Mos. Are you! I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe Volt. It shall both shine, and warm thee, Mosca. I am a man, that hath not done your love Your plate and moneys; am your steward, sir, Volt. But am I sole heir? Mos. Without a partner, sir; confirm'd this morning: The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry Upon the parchment. Volt. Happy, happy me! By what good chance, sweet Mosca ? I know no second cause. Volt. Thy modesty Is not to know it; well, we shall requite it. [him. [Knocking withous... Who's that? one knocks; I would not have you seen, sir, And yet pretend you came, and went in haste; Mos. When will you have your inventory brought, [Exit VOLTORE. Volp. [springing up.] Excellent Mosca! Come hither, let me kiss thee. Mos. Keep you still, sir. Here is Corbaccio. $ Volp. Set the plate away: The vulture's gone, and the old raven's come! A wretch, who is indeed more impotent Enter CORBACCIO.. Signior Corbaccio! You're very welcome, sir. Corb. How does your patron? Mos. Troth, as he did, sir; no amends. Mos. No, sir: he's rather worse. Corb. That's well. Where is he? Mos. Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleep. Corb. Does he sleep well? Mos. No wink, sir, all this night, Nor yesterday; but slumbers. Most of your doctors are the greater danger And worse disease, to escape. I often have Heard him protest, that your physician Should never be his heir. Corb. Not I his heir? Mos. Not your physician, sir. I do not mean it. Mos. No, sir, nor their fees He cannot brook: he says, they flay a man, Corb. Right, I do conceive you. Mos. And then they do it by experiment; For which the law not only doth absolve them, But gives them great reward: and he is loth To hire his death, so. Corb. It is true, they kill With as much license as a judge. Mos. Nay, more; For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns, And these can kill him too. Corb. Ay, or me; Or any man. How does his apoplex ? Is that strong on him still? Mos. Most violent. I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca, look, Mos. [taking the bag.] Yea, marry, sir, Corb. "Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile. Mos. It shall be minister'd to him, in his bowl. Corb. Ay, do, do, do. Mos. Most blessed cordial! This will recover him. Corb. Yes, do, do, do. Mos. I think it were not best, sir. Mos. All, sir; 'tis your right, your own; no man Can claim a part: 'tis yours without a rival, Decreed by destiny. Corb. How, how, good Mosca ? Mos. I'll tell you, sir. This fit he shall recover. Corb. I do conceive you. Mos. And, on first advantage Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him And show him this. Corb. Good, good. If you will hear, sir. [Pointing to the money. Corb. Yes, with all my heart. [with speed; Mos. Now, would I counsel you, make home There, frame a will; whereto you shall inscribe My master your sole heir. Corb. And disinherit My son ! Mos. O, sir, the better: for that colour Shall make it much more taking. Corb. O, but colour? Mos. This will, sir, you shall send it unto me. Or least regard, unto your proper issue, The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you Corb. This plot Did I think on before. Mos. I do believe it. Corb. Do you not believe it? Mos. Yes, sir. Corb. Mine own project. Mos. Which, when he hath done, sir- Mos. And you so certain to survive him- Mos. Being so lusty a man Corb. "Tis true. Mos. Yes, sir- Is avarice to itself! Mos. Ay, with our help, sir. Volp. So many cares, so many maladies, So many fears attending on old age, Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish Can be more frequent with them, their limbs faint, Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going, All dead before them; yea, their very teeth, Their instruments of eating, failing them: Yet this is reckon'd life! nay, here was one, Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer! Feels not his gout, nor palsy; feigns himself Younger by scores of years, flatters his age With confident belying it, hopes he may, With charms, like son, have his youth restored: And with these thoughts so battens, as if fate Would be as easily cheated on, as he, And all turns air? [Knocking within.] Who's that there, now? a third! Mos. Close, to your couch again; I hear his voice : It is Corvino, our spruce merchant. Volp. [lies down as before.] Dead. Mos. Another bout, sir, with your eyes. [Anointing them.]-Who's there? FROM THE CELEBRATION OF CHARIS. SEE the chariot at hand here of Love, Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And enamour'd, do wish so they might would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Before rude hands have touch'd it? Or swan's down ever? THOMAS CAREW. [Born, 1589. Died, 1639.] WHEN Mr. Ellis pronounced that Carew certainly died in 1634, he had probably some reasons for setting aside the date of the poet's birth assigned by Lord Clarendon; but as he has not given them, the authority of a contemporary must be allowed to stand. He was of the Carews of Gloucestershire, a family descended from the elder stock of that name in Devonshire, and a younger brother of Sir Matthew Carew, who was a zealous adherent of the fortunes of Charles I. He was educated at Oxford, but was neither matriculated nor took any degree. After returning from his travels, he was received with distinction at the court of Charles I. for his elegant manners and accomplishments, and was appointed gentleman of the privy chamber, and sewer in ordinary to his majesty. The rest of his days seem to have passed in affluence and ease, and he died just in time to save him from witnessing the gay and gallant court, to which he had contributed more than the ordinary literature of a courtier, dispersed by the storm of civil war that was already gathering.* The want of boldness and expansion in Carew's thoughts and subjects, excludes him from rival PERSUASIONS TO LOVE. THINK not, 'cause men flattering say, [He is mentioned as alive in 1838 in Lord Falkland's verses on Jonson's death; and as there is no poem of Carew's in the Jonsonus Virbius, it is not unlikely that he was dead before its publication.-C.] ["Few will hesitate to acknowledge that he has more fancy and more tenderness than Waller; but less choice, ship with great poetical names; nor is it difficult, even within the narrow pale of his works, to discover some faults of affectation, and of still more objectionable indelicacy. But among the poets who have walked in the same limited path, he is pre-eminently beautiful, and deservedly ranks among the earliest of those who gave a cultivated grace to our lyrical strains. His slowness in composition was evidently that sort of care in the poet, which saves trouble to his reader. His poems have touches of elegance and refinement, which their trifling subjects could not have yielded without a delicate and deliberate exercise of the fancy; and he unites the point and polish of later times with many of the genial and warm tints of the elder muse. Like Waller, he is by no means free from conceit; and one regrets to find him addressing the surgeon bleeding Celia, in order to tell him that the blood which he draws proceeds not from the fair one's arm, but from the lover's heart. But of such frigid thoughts he is more sparing than Waller; and his conceptions, compared to that poet's, are like fruits of a richer flavour, that have been cultured with the same assiduity.† The snake each year fresh skin resumes, SONG. MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED. GIVE me more love, or more disdain, The temperate affords me none; Like Danae in a golden shower, Disdain, that torrent will devour less judgment and knowledge where to stop, less of the equability which never offends, less attention to the unity and thread of his little pieces. I should hesitate to give him, on the whole, the preference as a poet, taking collec tively the attributes of that character."-HALLAM, Lit. Hist., vol. iii. p. 507.-C.] TO MY MISTRESS SITTING BY A RIVER'S SIDE. AN EDDY. MARK how yon eddy steals away Be thou this eddy, and I'll make My breast thy shore, where thou shalt take EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS. Under this stone: With weeping eyes INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED. Of common beauties, lived unknown, I gave it to thy voice and eyes: Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine: Thou art my star, shinest in my skies; Then dart not from thy borrow'd sphere Lightning on him that fix'd thee there. Tempt me with such affrights no more, Lest what I made I uncreate: Let fools thy mystic forms adore, I'll know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrap truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils. DISDAIN RETURNED. HE that loves a rosy cheek, But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts and calm desires, No tears, Celia, now shall win I have search'd thy soul within, And find nought but pride and scorn; I have learn'd thy arts, and now Can disdain as much as thou. Some power, in my revenge, convey That love to her I cast away. SONG. PERSUASIONS TO ENJOY. Ir the quick spirits in your eye Then, Celia, let us reap our joys, If those bright suns must know no shade, SONG. Ask me no more where Jove bestows, |