BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE.

"Thammuz came next behind,Whose annual wound in Lebanon allur'dThe Syrian damsels to lament his fateIn amorous ditties all a summer's day."

57.Compare with "Paradise Lost," I, 392-405. InSandys's Travels, published in 1615, and a popular book in Milton's time, the following description is given of the sacrifices made to Moloch: "Therein the Hebrews sacrificed their children to Moloch, an idol of brass, having the head of a calf, the rest of a kingly figure, with arms extended to receive the miserable sacrifice seared to death with his burning embracements. For the idol was hollow within and filled with fire."

58.grisly.Frightful, hideous. Probably from A.-S.agrisan, to dread.

59.brutish.Shaped like a brute; animal.

Isis.The Egyptian earth-goddess, afterwards worshipped as the goddess of the moon.

Orus.The Egyptian god of the sun.

the dogAnubis. Juvenal says, "Whole towns worship the dog."—Sat., XV, 8.

60.unshowr'd.A reference to the general, though erroneous, idea that it does not rain in Egypt.

Osiris, or Apis, one of the chief gods of the Egyptians, was represented by a bull.

sacred chest=worshipt ark, below.

61.eyn.The old plural form of eyes. This form of the plural survives inoxen,children,brethren,kine,swine.

Typhon.A monster among the gods, variously described by the poets. He was a terror to all the other deities.

62.in bed.The sun has not yet risen.

63.youngest teemed.Referring to the Star of Bethlehem.

64.Compare Milton's "Sonnet on his Blindness":

"They also serve who only stand and wait."

John Miltonwas born in Bread Street, Cheapside, London, in the year 1608, eight years before the death of Shakespeare. From his boyhood he showed the possession of more than ordinary powers of mind. He was educated first under private tutors, and at St. Paul's School, and finally at Christ's College, Cambridge, where in 1632 he received the degree of "Master of Arts." His first considerable work was the "Hymn on the Morning of the Nativity," written in 1629. Within the next seven years he wrote the most noteworthy of his shorter poems: the masque, "Comus"; the pastoral piece entitled "Arcades"; the beautiful descriptive poems, "L'Allegro" and "II Penseroso"; and the elegy, "Lycidas." In 1639 he made a tour upon the Continent, visited the famous seats of learning in France and Italy, and made the acquaintance of many of the great poets and scholars of his time. Upon hearing, however, that civil war was about to break out in England, he hastened home, resolved to devote himself to what he regarded as his country's best interests. Poetry was abandoned for politics, and for the next twenty years he wrote little except prose—political tracts and controversial essays. When Cromwell became Lord Protector of England, Milton was appointed Latin Secretary of State, a positionwhich he continued to hold until towards the downfall of the Commonwealth. But after the Restoration he quietly withdrew into retirement, resolved to devote the remainder of his life to the writing of the great poem which he had been contemplating for many years. Through unceasing study he had lost his sight; the friends of his youth had deserted him; the fortune which he had received from his father was gone. And so it was in darkness, and disappointment, and poverty, that in 1667 he gave to the world the great English epic, "Paradise Lost." It was in that same year that Dryden published his "Annus Mirabilis." Milton shortly afterward wrote "Paradise Regained"; and, in 1671, he produced "Samson Agonistes," a tragedy modelled after the masterpieces of the Greek drama. On the 8th of November, 1674, at the age of sixty-six years, his strangely eventful life came to a close.

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:England hath need of thee; she is a fenOf stagnant waters; altar, sword, and pen,Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,Have forfeited their ancient English dowerOf inward happiness. We are selfish men;Oh! raise us up, return to us again;And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart;Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,So didst thou travel on life's common way,In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heartThe lowliest duties on herself did lay.

Other Poems to be Read:L'Allegro; Il Penseroso; Comus; Lycidas; selections from Paradise Lost.

References:Masson'sLife and Times of John Milton;Milton(Classical Writers), by Stopford Brooke;Milton(English Men of Letters), by Mark Pattison; Macaulay's Essay onMilton; De Quincey,Milton vs. Southey and Landor; Coleridge'sLiterary Remains; Johnson'sLives of the Poets; Hazlitt'sEnglish Poets.

Live, live with me, and thou shalt seeThe pleasures I'll prepare for thee:What sweets the country can affordShall bless thy bed, and bless thy board.The soft sweet moss shall be thy bed,With crawling woodbine over-spread:By which the silver-shedding streamsShall gently melt thee into dreams.Thy clothing next, shall be a gownMade of the fleeces' purest down.The tongue of kids shall be thy meat;Their milk thy drink; and thou shalt eatThe paste of filberts for thy breadWith cream of cowslips butterèd:Thy feasting-table shall be hillsWith daisies spread, and daffadils;Where thou shalt sit, and Red-breast by,For meat, shall give thee melody.I'll give thee chains and carcanetsOf primroses and violets.A bag and bottle thou shalt have,That richly wrought, and this as brave;So that as either shall expressThe wearer's no mean shepherdess.At shearing-times, and yearly wakes,When Themilis his pastime makes,There thou shalt be; and be the wit,Nay more, the feast, and grace of it.On holydays, when virgins meetTo dance the heys with nimble feet,Thou shalt come forth, and then appearThe Queen of Roses for that year.And having danced ('bove all the best)Carry the garland from the rest.In wicker-baskets maids shall bringTo thee, my dearest shepherdling,The blushing apple, bashful pear,And shame-faced plum, all simp'ring there.Walk in the groves, and thou shalt findThe name of Phillis in the rindOf every straight and smooth-skin tree;Where kissing that, I'll twice kiss thee.To thee a sheep-hook I will send,Be-prank'd with ribbons, to this end,This, this alluring hook might beLess for to catch a sheep, than me.Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine,Not made of ale, but spicèd wine;To make thy maids and self free mirth,All sitting near the glitt'ring hearth.Thou shalt have ribbands, roses, rings,Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes, and stringsOf winning colors that shall moveOthers to lust, but me to love.—These, nay, and more, thine own shall be,If thou wilt love, and live with me.

Good morrow to the day so fair;Good morning, sir, to you;Good morrow to mine own torn hair,Bedabbled with the dew.Good morning to this primrose too;Good morrow to each maid;That will with flowers the tomb bestrewWherein my Love is laid.Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,Alack and well-a-day!For pity, sir, find out that bee,Which bore my Love away.I'll seek him in your bonnet brave;I'll seek him in your eyes;Nay, now I think they've made his graveI' th' bed of strawberries.I'll seek him there; I know, ere this,The cold, cold earth doth shake him;But I will go, or send a kissBy you, sir, to awake him.Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,He knows well who do love him;And who with green turfs rear his head,And who do rudely move him.He's soft and tender, pray take heed,With bands of cowslips bind him,And bring him home;—but 'tis decreedThat I shall never find him.

Good morrow to the day so fair;Good morning, sir, to you;Good morrow to mine own torn hair,Bedabbled with the dew.

Good morning to this primrose too;Good morrow to each maid;That will with flowers the tomb bestrewWherein my Love is laid.

Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,Alack and well-a-day!For pity, sir, find out that bee,Which bore my Love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave;I'll seek him in your eyes;Nay, now I think they've made his graveI' th' bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know, ere this,The cold, cold earth doth shake him;But I will go, or send a kissBy you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,He knows well who do love him;And who with green turfs rear his head,And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender, pray take heed,With bands of cowslips bind him,And bring him home;—but 'tis decreedThat I shall never find him.

Lord, thou hast given me a cell,Wherein to dwell;A little house, whose humble roofIs weather proof;Under the spars of which I lieBoth soft and dry;Where thou, my chamber for to ward,Hast set a guardOf harmless thoughts, to watch and keepMe, while I sleep.Low is my porch, as is my fate;Both void of state;And yet the threshold of my doorIs worn by th' poor,Who thither come, and freely getGood words, or meat.Like as my parlor, so my hallAnd kitchen's small;A little buttery, and thereinA little bin,Which keeps my little loaf of breadUnchipt, unflead;Some brittle sticks of thorn or briarMake me a fire,Close by whose living coal I sit,And glow like it.Lord, I confess too, when I dine,The pulse is thine,And all those other bits that beThere placed by thee;The worts, the purslain, and the messOf water-cress,Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;And my contentMakes those, and my belovèd beet,To be more sweet.'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearthWith guiltless mirth,And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,Spiced to the brink.Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping handThat soils my land,And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,Twice ten for one;Thou mak'st my teeming hen to layHer egg each day;Besides, my healthful ewes to bearMe twins each year;The while the conduits of my kineRun cream, for wine:All these, and better, thou dost sendMe, to this end,—That I should render, for my part,A thankful heart;Which, fired with incense, I resign,As wholly thine;—But the acceptance, that must be,My Christ, by Thee.

Robert Herrickwas born in Cheapside, London, August 20, 1591. He was educated at Cambridge, and in 1629, having taken orders, was presented to the vicarage of Dean Prior in Devonshire. From this living he was ejected by the Long Parliament in 1648, and, going up to London, he united himself with some of his former associates and entered upon a career not altogether creditable to his profession of parson. At the restoration of Charles II. he was returned to his vicarage, where he remained until his death in 1674. His best poems are included in the collection entitled "Hesperides, or Works Humane and Divine," published in 1648, and dedicated to "the most illustrious and most hopeful Prince Charles." The "Argument" prefixed to this collection very prettily describes the character of the pieces which it contains:

"I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers;I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,Of bride-grooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes.I write of Youth, of Love;—and have accessBy these, to sing of cleanly wantonness;I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece,Of balm, of oil, of spice, of ambergris.I sing of times trans-shifting; and I writeHow roses first came red, and lilies white.I write of groves, of twilights, and I singThe court of Mab, and of the Fairy King;I write of Hell; I sing, and ever shallOf Heaven,—and hope to have it after all."

"Herrick's best things," says Robert Buchanan, "are his poems in praise of the country life, and his worst things are his epigrams. His gladsome, mercurial temper had a great deal to do with the composition of his best lyrics; for the parson of Dean Prior was no philosopher, and his lightest, airiest verses are the best. His was a happy, careless nature, throwing off verses out of the fulness of a joyous heart, rioting in a pleasant, sunny element."

Go, lovely Rose,Tell her that wastes her time and me,That now she knowsWhen I resemble her to theeHow sweet and fair she seems to be.Tell her that's young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That had'st thou sprungIn deserts where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired;Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.Then die, that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee,How small a part of time they shareWho are so wondrous sweet and fair.

Go, lovely Rose,Tell her that wastes her time and me,That now she knowsWhen I resemble her to theeHow sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That had'st thou sprungIn deserts where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired;Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee,How small a part of time they shareWho are so wondrous sweet and fair.

Poets may boast, as safely vain,Their works shall with the world remain:Both bound together, live or die,The verses and the prophecy.But who can hope his line should longLast, in a daily-changing tongue?While they are new, envy prevails;And as that dies our language fails.When architects have done their part,The matter may betray their art:Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,Soon brings a well-built palace down.Poets, that lasting marble seek,Must carve in Latin or in Greek:We write in sand, our language grows,And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.Chaucer his sense can only boast,The glory of his numbers lost!Years have defac't his matchless strain,And yet he did not sing in vain.The beauties which adorn'd that age,The shining subjects of his rage,Hoping they should immortal prove,Rewarded with success his love.This was the gen'rous poet's scope,And all an English pen can hope;To make the fair approve his flame,That can so far extend their fame.Verse thus design'd has no ill fate,If it arrive but at the dateOf fading beauty, if it proveBut as long-liv'd as present love.

Poets may boast, as safely vain,Their works shall with the world remain:Both bound together, live or die,The verses and the prophecy.

But who can hope his line should longLast, in a daily-changing tongue?While they are new, envy prevails;And as that dies our language fails.

When architects have done their part,The matter may betray their art:Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,Soon brings a well-built palace down.

Poets, that lasting marble seek,Must carve in Latin or in Greek:We write in sand, our language grows,And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.

Chaucer his sense can only boast,The glory of his numbers lost!Years have defac't his matchless strain,And yet he did not sing in vain.

The beauties which adorn'd that age,The shining subjects of his rage,Hoping they should immortal prove,Rewarded with success his love.

This was the gen'rous poet's scope,And all an English pen can hope;To make the fair approve his flame,That can so far extend their fame.

Verse thus design'd has no ill fate,If it arrive but at the dateOf fading beauty, if it proveBut as long-liv'd as present love.

That which her slender waist confin'dShall now my joyful temples bind;No monarch but would give his crownHis arms might do what this has done.It was my heaven's extremest sphere,The pale which held that lovely deer:My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,Did all within this circle move!A narrow compass! and yet thereDwelt all that's good and all that's fair:Give me but what this riband bound,Take all the rest the sun goes round.

That which her slender waist confin'dShall now my joyful temples bind;No monarch but would give his crownHis arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere,The pale which held that lovely deer:My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,Did all within this circle move!

A narrow compass! and yet thereDwelt all that's good and all that's fair:Give me but what this riband bound,Take all the rest the sun goes round.

Edmund Waller, whose poetry is noticeable because he was the first English versifier to adopt the French fashion of writing in couplets, was born in Warwickshire in 1605. He was elected to Parliament at the age of seventeen, and was a member of that bodyduring the greater part of his life. At the beginning of the difficulties between the king and the Parliament, he gained some notoriety by his opposition to the former, but when the Civil War broke out he attached himself to the Royalist cause. In 1643, being convicted of complicity in a plot against Parliament, he was fined £10,000 and imprisoned for twelve months. After his release he went to France; but in 1653 he returned to England and became reconciled to the new government, writing, soon afterward, "A Panegyric to my Lord Protector, of the present Greatness and joint Interest of his Highness and this Nation." At the Restoration he eagerly declared allegiance to Charles II., and wrote a congratulatory ode on that monarch's return. He became a court favorite, noted for his wit, was made provost of Eton, and returned to his old place in Parliament. He died October 21, 1687. The first edition of his poems was published in 1645, and from that time to the close of the seventeenth century he was quite generally regarded as the greatest of English poets. At the present time there are few writers so little considered as he.

Waller may be regarded as the founder of the classical school of English poetry, in which Dryden and Pope excelled, and which remained in the ascendency for more than a century after his death. "The excellence and dignity of rhyme," says Dryden, "were never fully known till Mr. Waller taught it; he first made writing easily an art, first showed us to conclude the sense, most commonly, in distichs, which in the verse of those before him runs on for so many lines together, that the reader is out of breath to overtake it."

And Dr. Johnson says: "He certainly very much excelled in smoothness most of the writers who were living when his poetry commenced. But he was rather smooth than strong: of the 'full resounding line' which Pope attributes to Dryden, he has given very few examples. The general character of his poetry is elegance and gaiety. He seems neither to have had a mind much elevated by nature, nor amplified by learning. His thoughts are such as a liberal conversation and large acquaintance with life would easily supply."

Where dost Thou careless lieBuried in ease and sloth?Knowledge that sleeps, doth die;And this security,It is the common mothThat eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both.Are all the Aonian1springsDried up? lies Thespia waste?Doth Clarius'2harp want strings,That not a nymph now sings;Or droop they as disgrac'd,To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies3defac'd?If hence4thy silence be,As 'tis too just a cause,Let this thought quicken thee:Minds that are great and freeShould not on fortune pause;'Tis crown enough to virtue5still, her own applause.What though the greedy fryBe taken with false baitsOf worded balladry,And think it poesy?They die with their conceits,And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.Then take in hand thy lyre;Strike in thy proper strain;With Japhet's line,6aspireSol's chariot for new fire,To give the world again:Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain.7And, since our dainty ageCannot endure reproof,Make not thyself a pageTo that strumpet the stage;But sing high and aloof,Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof.8

Where dost Thou careless lieBuried in ease and sloth?Knowledge that sleeps, doth die;And this security,It is the common mothThat eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both.

Are all the Aonian1springsDried up? lies Thespia waste?Doth Clarius'2harp want strings,That not a nymph now sings;Or droop they as disgrac'd,To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies3defac'd?

If hence4thy silence be,As 'tis too just a cause,Let this thought quicken thee:Minds that are great and freeShould not on fortune pause;'Tis crown enough to virtue5still, her own applause.

What though the greedy fryBe taken with false baitsOf worded balladry,And think it poesy?They die with their conceits,And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.

Then take in hand thy lyre;Strike in thy proper strain;With Japhet's line,6aspireSol's chariot for new fire,To give the world again:Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain.7

And, since our dainty ageCannot endure reproof,Make not thyself a pageTo that strumpet the stage;But sing high and aloof,Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof.8

This poem is found in the collection of miscellaneous pieces, by Ben Jonson, entitled "Underwoods." The poet reproaches himself for his own indolence.

1.Aonian springs.The fountain Aganippe, situated in Aonia, was much frequented by the Muses, who were therefore sometimes called "Aonides." They were also calledThespiades, because Mount Helicon, one of their favored resorts, was in the vicinity of Thespia, and was itself named "Thespia rupes."

2.Clarius.The name applied to the celebrated oracle of Apollo at Clarus, on the Ionian coast.

3.pies.Magpies, "who make sound without sense."

4.hence.For this reason.

5.virtue . . . her own applause.Compare:

"Virtue is her own reward."—Dryden,Tyrannic Love.

"Virtue, a reward to itself."—Walton,Compleat Angler.

"Virtue is its own reward."—Prior,Imitations of Horace.

6.Japhet's line.The line of Iapetus, the father of Prometheus, who stole fire from the chariot of the sun.

7.issue of Jove's brain.Athene, or Minerva.

8."Safe from the slanderer and the fool."

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep;Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep;Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright.Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear, when day did close;Bless us then with wished sight,Goddess excellently bright.Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal-shining quiver;Give unto the flying heartSpace to breathe, how short soever;Thou that mak'st a day of night,Goddess excellently bright.

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep;Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep;Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear, when day did close;Bless us then with wished sight,Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal-shining quiver;Give unto the flying heartSpace to breathe, how short soever;Thou that mak'st a day of night,Goddess excellently bright.

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;1While I confess thy writings to be such,As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much.'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these waysWere not the paths I meant unto thy praise;For seeliest2ignorance on these may light,Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advanceThe truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,And think to ruin where it seemed to praise.But thou art proof against them and, indeed,Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.I therefore will begin: Soul of the age!The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!MyShakespearerise! I will not lodge thee byChaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lieA little further, to make thee a room:3Thou art a monument without a tomb,And art alive still while thy book doth live,And we have wits to read, and praise to give.That I not mix thee so my brain excuses,—I mean with great, but disproportioned Muses;For if I thought my judgment were of years,I should commit thee surely with thy peers,And tell how far thou didst our Lyly4outshine,Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,From thence to honor thee I would not seekFor names, but call forth thund'ring Æschylus,5Euripides, and Sophocles to us,Pacuvius, Accius,6him of Cordova dead,To life again, to hear thy buskin tread,And shake a stage; or when thy socks7were on,Leave thee alone for a comparisonOf all that insolent Greece or haughty RomeSent forth, or since did from their ashes come.Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show,To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.He was not of an age, but for all time!And all the Muses still were in their prime,When, like Apollo, he came forth to warmOur ears, or like a Mercury to charm!Nature herself was proud of his designs,And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines,Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,Neat Terence, witty Plautus,8now not please;But antiquated and deserted lie,As they were not of Nature's family.Yet must I not give Nature all; thy Art,My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.For though the poet's matter nature be,His art doth give the fashion; and that he9Who casts to write a living line, must sweat(Such as thine are) and strike the second heatUpon the Muses' anvil, turn the same,And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;Or for the laurel he may gain to scorn;For a good poet's made, as well as born.And such wert thou! Look, how the father's faceLives in his issue, even so the raceOf Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shinesIn his well-turnèd and true filèd lines,In each of which he seems to shake a lance,As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.Sweet Swan of Avon!10what a sight it wereTo see thee in our waters yet appear,And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,That so did take Eliza and our James!But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere11Advanced, and made a constellation there!Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rageOr influence chide or cheer the drooping stage,Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night,And despairs day but for thy volume's light.

This poem was prefixed to the first folio edition of Shakespeare, 1623, and is also printed in Ben Jonson's "Underwoods."

1.The meaning of these two lines would seem to be: "To show that I am not envious, Shakespeare, of thy name, I thus write fully of thy works and fame."

2.seeliest.Silliest, simplest. From A.-S.saelig, foolish. See note 23, page190.

3.In allusion to W. Basse's elegy on Shakespeare, beginning:

"Renownèd Spenser, lie a thought more nighTo learned Chaucer; and rare Beaumont, lieA little nearer Spenser, to make roomFor Shakespear in your threefold, fourfold tomb."

4.Lyly, Kyd, Marlowe.Contemporaries of Shakespeare. See Biographical Dictionary.

5.Æschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles.The founders of the Greek tragical drama.

6.Pacuvius, Accius.Celebrated Roman tragic poets.

him of Cordova.Seneca, the great rhetorician, was born at Cordova, in Spain,b.c.61.

7.socks were on.The socks indicated comedy, and the buskins tragedy. Compare Milton's "L'Allegro," 131:

"Then to the well-trod stage anon,If Jonson's learned sock be on,Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,Warble his native wood-note wild."

Also, "Il Penseroso," 97. See note onbuskin, page139.

8.Aristophanes, Terence, Plautus.Ancient writers of comedy.

9.that he.That man.

10.Swan of Avon.So Cowper calls Virgil "the Mantuan swan."

11.hemisphere.The celestial hemisphere.

Ben Jonsonwas born in Westminster, in 1573. His early life was full of hard and varied experiences. He was educated at Westminster School, and entered St. John's College, Cambridge. Being obliged to leave his university course unfinished, he worked for a time with his step-father as a brick-layer. At the age of eighteen he enlisted as a volunteer in the Low Countries; but in 1596 he settled in London, as a playwright. His first comedy, "Every Man in his Humour," did not meet with immediate success. It was remodelled, at Shakespeare's suggestion, and when afterwards presented was received with marked favor. His first tragedy, "Sejanus," was acted in 1603. His masques, of which there are thirty-six, were written during the reign of James I. His miscellaneous works, embracing a variety of odes, elegies, epigrams, and other lyrics and epistles, are included in two collections, the first of which, calledThe Forest, was published in 1616, and the second posthumously, in 1641. He died in London, August 6, 1637.

One of the last and most beautiful of Jonson's dramas is the unfinished pastoral comedy, "The Sad Shepherd." It was written while in the sick-chamber, with a keen sense and remembrance ofthe disappointments which had followed him through life; and to these he touchingly refers in the prologue:

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