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That is the pride of Cynthia's train ;

Then stay thy tongue ;

Thy mermaid song
Is all bestow'd on me in vain.
He's a fool, that basely dallies,

Where each peasant mates with him : Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, Whilst there's noble hills to climb ?

No, no, though clowns

Are scar'd with frowns,
I know the best can but disdain :

And those I'll prove,

So will thy love
Be all bestow'd on me in vain.
I do scorn to vow a duty,

Where each lustful lad may woo ;
Give me her, whose sun-like beauty,
Buzzards dare not soar unto :

She, she, it is

Affords that bliss,
For which I would refuse no pain;

But such as you,

Fond fools, adieu, You seek to captive me in vain. Leave me, then, thou Syren, leave me;

Seek no more to work my harms ; Crafty wiles cannot deceive me, Who am proof against your charms :

You labour may

To lead astray The heart, that constant shall remain ;

And I the while

Will sit and smile
To see you spend your time in vain.

Madrigal. Amaryllis I did woo, And I courted Phillis too; Daphne for her love I chose, Chloris, for that damask rose In her cheek, I held so dear, Yea, a thousand lik'd well near ; And, in love with all together, Feared the enjoying either : 'Cause to be of one possess'd, Barr'd the hope of all the rest.

Rank misers now do sparing shun;

Their hall of music soundeth ; And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,

So all things there aboundeth. The country folks, themselves advance, With crowdy-muttons out of France; And Jack shall pipe and Gill shall dance,

And all the town be merry.
Ned Squash hath fetcht his bands from pawn,

And all his best apparel;
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn

With dropping of the barrel.
And those that hardly all the year
Had bread to eat, or rags to wear,
Will have both clothes and dainty fare,

And all the day be merry.
Now poor men to the justices

With capons make their errants ; And if they hap to fail of these,

They plague them with their warrants : But now they feed them with good cheer, And what they want they take in beer, For Christmas comes but once a year,

And then they shall be merry.
Good farmers in the country nurse

The poor, that else were undone ;
Some landlords spend their money worse,

On lust and pride at London,
There the roysters they do play,
Drab and dice their lands away,
Which may be ours another day,

And therefore let's be merry. The client now his suit forbears,

The prisoner's heart is eased;
The debtor drinks away his cares,

And for the time is pleased.
Though others' purses be more fat,
Why should we pine, or grieve at that?
Hang sorrow ! care will kill a cat,

And therefore let's be merry.
Hark ! now the wags abroad do call,

Each other forth to rambling;
Anon you'll see them in the hall,

For nuts and apples scrambling.
Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound,
Anon they'll think the house goes round,
For they the cellar's depth have found,

And there they will be merry.
The wenches with their wassail bowls

About the streets are singing;
The boys are come to catch the owls,

The wild mare in is bringing.
Our kitchen boy hath broke his box,
And to the dealing of the ox,
Our honest neighbours come by flocks,

And here they will be merry.
Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have,

And mate with every body;
The honest now inay play the knare,

And wise men play the noddy.
Some youths will now a mumming go,
Some others play at Rowland-bo,
And twenty other game boys mo,

Because they will be merry.
Then, wherefore, in these merry days,

Should we, I pray, be duller ?
No, let us sing some roundelays,

To make our inirth the fuller : And, while we thus inspired sing, Let all the streets with echoes ring; Woods and hills, and everything, Bear witness we are merry.

So now is come our joyful’st feast;

Let every man be jolly ;
Each room with ivy leaves is drest,

And every post with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine,
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,

And let us all be merry.
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,

And Christmas blocks are burning; Their ovens they with baked meat choke,

And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie;
And if for cold it hap to die,
We'll bury't in a Christmas pie,

And evermore be merry.
Now every lad is wond'rous trim,

And no man minds his labour;
Our lasses have provided them

A bagpipe and a tabor ; Young men and maids, and girls and boys, Give life to one another's joys; And you anon shall by their noise

Perceive that they are merry.


rose :

name of Philarete in a pastoral poem; and Milton is

supposed to have copied his plan in Lycidas. There WILLIAM BROWNE (1590-1645) was a pastoral is also a faint similarity in some of the sentiments and descriptive poet, who, like Phineas and Giles and images. Browne has a very fine illustration of a Fletcher, adopted Spenser for his model. He was a native of Tavistock, in Devonshire, and the beautiful scenery of his native county seems to have inspired

Look, as a sweet rose fairly budding forth his early strains. His descriptions are vivid and

Betrays her beauties to th' enamour'd morn,

Until some keen blast from the envious north true to nature. Browne was tutor to the Earl of Carnarvon, and on the death of the latter at the

Kills the sweet bud that was but newly born; battle of Newbury in 1643, he received the patron

Or else her rarest smells, delighting,

Make herself betray age and lived in the family of the Earl of Pembroke. In this situation he realised a competency, and,

Some white and curious hand, inviting according to Wood, purchased an estate. He died

To pluck her thence away. at Ottery-St-Mary (the birth-place of Coleridge) in 1645. Browne's works consist of Britannia's Pasto

[4 Descriptive Sketch.) rals, the first part of which was published in 1613, the second part in 1616. He wrote, also, a pastoral o what a rapture have I gotten now! poem of inferior merit, entitled, The Shepherd's Pipe. That age of gold, this of the lovely brow, In 1620, a masque by Browne was produced at Have drawn me from my song! I'onward run court, called The Inner Temple Masque; but it was (Clean from the end to which I first begun), not printed till a hundred and twenty years after But ye, the heavenly creatures of the West, the author's death, transcribed from a manuscript in whom the virtues and the graces rest, in the Bodleian Library. As all the poems of Pardon ! that I have run astray so long, Browne were produced before he was thirty years of And grow so tedious in so rude a song. age, and the best when he was little more than If you yourselves should come to add one grace twenty, we need not be surprised at their containing Unto a pleasant grove or such like place, marks of juvenility, and frequent traces of resem: Where, here, the curious cutting of a hedge, blance to previous poets, especially Spenser, whom There in a pond, the trimming of the sedge ; he warmly admired. His pastorals obtained the Here the fine setting of well-shaded trees, approbation of Selden, Drayton, Wither, and Ben The walks there mounting up by small degrees, Jonson. Britannia's Pastorals are written in the The gravel and the green so equal lie, heroic couplet, and contain much beautiful descrip- It, with the rest, draws on your lingʻring eye: tive poetry. Browne had great facility of expression, Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air, and an intimate acquaintance with the phenomena Arising from the infinite repair of inanimate nature, and the characteristic features Of odoriferous buds, and herbs of price, of the English landscape. Why he has failed in (As if it were another paradise), maintaining his ground among his contemporaries, so please the smelling sense, that you are fain must be attributed to the want of vigour and con- Where last you walk'd to turn and walk again. densation in his works, and the almost total absence There the small birds with their harmonious notes of human interest. His shepherds and shepherdesses Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats : have nearly as little character as the silly sheep' For in her face a many dimples show, they tend ; whilst pure description, that takes the And often skips as it did dancing go: place of sense,' can never permanently interest any Here further down an over-arched alley large number of readers. So completely had some That from a hill goes winding in a valley, of the poems of Browne vanished from the public You spy at end thereof a standing lake, view and recollection, that, had it not been for a Where some ingenious artist strives to make single copy of them possessed by the Rev. Thomas The water (brought in turning pipes of lead Warton, and which that poetical student and anti- Through birds of earth most lively fashioned) quary lent to be transcribed, it is supposed there To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all would have remained little of those works which In singing well their own set madrigal. their author fondly hoped would

This with no small delight retains your ear,

And makes you think none blest but who live thera. Keep his name enroll'd past his that shines

Then in another place the fruits that be In gilded marble, or in brazen leaves.

In gallant clusters decking each good tree, Warton cites the following lines of Browne, as con

Invite your hand to crop them from the stem, taining an assemblage of the same images as the And liking one, taste every sort of them : morning picture in the L'Allegro of Milton :

Then to the arbours walk, then to the bowers,

Thence to the walks again, thence to the flowers,
By this had chanticleer, the village cock,

Then to the birds, and to the clear spring thence,
Bidden the goodwife for her maids to knock; Now pleasing one, and then another sense :
And the swart ploughman for his breakfast stayed, Here one walks oft, and yet anew begin'tb,
That he might till those lands were fallow laid; As if it were some hidden labyrinth.
The hills and valleys here and there resound
With the re-echoes of the deep-mouth'd hound;
Each shepherd's daughter with her cleanly pail

Was come a-field to milk the morning's meal ;
And ere the sun had climb'd the eastern hills, As in an evening, when the gentle air
To gild the muttering bourns and pretty rills, Breathes to the sullen night a soft repair,
Before the labouring bee had left the hive, I oft have sat on Thames sweet bank, to hear
And nimble fishes, which in rivers dive,

My friend with his sweet touch to charm mine ear:
Began to leap and catch the drowned fly,

When he hath play'd (as well he can) some strain, I rose from rest, not infelicity.

That likes me, straight I ask the same again,

And he, as gladly granting, strikes it o'er Browne celebrated the death of a friend under the I With some sweet relish was forgot before :

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I would have been content if he would play,
In that one strain, to pass the night away;

But, fearing much to do his patience wrong,

The writings of FRANCIS QUARLES (1592-1644) Unwillingly have ask'd some other song:

are more like those of a divine, or contemplative So, in this diff'ring key, though I could well

recluse, than of a busy man of the world, who held A many hours, but as few minutes tell,

various public situations, and died at the age of Yet, lest mine own delight might injure you,

fifty-two. Quarles was a native of Essex, educated (Though loath so soon) I take my song anew.

at Cambridge, and afterwards a student of Lincoln's Inn. He was successively cup-bearer to Elizabeth,

Queen of Bohemia, secretary to Archbishop Usher, (Night.]

and chronologer to the city of London. He espoused

the cause of Charles I., and was so harassed by the The sable mantle of the silent night

opposite party, who injured his property, and plun. Shut from the world the ever-joysome light.

dered hini of his books and rare manuscripts, that Care fled away, and softest slumbers please

his death was attributed to the affliction and ill To leave the court for lowly cottages. Wild beasts forsook their dens on woody hills,

health caused by these disasters. Notwithstanding

his loyalty, the works of Quarles have a tinge of And sleightful otters left the purling rills ; Rooks to their nests in high woods now were flung,

Puritanism and ascetic piety that might have molAnd with their sprear wings shield their naked young. sist of various pieces —Job Militant, Sian's Elegies,

lified the rage of his persecutors. His poems conWhen thieves from thickets to the cross-ways stir, And terror frights the lonely passenger;

The History of Queen Esther, Argalus and Parthenia, When nought was heard but now and then the howl

The Morning Muse, The Feast of Worms, and The

Divine Emblems. The latter were published in 1645, Of some vile cur, or whooping of the owl.

and were so popular, that Phillips, Milton's nephew, styles Quarles the darling of our plebeian judg

ments. The eulogium still holds good to some ex(Pastoral Employments.]

tent, for the Divine Emblems, with their quaint and

grotesque illustrations, are still found in the cottages But since her stay was long: for fear the sun Should find them idle, some of them begun

of our peasants. After the Restoration, when every

thing sacred and serious was either neglected or To leap and wrestle, others threw the bar,

made the subject of ribald jests, Quarles seems to Some from the company removed are

have been entirely lost to the public. Even Pope, To meditate the songs they meant to play, Or make a new round for next holiday;

who, had he read him, must have relished his lively

fancy and poetical expression, notices only his Some, tales of love their love-sick fellows told;

bathos and absurdity. The better and more tolerant Others were seeking stakes to pitch their fold. This, all alone, was mending of his pipe;

taste of modern times has admitted the divine emThat, for his lass, sought fruits, most sweet, most ripe. if he does not occupy a conspicuous place, he is at

blemist into the laurelled fraternity of poets,' where, Here (from the rest), a lovely shepherd's boy

least sure of his due measure of homage and atten. Sits piping on a hill, as if his joy Would still endure, or else that age's frost

tion. Emblems, or the union of the graphic and Should never make him think what he had lost,

poetic arts, to inculcate lessons of morality and re. Yonder a shepherdess knits by the springs,

ligion, had been tried with success by Peacham and Her hands still keeping time to what she sings ;

Wither. Quarles, however, made Herman Hugo, a Or seerning, by her song, those fairest hands

Jesuit, his model, and from the ‘Pia Desideria' of this Were comforted in working. Near the sands

author, copied a great part of his prints and mottoes. Of some sweet river, sits a musing lad,

His style is that of his age-studded with conceits, That moans the loss of what he sometime had,

often extravagant in conception, and presenting the His love by death bereft : when fast by him

most outré and ridiculous combinations. There is An aged swain takes place, as near the brim

strength, however, amidst his contortions, and true Of 's grave as of the river.

wit mixed up with the false. His epigrammatic point, uniting wit and devotion, has been considered

the precursor of Young's Night Thoughts. [The Syren's Song.)

Stanzas. [From the 'Inner Temple Masqua.']

As when a lady, walking Flora's bower,
Steer hither, steer your winged pines,

Picks here a pink, and there a gilly-flower,
All beaten mariners,

Now plucks a violet from her purple bed,
Here lie undiscover'd mines

And then a primrose, the year's maidenhead, A prey to passengers ;

There nips the brier, here the lover's pansy, Perfumes far sweeter than the best

Shifting her dainty pleasures with her fancy, Which make the phonix urn and nest;

This on her arms, and that she lists to wear Fear not your ships,

Upon the borders of her curious hair;
Nor any to oppose you save our lips ;

At length a rose-bud (passing all the rest)
But come on shore,

She plucks, and bosoms in her lily breast.
Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.
For swelling waves our panting breasts,

The Shortness of Life.
Where never storms arise,

And what's a life ka weary pilgrimage,
Exchange ; and be awhile our guests ;

Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage
For stars, gaze on our eyes.

With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age.
The compass, love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,

And what's a life kthe flourishing array
We will not miss

of the proud summer meadow, which to-day To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.

Read on this dial, how the shades devour

What mean dull souls, in this high measure, My short-lived winter's day! hour eats up hour;

To haberdash Alas! the total's but from eight to four.

In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made,

Is dross and trash? Fair copies of my life, and open laid

The height of whose enchanting pleasure To view, how oon they droop, how soon they fade!

Is but a flash!

Are these the goods that thou supply’st Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon ; Us mortals with ? Are these the high'st! My non-aged day already points to noon;

Can these bring cordial peace ? false world, thou ly'st. How simple is my suit !--how small my boon! Nor do I beg this slender inch to wile

Delight in God Only.
The time away, or falsely to beguile
My thoughts with joy: here's nothing worth a smile. I love (and have some cause to love) the earth;

She is my Maker's creature ; therefore good :
Mors Tua.

She is my mother, for she gave me birth;

She is my tender nurse—she gives me food ; Can he be fair, that withers at a blast ?

But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee! Or he be strong, that airy breath can cast!

Or what's my mother, or my nurse to ine !
Can he be wise, that knows not how to live?
Or he be rich, that nothing hath to give !

I love the air : her dainty sweets refresh
Can he be young, that's feeble, weak, and wan? My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ;
So fair, strong, wise, so rich, so young is man. Her shrill-mouth'd quire sustains me with their flesh,
So fair is man, that death (a parting blast)

And with their polyphonian notes delight me: Blasts his fair flower, and makes him earth at last;

But what's the air or all the sweets that she So strong is man, that with a gasping breath

Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee? He totters, and bequeaths his strength to death;

I love the sea : she is my fellow-creature, So wise is man, that if with death he strive,

My careful purveyor ; she provides me store : His wisdom cannot teach him how to live ;

She walls me round; she makes my diet greater; So rich is man, that (all his debts being paid)

She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore : His wealth's the winding-sheet wherein he's laid ;

But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee, So young is man, that, broke with care and sorrow,

What is the ocean, or her wealth to me !
He's old enough to-day, to die to-morrow :
Why bragg’st thou then, thou worm of five feet long! To heaven's high city I direct my journey,
Thou’rt neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye ;

Mine eye, by contemplation’s great attorney,

Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky :
The Vanity of the World.

But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee!

Without thy presence heaven 's no heaven to me. False world, thou ly’st : thou canst not lend The least delight:

Without thy presence earth gives no refection ;
Thy favours cannot gain a friend,

Without thy presence sea atfords no treasure;
They are so slight:

Without thy presence air 's a rank infection ;
Thy morning pleasures make an end

Without thy presence heaven itself no pleasure : To please at night:

If not possess’d, if not enjoy'd in thee, Poor are the wants that thou supply’st,

What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me! And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy’st With heaven; fond earth, thou boasts ; false world, The highest honours that the world can boast, thou ly’st.

Are subjects far too low for my desire ;

The brightest beams of glory are (at most)
Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales

But dying sparkles of thy living fire :
Of endless treasure;

The loudest flames that earth can kindle, bo
Thy bounty offers easy sales

But nightly glow-worms, if compared to thee.
Of lasting pleasure ;
Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,

Without thy presence wealth is bags of cares ;
And swear'st to ease her:

Wisdom but folly ; joy disquiet-sadness :
There's none can want where thou supply'st : Friendship is treason, and delights are snares ;
There's none can give where thou deny’st.

Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness ; Alas! fond world, thou boasts ; false world, thou ly'st.

Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be,

Nor have they being, when compared with thee. What well-advised ear regards What earth can say?

In having all things, and not thee, what have I ! Thy words are gold, but thy rewards

Not having thee, what have my labours got !
Are painted clay:

Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I !
Thy cunning can but pack the cards,

And having thee alone, what have I not?
Thou canst not play:

I wish nor sea nor land ; nor would I be
Thy game at weakest, still thou vy’st;

Possess'd of heaven, heaven unpossess'd of thee.
If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st :
Thou art not what thou seem'st ; false world, thou ly'st.

Decay of Life.
Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint
Of new-coin'd treasure ;

The day grows old, the low-pitch'd lamp hath mado A paradise, that has no stint,

No less than treble shade,
No change, no measure ;

And the descending damp doth now prepare
A painted cask, but nothing in't,

To uncurl bright Titan's hair ;
Nor wealth, nor pleasure:

Whose western wardrobe now begins to unfold
Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st

Her purples, fringed with gold, With man; vain man ! that thou rely'st

To clothe his evening glory, when the alarins On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly’st. Of rest shall call to rest in restless Thetis' amis.

Nature now calls to supper, to refresh

Lord Herbert of Cherbury. George was educated The spirits of all Aesh;

at Cambridge, and in the year 1619 was chosen The toiling ploughman drives his thirsty teams, orator for the university. Herbert was the intimate To taste the slipp’ry streams :

friend of Sir Henry Wotton and Dr Donne; and The droiling swineherd knocks away, and feasts Lord Bacon is said to have entertained such a high His hungry whining guests :

regard for his learning and judgment, that he sub-
The boxbill ouzle, and the dappled thrush,
Like hungry rivals meet at their beloved bush.
And now the cold autumnal dews are seen

To cobweb every green ;
And by the low-shorn rowans doth appear

The fast-declining year :
The sapless branches doff their summer suits,

And wain their winter fruits ;
And stormy blasts have forced the quaking trees
To wrap their trembling limbs in suits of mossy frieze.
Our wasted taper now hath brought her light

To the next door to night;
Her sprightless flame grown with great snuff, doth turn

Sad as her neighb'ring urn :
Her slender inch, that yet unspent remains,

Lights but to further pains,
And in a silent language bids her guest
Prepare his weary limbs to take eternal rest.
Now careful age hath pitch'd her painful plough

Upon the furrow'd brow;
And snowy blasts of discontented care

Have blanch'd the falling hair :
Suspicious envy mix'd with jealous spite

Disturbs his weary night :
He threatens youth with age ; and now, alas !
He owns not what he is, but vaunts the man he was.

George Herbert.
Grey hairs peruse thy days, and let thy past
Read lectures to thy last :

mitted his works to him before publication. The Those hasty wings that hurried them away

poet was also in favour with King James, who gave

him a sinecure ofhce worth £120 per annum, which Will give these days no day : The constant wheels of nature scorn to tire

Queen Elizabeth had formerly given to Sir Philip Until her works expire :

Sidney. With this,' says "Izaak Walton, and That blast that nipp'd thy youth will ruin thee;

his annuity, and the advantages of his college, and That hand that shook the branch will quickly strike of his oratorship, he enjoyed his genteel humour for the tree.

clothes and court-like company, and seldom looked towards Cambridge unless the king were there, but

then he never failed.' The death of the king and To Chastity.

of two powerful friends, the Duke of Richmond and

Marquis of Hamilton, destroyed Herbert's court Oh, Chastity !—the flower of the soul,

hopes, and he entered into sacred orders. He was How is thy perfect faimess turn'd to foul !

first prebend of Layton Ecclesia (the church of How are thy blossoms blasted all to dust,

which he rebuilt), and afterwards was made rector By sudden lightning of untamed lust!

of Bemerton, in Wiltshire, where he passed the reHow hast thou thus defild thy ev'ry feet,

mainder of his life.* After describing the poet's Thy sweetness that was once, how far from sweet !

marriage on the third day after his first interview Where are thy maiden smiles, thy blushing cheek- with the lady, old Izaak Walton relates, with chaThy lamb-like countenance, so fair, so meek? racteristic simplicity and minuteness, a matrimonial Where is that spotless flower, that while-ere

scene preparatory to their removal to Bemerton :Within thy lily bosom thou did'st wear?

The third day after he was made rector of BemerHas wanton Cupid snatched it? hath his dart

ton, and had changed his sword and silk clothes into Sent courtly tokens to thy simple heart?

a canonical habit (he had probably never done duty Where dost thou bide? the country half disclaims thee ; regularly at Layton Ecclesia), he returned so habited The city wonders when a body names thee :

with his friend Mr Woodnot to Bainton ; and imOr have the rural woods engrost thee there,

mediately after he had seen and saluted his wife, he And thus forestall our empty markets here? said to her, “You are now a minister's wife, and Sure thou art not; or kept where no man shows thee ; must now so far forget your father's house as not to Or chang'd so much scarce man or woman knows thee. claim a precedence of any of your parishioners ; for

you are to know that a priest's wife can challenge GEORGE HERBERT.

no precedence or place but that which she purchases

by her obliging humility ; and I am sure places so GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1632) was of noble birth, purchased do best become them. And let me tell though chiefly known as a pious country clergy- you, I am so good a herald as to assure you that this man—' holy George Herbert,' who

is truth." And she was so meek a wife, as to assure

him it was no vexing news to her, and that he The lowliest duties on himself did lay. should see her observe it with a cheerful willingness.' His father was descended from the earls of Pembroke,

Herbert discharged his clerical duties with saintand lived in Montgomery Castle, Wales, where the * The rectory of Bemerton is now held by another poot, the poet was born. His elder brother was the celebrated Rev. W. Lisle Bowles.

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