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The maid, and thereby hangs a tale,
Could ever yet produce:
Nor half so full of juice.
It was too wide a peck:
About our young colt's neck.
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.
[Song.—'Tis now, since I sat down before.] Tis now, since I sat down before
That foolish fort, a heart,
And still I did my part,
Unto her lip did rise ;
The language of her eyes ;
My tongue was engineer ;
By whispering in the ear.
Great cannon-oaths, and shot
And still it yielded not.
By cutting off all kisses,
And all such little blisses.
I drew all batteries in :
As if no siege had been.
And sinil'd at all was done.
These hopes, and this relief?
And did command in chief.
Let's lose no time, but leave her ;
And hold it out for ever.
As will no siege abide;
Only to feed her pride.
Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
Who sees them is undone ;
The side that's next the sun.
Some bee had stung it newly ;
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.
Such sinh things without com
A Ballad upon a Wedding.
Oh, things without compare !
Be it at wake or fair.
There is a house with stairs;
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 !
I trow, besides the bride :
Nor was it there denied.
His summons did obey ;
Presented, and away.
To stay to be intreated ?
The company were seated.
The bride's came thick and thick ;
And who could help it, Dick ?
Then dance again, and kiss.
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
But that he must not know :
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.
Ere he shall discover
Such a constant lover.
is due at all to me ; Love with me had made no stays,
Had it any been but she.
And that very face,
A dozen in her place.
The Careless Lorer.
She's fair, she's wond'rous fair,
I fairly will forego it.
She's fair, &c.
She's fair, &c.
She's fair, &c.
She's fair, &c.
She's fair, &c.
Since I can not have thine,
Why then should'st thou have mine? Yet now I think on't, let it lie,
To find it were in vain ;
Would steal it back again.
And yet not lodge together?
If thus our breasts thou sever ?
I cannot find it out ;
I then am in most doubt.
I will no longer pine;
As much as she has niine.
When wanton blasts have tost it?
When ruder winds have crost it?
Or the foxes sleeping ?
Or the dove by his bride,
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;
Nothing can make 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;
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.
To a Lady Veiled.
From the dark chaos, he first shed the day;
The half seen, half hid glory of the rose,
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!
So, under water, glimmering stars appear,
So deities darkened sit, that we may find
A better way to see them in our mind.
No bold Ixion, then, be here allow'd,
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.
Do make or cherish;
And nature grieves as I;
Though some propitious power
Should plant me in a bower,
How showers and sunbeams bring
One everlasting spring;
Nature herself to him is lost,
Your graces all in one full day;
Thou, who didst never see the light,
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.
First strikes the new awakened sense;
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,
None too much, none too little have;
Tell me what's yours, and what is mine?
Do, like our souls, in one combine;
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 :
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