Thy liarvest home, thy wassail bowl,18
That's toss'd up after Fox i’th'hole,19
Thy mummeries, 20 thy twelth-tide21 kings
And queens, thy Christmas revellings,
Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russeta2 wit,
And no man pays too dear for it :-

To these,23 thou hast thy times to go
And trace the hare i'th'treacherous snow;
Thy witty wiles24 to draw, and get
The lark into the trammel net;25
Thou hast thy cockrood26 and thy glade
To take the precious pheasant made;
Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls then
To catch the pilfering birds, not men.

O happy life! if that their good
The husbandmen but understood;
Who all the day themselves do ploase
And younglings, with such sports as these;
And, lying down, have nought t'affright
Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.

- 31

THOMAS, EARL OF STRAFFORD.-Born 1593; Died 1641.

Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, was, at first, one of the leaders of the popular party in the House of Commons, in the time of Charles I., but went over to the Court side, was made a peer; and also “ President of the North,” and Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. He was tried by both Houses for illegally levying taxes, by command of the King, and beheaded in 1641. These verses were written by him a little before his death, and printed on a broad-sheet, London, 1641.

A LAST FAREWELL. FAREWELL, vain world ! farewell, my fleeting joys, Whose drop of music's but an echo's noise ; And all the lustre of your painted light, But as dull dreams and phantoms of the night. Empty your pleasures, too, nor can they last Longer than air-blown bubbles, or a blast. Farewell, you fading honours, which do blind By your false mists the sharpest-sighted mind; And having raised him to his height of cares, Tumble him headlong down the slippery stairs. How shall I praise or prize your glorious ills, Which are but poison put in golden pills ? Farewell, my blustering titles ;' ne'er come back; You've swelled my sails until my mastings crack, And made my vessel reel against the rocks Of gaping ruin, whose destructive knocks Hath helpless left me, sinking, here to lie; The cause ? I raised my maintop sails too high.

Farewell, ambition, since we needs must part,
Thou great enchantress of man’s greater heart :
Thy gilded titles that do seem so fair,
Are but like meteors hanging in the air :
In whose false splendour, falling thence, is found
No worth, but water-like shed on the ground.
Farewell the glory, from which all the rest
Derive the sweets for which men style them best,
That from one root in several branches spring;
I mean—the favour of my gracious king ;
This, too, hath led my wandering soul astray,
Like ignis fatuusfrom its righter way.
Farewel, my friends I need not bid you go;
When fortúne flies, you freely will do so;
Worship:the rising, not the setting sun.
The house is falling. Vermin quickly run.
Bees from the withered flowers do make haste;
The reason ? because they have lost their taste.

Farewell, the treasures of my tempting store, 3
Which of all idols I did least adore ;
Haste to some idiot's coffer, and he'll be
Thy slave, as I have master been to thee.
Heaven knows of all the suitors I have had,
I prized thee least, as counting none so bad.
Lastly, my foes, farewell; for such I have
Who do in multitudes wait for my grave;

'Mongst which I can't believe but some there be
That hate my vices only, and not me;
Let them pass o'er my fame without a blot,
And let the vulgar snatch, they know not what.

Let them besmear me by the chattering notes,
Poor silly hearts, which echo through their throats ;
I'll pass it o'er, and pray, with patience, too,
“Father, forgive, they know not what they do."
Yet, O! I could have wooed4 my treacherous fate
Thave let me die without the public hate.

-BILE

32

J. SHIRLEY.–Born, 1594; Died, 1666. James Shirley was a dramatic writer. He wrote thirty-nine plays, and some poems. He and his wife died the same day, of fright, caused by the great Fire of London, in 1666.

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.
THE glories of our birth and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate :
Death lays his icy hand on kings;

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still ;

Early or late,

They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ;
Upon death's purple altar, now,
See where the victor victim bleeds :

All heads must come

To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

- 33

T. HEYWOOD.-Date of Birth unknown, Died 1643.

Thomas Heywood was a native of Lincolnshire, and a Fellow of Peterhouse, Cambridge. He joined the players, and was a young man while writing for them in 1596. He lived on into the reign of James I. as one of the most prolific playwrights of the day.

A MORNING SONG.

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day;

With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft, mount, larks, aloft,

To give my Love good-morrow!