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His bonnet vail'd, ere ever I could think,
Th' unruly wind blows off his periwink.
He lights and runs, and quickly hath him sped
To overtake his over-running head.

The sportful wind, to mock the headless man, Tosses apace his pitch'd Rogerian,

And straight it to a deeper ditch hath blown :
There must my yonker fetch his waxen crown.
I look'd and laugh'd, whiles, in his raging mind,
He curst all courtesy and unruly wind.

I look'd and laugh'd, and much I marvelled,
To see so large a causeway in his head;
And me bethought that when it first begon,
'Twas some shroad autumn that so bared the bone.
Is't not sweet pride then, when the crowns must shade
With that which jerks the hams of every jade,
Or floor-strew'd locks from off the barber's shears?
But waxen crowns well 'gree with borrow'd hairs.

SATIRE VII*. BOOK III.

SEEST thou how gaily my young master goes,
Vaunting himself upon his rising toes;
And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side;
And picks his glutted teeth since late noon-tide?
"Tis Ruffio: Trow'st thou where he dined to-day?
In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humfrày.
Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheer,
Keeps he for every straggling cavalier.
And open house, haunted with great resort;
Long service mix'd with musical disport.
Many fair yonker with a feather'd crest,
Chooses much rather be his shot-free guest,
To fare so freely with so little cost,
Than stake his twelvepence to a meaner host.
Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say
He touch'd no meat of all this live-long day.
For sure methought, yet that was but a guess,
His eyes seem'd sunk from very hollowness,
But could he have (as I did it mistake)

So little in his purse, so much upon his back?
So nothing in his maw? yet seemeth by his belt,
That his gaunt gut no too much stuffing felt.
Seest thou how side it hangs beneath his hip?
Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip.
Yet for all that, how stiffly struts he by,
All trapped in the new-found bravery.
The nuns of new-won Calais his bonnet lent,
In lieu of their so kind a conquerment.
What needed he fetch that from farthest Spain,
His grandame could have lent with lesser pain?

Though he perhaps ne'er pass'd the English shore, Yet fain would counted be a conqueror.

His hair, French-like, stares on his frighted head, One lock amazon-like dishevelled,

As if he meant to wear a native cord,

If chance his fates should him that bane afford.
All British bare upon the bristled skin,
Close notched is his beard both lip and chin;
His linen collar labyrinthian set,
Whose thousand double turnings never met:
His sleeves half hid with elbow pinionings,
As if he meant to fly with linen wings.
But when I look, and cast mine eyes below,
What monster meets mine eyes in human show?
So slender waist with such an abbot's loin,
Did never sober nature sure conjoin.
Lik'st a straw scare-crow in the new-sown field,
Rear'd on some stick, the tender corn to shield;
Or if that semblance suit not every deal,
Like a broad shake-fork with a slender steel.

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*In this description of a famished gallant, Hall has rivalled the succeeding humour of Ben Jonson in similar comic portraits. Among the traits of affectation in his finished character, is that of dining with duke Humphry while he pretends to keep open house.-The phrase of dining with Duke Humphry arose from St. Paul's being the general resort of the loungers of those days, many of whom, like Hall's gallant, were glad to beguile the thoughts of dinner with a walk in the middle aisle, where there was a tomb, by mistake supposed to be that of Humphry, Duke of Gloucester.-E.

*

SATIRE VIt. BOOK IV. Quid placet ergo?

*

I wor not how the world's degenerate,
That men or know or like not their estate :
Out from the Gades up to th' eastern morn,
Not one but holds his native state forlorn.
When comely striplings wish it were their chance
For Cænis' distaff to exchange their lance,
And wear curl'd periwigs, and chalk their face,
And still are poring on their pocket-glass.
Tired with pinn'd ruffs and fans, and partlet strips
And busks and verdingales about their hips ;
And tread on corked stilts a prisoner's pace,
And make their napkin for their spitting-place,
And gripe their waist within a narrow span :
Fond Cænis, that wouldst wish to be a man!
Whose mannish housewives like their refuse state,
And make a drudge of their uxorious mate,
Who like a cot-queen freezeth at the rock,
Whiles his breech'd dame doth man the foreign stock.
Is't not a shame to see each homely groom
Sit perched in an idle chariot room,

That were not meet some pannel to bestride,
Surcingled to a galled hackney's hide?
Each muck-worm will be rich with lawless gain,
Although he smother up mows of seven years' grain,
And hang'd himself when corn grows cheap again;
Although he buy whole harvests in the spring,
And foist in false strikes to the measuring,
Although his shop be muffled from the light,
Like a day dungeon, or Cimmerian night;
Nor full nor fasting can the carle take rest,
While his george-nobles rusten in his chest ;

The general scope of this satire, as its motto denotes, is directed against the discontent of human beings with their respective conditions. It paints the ambition of the youth to become a man, of the muckworm to be rich, of the rustic to become a soldier, of the rhymer to appear in print, and of the brain-sick reader of foreign wonders to become a traveller.-E.

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He sleeps but once, and dreams of burglary,
And wakes, and casts about his frighted eye,
And gropes for thieves in every darker shade;
And if a mouse but stir, he calls for aid.
The sturdy ploughman doth the soldier see,
All scarf'd with pied colours to the knee,
Whom Indian pillage hath made fortunate,
And now he 'gins to loath his former state;
Now doth he inly scorn his Kendal-green,
And his patch'd cockers now despised been;
Nor list he now go whistling to the car,
But sells his team, and fetleth to the war.
O war! to them that never tried thee, sweet!
When his dead mate falls groveling at his feet,
And angry bullets whistlen at his ear,
And his dim eyes see nought but death and drear.
O happy ploughman! were thy weal well known :
O happy all estates, except his own!
Some drunken rhymer thinks his time well spent,
If he can live to see his name in print,
Who, when he is once fleshed to the press,
And sees his hansell have such fair success,
Sung to the wheel, and sung unto the pail,
He sends forth thraves of ballads to the sail,
Nor then can rest, but volumes up bodged rhymes,
To have his name talked of in future times.
The brain-sick youth, that feeds his tickled ear
With sweet-sauced lies of some false traveller,
Which hath the Spanish Decades read awhile,
Or whetstone leasings of old Mandeville,

Now with discourses breaks his midnight sleep
Of his adventures through the Indian deep,
Of all their massy heaps of golden mine,
Or of the antique tombs of Palestine,
Or of Damascus' magic wall of glass,
Of Solomon his sweating piles of brass,
Of the bird rue that bears an elephant,
Of mermaids that the southern seas do haunt,
Of headless men, of savage cannibals,
The fashions of their lives and governals;
What monstrous cities there erected be,
Cairo, or the city of the Trinity;
Now are they dunghill cocks that have not seen
The bordering Alps, or else the neighbour
Rhine:

And now he plies the news-full Grasshopper,
Of voyages and ventures to inquire.

His land mortgaged, he sea-beat in the way,
Wishes for home a thousand sighs a day;
And now he deems his home-bred fare as leaf
As his parch'd biscuit, or his barrell'd beef.
'Mongst all these stirs of discontented strife,
O let me lead an academic life;

Was a native of Oxfordshire, and was born, as Mr. Ellis conjectures, in 1558. He left the university of Oxford without a degree, and came to London, where he pursued the business of an attorney of the common pleas. Scott, the poet of Amwell, discovered that he had been buried in the church of that parish in 1609, having died suddenly in the night-time.*

His "Albion's England" was once exceedingly popular. Its publication was at one time interdicted by the Star-chamber, for no other reason that can now be assigned, but that it contains some love-stories more simply than delicately related. His contemporaries compared him to Virgil, whom he certainly did not make his

WILLIAM WARNER

To know much, and to think for nothing, know
Nothing to have, yet think we have enow. ;
In skill to want, and wanting seek for more ;
In weal nor want, nor wish for greater store.
Envy, ye monarchs, with your proud excess,
At our low sail, and our high happiness.

[Died, 1608-9.]

model. Dr. Percy thinks he rather resembled Ovid, to whom he is, if possible, still more unlike. His poem is, in fact, an enormous ballad on the history, or rather on the fables appendant to the history of England; heterogeneous, indeed, like the Metamorphoses, but written with an almost doggrel simplicity. Headley has rashly preferred his works to our ancient ballads; but with the best of these they will bear no comparison. Argentile and Curan has indeed some beautiful touches, yet that episode requires to be weeded of many lines to be read with unqualified pleasure; and through the rest of his stories we shall search in vain for the familiar magic of such ballads as Chevy Chase or Gill Morrice.

ARGENTILE AND CURAN.
FROM ALBION'S ENGLAND.

Argentile, the daughter and heiress of the deceased King, *
Adelbright, has been left to the protection of her uncle
Edel, who discharges his trust unfaithfully, and seeks
to force his niece to marry a suitor whom he believes to
be ignoble, that he may have a pretext for seizing on
her kingdom.

[* 9th March 1608—9.]

*

YET well he fosters for a time the damsel, that was grown

The fairest lady under heav'n, whose beauty being known,

A many princes seek her love, but none might A brace of years he lived thus, well pleased so to live, her obtain, And, shepherd-like, to feed a flock himself did wholly give;

For gripel Edel to himself her kingdom sought to gain,

So wasting love, by work and want, grew almost to the wane,

And for that cause, from sight of such he did his ward restrain.

And then began a second love the worser of the twain;

A

country wench, a neat-herd's maid, where Curan kept his sheep,

Did feed her drove ; and now on her was all the shepherd's keep.

He borrow'd on the working days his holie russets oft,

And of the bacon's fat to make his startups black and soft,

And lest his tar-box should offend, he left it at the fold:

By chance one Curan, son unto a Prince of Danske, did see

The maid with whom he fell in love, as much as one might be :

Unhappy youth, what should he do? his saint
was kept in mew;

Nor he nor any nobleman admitted to her view :
One while in melancholy fits he pines himself away,
Anon he thought by force of arms to win her if
he may,

And still against the king's restraint did secretly inveigh.

Sweet grout or whig his bottle had as much as it might hold;

A shave of bread as brown as nut, and cheese as white as snow,

And wildings, or the season's fruit, he did in scrip bestow;

And whilst his pyebald cur did sleep, and sheep-
hook lay him by,

On hollow quills of oaten straw he piped melody;
But when he spied her his saint *
Thus the shepherd woo'd.

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Not caring what became of her, so he by her Thou art too elvish, faith, thou art; too elvish might thrive;

At last his resolution was some peasant should her

At length the high controller, Love, whom none may disobey,

Imbased him from lordliness into a kitchen drudge, That so at least of life or death she might become his judge;.

Access so had, to see and speak, he did his love bewray,

And tells his birth-her answer was, she husbandless would stay:

Meanwhile the king did beat his brain, his booty

to achieve,

*

*

wive:

And (which was working to his wish) he did ob- Believe me, lass, a king is but a man, and so am I;
serve with joy,
Content is worth a monarchy, and mischiefs hit
the high,

How Curan, whom he thought a drudge, scap'd
many an am'rous toy:
The king, perceiving such his vein, promotes his
vassal still,

As late it did a king, and his, not dwelling far
from hence,

Lest that the baseness of the man should let perhaps his will;

Assured, therefore, of his love, but not suspecting
who

The lover was, the king himself in his behalf did woo:
The lady, resolute from love, unkindly takes that he

Should bar the noble and unto so base a match
agree;

And therefore, shifting out of doors, departed
hence by stealth,
Preferring poverty before a dangerous life in
wealth.
When Curan heard of her escape, the anguish of

his heart
Was more than much, and after her he did from
court depart;

Forgetful of hmself, his birth, his country, friends, and all,

And only minding whom he miss'd, the foundress of his thrall:

and too coy;

Am I, I pray thee, beggarly, that such a flock enjoy?

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Nor means he after to frequent the court, or stately towns,

But solitarily to live among the country growns.

Who left a daughter, save thyself, for fair a matchless wench;

Here did he pause, as if his tongue had done his heart offence :

The neatress, longing for the rest, did egg him on to tell

She bore,

How fair she was, and who she was.
quoth he, the belle;

For beauty, though I clownish am, I know what
beauty is,

Or did I not, yet seeing thee, I senseless were to miss:

Suppose her beauty Helen's like, or Helen's something less,

And every star consorting to a pure complexion guess;

Her stature comely tall, her gait well graced, and her wit

To marvel at, not meddle with, as matchless I omit ;

A globe-like head, a gold-like hair, a forehead smooth and high,

An even nose; on either side did shine a greyish eye.

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A TAILOR, thought a man of upright dealing-
True, but for lying-honest, but for stealing,
Did fall one day extremely sick by chance,
And on the sudden was in wond'rous trance ;
The fiends of hell, mustering in fearful manner,
Of sundry colour'd silks display'd a banner
Which he had stolen, and wish'd, as they did tell,
That he might find it all one day in hell.
The man, affrighted with this apparition,
Upon recovery grew a great precisian :
He bought a Bible of the best translation,
And in his life he show'd great reformation;

I grant, quoth she, it was too much, that you did love so much,

SIR JOHN HARRINGTON.

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But whom your former could not move, your second love doth touch;

Thy twice-beloved Argentile submitteth her to thee,

And, for thy double love, presents herself a single fee;

In passion, not in person, changed; and I, my lord, am she ;

Thus sweetly surfeiting in joy, and silent for a

[Born, 1561? Died, 1612?]

space,

When as the ecstasy had end, did tenderly embrace.

*

FROM SIR JOHN HARRINGTON'S EPIGRAMS. OF A PRECISE TAILOR.

His son, the translator of Ariosto, was knighted on the field by the Earl of Essex, not much to the satisfaction of Elizabeth, who was sparing of such honours, and chose to confer them herself. He was created a knight of the Bath in the reign of James, and distinguished himself, to the violent offence of the high church party, by his zeal against the marriage of bishops.

He walked mannerly, he talked meekly,
He heard three lectures and two sermons weekly;
He vow'd to shun all company unruly,

And in his speech he used no oath; but truly
And zealously to keep the sabbath's rest,
His meat for that day on the eve was drest ;
And lest the custom which he had to steal
Might cause him sometimes to forget his zeal,
He gives his journeyman a special charge,
That if the stuff, allowance being large,
He found his fingers were to filch inclined,
Bid him to have the banner in his mind.

74

HENRY PERROT.-SIR THOMAS OVERBURY.

This done (I scant can tell the rest for laughter)

A captain of a ship came three days after,
And brought three yards of velvet and three
quarters,

To make Venetians down below the garters.

AMBITIO FEMININI GENERIS.

HENRY PERROT'S BOOK OF EPIGRAMS,

ENTITLED "SPRINGES FOR WOODCOCKS."

(EDIT.

1613.)

PERROT, I suspect, was not the author, but only the collector of these trifles, some of which are claimed by other epigrammatists, probably with no better right. It is indeed very difficult

to ascertain the real authors of a vast number of little pieces of the 16th and 17th centuries, as the minor poets pilfer from each other with the utmost coolness and apparent impunity.

MISTRESS Matrossa hopes to be a lady,
Not as a dignity of late expected;
But from the time almost she was a baby,
That hath your richest gentlemen rejected;
But yet not dubb'd at present as she should be,
Lives in expectance still-my lady Would-be.

He, that precisely knew what was enough,
Soon slipt aside three quarters of the stuff;
His man, espying it, said, in derision,
Master, remember how you saw the vision !
Peace, knave! quoth he, I did not see one rag
Of such a colour'd silk in all the flag.

FROM

Was born in 1581, and perished in the Tower of London, 1613, by a fate that is too well known. The compassion of the public for a man of worth, "whose spirit still walked unrevenged amongst them," together with the contrast of his ideal Wife with the Countess of Essex, who was his murderess, attached an interest and popularity to his poem, and made it pass through sixteen editions before the year 1653. His Characters, or Witty Descriptions of the Properties of sundry Persons, is a work of considerable merit; but unfortunately his prose, as well as his verse, has

SIR THOMAS OVERBURY

[Born, 1581. Died, 1613]

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THEN may I trust her body with her mind,
And, thereupon secure, need never know
The pangs of jealousy and love doth find
More pain to doubt her false than find her so;
For patience is, of evils that are known,
The certain remedy; but doubt hath none.

NEC SUTOR ULTRA.

FROM THE SAME.

A COBBLER and a curate once disputed,
Before a judge, about the king's injunctions,
Wherein the curate being still confuted,
One said 'twere good if they two changed functions:
Nay, quoth the judge, I thereto would be loth,
But, an' you like, we'll make them cobblers both.

a dryness and quaintness that seem to oppress the natural movement of his thoughts. As a poet, he has few imposing attractions: his beauties must be fetched by repeated perusal. They are those of solid reflection, predominating over, but not extinguishing, sensibility; and there is danger of the reader neglecting, under the coldness and ruggedness of his manner, the manly but unostentatious moral feeling that is conveyed in his maxims, which are sterling and liberal, if we can only pardon a few obsolete ideas on female education.

FROM SIR THOMAS OVERBURY'S POEM,

THE WIFE.

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