The Turk in linen wraps his head,
The Persian his in lawn too,

The Russe with sables furs his cap,
And change will not be drawn to.

The Spaniard's constant to his block,
The French inconstant ever;
But of all felts that may be felt,
Give me your English beaver.

The German loves his coney-wool,

The Irishman his shag too,

The Welch his Monmouth loves to wear,

And of the same will brag too.

Some love the rough, and some the smooth,
Some great, and others small things;
But oh, your liquorish Englishman,

He loves to deal in all things.

The Russ drinks quasse; Dutch, Lubeck's beer, And that is strong and mighty;

The Briton he Metheglen quaffs,

The Irish aqua vitæ.

The French affects the Orleans grape,

The Spaniard sips his sherry,

The English none of these can 'scape,
But he with all makes merry.

The Italian in her high chioppine,*
Scotch lass, and lovely Erse too,
The Spanish donna, French madam,
He doth not fear to go to.

Nothing so full of hazard, dread,
Nought lives above the centre,

No health, no fashion, wine or wench,
On which he dare not venture.†

Choppine, a clog or patten.

+ This song is introduced into the Rape of Lucrece.

THE GOLDEN AGE.

НА

DIANA'S NYMPHS.

AIL, beauteous Dian, queen of shades, That dwell'st beneath these shadowy glades, Mistress of all those beauteous maids

That are by her allowed.

Virginity we all profess,
Abjure the worldly vain excess,

And will to Dian yield no less

Than we to her have vowed.

The shepherds, satyrs, nymphs, and fawns,
For thee will trip it o'er the lawns.

Come, to the forest let us go,
And trip it like the barren doe;
The fawns and satyrs still do so,
And freely thus they may do.
The fairies dance and satyrs sing,
And on the grass tread many a ring,
And to their caves their venison bring;
And we will do as they.

The shepherds, satyrs, &c., &c.

Our food is honey from the bees,
And mellow fruits that drop from trees;
In chace we climb the high degrees
Of every steepy mountain.
And when the weary day is past,
We at the evening hie us fast,
And after this, our field repast,
We drink the pleasant fountain.

The shepherds, satyrs, &c., &c.

PHILIP MASSINGER.

1584-1640.

[THE struggle of Massinger's life is pathetically summed up in the entry of his burial in the parish register of St. Saviour's: March 20, 1639-40-buried Philip Massinger, a stranger.' This entry tells his whole story, its obscurity, humiliations, and sorrows. Dying in his house at Bankside, in the neighbourhood of the theatre which had been so often enriched by his genius, the isolation in which he lived is painfully indicated by this touching memorial. Yet there is little trace of a resentment against fortune in his writings, which are generally marked, on the contrary, by religious feeling, and that gentleness and patience of spirit by which he is said to have been distinguished in his intercourse with his contemporaries. The only passages that have an air of discontent are those in which he rails at kings, and chastises the vices and hollowness of fashionable life and its vulgar imitators; but these topics were the common property of all the dramatists. Massinger was not so profound in his development of the stronger passions as he was true and chaste in the delineation of quiet emotions and ordinary experiences. His vehement tragic bursts sometimes degenerate into rant; but his calmer scenes are always natural and just. 'He wrote,' observes Lamb, with that equability of all the passions which made his English style the purest and most free from violent metaphors and harsh constructions of any of the dramatists who were his contemporaries.'

The dates attached to the plays indicate the years in which they were produced upon the stage.]

THE SWEETS OF BEAUTY.

'HE blushing rose, and purple flower,

TH

Let grow too long, are soonest blasted;

Dainty fruits, though sweet, will sour,
And rot in ripeness, left untasted.

Yet here is one more sweet than these:

The more you taste the more she'll please.

Beauty that's enclosed with ice,

Is a shadow chaste as rare;

Then how much those sweets entice,

That have issue full as fair!

Earth cannot yield, from all her powers,
One equal for dame Venus' bowers.

THE EMPEROR OF THE EAST. 1631.

DEATH.

WHY art thou slow, thou rest of trouble, Death,

To stop a wretch's breath,

That calls on thee, and offers her sad heart
A prey unto thy dart?

I am nor young nor fair; be, therefore, bold:
Sorrow hath made me old,

Deformed, and wrinkled; all that I can crave,
Is quiet in my grave.

Such as live happy, hold long life a jewel;
But to me thou art cruel,

If thou end not my tedious misery;

And I soon cease to be.

Strike, and strike home, then; pity unto me,
In one short hour's delay, is tyranny.

EN

THE BRIDAL.

Juno to the Bride.

'NTER a maid; but made a bride,
Be bold and freely taste

The marriage banquet, ne'er denied
To such as sit down chaste.

Though he unloose thy virgin zone,
Presumed against thy will,

Those joys reserved to him alone,
Thou art a virgin still.

Hymen to the Bridegroom.

Hail, bridegroom, hail! thy choice thus made,
As thou wouldst have her true,
Thou must give o'er thy wanton trade,
And bid those fires adieu.

That husband who would have his wife
To him continue chaste,

In her embraces spends his life,
And makes abroad no waste.

Hymen and Juno.

Sport then like turtles, and bring forth
Such pledges as may be

Assurance of the father's worth,

And mother's purity.

Juno doth bless the nuptial bed;

Thus Hymen's torches burn.

Live long, and may, when both are dead,
Your ashes fill one urn!

WE

WELCOME TO THE FOREST'S QUEEN.

ELCOME, thrice welcome to this shady green, Our long-wished Cynthia, the forest's queen, The trees begin to bud, the glad birds sing

In winter, changed by her into the spring.
We know no night,
Perpetual light

Dawns from your eye.
You being near,

We cannot fear,

Though death stood by.