He. What need of me? do you but sing,
Sleep, and the grave will wake:

No tunes are sweet, nor words have sting,
But what those lips do make.

She. They say, the angels mark each deed,
And exercise below;

And out of inward pleasure feed

On what they viewing know.

He. O sing not you then, lest the best
Of angels should be driven.

To fall again, at such a feast,
Mistaking earth for heaven.

She. Nay, rather both our souls be strain'd
To meet their high desire;
So they in state of grace retain'd,
May wish us of their quire.

II.

A SONG.

H do not wanton with those eyes,
Lest I be sick with seeing;
Nor cast them down, but let them rise,
Lest shame destroy their being.

O be not angry with those fires,
For then their threats will kill me;
Nor look too kind, on my desires,
For then my hopes will spill me.

O do not steep them in thy tears,
For so will sorrow slay me ;
Nor spread them as distract with fears;
Mine own enough betray me.2

2 Mine own enough betray me.] How is it that this song is never

III.

IN THE PERSON OF WOMANKIND.

A SONG APOLOGETIC.

EN, if you love us, play no more

M

The fools or tyrants with your friends,
To make us still sing o'er and o'er,

Our own false praises, for your ends :
We have both wits and fancies too,
And if we must, let's sing of you.

Nor do we doubt, but that we can,
If we would search with care and pain,
Find some one good, in some one man;
So going thorough all
your strain,
We shall at last, of parcels make
One good enough for a song's sake.

And as a cunning painter takes

In any curious piece you see,

More pleasure while the thing he makes,
Than when 'tis made; why, so will we.
And having pleas'd our art, we'll try
To make a new, and hang that by.

mentioned by the critics? Simply, I believe, because they never read it. Two or three of Jonson's lyrics are noticed by the earlier compilers of our Anthologies, and these have been copied and recopied a thousand times. Hence the Aikins et id genus omne form their opinion of the poet, and groan over his "tedious effusions.” With respect to the present, if it be not the most beautiful song in the language, I freely confess, for my own part, that I know not where it is to be found.

IV.

ANOTHER,

IN DEFENCE OF THEIR INCONSTANCY.

ANG up

those dull and envious fools
That talk abroad of woman's change.
We were not bred to sit on stools,
Our proper virtue is to range:
Take that away, you take our lives,
We are no women then, but wives.

Such as in valour would excel,

Do change, though men, and often fight,
Which we in love must do as well,
If ever we will love aright:

The frequent varying of the deed,
Is that which doth perfection breed.

Nor is't inconstancy to change
For what is better, or to make,
By searching, what before was strange,
Familiar, for the uses sake:

The good from bad is not descried,
But as 'tis often vext and tried.

And this profession of a store

In love, doth not alone help forth
Our pleasure; but preserves us more
From being forsaken, than doth worth:

For were the worthiest woman curst
To love one man, he'd leave her first.

V.

A NYMPH'S PASSION.

LOVE, and he loves me again,
Yet dare I not tell who;

For if the nymphs should know my
swain,

I fear they'd love him too;

Yet if he be not known,

The pleasure is as good as none,

For that's a narrow joy is but our own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
They yet may envy me;
But then if I grow jealous mad,
And of them pitied be,

It were a plague 'bove scorn :
And yet it cannot be forborn,

Unless my heart would, as my thought, be torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair,
And fresh and fragrant too,
As summer's sky, or purged air,
And looks as lilies do

That are this morning blown ;

Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,

And fear much more, that more of him be shown.

But he hath eyes so round, and bright,
As make away my doubt,
Where Love may all his torches light
Though hate had put them out:

But then, t' increase my fears,

What nymph soe'er his voice but hears,

Will be my rival, though she have but ears.

I'll tell no more, and yet I love,
And he loves me; yet no
One unbecoming thought doth move
From either heart, I know;

But so exempt from blame,

As it would be to each a fame, If love or fear would let me tell his name.

VI.

THE HOUR-GLASS.

CONSIDER this small dust, here, in the glass,
By atoms mov'd:

Could you believe, that this the body was
Of one that lov'd;

And in his mistress' flame, playing like a fly,
Was turn'd to cinders by her eye :

3 The Hour-glass.] In two small editions containing part of our author's poems, printed in 1640, the title of this epigram is, On a Gentlewoman working by an Hour-glass. The verses are likewise

of a different measure, and I think more agreeable to the ear: I shall give the whole as it stands in those copies, and afterwards subjoin the original, of which the English is only a translation.

ON A GENTLEWOMAN

WORKING BY AN HOUR-GLASS.

"Do but consider this small dust,
Here running in the glass,

By atoms mov'd ;

Would you believe that it the body was

Of one that lov'd?

"And in his mistress' flames playing like a flie,
Was turned into cinders by her eye?

Yes; as in life, so in their deaths unblest,
A lover's ashes never can find rest."

WHAL.

It matters little which we take the version in Drummond's folio is the worst, but all are imperfect. I have made a trifling change or two in the arrangement; for as the lines stood before, some of