[HENRY KING, D. D., was the eldest son of John King, Bishop of London, and was born in Warnoll, Buckinghamshire, and educated at Oxford. He became chaplain to James I., Archdeacon of Colchester, Dean of St. Paul's, and finally Bishop of Chichester. Besides his polemical works, he published "The Psalms of David

turned into Metre," "Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes, and Sonnets," and "Various Latin and Greek Poems." An edition of his " Poems and Psalms" was published in London in 1843, with a memoir by the Rev. J. Hannah, B. A. Some of his pieces are remarkable for tenderness and elegance.-G.]

SIC VITA.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
Even such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies;
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot :
The flight is past-and man forgot.

LIFE.

WHAT is the existence of man's life
But open war or slumber'd strife?
Where sickness to his sense presents
The combat of the elements,
And never feels a perfect peace

Till death's cold hand signs his release.

It is a storm-where the hot blood
Outvies in rage the boiling flood:
And each loud passion of the mind
Is like a furious gust of wind,
Which beats the bark with many a wave,
Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower-which buds and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose;
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleep,
Then shrinks into that fatal mould
Where its first being was enroll'd.
It is a dream-whose seeming truth;
Is moralized in age and youth;
Where all the comforts he can share
As wand'ring as his fancies are,
Till in a mist of dark decay
The dreamers vanish quite away.
It is a dial-which points out
The sunset as it moves about;
And shadows out in lines of night
The subtle stages of Time's flight,

Till all-obscuring earth had laid
His body in perpetual shade.

It is a weary interlude

Which doth short joys, long woes include: The world the stage, the prologue tears; The acts vain hopes and varied fears; The scene shuts up with loss of breath, And leaves no epilogue but Death!

THE ANNIVERSARY.

AN ELEGY.

So soon grown old! hast thou been six years dead?

Poor earth, once by my love inhabited!

And must I live to calculate the time
To which thy blooming youth could never climb,
But fell in the ascent! yet have not I
Studied enough thy losses' history.

How happy were mankind, if Death's strict
laws

Consumed our lamentations like the cause!
Or that our grief, turning to dust, might end
With the dissolved body of a friend!

But sacred Heaven! O, how just thou art
In stamping death's impression on that heart,
Which through thy favors would grow insolent
Were it not physick'd by sharp discontent.
If, then, it stand resolved in thy decree,
That still I must doom'd to a desert be,
Sprung out of my lone thoughts, which know no
path

But what my own misfortune beaten hath :-
If thou wilt bind me living to a corse,
And I must slowly waste; I then of force
Stoop to thy great appointment, and obey
That will which naught avails me to gainsay.
For whilst in sorrow's maze I wander on,

I do but follow life's vocation.

Sure we were made to grieve: at our first birth, With cries we took possession of the earth; And though the lucky man reputed be Fortune's adopted son, yet only he

Is nature's true-born child, who sums his years (Like me) with no arithmetic but tears.

A COMPLAINT OF A LEARNED DIVINE IN PURITAN TIMES.

IN a melancholy study,

None but myself,

Methought my Muse grew muddy;
After seven years' reading,

And costly breeding,

I felt, but could find no pelf.
Into learned rags

I have rent my plush and satin,
And now am fit to beg

In Hebrew, Greek, and Latin:
Instead of Aristotle,

Would I had got a patten.

Alas, poor scholar, whither wilt thou go.

I have bow'd, I have bended,

And all in hope

One day to be befriended;

I have preach'd, I have printed,
Whate'er I hinted,.

To please our English Pope:
I worshipp'd toward the East

But the sun doth now forsake me;
I find that I am falling,

The northern winds do shake me.
Would I had been upright,
For bowing now will break me.
Alas, poor, &c.

At great preferment I aim'd,

Witness my silk,

But now my hopes are maim'd.

I looked lately

To live most stately,

And have a dairy of bell-rope's milk;

But now, alas!

Myself I must flatter,

Bigamy of steeples is a laughing matter; Each man must have but one,

And curates will grow fatter.

Alas, poor, &c.

Into some country village

Now I must go,

Where neither tithe nor tillage
Ine greedy patron,
And parched matron,

Swear to the church they owe;

author of a poem, entitled "Iter Boreale," and "The Benefice," a comedy.

SIR JOHN MENNIS was born in 1598. He was successively a military and naval commander; a vice-admiral in the latter service, governor of Dover Castle, and chief comptroller of the navy.

He composed the well-known ballad on Sir John Suckling's defeat.-SMITH was born about 1604: was a military and naval chaplain, canon of Exeter cathedral, and doctor in divinity.

UPON LUTE-STRINGS CAT-EATEN.

FROM "MUSARUM DELICIE, OR THE MUSES' RECREATION." ARE these the strings that poets feign Have clear'd the air and calm'd the main? Charm'd wolves, and from the mountain crests Made forests dance, with all their beasts? Could these neglected shreds you see Inspire a lute of ivory,

And make it speak? oh then think what

Hath been committed by my cat!

Who, in the silence of the night,

Hath gnawn these cords, and marr'd them quite, Leaving such relics as may be

For frets, not for my lute, but me.

Puss, I will curse thee! may'st thou dwell
With some dry hermit in a cell,

Where rat ne'er peep'd, where mouse ne'er fed,
And flies go supperless to bed;

....

Or with some close-pared brother, where
Thou'lt fast each Sabbath in the year;
Or else, profane, be hang'd on Monday,
For butchering a mouse on Sunday.
Or may'st thou tumble from some tower,
And miss to light on all-four,
Taking a fall that may untie
Eight of nine lives, and let them fly.
Or may the midnight embers singe
Thy dainty coat, or Jane beswinge.
What, was there ne'er a rat nor mouse,
Nor buttery ope; naught in the house
But harmless lute-strings, could suffice
Thy paunch, and draw thy glaring eyes?
Did not thy conscious stomach find
Nature profaned, that kind with kind
Should stanch his hunger think on that,
Thou cannibal and cyclops cat!
For know, thou wretch, that every string
Is a cat's gut which art doth bring
Into a thread; and now suppose
Dunstan, that snuff'd the devil's nose,
Should bid these strings revive, as once

He did the calf from naked bones;
Or I, to plague thee for thy sin,
Should draw a circle, and begin
To conjure, for I am, look to 't,
An Oxford scholar, and can do 't.
Then with three sets of mops and mows,
Seven of odd words, and motley shows,
A thousand tricks that may be taken
From Faustus, Lambe, or Friar Bacon;
I should begin to call my strings
My catlings, and my minikins;
And they re-catted, straight should fall
To mew, to purr, to caterwaul;
From puss's belly, sure as death,
Puss should be an engastrumeth.
Puss should be sent for to the king,
For a strange bird or some rare thing.
Puss should be sought to far and near,
As she some cunning woman were.
Puss should be carried up and down,
From shire to shire, from town to town,
Like to the camel lean as hag,

The elephant, or apish nag,

For a strange sight; puss should be sung

In lousy ballads 'midst the throng,

At markets, with as good a grace
As Agincourt, or Chevy Chace.
The Troy-sprung Briton would forego
His pedigree, he chanteth so,
And sing that Merlin (long deceased)
Return'd is in a nine-lived beast.

Thus, puss, thou see'st what might betide thee;
But I forbear to hurt or chide thee.
For't may be puss was melancholy,
And so to make her blithe aud jolly,
Finding these strings, she'd have a fit
Of mirth; nay, puss, if that were it,
Thus I revenge me, that as thou
Hast play'd on them, I on thee now;
And as thy touch was nothing fine,
So I've but scratch'd these notes of mine.

89

242

305

THIS writer has a cast of broad humour that is amusing, though prone to extravagance. The idea in The City Match of Captain Quartfield and his boon companions exposing simple Timothy dead drunk, and dressed up as a sea-monster for a show, is not indeed within the boundaries of either taste or credibility; but amends is made for it in the next scene, of old Warehouse and Seathrift witnessing in disguise the joy of their heirs at their supposed deaths. Among the many interviews of this nature by which comedy has sought to produce merriment and surprise, this is not one of the worst managed. Plotwell's cool impudence is well supported, when he gives money to the waterman, (who tells that he had escaped by swimming at the time the old citizens were drowned,)

There, friend, there is

A fare for you: I'm glad you 'scaped; I had
Not known the news so soon else.

Dr. Mayne was a clergyman in Oxfordshire. He lost his livings at the death of Charles I. and became chaplain to the Earl of Devonshire, who made him acquainted with Hobbes; but the philosopher and poet are said to have been on no very agreeable terms. At the Restoration he was reinstated in his livings, made a canon of Christchurch, Archdeacon of Chichester, and chaplain in ordinary to the king. Besides the comedy of the City Match, he published a tragi-comedy called The Amorous War; several sermons; dialogues from Lucian; and a pamphlet on the Civil Wars.

A SON AND NEPHEW RECEIVING THE NEWS OF A
FATHER'S AND AN UNCLE'S DEATH.
FROM "THE CITY MATCH."

Persons.-WAREHOUSE and SEATHRIFT, two wealthy old merchants in disguise; CYPHER, the former's factor, disguised as a waterman; PLOTWELL, nephew to WAREHOUSE; TIMOTHY, Son to SEATHRIFT; CAPTAIN QUARTFIELD, BRIGHT, and NEWCUT, companions of PLOTWELL.

PLACE:A Tavern.

Cyph. THEN I must tell the news to you, 'tis sad. Plot. I'll hear't as sadly.

Cyph. Your uncle, sir, and Mr. Seathrift are Both drown'd, some eight miles below Greenwich. Plot. Drown'd!

Cyph. They went i' th' tilt-boat, sir, and I was

one

[us, O' th' oars that row'd'em; a coal-ship did o'er-run I 'scaped by swimming; the two old gentlemen Took hold of one another, and sunk together. Bright. How some men's prayers are heard! We did invoke [took 'em. The sea this morning, and see the Thames has Plot. It cannot be; such good news, gentlemen, Cannot be true.

Ware. 'Tis very certain, sir;

"Twas talk'd upon th' Exchange.

Sea. We heard it too

In Paul's now as we came.

Plot. There, friend, there is

A fare for you; I'm glad you 'scaped; I had
Not known the news so soon else. [Gives him money.
Cyph. Sir, excuse me.

Plot. Sir, it is conscience; I do believe you might Sue me in chancery.

Cyph. Sir, you show the virtues of an heir.
Ware. Are you rich Warehouse's heir, sir?
Plot. Yes, sir, his transitory pelf,

And some twelve hundred pound a year in earth,
Is cast on me. Captain, the hour is come,

306

Plot. This valiant captain and this man of wit First fox'd him, then transform'd him. We will wake him,

And tell him the news. Ho, Mr. Timothy !

Tim. Plague take you, captain.

Plot. What! does your sack work still?

Tim. Where am I?

Plot. Come, y'have slept enough.

Bright. Mr. Timothy !

A mastich-patch t' apply to his wife's temples,

New. 'Slight, Sir, here be

Two fishmongers to buy you, beat the price;
Now y'are awake yourself.

Tim. How's this! my hands

Transmuted into claws? my feet made flounders? Array'd in fins and scales! Are n't you Ashamed to make me such a monster? Pray Help to undress me.

Plot. We have rare news for you.

Tim. No letter from the lady, I hope?
Plot. Your father,

And my grave uncle, sir, are cast away.
Tim. How?

Plot. They by this have made a meal
For jacks and salmon: they are drown'd.
Bright. Fall down,

And worship sea-coals, for a ship of them
Has made you, sir, an heir.

Plot. This fellow here

We are all mortal; but in what wet case
Had I been now, if I had gone with him!
Within this fortnight I had been converted
Into some pike, you might ha' cheapen'd me
In Fish-street; I had made an ordinary,
Perchance, at the Mermaid. Now could I cry
Like any image in a fountain which
Runs lamentations. O my hard misfortune!
[He feigns to weep.

Sea. Fie, sir! good truth, it is not manly in you, To weep for such a slight loss as a father.

Tim. I do not cry for that.

Sea. No?

Tim. No, but to think,

My mother is not drown'd too.

Sea. I assure you,

And that a shrewd mischance.

Tim. For then might I

Ha' gone to th' counting-house, and set at liberty Those harmless angels, which for many years Have been condemn'd to darkness.

Plot. You'd not do

Like your penurious father, who was wont
To walk his dinner out in Paul's, whilst you
Kept Lent at home, and had, like folk in sieges,
Your meals weigh'd to you.

New. Indeed they say he was a monument of
Paul's.

Tim. Yes, he was there

As constant as Duke Humphrey. I can show The prints where he sate, holes i' th' logs.

True, Mr. Timothy, is't not?

Tim. Yes: then linen

To us was stranger than to Capuchins.
My flesh is of an order, with wearing shirts
Made of the sacks that brought o'er cochineal,
Copperas, and indigo. My sister wears
Smocks made of currant-bags.

Sea. I'll not endure it;
Let's show ourselves.

Ware. Stay, hear all first.

New. Thy uncle was such another.
Bright. I have heard

He still last left th' Exchange, and would commend
The wholesomeness o' th' air in Moor-fields, when
The clock struck three sometimes.