After all, perhaps it is idle to wish a writer had been otherwise than he was, especially if he is an original in his way, and worthy of admiration. His faults he may have been unable to mend, and they may not have been without their use, even to his merits. If Ben had not been Ben, Sir Epicure Mammon might not have talked in so high a tone. We should have missed, perhaps, something of the excess and altitude of his expectations-of his Gums of Paradise and eastern air. Let it not be omitted, that Milton went to the masques and odes of Ben Jonson for some of the elegancies even of his dignified muse. See Warton's edition of his Minor Poems, passim. Our extracts shall commence with one of these odes, combining classic elegance with a tone of modern feeling, and a music like a serenade. TO CYNTHIA;-THE MOON. Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, State in wonted manner keep, Earth, let not thy envious shade Heav'n to clear, when day did close. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, Space to breathe, how short soever : THE LOVE-MAKING OF LUXURY. Volp. Volpone makes love to Celia See, behold, What thou art queen of; not in expectation, The brains of peacocks, and of estriches, Shall be our food: and, could we get the phoenix, Though nature lost her kind, she were our dish. Cel. Good sir, these things might move a mind affected With such delights; but I, whose innocence Is all I can think wealthy, or worth th' enjoying, And which, once lost, I have nought to lose beyond it, Cannot be taken with these sensual baits: If you have conscience Volp. 'Tis the beggar's virtue: If thou had wisdom, hear me, Celia. Thy baths shall be the juice of July flowers, The milk of unicorns, and panthers' breath TOWERING SENSUALITY. Sir Epicure Mammon, expecting to obtain the Philosopher's Stone, riots in the anticipation of enjoyment. Enter MAMMON and SURLY. Mam. Come on, sir. Now, you set your foot on shore In Novo Orbe: here's the rich Peru: And there within, sir, are the golden mines, Do we succeed? Is our day come? and holds it? Mam. Pertinax, my Surly, Again I say to thee, aloud, BE RICH. This day thou shalt have ingots; and to-morrow Give lords the affront.-Is it, my Zephyrus, right? Mam. I will have all my beds blown up, not stuff'd: Down is too hard. I'll have of perfume, vapoured 'bout the room And they shall fan me with ten estrich tails Apiece, made in a plume to gather wind. We will be brave, Puffe, now we have the med'cine. Dishes of agate, set in gold, and studded With emeralds, sapphires, hyacinths, and rubies. And I will eat these broths with spoons of amber, My foot-boy shall eat pheasants, calver'd salmons, Drest with an exquisite and poignant sauce, Face. A little, how it heightens. Sir, I'll go look [Exit FACE. Mam. Do. My shirts I'll have of taffeta-sarsnet, soft and light My gloves of fishes and birds' skins, perfum'd Sur. And do you think to have the stone with this? One free from mortal sin, a very virgin. Mam. That makes it, sir; he is so; BUT I BUY IT. THE WITCH. From the Pastoral Fragment, entitled "The Sad Shepherd." Alken. Know ye the witch's dell? Scathlock. No more than I do know the walks of hell. Alken. Within a gloomy dimble she doth dwell, Down in a pit o'ergrown with brakes and briers, Close by the ruins of a shaken abbey, Torn with an earthquake down unto the ground,— She is about; with caterpillars' kells, To make ewes cast their lambs, swine eat their farrow, |