Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh, ho! sing, heigh, ho! unto the green holly! II. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thy sting is not so sharp. As friend remembered not. SONNET. O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, The canker-blooms have full as deep a die, As the perfumed tincture of the roses, When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made: When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth. JONSON, BEAUMONT, AND FLETCHER. It has become the custom, established almost by universal consent, to deplore the faults of these men as writers, rather than to admire their beauties. Jonson had "too much learning," or made too great a display of it; and Beaumont and Fletcher should have written "poems instead of tragedies." Criticism has become so keen as to perceive "a coarseness" in the "very refinement" of Jonson: it has become prophetic also; had Beaumont and Fletcher been born a little earlier, and been the playmates of Shakspeare, he would have "rectified the refined spirits of the young gentlemen, and saved their Hippocrene from becoming ditchwater." There is a finish and an elegance about the works of Jonson that surpass all his predecessors: the fitness, the beauty, of his language ally him to a later age. His comic powers have never been surpassed: his Volpone places him at the head of English comedy: that his masques and odes have contributed to the dignity and luster of Milton's muse, is a sufficient attestation of his fancy and elegance: his address to Cynthia, and the character of Celia, show that he is not destitute of feeling, of tenderness. VOLPONE. Volpone devises the plan af cheating his visitants, who bring him presents, with the expectation of being his heir. Vol. Hold thee, Mosca, [gives him money.] Take of my hand: thou strikest on truth in all, And they are envious, term the parasite. Call forth my dwarf, my eunuch, and my fool, And let them make me sport. [Exit Mos.] What should I do, But cocker up my genius, and live free To all delights my fortune calls me to? I have no wife, no parent, child, ally, To give my substance to; but whom I make Must be my heir: and this makes men observe me : Women and men, of every sex and age, That bring me presents, send me plate, coin, jewels, What thou art queen of; not in expectation, As I feed others, but possess'd and crown'd. 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 naught 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. The milk of unicorns, and panther's breath, TO CYNTHIA. QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair, Cynthia's shining orb was made Space to breathe, how short soever: ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great; |