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The maid, and thereby hangs a tale,
For such a maid no Whitsun-alel

Could ever yet produce:
No grape that's kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,

Nor half so full of juice.
Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring;

It was too wide a peck:
And, to say truth (for out it must),
It look'd like the great collar (just)

About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,

As if they fear'd the light: But oh! she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.

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[Song.—'Tis now, since I sat down before.] Tis now, since I sat down before

That foolish fort, a heart,
(Time strangely spent !) a year, and more ;

And still I did my part,
Made my approaches, from her hand

Unto her lip did rise ;
And did already understand

The language of her eyes ;
Proceeded on with no less art,

My tongue was engineer ;
I thought to undermine the heart

By whispering in the ear.
When this did nothing, I brought down

Great cannon-oaths, and shot
A thousand thousand to the town,

And still it yielded not.
I then resolv'd to starve the place

By cutting off all kisses,
Praising and gazing on her face,

And all such little blisses.
To draw her out, and from her strength,

I drew all batteries in :
And brought myself to lie at length,

As if no siege had been.
When I had done what man could do,
_And thought the place mine own,
The enemy lay quiet too,

And sinil'd at all was done.
I sent to know from whence, and where,

These hopes, and this relief?
A spy inform’d, Honour was there,

And did command in chief.
March, march (quoth I); the word straight give,

Let's lose no time, but leave her ;
That giant upon air will live,

And hold it out for ever.
To such a place our camp remove

As will no siege abide;
I hate a fool that starves for love,

Only to feed her pride.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison ;

Who sees them is undone ;
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear,

The side that's next the sun.
Her lips were red ; and one was thin,
Compar'd to that was next her chin,

Some bee had stung it newly ;
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,

Than on the sun in July. Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou’dst swear her teeth her words did break

That they might passage get : But she so handled still the inatter, They came as good as ours, or better,

And are not spent a whit.

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Such sinh things without com

A Ballad upon a Wedding.
I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen ;

Oh, things without compare !
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,

Be it at wake or fair.
At Charing Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,

There is a house with stairs;
And there did I see coming down
Such folk as are not in our town,

Vorty at least, in pairs. Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, (His beard no bigger, though, than thine)

Walk'd on before the rest : your landlord looks like nothing to him : The king, God bless him, 'twould undo him,

Should he go still so drest.

Passion, oh me! how I run on !
There's that that would be thought upon

I trow, besides the bride :
The bus'ness of the kitchen's great,
For it is fit that men should eat;

Nor was it there denied.
Just in the nick, the cook knock'd thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey ;
Each serving-man, with dish in hand,
March'd boldly up, like our train'd-band,

Presented, and away.
When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able

To stay to be intreated ?
And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,

The company were seated.
Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,

The bride's came thick and thick ;
And when 'twas nam’d another's health,
Perhaps he made it her's by stealth,

And who could help it, Dick ?
O'th' sudden up they rise and dance ;
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance :

Then dance again, and kiss.
Thus sey’ral ways the time did pass,
Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place,

And ev'ry man wish'd his.

But Wat you what? the youth was going To make an end of all his wooing ; . The parson for him staid : det by his leave, for all his haste, He did not so much wish all past,

Perchance, as did the maid.

1 Whitsun-ales were festive assemblies of the people of whole I parishes at Whitsunday.


By this time all were stol'n aside
To counsel and undress the bride:

But that he must not know :
But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind

Above an hour or so.


Out upon it, I have lov'd

Three whole days together ; And am like to love three more,

If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wings,

Ere he shall discover
In the whole wide world again

Such a constant lover.
But the spite on't is, no praise

is due at all to me ; Love with me had made no stays,

Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she

And that very face,
There had been at least ere this

A dozen in her place.

The Careless Lorer.
Never beliere me if I love,
Or know what 'tis, or mean to prore;
And yet in faith I lie, I do,
And she's extremely handsome too ;

She's fair, she's wond'rous fair,
But I care not who knows it,
E’er I'll die for love,

I fairly will forego it.
This heat of hope, or cold of fear,
My foolish heart could never bear:
One sigh imprison'd ruins more
Than earthquakes have done heretofcre :

She's fair, &c.
When I am hungry I do eat,
And cut no fingers 'stead of mcat ;
Nor with much gazing on her face,
Do e'er rise hungry from the place :

She's fair, &c.
A gentle round fill'd to the brink,
To this and t’other friend I drink;
And if 'tis nam'd another's health,
I never make it her's by stealth :

She's fair, &c.
Blackfriars to me, and old Whitehall,
Is even as much as is the fall
Of fountains or a pathless grore,
And nourishes as much as love :

She's fair, &c.
I visit, talk, do business, play,
And for a need laugh out a day;
Who does not thus in Cupid's school,
He makes not love, but plays the fool :

She's fair, &c.

I prithee send me back my heart,

Since I can not have thine,
For if from yours you will not part,

Why then should'st thou have mine? Yet now I think on't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain ;
For thou'st a thief in either eye

Would steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one breast lie,

And yet not lodge together?
Oh love ! where is thy sympathy,

If thus our breasts thou sever ?
But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out ;
For when I think I'm best resolv'd,

I then am in most doubt.
Then farewell care, and farewell woe,

I will no longer pine;
For I'll beliere I have her heart

As much as she has niine.

Hast thou seen the down in the air,

When wanton blasts have tost it?
Or the ship on the sea,

When ruder winds have crost it?
Ilast thou mark’d the crocodiles weeping,

Or the foxes sleeping ?
Or hast thou view'd the peacock in his pride,

Or the dove by his bride,
Oh! so fickle; oh! so vain; oh! so false, so false is she!


Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prithee, why so pale ? Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail ?

Prithee, why so pale? . Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prithee, why so niute ? Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't ?

Prithee, why so mute ! Quit, quit for shame, this will not more,

This cannot take her;
Jf of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:
The devil take her.

Detraction Execrated. Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds, Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate, Canker of conversation ! could'st thou find Nought but our love whereon to show thy hate! Thou never wert, when we two were alone; What canst thou witness then ! thou, base dull aid, Wast useless in our conversation, Where each meant more than could by both be said. !! Whence badst thou thy intelligence from earth! That part of us ne'er knew that we did love : Or, from the air ! our gentle sighs had birth From such sweet raptures as to joy did move : Our thoughts, as pure as the chaste morning's breath, When from the night's cold aris it creeps away, Were clothed in words, and maiden's blush, that bath More purity, more innocence than they. Nor from the water could'st thou hare this tale; No briny tear has furrowed her smooth cheek ; And I was pleas'd: I pray what should he ail, That had her love ; for what else could he seek? We shorten'd days to moments by love's art, Whilst our two souls in amorous ecstacy Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part Our love had been of still eternity.

Much less could'st have it from the purer fire ;

The plot is complicated and obscure, and the characOur heat exhales no vapour from coarse sense,

ters are deficient in individuality. It must be read, Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond desire :

like the Faery Queen, for its romantic descriptions, Our mutual love itself did recompense.

and its occasional felicity of language. The versiThou hast no correspondence had in heaven,

fication is that of the heroic couplet, varied, like And th' elemental world, thou see'st, is free.

Milton's Lycidas, by breaks and pauses in the middle Whence hadst thou, then, this, talking monster ? even of the line. From hell, a harbour fit for it and thee. Curst be th' officious tongue that did address Thec to her ears, to ruin my content :

[The Witch's Care.] May it one minute taste such happiness, Deserving lost unpitied it lament !

Her cell was hewn out of the inarble rock, I must forbear her sight, and so repay

By more than human art; she need not knock ; In grief, those hours' joy short'ned to a dream; The door stood always open, large and wide, Each minute I will lengthen to a day,

Grown o'er with woolly moss on either side, And in one year outlive Methusalem.

And interwove with ivy's flattering twines,

Through which the carbuncle and diamond shines, JOIN CHALKHILL.

Not set by Art, but there by Nature sown

At the world's birth, so star-like bright they shone. A pastoral romance, entitled Thealma and Clear - | They sery'd instead of tapers, to give light chus, was published by Izaak Walton in 1683, with | To the dark entry, where perpetual night, a title-page stating it to have been written long | Friend to black deeds, and sire of ignorance, since by JOHN CHALKHILL, Esq., an acquaintant Shuts out all knowledge, lest her eye by chance

and friend of Edmund Spenser.' Walton tells us of Might bring to light her follies : in they went, | the author, that he was in his time a man generally The ground was strew'd with flowers, whose sweet scent, known, and as well beloved; for he was humble and Mix'd with the choice perfumes from India brought, obliging in his behaviour; a gentleman, a scholar, Intoxicates his brain, and quickly caught very innocent and prudent; and, indeed, his whole His credulous sense ; the walls were gilt, and get life was useful, quiet, and virtuous.' • Thealma and With precious stones, and all the roof was fret Clearchus' was reprinted by Mr Singer, who exWith a gold vine, whose straggling branches spread pressed an opinion that, as Walton had been silent All o'er the arch ; the swelling grapes were red; upon the life of Chalkhill, he might be altogether a This, Art had made of rubies, clusterd so, fictitious personage, and the poem be actually the To the quick’st eye they more than secm'd to grow ; composition of Walton himself. A critic in the About the walls lascivious pictures hung, Retrospective Review,* after investigating the cir- Such as were of loose Orid sometimes sung. cumstances, and comparing the Thealma with the On either side a crew of dwarfish elves acknowledged productions of Walton, comes to the Held waxen tapers, taller than themselves : same conclusion, Sir Jolin Hawkins, the editor of Yet so well-shap'd unto their little stature, Walton, seeks to overturn the liypothesis of Singer, So angel-like in face, so sweet in feature; by the following statement :- Unfortunately, John Their rich attire so diff’ring ; yet so well Chalkhill's tomb of black marble is still to be seen Becoming her that wore it, none could tell on the walls of Winchester cathedral, by which it Which was the fairest, which the handsomest deck'd, appears he died in May 1679, at the age of eighty. Or which of them desire would soon'st affect. Walton's preface speaks of him as dead in May After a low salute, they all 'gan sing, 1678 ; but as the book was not published till 1683, And circle in the stranger in a ring. when Walton was ninety years old, it is probably an Orandra to her charms was stepp'd aside, crror of memory. The tomb in Winchester cannot Leaving her guest half won and wanton-ey'l. be that of the author of Thealma, unless Walton He had forgot his herb : cunning delight committed a further error in styling Chalkhill an

Had so bewitch'd his ears, and bleard his sight, • acquaintant and friend' of Spenser. Spenser died And captivated all his senses so, in 1599, the very year in which John Chalkhill, in- | That he was not himself : nor did he know terred in Winchester cathedral, must have been born. | What place he was in, or how he came there,

should be happy to think that the Thealma was But greedily he feeds his eye and ear | the composition of Walton, thus adding another

With what would ruin him. laurel to his venerable brow; but the internal evi. dence seems to us to be wholly against such a sup

Next unto his view position. The poetry is of a cast far too high for She represents a banquet, usher'd in the muse of Izaak, which dwelt only by the side of By such a shape, as she was sure would win trouting streams, and among quiet meadows. The

His appetite to taste; so like she was nomme de guerre of Chalkhill must also have been an

| To his Clarinda, both in shape and face, old one with Walton, if he wrote Thealma; for, thirty

So voic'd, so habited, of the same gait years before its publication, he had inserted in his

And comely gesture ; on her brow in state Complete Angler' two songs, signed .Jo. Chalkhill.?

Sat such a princely majesty, as he The disguise is altogether very unlike Izaak Walton,

Had noted in Clarinda ; save that she then ninety years of age, and remarkable for his un

Had a more wanton eye, that here and there assuming worth, probity, and piety. We have no

Roll'd up and down, not settling any where. doubt, therefore, that Thealma is a genuine poem of

| Down on the ground she falls his hands to kiss,

And with her tears bedews it; cold as ice the days of Charles or James I. The scene of this

He felt her lips, that yet inflam'd him so, pastoral is laid in Arcadia, and the author, like the

That he was all on fire the truth to know, ancient poets, describes the golden age and all its

Whether she was the same she did appear, charms, which were succeeded by an age of iron, on

Or whether some fantastic form it were, Introduction of ambition, aVarice, and tyranny: Fashion'd in his imagination * Retrospective Review, vol. iv., page 230. The article ap. By his still working thoughts ; so fix'd upon 'pears to have been written by Sir Egerton Brydges, who con- His lov'd Clarinda, that his fancy strove, tributed largely to that work.

| Even with her shadow, to express his love.


the introduction of ambi

ing his education at Oxford, Cartwright entered [The Priesters of Diana.]

into holy orders. He was a zealous royalist, and | Within a little silent grove hard by,

was imprisoned by the parliamentary forces when L'pon a small ascent he might espy

they arrived in Oxford in 1642. In 1643, he was A stately chapel, richly gilt without,

chosen junior proctor of the university, and was also Beset with shady sycamores about:

reader in metaphysics. At this time, the poet is And ever and anon he might well hear

said to have studied sixteen hours a day! Towards A sound of music steal in at his ear

the close of the same year, Cartwright caught a As the wind gave it being :-80 sweet an air

malignant fever, called the camp disease, then preWould strike a syren mute.

valent at Oxford, and died December 23, 1643. The

king, who was then at Oxford, went into mourning A hundred virgins there he might espy

for Cartwright's death; and when his works were Prostrate before a marble deity,

published in 1651, no less than fifty copies of enWhich, by its portraiture, appear’d to be

comiastic verses were prefixed to them by the wits The image of Diana :-on their knee

and scholars of the time. It is difficult to conceive, They tender'd their devotions: with sweet airs, from the perusal of Cartwright's poems, why he Off"ring the incense of their praise and prayers.

should have obtained such extraordinary applause Their garments all alike ; beneath their paps

and reputation. His pieces are mostly short, occaBuckled together with a silver claps;

sional productions, addresses to ladies and noblemen, And cross their snowy silken robes, they wore

or to his brother poets, Fletcher and Jonson, or An azure scarf, with stars embroider'd o'er.

slight amatory effusions not distinguished for eleTheir hair in curious tresses was knit up,

gance or fancy. His youthful virtues, his learning, Crown'd with a silver crescent on the top.

loyalty, and admiration of genius, seem to have A silver bow their left hand held ; their right, mainly contributed to his popularity, and his premaFor their defence, held a sharp-headed flight,

ture death would renew and deepen the impression Drawn from their 'broider'd quiver, neatly tied of his worth and talents. Cartwright must have In silken cords, and fasten'd to their side.

cultivated poetry in his youth: he was only twenty- il Under their vestments, something short before, six when Ben Jonson died, and the compliment White buskins, lac'd with ribanding, they wore. quoted above seems to prove that he had then It was a catching sight for a young eye,

been busy with his pen. He mourned the loss of That love had fir'd before he might espy

his poetical father in one of his best effusions, in One, whom the rest had sphere-like circled round, which he thus eulogises Jonson's dramatic powers:Whose head was with a golden chaplet crown'd. He could not see her face, only his ear

But thou still puts true passion on; dost write Was blest with the sweet words that came from her.

With the same courage that tried captains fight;
Giv'st the right blush and colour unto things;

Low without creeping, high without loss of winys; [The Votaress of Diana.]

Smooth yet not weak, and, by a thorough care,

Big without swelling, without painting fair.
- Clarinda came at last
With all her train, who, as along she pass'd
Thorough the inward court, did make a lane,

To a Lady Veiled.
Opening their ranks, and closing them again
As she went forward, with obsequious gesture, So Love appear'd, when, breaking out his way
Doing their reverence. Her upward vesture

From the dark chaos, he first shed the day;
Was of blue silk, glistering with stars of gold, Newly awak'd out of the bud, so shows
Girt to her waist by serpents, that enfold

The half seen, half hid glory of the rose,
And wrap themselves together, so well wrought As you do through your veils; and I may swear,
And fashion d to the life, one would have thought Viewing you so, that beauty doth bide there.
They had been real. Underneath she wore

So Truth lay under fables, that the eye A coat of silver tinsel, short before,

Might reverence the mystery, not descry; And fring'd about with gold : white buskins hide Light being so proportion'd, that no more The naked of her leg ; they were loose tied

Was seen, but what might cause men to adore : With azure ribands. on whose knots were seen

Thus is your dress so order'd, so contrived, Most costly gems, fit only for a queen.

As 'tis but only poetry revived. Her hair bound up like to a coronet,

Such doubtful light had sacred groves, where rods With diamonds, rubies, and rich sapphires set;

And twigs at last did shoot up into gods; And on the top a silver crescent plac'd,

Where, then, a shade darkeneth the beauteous face, And all the lustre by such beauty grac'd,

May I not pay a reference to the place!
As her reflection made them seem more fair ;

So, under water, glimmering stars appear,
One would have thought Diana's self were there; As those (but nearer stars) your eyes do here;
For in her hand a silver bow she held,

So deities darkened sit, that we may find
And at her back there hung a quiver fill'd

A better way to see them in our mind.
With turtle-feather'd arrows.

No bold Ixion, then, be here allow'd,
Where Juno dares herself be in the cloud.

Methinks the first age comes again, and we

See a retrieval of simplicity.

Thus looks the country virgin, whose brown hue WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT (1611-1643) was one of Hoods her, and makes her show even veil'd as you. Ben Jonson's adopted sons of the muses, and of his Blest mean, that checks our hope, and spurs our fear, works Jonson remarked_My son Cartwright writes Whiles all doth not lie hid, nor all appear : all like a man.' Cartwright was a favourite with O fear ye no assaults from bolder men ; his contemporaries, who loved him living, and When they assail, be this your armour then. deplored his early death. This poet was the son of A silken helmet may defend those parts, an innkeeper at Cirencester, who had squandered Where softer kisses are the only darts ! away a patrimonial estate. In 1638, after complet

Love Inconcealable. Who can hide fire? If't be uncover'd, light; If cover'd, smoke betrays it to the sight: Love is that fire, which still some sign affords; If hid, they are sighs; if open, they are words.

To Cupid.

A Valediction.
Bid me not go where neither suns nor showers

Do make or cherish;
Where discontented things in sadness lie,

And nature grieves as I;
When I am parted from those eyes
From which my better day doth rise.

Though some propitious power

Should plant me in a bower,
Where, amongst happy lovers, I might see

How showers and sunbeams bring

One everlasting spring;
Nor would those fall, nor these shine forth to me.

Nature herself to him is lost,
Who loseth her he honours most.
Then, fairest, to my parting view display

Your graces all in one full day;
Whose blessed shapes I'll snatch and keep, till

I do return and view again :
So by this art, fancy shalì fortune cross,
And lovers live by thinking on their loss.

Thou, who didst never see the light,
Nor know'st the pleasure of the sight,
But always blinded, canst not say,
Now it is night, or now 'tis day;
So captivate her sense, so blind her eye,
That still she love me, yet she ne'er know why.
Thou who dost wound us with such art,
We see no blood drop from the heart,
And, subt’ly cruel, leav'st no sign
To tell the blow or hand was thine;
O gently, gently wound my fair, that she
May thence believe the wound did come from


To Chloe, Who wished herself young enough for me.


One of the most exquisite of our early lyrical poets was ROBERT HERRICK, born in Cheapside, London, in 1591. He studied at Cambridge, and having entered into holy orders, was presented by Charles I.,

Chloe, why wish you that your years

Would backwards run, till they met mine? That perfect likeness, which endears

Things unto things, might us combine.
Our ages so in date agree,
That twins do differ more than we.
There are two births; the one when light

First strikes the new awakened sense;
The other when two souls unite;

And we must count our life from thence : When you lov'd me, and I loy'd you, Then both of us were born anew. Love then to us did new souls give,

And in those souls did plant new pow'rs: Since when another life we live,

The breath we breathe is his, not ours; Love makes those young whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young keeps young still. Love, like that angel that shall call

Our bodies from the silent grave,
Unto one age doth raise us all ;

None too much, none too little have;
Nay, that the difference may be none,
He makes two not alike, but one.
And now since you and I are such,

Tell me what's yours, and what is mine?
Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch,

Do, like our souls, in one combine;
So, by this, I as well may be
Too old for you, as you for me.

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The Dream.

I dream'd I saw myself lie dead,

And that my bed my coffin grew; Silence and sleep this strange sight bred,

But, waked, I found I liv'd anew. Looking next morn on your bright face,

Mine eyes bequeath'à mine heart fresh pain ; A dart rush'd in with every grace,

And so I kill'd myself again :
O eyes, what shall distressed lovers do,
If open you can kill, if shut you view!

in 1629, to the vicarage of Dean Prior in Devonshire. After about twenty years' residence in this rural parish, Herrick was ejected from his living by the storms of the civil war, which, as Jeremy Taylor says, dashed the vessel of the church and state all in pieces.' Whatever regret the poet may have felt on being turned adrift on the world, he could have experienced little on parting with his parishioners, for he describes them in much the same way as Crabbe portrayed the natives of Suffolk, among whom he was cast in early life, as a 'wild amphibious race,' rude almost as salvages,' and churlish


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