Mos. O, sir, the better: for that colour Shall make it much more taking. Corb. O, but colour? Mos. This will, sir, you shall send it unto me. Or least regard, unto your proper issue, The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you Corb. This plot Did I think on before. Mos. I do believe it. Corb. Do you not believe it? Mos. Yes, sir. Corb. Mine own project. Mos. Which, when he hath done, sir- Mos. And you so certain to survive him- Mos. Being so lusty a man Corb. "Tis true. Mos. Yes, sir- Corb. I thought on that too. See, how he should be The very organ to express my thoughts! Mos. You have not only done yourself a good-❘ Corb. Still, my invention. Mos. 'Las, sir! heaven knows, It hath been all my study, all my care, (I e'en grow gray withal,) how to work thingsCorb. I do conceive, sweet Mosca. Mos. Your knowledge is no better than your ears, Mos. I do desire your worship to make haste, sir. Mos. Contain Your flux of laughter, sir: you know this hope Is such a bait, it covers any hook. Volp. O, but thy working, and thy placing it! I cannot hold; good rascal, let me kiss thee: I never knew thee in so rare a humour. Mos. Alas, sir, I but do as I am taught; Follow your grave instructions; give them words; Pour oil into their ears, and send them hence. Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare pun ishment Is avarice to itself! Mos. Ay, with our help, sir. Volp. So many cares, so many maladies, So many fears attending on old age, Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish Can be more frequent with them, their limbs faint, Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going, All dead before them; yea, their very teeth, Their instruments of eating, failing them: Yet this is reckon'd life! nay, here was one, Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer! Feels not his gout, nor palsy; feigns himself Younger by scores of years, flatters his age With confident belying it, hopes he may, With charms, like Æson, have his youth restored: And with these thoughts so battens, as if fate Would be as easily cheated on, as he, And all turns air? [Knocking within.] Who's that there, now? a third! Mos. Close, to your couch again; I hear his voice: It is Corvino, our spruce merchant. Volp. [lies down as before.] Dead. Mos. Another bout, sir, with your eyes. [Anointing them.]-Who's there? Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arch'd brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touch'd it? Ha' you felt the wool of beaver? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? THOMAS CAREW. [Born, 1589. Died, 1639.] WHEN Mr. Ellis pronounced that Carew certainly died in 1634, he had probably some reasons for setting aside the date of the poet's birth assigned by Lord Clarendon; but as he has not given them, the authority of a contemporary must be allowed to stand. He was of the Carews of Gloucestershire, a family descended from the elder stock of that name in Devonshire, and a younger brother of Sir Matthew Carew, who was a zealous adherent of the fortunes of Charles I. He was educated at Oxford, but was neither matriculated nor took any degree. After returning from his travels, he was received with distinction at the court of Charles I. for his elegant manners and accomplishments, and was appointed gentleman of the privy chamber, and sewer in ordinary to his majesty. The rest of his days seem to have passed in affluence and ease, and he died just in time to save him from witnessing the gay and gallant court, to which he had contributed more than the ordinary literature of a courtier, dispersed by the storm of civil war that was already gathering.* The want of boldness and expansion in Carew's thoughts and subjects, excludes him from rival PERSUASIONS TO LOVE. THINK not, 'cause men flattering say, gone, [* He is mentioned as alive in 1638 in Lord Falkland's verses on Jonson's death; and as there is no poem of Carew's in the Jonsonus Virbius, it is not unlikely that he was dead before its publication.-C.] [Few will hesitate to acknowledge that he has more fancy and more tenderness than Waller; but less choice, ship with great poetical names; nor is it difficult, even within the narrow pale of his works, to discover some faults of affectation, and of still more objectionable indelicacy. But among the poets who have walked in the same limited path, he is pre-eminently beautiful, and deservedly ranks among the earliest of those who gave a cultivated grace to our lyrical strains. His slowness in composition was evidently that sort of care in the poet, which saves trouble to his reader. His poems have touches of elegance and refinement, which their trifling subjects could not have yielded without a delicate and deliberate exercise of the fancy; and he unites the point and polish of later times with many of the genial and warm tints of the elder muse. Like Waller, he is by no means free from conceit; and one regrets to find him addressing the surgeon bleeding Celia, in order to tell him that the blood which he draws proceeds not from the fair one's arm, but from the lover's heart. But of such frigid thoughts he is more sparing than Waller; and his conceptions, compared to that poet's, are like fruits of a richer flavour, that have been cultured with the same assiduity.† The snake each year fresh skin resumes, SONG. MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED. GIVE me more love, or more disdain,, The temperate affords me none; Like Danae in a golden shower, Disdain, that torrent will devour less judgment and knowledge where to stop, less of the equability which never offends, less attention to the unity and thread of his little pieces. I should hesitate to give bim, on the whole, the preference as a poet, taking collectively the attributes of that character."-HALLAM, LAT. Hist., vol. iii. p. 507.-C.] TO MY MISTRESS SITTING BY A RIVER'S SIDE. AN EDDY. MARK how yon eddy steals away Be thou this eddy, and I'll make My breast thy shore, where thou shalt take EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS. THE Lady Mary Villiers lies Under this stone: With weeping eyes INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED. KNOW, Celia, since thou art so proud, "Twas I that gave thee thy renown: Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties, lived unknown, Had not my verse exhaled thy name, And with it impt the wings of Fame. That killing power is none of thine, I gave it to thy voice and eyes: Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine: Thou art my star, shinest in my skies; Then dart not from thy borrow'd sphere Lightning on him that fix'd thee there. Tempt me with such affrights no more, Lest what I made I uncreate: Let fools thy mystic forms adore, I'll know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrap truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils. DISDAIN RETURNED. He that loves a rosy cheek, Gentle thoughts and calm desires, No tears, Celia, now shall win My resolved heart to return; I have search'd thy soul within, And find nought but pride and scorn; I have learn'd thy arts, and now Can disdain as much as thou. Some power, in my revenge, convey That love to her I cast away. SONG. PERSUASIONS TO ENJOY. Ir the quick spirits in your eye Then, Celia, let us reap our joys, If those bright suns must know no shade, SONG. Ask me no more where Jove bestows, A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. Shep. THIS mossy bank they prest. Nym. That aged oak Did canopy the happy pair All night from the damp air. Cho. Here let us sit, and sing the words they spoke, Nym. Those streaks of doubtful light usher not day, The yellow planets, and the gray Shep. If thine eyes gild my paths, they may forbear Shep. Those drops will make their beams more clear, Love's flames will shine in every tear. Cho. They kiss'd, and wept; and from their lips and eyes, In a mix'd dew of briny sweet, But she cries out. Nym. Shepherd, arise, Shep. The winged hours fly fast whilst we embrace; They move with leaden feet. Nym. Then let us pinion time, and chase Shep. Hark! Nym. Ah me, stay! Shep. For ever. We must be gone. Shep. My nest of spice. Nym. My soul. Shep. My paradise. Cho. Neither could say farewell, but through their [eyes Grief interrupted speech with tears supplies. UPON MR. W. MONTAGUE'S RETURN FROM LEAD the black bull to slaughter, with the boar That with kind warmth dost repair On whose brow, with calm smiles dress'd, FEMININE HONOUR. IN what esteem did the gods hold Fair innocence and the chaste bed, Bare-foot upon sharp culters, spread Their chaste, pure limbs, should man alone 'Gainst female innocence conspire, Harder than steel, fiercer than fire? Oh hapless sex! unequal sway Of partial honour! who may know When malice can on vestals throw Slight balms may heal a slighter sore; No med'cine less divine Can ever hope for to restore GOOD COUNSEL TO A YOUNG MAID. WHEN you the sun-burnt pilgrim see, He courts the crystal nymphs, and flings Then mark how with disdainful feet When by the sated lover tasted; What first he did with tears invade, Shall afterwards with scorn be wasted; When all the virgin springs grow dry, When no streams shall be left but in thine eye. SIR HENRY WOTTON. [Born, 1568. Died, 1639.] SIR HENRY WOTTON was born at Bocton-Malherbe in Kent. Foreseeing the fall of the Earl of Essex, to whom he was secretary, he left the kingdom, but returned upon the accession of FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD. And torture free-born minds; embroider'd trains I would be great, but that the sun doth still James, and was appointed ambassador to the court of Venice. Towards the close of his life he took deacon's orders, and was nominated provost of Eton. Would the world now adopt me for her heir, As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue [loves. Angels-pieces of money. |