And thy loope-holes, ladies' eyes, From whence thou strik'st the fond and wise. Did all the shafts in thy fair quiver Stick fast in my ambitious liver; Yet thy power would I adore,
And call upon thee to shoot more; Shoot more, shoot more.
O TURN thy bow,
Thy power we feele and know, Faire Cupid turn away thy bow: They be those golden arrows Bring ladies all their sorrowes,
And till there be more truth in men,
Never shoot at maids agen.
THE THIRD SONG.
HENCE, all you vaine delights, As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly; There's nought in this life sweet, If man were wise to see't, But only melancholly,
O sweetest melancholly. Welcome folded armes and fixed eyes, A sight that piercing mortifies; A looke that's fastned to the ground, A tongue chain'd up without a sound; Fountain heads, and pathlesse graves, Places which pale passion loves; Moon-light walkes, when all the fowles Are warmely hous'd save bats and owles ; A midnight bell, a parting groane, These are the sounds we feed upon: Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley, Nothing so dainty, sweet, as lovely melancholly. ·
O canst thou be so stupid then, so dim, To secke a saving influence, and lose him? Can stars protect thee? or can poverty, Which is the light to Heaven, put out his eye? He is my star, in him all truth I find, All influence, all fate, and when my mind Is furnished with his fulnesse, my poore story Should out-live all their age, and all their glory. The hand of danger cannot fall amisse, When I know what, and in whose power it is: Not want, the cause of man, shall make me groane, A holy hermit is a mind alone.
Doth not experience teach us all we can To worke our selves into a glorious man? Love's but an exhalation to best eyes,
The matter spent, and then the foole's fire dies; Were I in love, and could that bright star bring Increase to wealth, honour, and ev'ry thing; Were she as perfect good as we can aime, The first was so, and yet she lost the game. My mistris then be knowledge, and faire truth; So I enjoy all beauty, and all youth:
Moves us, we are all equall every whit; Of land that God gives men, here is their wit If we consider fully for our best,
And gravest men will with his maine house jest, Scarce please you, we want subtilty to do The city tricks, lye, hate, and flatter too; Here are none that can beare a painted show, Strike when you winch, and then lament the blow; Who like mils, set the right way for to grind, Can make their gaines alike with ev'ry wind : Only some fellows with the subtil'st pate Amongst us, may perchance equivocate At selling of a horse, and that the most; Methinks the little wit I had is lost Since I saw you, for a wit is like a rest, Held up a tennis, which men do the best
With the best gamesters: what things have we seen Done at the Mermaid? Hard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtill flame,
As if that every one from whence they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And had resolv'd to live a foole the rest
Of his dull life; then when there hath been thrown Wit able enough to justifie the town
For three daies past, wit that might warrant be For the whole city to take foolishly
That takes no med'cines: but one thought of thee Makes me remember all these things to be. The wit of our young men, fellows that show No part of good, yet utter all they know; Who, like trees of the guard, have growing soules, Only strong destiny, which all controules,
I hope hath left a better fate in store For me, thy friend, than to live ever poore. Banisht unto this home-fate once againe, Bring me to thee, who canst make smooth and The way of knowledge for me, and then 1, Who have no good but in thy company, Protest it will my greatest comfort be To acknowledge all I have to flow from thee. Ben, when these scenes are perfect wee'l taste wine, [mine. I'le drinke thy Muses health, thou shalt quaffe
ON FRANCIS BEAUMONT'S DEATH.
As would aske five good wits to husband it: He that hath wrote so well, that no man dare Refuse it for the best, let him beware, Beaumont is dead, by which our art appeares, Wit's a disease consumes one in few yeares.
'Altered by the bishop afterwards. See his poems,
ELEGY UPON MR. FRANCIS BEAUMONT. BEAUMONT lies here, and where now shall we have A Muse, like his, to sigh upon his grave? Ah none to weep this with a worthy teare,
But he that cannot, Beaumont, that lies here; Who now shall pay this tombe with such a verse, As thou that ladie's did'st, faire Rutland's hearse? A monument that will then lasting be, When all her marble is more dust than she: In thee all's lost, a sudden dearth and want Hath seiz'd on wit, good epitaphs are scant: We dare not write thy elegy, for each feares He ne're shall match a copy of thy teares; Scarce yet in age a poet, and yet he Scarce lives the third part of his age to see; But quickly taken off, and only known, Is in a minute shut as soone as blown. Why should weake nature tyre her selfe in vaine, In such a peece, and cast it straight againe? Why should she take such worke beyond her skill, And when she cannot perfect she must kill; Alas, what is't to temper slime and mire? Then's nature pussel'd when the work's intire: Great braines, like bright glass, crackle straight, while those
Of stone and wood hold out and feare no blows; And we their ancient hoary heads can see, Whose wit was never their mortality. Beaumont dies young, so Sydney dy'd before, There was not poetry, he could live no more: He could not grow up higher, nay, I scarce know, If th' art it selfe unto that pitch could grow, Wer't not in thee, who hadst arriv'd to th' height Of all that art could reach, or nature might. Oh, when I read those excellent things of thine, Such strength, such sweetnesse, couch'd in every line;
Such life of fancy, such high choice of braine, Nought of the vulgar mint, or borrow'd straine; Such passions, such expressions, meet mine eye, Such wit untainted with obscenity: And these so unaffectedly exprest, But all in a pure flowing language drest; So new, so fresh, so nothing trod upon,
And all to borne within thy selfe, thine own: 1 grieve not now that old Meander's veine Is ruin'd, to survive in thee againe: Such in his time was he, of the same peece, The smooth, even naturall wit, and love of Greece, Whose few sententious fragments show more worth Than all the poets Athens e're brought forth: And I am sorry I have lost those houres On them, whose quicknesse comes far short of ours, And dwelt not more on thee, whose every page May be a patterne to their scene and age; I will not yeeld thy worth so meane a praise, More pure, more chaste, more sainted than are Nor with that dull supinenesse to be read, [plaies: To passe a fire, or laugh an houre in bed: How do the Muses suffer every where? Taken in such months, sensur'd in such eares; That 'twixt a wiffe, a line or two rehearse, And with their rheume together, spawle a verse: 'Tis all a punie's leasure after play, Drinke and tobacco, it may spend the day; Whilst even their very idlenesse they thinke, Is lost in these, that lose their times in drinke:
Pitty their dulnesse; we that better know, Will a more serious houre on thee bestow; Why should not Beaumont in the morning please, As well as Plautus, Aristophanes ? Who, if my pen may, as my faults, be free, Were humble wits, and buffoons both to thee: Yet those our learned of severest brow, Will deigue to looke on, and so note them too; That will defie our own, his English stuffe, And th' authour is not rotten long enough: Alas, how ill are they compar'd to thee, In thy Philaster, or Maid's Tragedy? Where's such a humour as thy Bessus? nay, Let them put all their treasures in one play, He shall out-bid them, their conceit was poore, All in the circle of a bawd or whore, A cozening take the foole away, And not a good jest extant in a play :
Yet these are wits, th'are old, that's it, and now Be'ng Greeke, or Latin, they are learning too; But those their own times were content t' allow A thriftier fame, and thine is lowest now, But thou shalt live, and when thy name is grown Six ages elder, shall be better known: When th'art of Chaucer's standing in thy tombe, Thou shalt not shame, but take up all his roome. J. EARLE'.
ON WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. RENOWNED Spencer lye a thought more nigh To learned Chancer, and rare Beaumont lye A little nearer Spencer, to make roome
For Shakespeare in your threefold, fourfold tombe, To lodge all foure in one bed make a shift Untill doom's day, for hardly will a fifth Betwixt this day, and that by fates be slaine, For whom your curtaines may be drawn againe. If your precedency in death do barre
A fourth place in your sacred sepulchre, Under this sacred marble of thine owne, Sleep rare tragoedian Shakespeare! sleep alone. Thy unmolested peace in an unshared cave, 'Possesse as lord, not tenant of thy grave; That unto us, and others it may be, Honour hereafter to be laid by thee.
Tun'd to the highest key of ancient Rome, Returning all her music with her oan, In whom with Nature, study claim'd a part, And yet who to himselfe ow'd all his art. Here lyes Ben Johnson, every age will look With sorrow here, with wonder on his book.
AT Delphos' shrine, one did a doubt propound, Which by th' oracle must be released, Whether of poets were the best renown'd :
Those that survive, or they that are deceased? The gods made answer by divine suggestion, While Spencer is alive, it is no question.
ON MICHAEL DRAYTON,
BURIED IN WESTMINSTER.
Doɛ, pious marble, let thy readers know, What they, and what their children ow
To Drayton's sacred name, whose dust We recommend unto thy trust. Protect his memory, preserve his story, And a lasting monument of his glory;
And when thy ruines shall disclaime To be the treasury of his name, His name which cannot fade, shall be An everlasting inonument to thee.
ON THE TOMBES IN WESTMINSTER. MORTALITY, behold, and feare, What a change of flesh is here! Thinke how many royall bones Sleep within these heap of stones; Here they lye, had realmes, and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands; Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust, They preach, “In greatnesse is no trust." Here's an acre sown indeed, With the richest, royall'st seed, That the earth did e're suck in,
Since the first man dy'd for sin : Here the bones of birth have cry'd,
"Though gods they were, as men they dy'd:" Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings. Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate
The more to procure me, then he did adjure me If the ale I dranke last were nappy and stale, To do it its right, and stir up my sprite, And fall to commend a &c.
Quoth I, "To commend it I dare not begin, Lest therein my credit might happen to faile; For many men now do count it a sin, But once to look toward a &c.
"Yet I care not a pin, for I see no such sin, Nor any thing else my courage to quaile : For, this we do find, that take it in kind, Much vertue there is in a &c.
"And I mean not to taste, though thereby much grac't,
Nor the merry-go-down without pull or hale, Perfuming the throat, when the stomack's afloat, With the fragrant sweet seut of a &c.
"Nor yet the delight that comes to the sight, To see how it flowers and mantles in graile, As greene as a leeke, with a smile in the cheeke, The true orient colour of a &c.
"But I meane the mind, and the good it doth find; Not only the body, so feeble and fraile :
For body and soule may blesse the black bowle, Since both are beholden to a &c.
"For, when heavinesse the mind doth oppresse, And sorrow and griefe the heart do assaile, No remedy quicker than to take off your liquor, And to wash away cares with a &c.
"The widow that buried her husband of late,
Will soon have forgotten to weep and to waile, And thinke ev'ry day twaine, till she marry againe, If she read the contents of a &c.
"It is like a belly-blast to a cold heart,
And warms, and eugenders the spirits vitale, To keep them from domage, all sp'rits owe their To the sp'rite of the buttery, a &c. [homage
"And down to the legs the vertue doth go,
And to a bad foot-man is as good as a saile; When it fils the veines, and makes light the braines, No lackey so nimble as a &c.
"The naked complains not for want of a coat,
Nor on the cold weather will once turne his taile; All the way as he goes he cuts the wind with his If he be but well wrapt in a &c. [nosc,
"The hungry man takes no thought for his meat, Tho 'his stomach would brook a ten-penny naile; He quite forgets hunger, thinks on it no longer, If he touch but the sparkes of a &c.
"The poor man will praise it, so hath he good cause, That all the yeare eats neither partridge nor quaile,
But sets up his rest, and makes up his feast With a crust of brown bread, and a &c.
"The shepheard, the sower, the thresher, the mower, [flaile, The one with his scyth, the other with his Take them out by the poll, on the perill of my soll, All will hold up their bands to a &c.
" The black-smith, whose bellows all summer do
With the fire in his face still, without e're a vàile, Though his throat be full dry. he will tell you a lye, But where you may be sure of a &c. “Who ever denies it, the pris'neis will praise it, That beg at the grate, and lye in the goale : For, even in their fetters, they thinke themselves better,
May they get but a two penny black pot of ale.
"The begger, whose portion is alwaies his prayers, Not having a tatter to hang on his taile,
Is as rich in his rags, as the churle in his bags, If he once but shakes hands with a &c.
"It drives his poverty cleane out of mind,
Forgetting his brown bread, his wallet, and maile; He walks in the house like a six-footed louse, If once he be enricht with a &c.
"And he that doth dig in the ditches all day, And wearies himselfe quite at the plough-taile, Will speake no less things than of queens and of If be touch but the top of a &c. [kings,
"Tis like a whetstone to a blunt wit,
And makes a supply where nature doth faile: The dullest wit soon will look quite thro' the Moon, If his temples be wet with a &c.
"Then Dick to his dearling full boldly dares speake, Tho' before (silly fellow) his courge did quaile, He gives her the smouch, with his hand on his pouch, If he meet by the way with a &c.
"And it makes the carter a courtier straight-way, With rhetoricall termes he will tell his tale; With courtesies great store, and his cap up before, Being school'd but a little with a &c.
"The old man, whose tongue wags faster thau bis teeth,
(For old-age by nature doth drivell and drale) Will stir and will fling like a dog in a string,
If he warne his cold blood with a &c.
"And the good old clarke, whose sight waxeth And ever he thinkes the print is to small, [darke, He will see every letter, and say service better, If he glaze but his eyes with a &c.
"The cheekes and the jaws to commend it have
For where they were late but even wan and pale, They will get them a colour, no crimson is fuller, By the true die and tincture of a &c.
"Marke her ennemies, though they thinke themselves wise,
How meagre they look, with how low a waile, How their cheeks do fall, without sp'rits at all, That alien their minds from a &c.
"And now that the grains do worke in my brains, Me thinks I were able to give by retaile Commodities store, a dozen and more, That flow to mankind from a &c.
"The Muses would muse any should it misuse: For it makes them to sing like a nightingale, With a lofty trim note, having washed their throat With the caballine spring of a &c.
"And the musician, of any condition,
It will make him reach to the top of his scale: It will cleare his pipes, and moisten his lights, If he drink alternatim a &c.
"The poet divine, that cannot reach wine, Because that bis money doth many times faile, Will hit on the veine to make a good streine, If he be but inspired with a &c.
"For ballads Elderton' never had peere,
How went his wit in them, with how merry a And with all the sailes up, had he been at the cup, And washed his beard with a &c.
"And the power of it shows, no whit lesse in prose, It will ûle one's phrase, and set forth his tale : Fill him but a boule, it will make his tongue troule, For flowing speech flows from a &c. "And master philosopher, if he drinke his part, Will not trifle his time in the huske or the shale, But go to the kernell by the depth of his art, To be found in the bottome of a &c.
"Give a scholar of Oxford a pot of sixteen,
And put him to prove that an ape hath no taile, And sixteen times better his wit will be seen, If you fetch him from Botley a &c.
"Thus it helps speech and wit: and it hurts not a whit,
Then thinke it not much if a little I touch But rather doth further the virtues morale,
The good morall parts of a &c.
"To the church and religion it is a good friend,
That at every mile, next to the church stile, Or else our fore-fathers their wisdome did faile,
Set a consecrate house to a &c.
"But now, as they say, beere beares it away;
The more is the pitty, if right might prevaile: For, with this same beer, came up heresie here, The old catholic drinke is a &c.
"The churches much ow, as we all do know; For when they be drooping and ready to fall, By a Whitson or Church-ale up againe they shall Aud owe their repairing to a &c. [go,
"Truth will do it right, it brings truth to light,
And many bad matters it helps to reveale: For, they that will drinke, will speake what they To tell-troth lies hid in a &c. [thinke;
"It is justice's friend, she will it commend, For all is here served by measure and tale: Now, true-tale and good measure are justice's And much to the praise of a &c. [treasure, "And next I alleadge, it is fortitude's edge:
For a very cow-heard, that shrinkes like a snaile, Will sweare and will swagger, and out goes his If he be but arm'd with a &c. [dagger,
"Yea, ale hath her knights and squires of degree, That never wore corslet, nor yet shirt of maile, But have fought their fights all, 'twixt the pot and the wall,
When once they were dubb'd with a &c.
A drunken balladmaker, of whom see Warton's Hist. of Poetry, vol. iv. p. 40, 41. C.
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