joys to this are folly;
Nought so sweet as melancholy.

2 When I go walking all alone,
Recounting what I have ill-done,
My thoughts on me then tyrannise,
Fear and sorrow me surprise;
Whether I tarry still, or go,
Methinks the time moves very slow.
All my griefs to this are jolly;
Nought so sad as melancholy.

3 When to myself I act and smile,
With pleasing thoughts the time beguile,
By a brook-side or wood so green,
Unheard, unsought for, or unseen,
A thousand pleasures do me bless,
And crown my soul with happiness.
All my joys besides are folly;
None so sweet as melancholy.

4 When I lie, sit, or walk alone,
I sigh, I grieve, making great moan;
In a dark grove or irksome den,
With discontents and furies then,
A thousand miseries at once
Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce.
All my griefs to this are jolly;
None so sour as melancholy.

5 Methinks I hear, methinks I see
Sweet music, wondrous melody,
Towns, palaces, and cities, fine;
Here now, then there, the world is mine,
Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine,
Whate'er is lovely is divine.
All other joys to this are folly;
None so sweet as melancholy,

6 Methinks I hear, methinks I see
Ghosts, goblins, fiends: my fantasy
Presents a thousand ugly shapes;
Headless bears, black men, and apes;
Doleful outcries and fearful sights
My sad and dismal soul affrights.
All my griefs to this are jolly;
None so damn'd as melancholy.

THOMAS CAREW.

This delectable versifier was born in 1589, in Gloucestershire, from an old family in which he sprung. He was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, but neither matriculated nor took a degree. After finishing his travels, he returned to England, and became soon highly distinguished, in the Court of Charles I., for his manners, accomplishments, and wit. He was appointed Gentleman of the Privy Chamber and Sewer in Ordinary to the King. He spent the rest of his life as a gay and gallant courtier; and in the intervals of pleasure produced some light but exquisite poetry. He is said, ere his death, which took place in 1639, to have become very devout, and bitterly to have deplored the licentiousness of some of his verses.

Indelicate choice of subject is often, in Carew, combined with great delicacy of execution. No one touches dangerous themes with so light and glove-guarded a hand. His pieces are all fugitive, but they suggest great possibilities, which his mode of life and his premature removal did not permit to be realised. Had he, at an earlier period, renounced, like George Herbert, 'the painted pleasures of a court,' and, like Prospero, dedicated himself to 'closeness,' with his marvellous facility of verse, his laboured levity of style, and his nice exuberance of fancy, he might have produced some work of Horatian merit and classic permanence.

PERSUASIONS TO LOVE.

Think not, 'cause men flattering say, Y'are fresh as April, sweet as May, Bright as is the morning-star, That you are so;--or though you are, Be not therefore proud, and deem All men unworthy your esteem:

* * * * *

Starve not yourself, because you may Thereby make me pine away; Nor let brittle beauty make You your wiser thoughts forsake: For that lovely face will fail; Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail; 'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done, Than summer's rain, or winter's sun: Most fleeting, when it is most dear; 'Tis gone, while we but say 'tis here. These curious locks so aptly twined, Whose every hair a soul doth bind, Will change their auburn hue, and grow White and cold as winter's snow. That eye which now is Cupid's nest Will prove his grave, and all the rest Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose, Nor lily shall be found, nor rose; And what will then become of all Those, whom now you servants call? Like swallows, when your summer's done They'll fly, and seek some warmer sun.

* * * * *

The snake each year fresh skin resumes, And eagles change their aged plumes; The faded rose each spring receives A fresh red tincture on her leaves; But if your beauties once decay, You never know a second May. Oh, then be wise, and whilst your season Affords you days for sport, do reason; Spend not in vain your life's short hour, But crop in time your beauty's flower: Which will away, and doth together Both bud and fade, both blow and wither.

SONG.

Give me more love, or more disdain, The torrid, or the frozen zone Bring equal ease unto my pain; The temperate affords me none; Either extreme, of love or hate, Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love, Like Danae in a golden shower, I swim in pleasure; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture-hopes; and he's possess'd Of heaven that's but from hell released: Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; Give me more love, or more disdain.

TO MY MISTRESS SITTING BY A RIVER'S SIDE.

Mark how yon eddy steals away From the rude stream into the bay; There lock'd up safe, she doth divorce Her waters from the channel's course, And scorns the torrent that did bring Her headlong from her native spring. Now doth she with her new love play, Whilst he runs murmuring away. Mark how she courts the banks, whilst they As amorously their arms display, To embrace and clip her silver waves: See how she strokes their sides, and craves An entrance there, which they deny; Whereat she frowns, threatening to fly Home to her stream, and 'gins to swim Backward, but from the channel's brim Smiling returns into the creek, With thousand dimples on her cheek. Be thou this eddy, and I'll make My breast thy shore, where thou shalt take Secure repose, and never dream Of the quite forsaken stream: Let him to the wide ocean haste, There lose his colour, name, and taste; Thou shalt save all, and, safe from him, Within these arms for ever swim.

SONG.

If the quick spirits in your eye Now languish, and anon must die; If every sweet, and every grace, Must fly from that forsaken face: Then, Celia, let us reap our joys, Ere time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or, if that golden fleece must grow For ever, free from aged snow; If those bright suns must know no shade, Nor your fresh beauties ever fade; Then fear not, Celia, to bestow What still being gather'd still must grow. Thus, either Time his sickle brings In vain, or else in vain his wings.

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE.

SHEPHERD, NYMPH, CHORUS.

_Shep._ This mossy bank they press'd. _Nym._That aged oak
Did canopy the happy pair
All night from the damp air.
_Cho._ Here let us sit, and sing the words they spoke,
Till the day-breaking their embraces broke.

_Shep._ See, love, the blushes of the morn appear: And now she hangs her pearly store (Robb'd from the eastern shore) I' th' cowslip's bell and rose's ear: Sweet, I must stay no longer here.

_Nym._ Those streaks of doubtful light usher not day, But show my sun must set; no morn Shall shine till thou return: The yellow planets, and the gray Dawn, shall attend thee on thy way.

_Shep._ If thine eyes gild my paths, they may forbear Their useless shine. _Nym._ My tears will quite Extinguish their faint light. _Shep._ Those drops will make their beams more clear, Love's flames will shine in every tear.

_Cho._ They kiss'd, and wept; and from their lips and eyes, In a mix'd dew of briny sweet, Their joys and sorrows meet; But she cries out. _Nym._ Shepherd, arise, The sun betrays us else to spies.

_Shep._ The winged hours fly fast whilst we embrace; But when we want their help to meet, They move with leaden feet. _Nym._ Then let us pinion time, and chase The day for ever from this place.

_Shep._ Hark! _Nym._ Ah me, stay! _Shep._ For ever _Nym._ No, arise; We must be gone. _Shep._ My nest of spice _Nym._ My soul. _Shep._ My paradise. _Cho._ Neither could say farewell, but through their eyes Grief interrupted speech with tears supplies.

SONG.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, if east or west The phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

This witty baronet was born in 1608. He was the son of the Comptroller of the Household of Charles I. He was uncommonly precocious; at five is said to have spoken Latin, and at sixteen had entered into the service of Gustavus Adolphus, 'the lion of the North, and the bulwark of the Protestant faith.'

On his return to England, he was favoured by Charles, and became, in his turn, a most enthusiastic supporter of the Royal cause; writing plays for the amusement of the Court; and when the Civil War broke out, raising, at his own expense of L1200, a regiment for the King, which is said to have been distinguished only by its 'finery and cowardice.' When the Earl of Strafford came into trouble, Suckling, along with some other cavaliers, intrigued for his deliverance, was impeached by the House of Commons, and had to flee to France. Here an early death awaited him. His servant having robbed him, he drew on, in vehement haste, his boots, to pursue the defaulter, when a rusty nail, or, some say, the blade of a knife, which was concealed in one of them, pierced his heel. A mortification ensued, and he died, in 1641, at thirty-three years of age.

Suckling has written five plays, various poems, besides letters, speeches, and tracts, which have all been collected into one thin volume. They are of various merit; none, in fact, being worthy of print, or at least of preservation, except one or two of his songs, and his 'Ballad upon a Wedding'. This last is an admirable expression of what were his principal qualities--_naivete_, sly humour, gay badinage, and a delicious vein of fancy, coming out occasionally by stealth, even as in his own exquisite lines about the bride,

'Her feet, beneath her petticoat,
Like _little mice, stole in and out_,
As if they fear'd the light.'

SONG.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover!
Prithee why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do 't?
Prithee why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame! this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her--
The devil take her!

A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING.

1 I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen:
Oh, things without compare!
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair.

2 At Charing-Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs:
And there did I see coming down
Such folks as are not in our town,
Vorty at least, in pairs.

3 Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine,
(His beard no bigger though than thine,)
Walk'd on before the rest:
Our landlord looks like nothing to him:
The king (God bless him)'twould undo him,
Should he go still so dress'd.

4 At Course-a-park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i' the town:
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the Green,
Or Vincent of the Crown.

5 But wot you what? the youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing;
The parson for him staid:
Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past
(Perchance) as did the maid.

6 The maid--and thereby hangs a tale--
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale
Could ever yet produce:
No grape that's kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

7 Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring,
It was too wide a peck:
And to say truth (for out it must)
It look'd like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.

8 Her feet, beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.

9 He would have kiss'd her once or twice,
But she would not, she was so nice,
She would not do 't in sight;
And then she look'd as who should say.
I will do what I list to-day;
And you shall do 't at night.

10 Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison,
(Who sees them is undone,)
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Katherine pear,
The side that's next the sun.

11 Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin;
Some bee had stung it newly.
But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,
Than on the sun in July.

12 Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,
That they might passage get;
But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.

13 If wishing should be any sin,
The parson himself had guilty been,
She look'd that day so purely:
And did the youth so oft the feat
At night, as some did in conceit,
It would have spoil'd him, surely.

14 Passion o'me! how I run on!
There's that that would be thought upon,
I trow, beside the bride:
The business of the kitchen's great,
For it is fit that men should eat;
Nor was it there denied.

15 Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice
His summons did obey;
Each serving-man with dish in hand,
March'd boldly up, like our train'd band,
Presented and away.

16 When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able
To stay to be entreated?
And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,
The company were seated.

17 Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick;
And when 'twas named another's health,
Perhaps he made it hers by stealth,
And who could help it, Dick?

18 O' the sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh and glance:
Then dance again and kiss.
Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass,
Whil'st every woman wish'd her place,
And every man wish'd his.

19 By this time all were stol'n aside
To counsel and undress the bride;
But that he must not know;
But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind
Above an hour or so.

20 When in he came (Dick), there she lay,
Like new-fall'n snow melting away,
'Twas time, I trow, to part.
Kisses were now the only stay,
Which soon she gave, as who would say,
Good-bye, with all my heart.

21 But just as heavens would have to cross it,
In came the bridemaids with the posset;
The bridegroom eat in spite;
For had he left the women to 't
It would have cost two hours to do 't,
Which were too much that night.

22 At length the candle's out, and now
All that they had not done, they do!
What that is, who can tell?
But I believe it was no more
Than thou and I have done before
With Bridget and with Nell!

SONG.

I pray thee send me back my heart,
Since I can not have thine,
For if from yours you will not part,
Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on 't, let it lie,
To find it were in vain;
For thou'st a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?
O love! where is thy sympathy,
If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,
I cannot find it out;
For when I think I'm best resolved,
I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine;
For I'll believe I have her heart
As much as she has mine.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

Cartwright was born in 1611, and was the son of an innkeeper--once a gentleman--in Cirencester. He became a King's scholar at Westminster, and afterwards took orders at Oxford, where he distinguished himself, according to Wood, as a 'most florid and seraphic preacher.' One is reminded of the description given of Jeremy Taylor, who, when he first began to preach, by his 'young and florid beauty, and his sublime and raised discourses, made men take him for an angel newly descended from the climes of Paradise.' Cartwright was appointed, through his friend Bishop Duppa, Succentor of the Church of Salisbury in 1642. He was one of a council of war appointed by the University of Oxford, for providing troops in the King's cause, to protect, or some said to overawe, the Universities. He was imprisoned by the Parliamentary forces on account of his zeal in the Royal cause, but soon liberated on bail. In 1643, he was appointed Junior Proctor of his University, and also Reader in Metaphysics. At this time he is said to have studied sixteen hours a-day. This, however, seems to have weakened his constitution, and rendered him an easy victim to what was called the camp-fever, then prevalent in Oxford. He died December 23, 1643, aged thirty-two. The King, then in Oxford, went into mourning for him. His works were published in 1651, and to them were prefixed fifty copies of encomiastic verses from the wits and poets of the time. They scarcely justify the praises they have received, being somewhat crude and harsh, and all of them occasional. His private character, his eloquence as a preacher, and his zeal as a Royalist, seem to have supplemented his claims as a poet. He enjoyed, too, in his earlier life, the friendship of Ben Jonson, who used to say of him, 'My son Cartwright writes all like a man;' and such a sentence from such an authority was at that time fame.

LOVE'S DARTS.

1 Where is that learned wretch that knows
What are those darts the veil'd god throws?
Oh, let him tell me ere I die
When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;
Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's,
Wing them for various loves;
And whether gold or lead,
Quicken or dull the head:
I will anoint and keep them warm,
And make the weapons heal the harm.

2 Fond that I am to ask! whoe'er
Did yet see thought? or silence hear?
Safe from the search of human eye
These arrows (as their ways are) fly:
The flights of angels part
Not air with so much art;
And snows on streams, we may
Say, louder fall than they.
So hopeless I must now endure,
And neither know the shaft nor cure.

3 A sudden fire of blushes shed
To dye white paths with hasty red;
A glance's lightning swiftly thrown,
Or from a true or seeming frown;
A subtle taking smile
From passion, or from guile;
The spirit, life, and grace
Of motion, limbs, and face;
These misconceit entitles darts,
And tears the bleedings of our hearts.

4 But as the feathers in the wing
Unblemish'd are, and no wounds bring,
And harmless twigs no bloodshed know,
Till art doth fit them for the bow;
So lights of flowing graces
Sparkling in several places,
Only adorn the parts,
Till that we make them darts;
Themselves are only twigs and quills:
We give them shape and force for ills.

5 Beauty's our grief, but in the ore,
We mint, and stamp, and then adore:
Like heathen we the image crown,
And indiscreetly then fall down:
Those graces all were meant
Our joy, not discontent;
But with untaught desires
We turn those lights to fires,
Thus Nature's healing herbs we take,
And out of cures do poisons make.

ON THE DEATH OF SIR BEVIL GRENVILLE.

Not to be wrought by malice, gain, or pride, To a compliance with the thriving side; Not to take arms for love of change, or spite, But only to maintain afflicted right; Not to die vainly in pursuit of fame, Perversely seeking after voice and name; Is to resolve, fight, die, as martyrs do, And thus did he, soldier and martyr too.

* * * * *

When now the incensed legions proudly came Down like a torrent without bank or dam: When undeserved success urged on their force; That thunder must come down to stop their course, Or Grenville must step in; then Grenville stood, And with himself opposed and check'd the flood. Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire Either o'ercomes, or doth itself expire: His courage work'd like flames, cast heat about, Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out; Not any pike on that renowned stand, But took new force from his inspiring hand: Soldier encouraged soldier, man urged man, And he urged all; so much example can; Hurt upon hurt, wound upon wound did call, He was the butt, the mark, the aim of all: His soul this while retired from cell to cell, At last flew up from all, and then he fell. But the devoted stand enraged more From that his fate, plied hotter than before, And proud to fall with him, sworn not to yield, Each sought an honour'd grave, so gain'd the field. Thus he being fallen, his action fought anew: And the dead conquer'd, whiles the living slew.

This was not nature's courage, not that thing We valour call, which time and reason bring; But a diviner fury, fierce and high, Valour transported into ecstasy, Which angels, looking on us from above, Use to convey into the souls they love. You now that boast the spirit, and its sway, Shew us his second, and we'll give the day: We know your politic axiom, lurk, or fly; Ye cannot conquer, 'cause you dare not die: And though you thank God that you lost none there, 'Cause they were such who lived not when they were; Yet your great general (who doth rise and fall, As his successes do, whom you dare call, As fame unto you doth reports dispense, Either a -------- or his excellence) Howe'er he reigns now by unheard-of laws, Could wish his fate together with his cause.

And thou (blest soul) whose clear compacted fame, As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name, Whose life affords what doth content both eyes, Glory for people, substance for the wise, Go laden up with spoils, possess that seat To which the valiant, when they've done, retreat: And when thou seest an happy period sent To these distractions, and the storm quite spent, Look down and say, I have my share in all, Much good grew from my life, much from my fall.

A VALEDICTION.

Bid me not go where neither suns nor showers Do make or cherish flowers; Where discontented things in sadness lie, And Nature grieves as I. When I am parted from those eyes, From which my better day doth rise, Though some propitious power Should plant me in a bower, Where amongst happy lovers I might see How showers and sunbeams bring One everlasting spring, Nor would those fall, nor these shine forth to me; Nature herself to him is lost, Who loseth her he honours most. Then, fairest, to my parting view display Your graces all in one full day; Whose blessed shapes I'll snatch and keep till when I do return and view again: So by this art fancy shall fortune cross, And lovers live by thinking on their loss.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

This pastoral poet was born, in 1590, at Tavistock, in Devonshire, a lovely part of a lovely county. He was educated at Oxford, and went thence to the Inner Temple. He was at one time tutor to the Earl of Carnarvon, and afterwards, when that nobleman perished in the battle of Newbury, in 1643, he was patronised by the Earl of Pembroke, in whose house he resided, and is even said to have become so rich that he purchased an estate. In 1645 he died, at Ottery St Mary, the parish where, in 1772, Coleridge was born.