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overlays and encumbers his finely-constructed but heavy and un. wieldy plays. We of this age, a little too careless perhaps of learned labor, would give a whole wilderness of Catilines and Poetasters, and even of Alchemists and Volpones, for another score of the exquisite lyrics which are scattered carelessly through the plays and masques which-strange contrast with the rugged verse in which they are imbedded—seem to have burst into being at a stroke, just as the evening primrose flings open her fair petals at the close of the day. Lovelier songs were never written than these wild and irregular ditties. Here are some of them.


Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver car,
State in wonted manner keep.

Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright!

Earth, let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did close.

Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright!

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever.

Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright!

· Slow, slow fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears,

Yet slower, yet, 0 faintly, gentle springs !
List to the heavy part the music bears,
Woe weeps out her division when she sings.

Droop herbs and flowers,
Fall grief in showers,
Our beauties are not ours.

0 I could still
(Like melting snow upon some craggy hill)

Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since summer's pride is now a withered daffodil.



Break, Phantasie, from thy cave of cloud,

And spread thy purple wings ;
Now all thy figures are allowed,

And various shapes of things.
Create of airy forms a stream,
It must have blood, and naught of phlegm;
And though it be a waking dream,
Chorus. Yet let it like an odor rise

To all the senses here,
And fall like sleep upon their eyes,

Or music in their ear.


In curious knots and mazes so,
The spring at first was taught to go;
And Zephyr, when he came to woo
His Flora, had their motions too:

And thus did Venus learn to lead

The Idalian brawls, and so to tread
As if the wind, not she, did walk,
Nor pressed a flower, nor bowed a stalk.


So Beauty on the waters stood
When Love had severed Earth from Flood !
So, when he parted Air from Fire,
He did with concord all inspire !
And then a motion he them taught
That elder than himself was thought;
Which thought was yet the child of earth,
For Love is elder than his birth.


(A lesson, dear ladies.)
Still to be neat, still to be drest
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace ;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all the adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.


See the chariot at hand here of Love,

Wherein my lady rideth;
Each that draws is a, swan or a dove,

And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes all hearts do duty

Unto her beauty, And enamored do wish that they might

But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side Thorough swords, thorough seas wheresoerer she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light

All that love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright

As love's star, when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother

Than words that soothe her!
And from her arched brows such a grace

Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife!

Have you seen but a bright lily grow

Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o' the snow

Before the soil hath smutched it? Ha' you felt the wool of the beaver,

Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier ?

Or the hand in the fire ?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!


Oh! do not worship with those eyes,

Lest I be sick with seeing!
Nor cast them down, but let them rise,

Lest shame destroy their being.

Oh! be not angry with those fires,

For then their threats will kill me;
Nor look too kind on my desires,

For then my hopes will spill me.
Oh! do not steep them in thy tears,

Far so will sorrow slay me;
Nor spread them, as distract with fears,

Mine own enough betray me.


I should hardly perhaps have thought of inserting a song so familiar to every ear as the following, had I not, in turning over Jonson's huge volume, been reminded of a circumstance connected with it which greatly startled me at the moment. Milton talks of airs “married to immortal verse ;” but it should seem that there is no marriage without an occasional divorce; for the last time I heard the well-known melody which belongs to this fine Anacreontic, as indissolubly as its own peculiar perfume to a flower, was in an Independent chapel, where widely different words--the words of a hymn-were adapted to the air. It was John Wesley, I believe, who said that he saw no reason why Satan should have all the best tunes; and I should not lightly impugn the wisdom of any axiom of John Wesley, who understood human nature as well as most men. But in this instance, such is the force of association, that I can scarcely say how strongly I felt the discrepancy, all the more for the impressive plainness and simplicity of the Presbyterian mode of worship, and the earnest eloquence of the white-haired preacher. The sermon was half over before I had recovered the tone of feeling proper to the place and the occasion.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Must surely be divine;
But might I of Love's nectar sup

I would not change for wine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be

But thou thereon didst only breathe

And sent’st it back to me.
Since when it grows and sinells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.


Egla. Here she was wont to go! and here! and here !

Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow:
The world may find the spring by following her,
For other print her airy steps ne'er left.
Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,
Or shake the downy blowball from his stalk
But like the soft west wind she shot along,
And where she went the flowers took thickest root,
As she had sowed them with her odorous foot.

This delightful pastoral on the story of Robin Hood and Maid Marian is unhappily unfinished. Scarcely half is written, and even that wants the author's last touches.


If every pleasure were distilled
Of every flower in every field,
And all that Hybla's hives do yield,
Were into one broad mazer filled ;
If thereto added all the gums
And spice that from Panchaia comes,
The odor that Hydasper lends,
Or Phønix proves before she ends;
If all the air my Flora drew,
Or spirit that Zephyr ever blew,
Were put therein; and all the dew
That every rosy morning knew;
Yet all diffused upon this bower,
To make one sweet detaining hour,
Were much too little for the grace
And honor you vouchsafe the place.
But if you please to come again,
We vow we will not then with vain
And empty pastimes entertain
Your so desired, though grieved, pain.
For we will have the wanton Fawns,
That frisking skip about the lawns,
The Panisks, and the Sylvans rude,
Satyrs, and all that multitude,

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