Some have their wives, their sisters some begot,But in the lives of emperors you shall notRead of a lust the which may equal this:This wolf begot himself, and finishedWhat he began alive when he was dead.Son to himself, and father too, he isA riding lust, for which schoolmen would missA proper name. The whelp of both these layIn Abel's tent, and with soft Moaba,His sister, being young, it used to sport and play.
He soon for her too harsh and churlish grew,And Abel (the dam dead) would use this newFor the field; being of two kinds thus made,He, as his dam, from sheep drove wolves away,And, as his sire, he made them his own prey.Five years he lived, and cozened with his trade,Then, hopeless that his faults were hid, betrayedHimself by flight, and by all followed,From dogs a wolf, from wolves a dog, he fled,And, like a spy, to both sides false, he perished.
It quickened next a toyful ape, and soGamesome it was, that it might freely goFrom tent to tent, and with the children play:His organs now so like theirs he doth find,That why he cannot laugh and speak his mindHe wonders. Much with all, most he doth stayWith Adam's fifth daughter, Siphatecia;Doth gaze on her, and where she passeth pass,Gathers her fruits, and tumbles on the grass;And, wisest of that kind, the first true lover was.
He was the first that more desired to haveOne than another; first that e'er did craveLove by mute signs, and had no power to speak;First that could make love-faces, or could doThe vaulter's somersalts, or used to wooWith hoiting gambols, his own bones to break,To make his mistress merry, or to wreakHer anger on himself. Sins against kindThey easily do that can let feed their mindWith outward beauty; beauty they in boys and beasts do find.
By this misled too low things men have proved,And too high; beasts and angels have been loved:This ape, though else th'rough vain, in this was wise;He reached at things too high, but open wayThere was, and he knew not she would say Nay.His toys prevail not; likelier means he tries;He gazeth on her face with tear-shot eyes,And uplifts subtlely, with his russet paw,Her kid-skin apron without fear or aweOf Nature; Nature hath no jail, though she hath law.
First she was silly, and knew not what he meant:That virtue, by his touches chafed and spent,Succeeds an itchy warmth, that melts her quite;She knew not first, nor cares not what he doth;And willing half and more, more than half wrath,She neither pulls nor pushes, but outrightNow cries, and now repents; when Thelemite,Her brother, entered, and a great stone threwAfter the ape, who thus prevented flew.This house, thus battered down, the Soul possessed anew.
And whether by this change she lose or win,She comes out next where the ape would have gone in.Adam and Eve had mingled bloods, and now,Like chemic's equal fires, her temperate wombHad stewed and formed it; and part did becomeA spungy liver, that did richly allow,Like a free conduit on a high hill's brow,Life-keeping moisture unto every part;Part hardened itself to a thicker heart,Whose busy furnaces life's spirits do impart.
Another part became the well of sense,The tender, well-armed feeling brain, from whenceThose sinew strings which do our bodies tieAre ravelled out; and fast there by one endDid this Soul limbs, these limbs a Soul attend;And now they joined, keeping some qualityOf every past shape; she knew treachery,Rapine, deceit, and lust, and ills enoughTo be a woman: Themech she is now,Sister and wife to Cain, Cain that first did plough.
Whoe'er thou beest that read'st this sullen writ,Which just so much courts thee as thou dost it,Let me arrest thy thoughts; wonder with meWhy ploughing, building, ruling, and the rest,Or most of those arts whence our lives are blest,By cursed Cain's race invented be,And blest Seth vexed us with astronomy.There's nothing simply good nor ill alone;Of every quality ComparisonThe only measure is, and judge Opinion.
The author of 'Polyolbion,' was born in the parish of Atherston, in Warwickshire, about the year 1563. He was the son of a butcher, but displayed such precocity that several persons of quality, such as Sir Walter Aston and the Countess of Bedford, patronised him. In his childhood he was eager to know what strange kind of beings poets were; and on coming to Oxford, (if, indeed, he did study there,) is said to have importuned his tutor to make him, if possible, a poet. He was supported chiefly, through his life, by the Lady Bedford. He paid court, without success, to King James. In 1593 (having long ere this become that 'strange thing a poet') he published a collection of his Pastorals, and afterwards his 'Barons' Wars' and 'England's Heroical Epistles,' which are both rhymed histories. In 1612-13 he published the first part of 'Polyolbion,' and in 1622 completed the work. In 1626 we hear of him being styled Poet Laureate, but the title then implied neither royal appointment, nor fee, nor, we presume, duty. In 1627 he published 'The Battle of Agincourt,' 'The Court of Faerie,' and other poems; and, three years later, a book called 'The Muses' Elysium.' He had at last found an asylum in the family of the Earl of Dorset; whose noble lady, Lady Anne Clifford, subsequently Countess of Pembroke, and who had been, we saw, Daniel's pupil, after Drayton's death in 1631, erected him a monument, with a gold-lettered inscription, in Westminster Abbey.
The main pillar of Drayton's fame is 'Polyolbion,' which forms a poetical description of England, in thirty songs or books, to which the learned Camden appended notes. The learning and knowledge of this poem are exten- sive, and many of the descriptions are true and spirited, but the space of ground traversed is too large, and the form of versification is too heavy, for so long a flight. Campbell justly remarks,—'On a general survey, the mass of his poetry has no strength or sustaining spirit equal to its bulk. There is a perpetual play of fancy on its surface; but the impulses of passion, and the guidance of judgment, give it no strong movements or consistent course.'
Drayton eminently suits a 'Selection' such as ours, since his parts are better than his whole.
When Phoebus lifts his head out of the winter's wave,No sooner doth the earth her flowery bosom brave,At such time as the year brings on the pleasant spring,But hunts-up to the morn the feather'd sylvans sing:And in the lower grove, as on the rising knoll,Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole,Those choristers are perch'd with many a speckled breast.Then from her burnish'd gate the goodly glitt'ring eastGilds every lofty top, which late the humorous nightBespangled had with pearl, to please the morning's sight:On which the mirthful choirs, with their clear open throats,Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling notes,That hills and valleys ring, and even the echoing airSeems all composed of sounds, about them everywhere.The throstle, with shrill sharps; as purposely he sungT'awake the lustless sun, or chiding, that so longHe was in coming forth, that should the thickets thrill;The woosel near at hand, that hath a golden bill;As nature him had mark'd of purpose, t'let us seeThat from all other birds his tunes should different be:For, with their vocal sounds, they sing to pleasant May;Upon his dulcet pipe the merle doth only play.When in the lower brake, the nightingale hard by,In such lamenting strains the joyful hours doth ply,As though the other birds she to her tunes would draw,And, but that nature (by her all-constraining law)Each bird to her own kind this season doth invite,They else, alone to hear that charmer of the night,(The more to use their ears,) their voices sure would spare,That moduleth her tunes so admirably rare,As man to set in parts at first had learn'd of her.
To Philomel the next, the linnet we prefer;And by that warbling bird, the wood-lark place we then,The red-sparrow, the nope, the redbreast, and the wren.The yellow-pate; which though she hurt the blooming tree,Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pipe than she.And of these chanting fowls, the goldfinch not behind,That hath so many sorts descending from her kind.The tydy for her notes as delicate as they,The laughing hecco, then the counterfeiting jay,The softer with the shrill (some hid among the leaves,Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaves)Thus sing away the morn, until the mounting sunThrough thick exhaled fogs his golden head hath run,And through the twisted tops of our close covert creepsTo kiss the gentle shade, this while that sweetly sleeps.And near to these our thicks, the wild and frightful herds,Not hearing other noise but this of chattering birds,Feed fairly on the lawns; both sorts of season'd deer:Here walk the stately red, the freckled fallow there:The bucks and lusty stags amongst the rascals strew'd,As sometime gallant spirits amongst the multitude.
Of all the beasts which we for our venerial name,The hart among the rest, the hunter's noblest game:Of which most princely chase since none did e'er report,Or by description touch, to express that wondrous sport,(Yet might have well beseem'd the ancients' nobler songs)To our old Arden here, most fitly it belongs:Yet shall she not invoke the muses to her aid;But thee, Diana bright, a goddess and a maid:In many a huge-grown wood, and many a shady grove,Which oft hast borne thy bow (great huntress, used to rove)At many a cruel beast, and with thy darts to pierceThe lion, panther, ounce, the bear, and tiger fierce;And following thy fleet game, chaste mighty forest's queen,With thy dishevell'd nymphs attired in youthful green,About the lawns hast scour'd, and wastes both far and near,Brave huntress; but no beast shall prove thy quarries here;Save those the best of chase, the tall and lusty red,The stag for goodly shape, and stateliness of head,Is fitt'st to hunt at force. For whom, when with his houndsThe labouring hunter tufts the thick unbarbed groundsWhere harbour'd is the hart; there often from his feedThe dogs of him do find; or thorough skilful heed,The huntsman by his slot, or breaking earth, perceives,On entering of the thick by pressing of the greaves,Where he had gone to lodge. Now when the hart doth hearThe often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret leir,He rousing rusheth out, and through the brakes doth drive,As though up by the roots the bushes he would rive.And through the cumbrous thicks, as fearfully he makes,He with his branched head the tender saplings shakes,That sprinkling their moist pearl do seem for him to weep;When after goes the cry, with yellings loud and deep,That all the forest rings, and every neighbouring place:And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase;Rechating with his horn, which then the hunter cheers,Whilst still the lusty stag his high-palm'd head upbears,His body showing state, with unbent knees upright,Expressing from all beasts, his courage in his flight.But when the approaching foes still following he perceives,That he his speed must trust, his usual walk he leaves:And o'er the champain flies: which when the assembly find,Each follows, as his horse were footed with the wind.But being then imbost, the noble stately deerWhen he hath gotten ground (the kennel cast arrear)Doth beat the brooks and ponds for sweet refreshing soil:That serving not, then proves if he his scent can foil,And makes amongst the herds, and flocks of shag-wooled sheep,Them frighting from the guard of those who had their keep.But when as all his shifts his safety still denies,Put quite out of his walk, the ways and fallows tries.Whom when the ploughman meets, his team he letteth standTo assail him with his goad: so with his hook in hand,The shepherd him pursues, and to his dog doth hollo:When, with tempestuous speed, the hounds and huntsmen follow;Until the noble deer through toil bereaved of strength,His long and sinewy legs then failing him at length,The villages attempts, enraged, not giving wayTo anything he meets now at his sad decay.The cruel ravenous hounds and bloody hunters near,This noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but fear,Some bank or quickset finds: to which his haunch opposed,He turns upon his foes, that soon have him enclosed.The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay,And as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin they lay,With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth deadly wounds.
The hunter, coming in to help his wearied hounds,He desperately assails; until oppress'd by force,He who the mourner is to his own dying corse,Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears lets fall.
Edward Fairfax was the second, some say the natural, son of Sir Thomas Fairfax of Denton, in Yorkshire. The dates of his birth and of his death are unknown, although he was living in 1631. While his brothers were pursuing military glory in the field, Edward married early, and settled in Fuystone, a place near Knaresborough Forest. Here he spent part of his time in managing his elder brother, Lord Fairfax's property, and partly in literary pursuits. He wrote a strange treatise on Demonology, a History of Edward the Black Prince, which has never been printed, some poor Eclogues, and a most beautiful translation of Tasso, which stamps him a true poet as well as a benefactor to the English language, and on account of which Collins calls him—
'Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mindBelieved the magic wonders which he sung.'
1 It was the time, when 'gainst the breaking dayRebellious night yet strove, and still repined;For in the east appear'd the morning gray,And yet some lamps in Jove's high palace shined,When to Mount Olivet he took his way,And saw, as round about his eyes he twined,Night's shadows hence, from thence the morning's shine;This bright, that dark; that earthly, this divine:
2 Thus to himself he thought: 'How many brightAnd splendent lamps shine in heaven's temple high!Day hath his golden sun, her moon the night,Her fix'd and wandering stars the azure sky;So framed all by their Creator's might,That still they live and shine, and ne'er shall die,Till, in a moment, with the last day's brandThey burn, and with them burn sea, air, and land.'
3 Thus as he mused, to the top he went,And there kneel'd down with reverence and fear;His eyes upon heaven's eastern face he bent;His thoughts above all heavens uplifted were—'The sins and errors, which I now repent,Of my unbridled youth, O Father dear,Remember not, but let thy mercy fall,And purge my faults and my offences all.'
4 Thus prayed he; with purple wings up-flewIn golden weed the morning's lusty queen,Begilding, with the radiant beams she threw,His helm, his harness, and the mountain green:Upon his breast and forehead gently blewThe air, that balm and nardus breathed unseen;And o'er his head, let down from clearest skies,A cloud of pure and precious dew there flies:
5 The heavenly dew was on his garments spread,To which compared, his clothes pale ashes seem,And sprinkled so, that all that paleness fled,And thence of purest white bright rays outstream:So cheered are the flowers, late withered,With the sweet comfort of the morning beam;And so, return'd to youth, a serpent oldAdorns herself in new and native gold.
6 The lovely whiteness of his changed weedThe prince perceived well and long admired;Toward, the forest march'd he on with speed,Resolved, as such adventures great required:Thither he came, whence, shrinking back for dreadOf that strange desert's sight, the first retired;But not to him fearful or loathsome madeThat forest was, but sweet with pleasant shade.
7 Forward he pass'd, and in the grove beforeHe heard a sound, that strange, sweet, pleasing was;There roll'd a crystal brook with gentle roar,There sigh'd the winds, as through the leaves they pass;There did the nightingale her wrongs deplore,There sung the swan, and singing died, alas!There lute, harp, cittern, human voice, he heard,And all these sounds one sound right well declared.
8 A dreadful thunder-clap at last he heard,The aged trees and plants well-nigh that rent,Yet heard the nymphs and sirens afterward,Birds, winds, and waters, sing with sweet consent;Whereat amazed, he stay'd, and well preparedFor his defence, heedful and slow forth-went;Nor in his way his passage ought withstood,Except a quiet, still, transparent flood:
9 On the green banks, which that fair stream inbound,Flowers and odours sweetly smiled and smell'd,Which reaching out his stretched arms around,All the large desert in his bosom held,And through the grove one channel passage found;This in the wood, in that the forest dwell'd:Trees clad the streams, streams green those trees aye made,And so exchanged their moisture and their shade.
10 The knight some way sought out the flood to pass,And as he sought, a wondrous bridge appear'd;A bridge of gold, a huge and mighty mass,On arches great of that rich metal rear'd:When through that golden way he enter'd was,Down fell the bridge; swelled the stream, and wear'dThe work away, nor sign left, where it stood,And of a river calm became a flood.
11 He turn'd, amazed to see it troubled so,Like sudden brooks, increased with molten snow;The billows fierce, that tossed to and fro,The whirlpools suck'd down to their bosoms low;But on he went to search for wonders mo,[1]Through the thick trees, there high and broad which grow;And in that forest huge, and desert wide,The more he sought, more wonders still he spied:
12 Where'er he stepp'd, it seem'd the joyful groundRenew'd the verdure of her flowery weed;A fountain here, a well-spring there he found;Here bud the roses, there the lilies spread:The aged wood o'er and about him roundFlourish'd with blossoms new, new leaves, new seed;And on the boughs and branches of those treenThe bark was soften'd, and renew'd the green.
13 The manna on each leaf did pearled lie;The honey stilled[2] from the tender rind:Again he heard that wonderful harmonyOf songs and sweet complaints of lovers kind;The human voices sung a treble high,To which respond the birds, the streams, the wind;But yet unseen those nymphs, those singers were,Unseen the lutes, harps, viols which they bear.
14 He look'd, he listen'd, yet his thoughts deniedTo think that true which he did hear and see:A myrtle in an ample plain he spied,And thither by a beaten path went he;The myrtle spread her mighty branches wide,Higher than pine, or palm, or cypress tree,And far above all other plants was seenThat forest's lady, and that desert's queen.
15 Upon the tree his eyes Rinaldo bent,And there a marvel great and strange began;An aged oak beside him cleft and rent,And from his fertile, hollow womb, forth ran,Clad in rare weeds and strange habiliment,A nymph, for age able to go to man;An hundred plants beside, even in his sight,Childed an hundred nymphs, so great, so dight.[3]
16 Such as on stages play, such as we seeThe dryads painted, whom wild satyrs love,Whose arms half naked, locks untrussed be,With buskins laced on their legs above,And silken robes tuck'd short above their knee,Such seem'd the sylvan daughters of this grove;Save, that instead of shafts and bows of tree,She bore a lute, a harp or cittern she;
17 And wantonly they cast them in a ring,And sung and danced to move his weaker sense,Rinaldo round about environing,As does its centre the circumference;The tree they compass'd eke, and 'gan to sing,That woods and streams admired their excellence—'Welcome, dear Lord, welcome to this sweet grove,Welcome, our lady's hope, welcome, her love!
18 'Thou com'st to cure our princess, faint and sickFor love, for love of thee, faint, sick, distress'd;Late black, late dreadful was this forest thick,Fit dwelling for sad folk, with grief oppress'd;See, with thy coming how the branches quickRevived are, and in new blossoms dress'd!'This was their song; and after from it wentFirst a sweet sound, and then the myrtle rent.
19 If antique times admired Silenus old,Who oft appear'd set on his lazy ass,How would they wonder, if they had beholdSuch sights, as from the myrtle high did pass!Thence came a lady fair with locks of gold,That like in shape, in face, and beauty wasTo fair Armida; Rinald thinks he spiesHer gestures, smiles, and glances of her eyes:
20 On him a sad and smiling look she cast,Which twenty passions strange at once bewrays;'And art thou come,' quoth she, 'return'd at last'To her, from whom but late thou ran'st thy ways?Com'st thou to comfort me for sorrows past,To ease my widow nights, and careful days?Or comest thou to work me grief and harm?Why nilt thou speak, why not thy face disarm?
21 'Com'st thou a friend or foe? I did not frameThat golden bridge to entertain my foe;Nor open'd flowers and fountains, as you came,To welcome him with joy who brings me woe:Put off thy helm: rejoice me with the flameOf thy bright eyes, whence first my fires did grow;Kiss me, embrace me; if you further venture,Love keeps the gate, the fort is eath[4] to enter.'
22 Thus as she woos, she rolls her rueful eyesWith piteous look, and changeth oft her chere,[5]An hundred sighs from her false heart up-flies;She sobs, she mourns, it is great ruth to hear:The hardest breast sweet pity mollifies;What stony heart resists a woman's tear?But yet the knight, wise, wary, not unkind,Drew forth his sword, and from her careless twined:[6]
23 Towards the tree he march'd; she thither start,Before him stepp'd, embraced the plant, and cried—'Ah! never do me such a spiteful part,To cut my tree, this forest's joy and pride;Put up thy sword, else pierce therewith the heartOf thy forsaken and despised Armide;For through this breast, and through this heart, unkind,To this fair tree thy sword shall passage find.'
24 He lift his brand, nor cared, though oft she pray'd,And she her form to other shape did change;Such monsters huge, when men in dreams are laid,Oft in their idle fancies roam and range:Her body swell'd, her face obscure was made;Vanish'd her garments rich, and vestures strange;A giantess before him high she stands,Arm'd, like Briareus, with an hundred hands.
25 With fifty swords, and fifty targets bright,She threaten'd death, she roar'd, she cried and fought;Each other nymph, in armour likewise dight,A Cyclops great became; he fear'd them nought,But on the myrtle smote with all his might,Which groan'd, like living souls, to death nigh brought;The sky seem'd Pluto's court, the air seem'd hell,Therein such monsters roar, such spirits yell:
26 Lighten'd the heaven above, the earth belowRoared aloud; that thunder'd, and this shook:Bluster'd the tempests strong; the whirlwinds blow;The bitter storm drove hailstones in his look;But yet his arm grew neither weak nor slow,Nor of that fury heed or care he took,Till low to earth the wounded tree down bended;en fled the spirits all, the charms all ended.
27 The heavens grew clear, the air wax'd calm and still,The wood returned to its wonted state,Of witchcrafts free, quite void of spirits ill,Of horror full, but horror there innate:He further tried, if ought withstood his willTo cut those trees, as did the charms of late,And finding nought to stop him, smiled and said—'O shadows vain! O fools, of shades afraid!'
28 From thence home to the camp-ward turn'd the knight;The hermit cried, upstarting from his seat,'Now of the wood the charms have lost their might;The sprites are conquer'd, ended is the feat;See where he comes!'—Array'd in glittering whiteAppear'd the man, bold, stately, high, and great;His eagle's silver wings to shine begunWith wondrous splendour 'gainst the golden sun.
29 The camp received him with a joyful cry,—A cry, the hills and dales about that fill'd;Then Godfrey welcomed him with honours high;His glory quench'd all spite, all envy kill'd:'To yonder dreadful grove,' quoth he, 'went I,And from the fearful wood, as me you will'd,Have driven the sprites away; thither let beYour people sent, the way is safe and free.'
[1] 'Mo:' more. [2] 'Stilled:' dropped. [3] 'Dight:' aparelled. [4] 'Eath:' easy. [5] 'Chere:' expression. [6] 'Twined:' separated.
Was born in Kent, in 1568; educated at Winchester and Oxford; and, after travelling on the Continent, became the Secretary of Essex, but had the sagacity to foresee his downfall, and withdrew from the kingdom in time. On his return he became a favourite of James I., who employed him to be ambassador to Venice,—a post he held long, and occupied with great skill and adroitness. Toward the end of his days, in order to gain the Provost- ship of Eton, he took orders, and died in that situation, in 1639, in the 72d year of his age. His writings were published in 1651, under the title of 'Reliquitae Wottonianae,' and Izaak Walton has written an entertaining account of his life. His poetry has a few pleasing and smooth-flowing passages; but perhaps the best thing recorded of him is his viva voce account of an English ambassador, as 'an honest gentleman sent to LIE abroad for the good of his country.'
1 Farewell, ye gilded follies! pleasing troubles;Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles;Fame's but a hollow echo, gold pure clay,Honour the darling but of one short day,Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damask'd skin,State but a golden prison to live inAnd torture free-born minds; embroider'd trainsMerely but pageants for proud swelling veins;And blood, allied to greatness, is aloneInherited, not purchased, nor our own.Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth,Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.
2 I would be great, but that the sun doth stillLevel his rays against the rising hill;I would be high, but see the proudest oakMost subject to the rending thunder-stroke;I would be rich, but see men too unkindDig in the bowels of the richest mind;I would be wise, but that I often seeThe fox suspected while the ass goes free;I would be fair, but see the fair and proud,Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud;I would be poor, but know the humble grassStill trampled on by each unworthy ass;Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd, if poor;Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; high, still envied more.I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neitherGreat, high, rich, wise, nor fair—poor I'll be rather.
3 Would the world now adopt me for her heir,Would beauty's queen entitle me 'the fair,'Fame speak me Fortune's minion, could I vieAngels[1] with India; with a speaking eyeCommand bare heads, bow'd knees, strike Justice dumbAs well as blind and lame, or give a tongueTo stones by epitaphs; be call'd great masterIn the loose rhymes of every poetaster;Could I be more than any man that lives,Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives:Yet I more freely would these gifts resign,Than ever fortune would have made them mine;And hold one minute of this holy leisureBeyond the riches of this empty pleasure.
4 Welcome, pure thoughts! welcome, ye silent groves!These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves.Now the wing'd people of the sky shall singMy cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring;A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass,In which I will adore sweet Virtue's face;Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares,No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears:Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly,And learn to affect a holy melancholy;And if Contentment be a stranger then,I'll ne'er look for it but in heaven again.
[1] 'Angels:' a species of coin.
O thou great Power! in whom we move,By whom we live, to whom we die,Behold me through thy beams of love,Whilst on this couch of tears I lie,And cleanse my sordid soul withinBy thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin.
No hallow'd oils, no gums I need,No new-born drams of purging fire;One rosy drop from David's seedWas worlds of seas to quench thine ire:O precious ransom! which once paid,ThatConsummatum estwas said.
And said by him, that said no more,But seal'd it with his sacred breath:Thou then, that has dispurged our score,And dying wert the death of death,Be now, whilst on thy name we call,Our life, our strength, our joy, our all!
This witty and good-natured bishop was born in 1582. He was the son of a gardener, who, however, had the honour to be known to and sung by Ben Jonson. He was educated at Westminster and Oxford; and having received orders, was made successively Bishop of Oxford and of Norwich. He was a most facetious and rather too convivial person; and a collection of anecdotes about him might be made, little inferior, in point of wit and coarseness, to that famous one, once so popular in Scotland, relating to the sayings and doings of George Buchanan. He is said, on one occasion, to have aided an unfortunate ballad-singer in his professional duty by arraying himself in his leathern jacket and vending the stock, being possessed of a fine presence and a clear, full, ringing voice. Occasionally doffing his clerical costume he adjourned with his chaplain, Dr Lushington, to the wine-cellar, where care and ceremony were both speedily drowned, the one of the pair exclaiming, 'Here's to thee, Lushington,' and the other, 'Here's to thee, Corbet.' Men winked at these irregularities, probably on the principle mentioned by Scott, in reference to Prior Aymer, in 'Ivanhoe,'—'If Prior Aymer rode hard in the chase, or remained late at the banquet, men only shrugged up their shoulders by recollecting that the same irregularities were practised by many of his brethren, who had no redeeming qualities whatsoever to atone for them.' Corbet, on the other hand, was a kind as well as a convivial —a warm-hearted as well as an eccentric man. He was tolerant to the Puritans and sectaries; his attention to his duties was respectable; his talents were of a high order, and he had in him a vein of genius of no ordinary kind. He died in 1635, but his poems were not published till 1647. They are of various merit, and treat of various subjects. In his 'Journey to France,' you see the humorist, who, on one occasion, when the country people were flocking to be confirmed, cried, 'Bear off there, or I'll confirm ye with my staff.' In his lines to his son Vincent, we see, notwithstanding all his foibles, the good man; and in his 'Farewell to the Fairies' the fine and fanciful poet.
1 I went from England into France,Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance,Nor yet to ride nor fence;Nor did I go like one of thoseThat do return with half a nose,They carried from hence.
2 But I to Paris rode along,Much like John Dory in the song,Upon a holy tide;I on an ambling nag did jet,(I trust he is not paid for yet,)And spurr'd him on each side.
3 And to St Denis fast we came,To see the sights of Notre Dame,(The man that shows them snuffles,)Where who is apt for to believe,May see our Lady's right-arm sleeve,And eke her old pantofles;
4 Her breast, her milk, her very gownThat she did wear in Bethlehem town,When in the inn she lay;Yet all the world knows that's a fable,For so good clothes ne'er lay in stable,Upon a lock of hay.
5 No carpenter could by his tradeGain so much coin as to have madeA gown of so rich stuff;Yet they, poor souls, think, for their credit,That they believe old Joseph did it,'Cause he deserved enough.
6 There is one of the cross's nails,Which whoso sees, his bonnet vails,And, if he will, may kneel;Some say 'twas false,'twas never so,Yet, feeling it, thus much I know,It is as true as steel.
7 There is a Ianthorn which the Jews,When Judas led them forth, did use,It weighs my weight downright;But to believe it, you must thinkThe Jews did put a candle in 't,And then 'twas very light.
8 There's one saint there hath lost his nose,Another's head, but not his toes,His elbow and his thumb;But when that we had seen the rags,We went to th' inn and took our nags,And so away did come.
9 We came to Paris, on the Seine,'Tis wondrous fair,'tis nothing clean,'Tis Europe's greatest town;How strong it is I need not tell it,For all the world may easily smell it,That walk it up and down.
10 There many strange things are to see,The palace and great gallery,The Place Royal doth excel,The New Bridge, and the statutes there,At Notre Dame St Q. Pater,The steeple bears the bell.
11 For learning the University,And for old clothes the Frippery,The house the queen did build.St Innocence, whose earth devoursDead corps in four-and-twenty hours,And there the king was kill'd.
12 The Bastille and St Denis Street,The Shafflenist like London Fleet,The Arsenal no toy;But if you'll see the prettiest thing,Go to the court and see the king—Oh, 'tis a hopeful boy!
13 He is, of all his dukes and peers,Reverenced for much wit at's years,Nor must you think it much;For he with little switch doth play,And make fine dirty pies of clay,Oh, never king made such!
14 A bird that can but kill a fly,Or prate, doth please his majesty,Tis known to every one;The Duke of Guise gave him a parrot,And he had twenty cannons for it,For his new galleon.
15 Oh that I e'er might have the hapTo get the bird which in the mapIs call'd the Indian ruck!I'd give it him, and hope to beAs rich as Guise or Liviné,Or else I had ill-luck.
16 Birds round about his chamber stand,And he them feeds with his own hand,'Tis his humility;And if they do want anything,They need but whistle for their king,And he comes presently.
17 But now, then, for these parts he mustBe enstyled Lewis the Just,Great Henry's lawful heir;When to his style to add more words,They'd better call him King of Birds,Than of the great Navarre.
18 He hath besides a pretty quirk,Taught him by nature, how to workIn iron with much ease;Sometimes to the forge he goes,There he knocks and there he blows,And makes both locks and keys;
19 Which puts a doubt in every one,Whether he be Mars' or Vulcan's son,Some few believe his mother;But let them all say what they will,I came resolved, and so think still,As much the one as th' other.
20 The people too dislike the youth,Alleging reasons, for, in truth,Mothers should honour'd be;Yet others say, he loves her ratherAs well as ere she loved her father,And that's notoriously.
21 His queen,[1] a pretty little wench,Was born in Spain, speaks little French,She's ne'er like to be mother;For her incestuous house could notHave children which were not begotBy uncle or by brother.
22 Nor why should Lewis, being so just,Content himself to take his lustWith his Lucina's mate,And suffer his little pretty queen,From all her race that yet hath been,So to degenerate?
23 'Twere charity for to be knownTo love others' children as his own,And why? it is no shame,Unless that he would greater beThan was his father Henery,Who, men thought, did the same.
[1] Anne of Austria.
1 Farewell, rewards and fairies,Good housewives now may say,For now foul sluts in dairiesDo fare as well as they.And though they sweep their hearths no lessThan maids were wont to do,Yet who of late, for cleanliness,Finds sixpence in her shoe?
2 Lament, lament, old Abbeys,The fairies lost command;They did but change priests' babies,But some have changed your land;And all your children sprung from thenceAre now grown Puritans;Who live as changelings ever since,For love of your domains.
3 At morning and at evening both,You merry were and glad,So little care of sleep or slothThese pretty ladies had;When Tom came home from labour,Or Cis to milking rose,Then merrily went their tabor,And nimbly went their toes.
4 Witness those rings and roundelaysOf theirs, which yet remain,Were footed in Queen Mary's daysOn many a grassy plain;But since of late Elizabeth,And later, James came in,They never danced on any heathAs when the time hath been.
5 By which we note the fairiesWere of the old profession,Their songs were Ave-Maries,Their dances were procession:But now, alas! they all are dead,Or gone beyond the seas;Or further for religion fled,Or else they take their ease.
6 A tell-tale in their companyThey never could endure,And whoso kept not secretlyTheir mirth, was punish'd sure;It was a just and Christian deed,To pinch such black and blue:Oh, how the commonwealth doth needSuch justices as you!
As 'rare Ben' chiefly shone as a dramatist, we need not recount at length the events of his life. He was born in 1574; his father, who had been a clergyman in Westminster, and was sprung from a Scotch family in Annandale, having died before his birth. His mother marrying a bricklayer, Ben was brought up to the same employment. Disliking this, he enlisted in the army, and served with credit in the Low Countries. When he came home, he entered St John's College, Cambridge; but his stay there must have been short, since he is found in London at the age of twenty, married, and acting on the stage. He began at the same time to write dramas. He was unlucky enough to quarrel with and kill another performer, for which he was committed to prison, but released without a trial. He resumed his labours as a writer for the stage; but having failed in the acting department, he forsook it for ever. His first hit was, 'Every Man in his Humour,' a play enacted in 1598, Shakspeare being one of the actors. His course afterwards was chequered. He quarrelled with Marston and Dekker,—he was imprisoned for some reflections on the Scottish nation in one of his comedies,—he was appointed in 1619 poet- laureate, with a pension of 100 marks,—he made the same year a journey to Scotland on foot, where he visited Drummond at Hawthornden, and they seem to have mutually loathed each other,'—he fell into habits of intemperance, and acquired, as he said himself,
'A mountain belly and a rocky face.'
His favourite haunts were the Mermaid, and the Falcon Tavern, Southwark. He was engaged in constant squabbles with his contemporaries, and died at last, in 1637, in miserably poor circumstances. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, under a square tablet, where one of his admirers afterwards inscribed the words,
'O rare Ben Jonson!'
Of his powers as a dramatist we need not speak, but present our readers with some rough and racy specimens of his poetry.
Underneath this sable hearseLies the subject of all verse,Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother;Death! ere thou hast slain another,Learn'd and fair, and good as she,Time shall throw a dart at thee!
Sitting, and ready to be drawn,What make these velvets, silks, and lawn,Embroideries, feathers, fringes, lace,Where every limb takes like a face?
Send these suspected helps to aidSome form defective, or decay'd;This beauty, without falsehood fair,Needs nought to clothe it but the air.
Yet something to the painter's view,Were fitly interposed; so new,He shall, if he can understand,Work by my fancy, with his hand.
Draw first a cloud, all save her neck,And, out of that, make day to break;Till like her face it do appear,And men may think all light rose there.
Then let the beams of that disperseThe cloud, and show the universe;But at such distance, as the eyeMay rather yet adore, than spy.
Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious showOf touch or marble; nor canst boast a rowOf polish'd pillars, or a roof of gold:Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told;Or stair, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile,And these grudged at, are reverenced the while.Thou joy'st in better marks of soil and air,Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair.Thou hast thy walks for health as well as sport;Thy mount to which the dryads do resort,Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have madeBeneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade;That taller tree which of a nut was setAt his great birth where all the Muses met.There, in the writhed bark, are cut the namesOf many a Sylvan token with his flames.And thence the ruddy Satyrs oft provokeThe lighter Fauns to reach thy Ladies' Oak.Thy copse, too, named of Gamage, thou hast hereThat never fails, to serve thee, season'd deer,When thou would'st feast or exercise thy friends.The lower land that to the river bends,Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed:The middle ground thy mares and horses breed.Each bank doth yield thee conies, and the topsFertile of wood. Ashore, and Sidney's copse,To crown thy open table doth provideThe purpled pheasant, with the speckled side:The painted partridge lies in every field,And, for thy mess, is willing to be kill'd.And if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish,Thou hast thy ponds that pay thee tribute fish,Fat, aged carps that run into thy net,And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat,As both the second draught or cast to stay,Officiously, at first, themselves betray.Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land,Before the fisher, or into his hand.Thou hast thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers,Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours.The early cherry with the later plum,Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come:The blushing apricot and woolly peachHang on thy walls that every child may reach.And though thy walls be of the country stone,They're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's groan;There's none that dwell about them wish them down;But all come in, the farmer and the clown,And no one empty-handed, to saluteThy lord and lady, though they have no suit.Some bring a capon, some a rural cake,Some nuts, some apples; some that think they makeThe better cheeses, bring them, or else sendBy their ripe daughters, whom they would commendThis way to husbands; and whose baskets bearAn emblem of themselves, in plum or pear.But what can this (more than express their love)Add to thy free provision, far aboveThe need of such? whose liberal board doth flowWith all that hospitality doth know!Where comes no guest but is allow'd to eatWithout his fear, and of thy lord's own meat:Where the same beer, and bread, and selfsame wineThat is his lordship's shall be also mine.And I not fain to sit (as some this dayAt great men's tables) and yet dine away.Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by,A waiter doth my gluttony envy:But gives me what I call, and lets me eat;He knows below he shall find plenty of meat;Thy tables hoard not up for the next day,Nor, when I take my lodging, need I prayFor fire, or lights, or livery: all is there,As if thou, then, wert mine, or I reign'd here.There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.This found King James, when hunting late this wayWith his brave son, the Prince; they saw thy firesShine bright on every hearth, as the desiresOf thy Penates had been set on flameTo entertain them; or the country came,With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here.What (great, I will not say, but) sudden cheerDid'st thou then make them! and what praise was heap'dOn thy good lady then, who therein reap'dThe just reward of her high housewifery;To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh,When she was far; and not a room but drestAs if it had expected such a guest!These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all;Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste withal.His children * * ** * have been taught religion; thenceTheir gentler spirits have suck'd innocence.Each morn and even they are taught to pray,With the whole household, and may, every day,Head, in their virtuous parents' noble parts,The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts.Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion theeWith other edifices, when they seeThose proud ambitious heaps, and nothing else,May say their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.
To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name,Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;While I confess thy writings to be suchAs 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 silliest ignorance on these would light,Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advanceThe truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance;Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise.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!My Shakspeare, rise! I will not lodge thee byChaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lieA little further off, to make thee room:Thou 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 disproportion'd 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 Lyly outshine,Or sporting Kyd or Marlow's mighty line,And though thou had small Latin and less Greek,From thence to honour thee I will not seekFor names; but call forth thund'ring Aeschylus,Euripides, and Sophocles to us,Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,And shake a stage: or when thy socks were onLeave thee alone for the 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 joy'd 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, now 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 Shakspeare, must enjoy a part,For though the poet's matter nature be,His art doth give the fashion; and, that heWho 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 a 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 Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shinesIn his well-turned and true-filed lines;In each of which he seems to shake a lance,As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance.Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it wereTo see thee in our water yet appear,And make those flights upon the banks of ThamesThat so did take Eliza and our James!But stay, I see thee in the hemisphereAdvanced, and made a constellation there!Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage,Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage,Which since thy flight from hence hath mourn'd like night,And despairs day, but for thy volume's light!
This figure that thou here seest put,It was for gentle Shakspeare cut,Wherein the graver had a strifeWith nature, to outdo the life:Oh, could he but have drawn his wit,As well in brass, as he hath hitHis face; the print would then surpassAll that was ever writ in 'brass:But since he cannot, reader, lookNot on his picture but his book.
VERE, STORRER, &c.
In the same age of fertile, seething mind which produced Jonson and the rest of the Elizabethan giants, there flourished some minor poets, whose names we merely chronicle: such as Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford, born 1534, and dying 1604, who travelled in Italy in his youth, and returned the 'most accomplished coxcomb in Europe,' who sat as Grand Chamberlain of England upon the trial of Mary Queen of Scots, and who has left, in the 'Paradise of Dainty Devices,' some rather beautiful verses, entitled, 'Fancy and Desire;'—as Thomas Storrer, a student of Christ Church, Oxford, and the author of a versified 'History of Cardinal Wolsey,' in three parts, who died in 1604;—as William Warner, a native of Oxfordshire, born in 1558, who became an attorney of the Common Pleas in London, and died suddenly in 1609, having made himself famous for a time by a poem, entitled 'Albion's England,' called by Campbell 'an enormous ballad on the history, or rather the fables appendant to the history of England,' with some fine touches, but heavy and prolix as a whole;—as Sir John Harrington, who was the son of a poet and the favourite of Essex, who was created a Knight of the Bath by James I., and who wrote some pointed epigrams and a miserable translation of Ariosto, in which heeffectually tamed that wild Pegasus; —as Henry Perrot, who collected, in 1613, a book of epigrams, entitled, 'Springes for Woodcocks;'—as Sir Thomas Overbury, whose dreadful and mysterious fate, well known to all who read English history, excited such a sympathy for him, that his poems, 'A Wife,' and 'The Choice of a Wife,' passed through sixteen editions before the year 1653, although his prose 'Characters,' such as the exquisite and well-known 'Fair and Happy Milkmaid,' are far better than his poetry;—as Samuel Rowlandes, a prolific pamphleteer in the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I., author also of several plays and of a book of epigrams;—as Thomas Picke, who belonged to the Middle Temple, and published, in 1631, a number of songs, sonnets, and elegies;—as Henry Constable, born in 1568, and a well-known sonneteer of his day;—as Nicholas Breton, author of some pretty pastorals, who, it is conjectured, was born in 1555, and died in 1624;—and as Dr Thomas Lodge, born in 1556, and who died in 1625, after translating Josephus into English, and writing some tolerable poetical pieces.
This was a true poet, although his power comes forth principally in the drama. He was born at Newnham, near Daventry, Northamptonshire, in 1605, being the you of Lord Zouch's steward. He became a King's Scholar at Westminster, and subsequently a Fellow in Trinity College, Cambridge. Ben Jonson loved him, and he reciprocated the attachment. Whether from natural tendency or in imitation of Jonson, who called him, as well as Cartwright, his adopted son, he learned intemperate habits, and died, in 1634, at the age of twenty-nine. His death took place at the house of W. Stafford, Esq. of Blatherwyke, in his native county, and he was buried in the church beside, where Sir Christopher, afterwards Lord Hatton, signalised the spot of his rest by a monument. He wrote five dramas, which are imperfect and formal in plan, but written with considerable power. Some of his miscellaneous poems discover feeling and genius.
He is a parricide to his mother's name,And with an impious hand murders her fame,That wrongs the praise of women; that dares writeLibels on saints, or with foul ink requiteThe milk they lent us! Better sex! commandTo your defence my more religious hand,At sword or pen; yours was the nobler birth,For you of man were made, man but of earth—The sun of dust; and though your sin did breedHis fall, again you raised him in your seed.Adam, in's sleep again full loss sustain'd,That for one rib a better half regain'd,Who, had he not your blest creation seenIn Paradise, an anchorite had been.Why in this work did the creation rest,But that Eternal Providence thought you bestOf all his six days' labour? Beasts should doHomage to man, but man shall wait on you;You are of comelier sight, of daintier touch,A tender flesh, and colour bright, and suchAs Parians see in marble; skin more fair,More glorious head, and far more glorious hair;Eyes full of grace and quickness; purer rosesBlush in your cheeks; a milder white composesYour stately fronts; your breath, more sweet than his,Breathes spice, and nectar drops at every kiss.
* * * * *
If, then, in bodies where the souls do dwell,You better us, do then our souls excel?
No. * * * *Boast we of knowledge, you are more than we,You were the first ventured to pluck the tree;And that more rhetoric in your tongues do lie,Let him dispute against that dares denyYour least commands; and not persuaded be,With Samson's strength and David's piety,To be your willing captives.
* * * * *
Thus, perfect creatures, if detraction riseAgainst your sex, dispute but with your eyes,Your hand, your lip, your brow, there will be sentSo subtle and so strong an argument,Will teach the stoic his affections too,And call the cynic from his tub to woo.
When age hath made me what I am not now,And every wrinkle tells me where the ploughOf Time hath furrow'd, when an ice shall flowThrough every vein, and all my head be snow;When Death displays his coldness in my cheek,And I, myself, in my own picture seek,Not finding what I am, but what I was,In doubt which to believe, this or my glass;Yet though I alter, this remains the sameAs it was drawn, retains the primitive frame,And first complexion; here will still be seen,Blood on the cheek, and down upon the chin:Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye,The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye.Behold what frailty we in man may see,Whose shadow is less given to change than he.
Fair lady, when you see the graceOf beauty in your looking-glass;A stately forehead, smooth and high,And full of princely majesty;A sparkling eye, no gem so fair,Whose lustre dims the Cyprian star;A glorious cheek, divinely sweet,Wherein both roses kindly meet;A cherry lip that would enticeEven gods to kiss at any price;You think no beauty is so rareThat with your shadow might compare;That your reflection is aloneThe thing that men must dote upon.Madam, alas! your glass doth lie,And you are much deceived; for IA beauty know of richer grace,—(Sweet, be not angry,) 'tis your face.Hence, then, oh, learn more mild to be,And leave to lay your blame on me:If me your real substance move,When you so much your shadow love,Wise Nature would not let your eyeLook on her own bright majesty;Which, had you once but gazed upon,You could, except yourself, love none:What then you cannot love, let me,That face I can, you cannot see.
'Now you have what to love,' you'll say,'What then is left for me, I pray?'My face, sweet heart, if it please thee;That which you can, I cannot see:So either love shall gain his due,Yours, sweet, in me, and mine in you.