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That at great times, art no ambitious guest
Of sheriff's dinner, or mayor's feast.
Nor com'st to view the better cloth of state,
The richer hangings, or crown-plate;

Nor throng'st (when masquing is) to have a sight
Of the short bravery of the night;

To view the jewels, stuffs, the pains, the wit
There wasted, some not paid for yet!
But canst at home, in thy securer rest,
Live, with unbought provision blest;
Free from proud porches, or the gilded roofs,
'Mongst lowing herds, and solid hoofs :
Along the curled woods, and painted meads,
Through which a serpent river leads
To some cool courteous shade, which he calls his,
And makes sleep softer than it is.

Or if thou list the night in watch to break,
A-bed canst hear the loud stag speak,
In spring, oft roused for thy master's sport,
Who for it makes thy house his court;
Or with thy friends, the heart of all the year
Divid'st, upon the lesser deer :

In Autumn, at the partridge mak'st a flight,
And giv'st thy gladder guests the sight;
And in the winter, hunt'st the flying hare,
More for thy exercise, than fare;
While all that follow, their glad ears apply
To the full greatness of the cry:
Or hawking at the river, or the bush,"

Or shooting at the greedy thrush,

Robert Wroth was at Durance, in Middlesex. James was a frequent guest there.

9 Or hawking at the river,] i. e. for the greater game, which frequented it. This, which was the afternoon's amusement, is noticed by many of our old writers. Sir Topas was much attached to it, if we may trust Chaucer :

"He couth hunt at the wild dere

And ride an hawking by the rivere," &c.

Thou dost with some delight the day out-wear,
Although the coldest of the year!

The whilst the several seasons thou hast seen
Of flowery fields, of cop'ces green,

The mowed meadows, with the fleeced sheep,
And feasts, that either shearers keep;
The ripened ears, yet humble in their height,
And furrows laden with their weight;
The apple-harvest, that doth longer last;
The hogs return'd home fat from mast;
The trees cut out in log, and those boughs made
A fire now, that lent a shade!

Thus Pan and Sylvan having had their rites,
Comus puts in for new delights;

And fills thy open hall with mirth and cheer,
As if in Saturn's reign it were ;

Apollo's harp, and Hermes' lyre resound,
Nor are the Muses strangers found.
The rout of rural folk come thronging in,
(Their rudeness then is thought no sin)
Thy noblest spouse affords them welcome grace;1
And the great heroes of her race

Sit mixt with loss of state, or reverence.
Freedom doth with degree dispense.

The jolly wassal walks the often round,

And in their cups their cares are drown'd : They think not then, which side the cause shall

leese,

Nor how to get the lawyer fees.

Such and no other was that age of old,

Which boasts t' have had the head of gold.

Again:

"These fauconers upon a fair rivere

That with the hawkis han the heron slaine."

Franklin's Tale.

1 Thy noblest spouse, &c.] This accomplished and learned lady has been already mentioned as the niece of sir Philip Sidney.

And such, since thou canst make thine own content,
Strive, Wroth, to live long innocent.
Let others watch in guilty arms, and stand
The fury of a rash command,

Go enter breaches, meet the cannon's rage,
That they may sleep with scars in age;
And shew their feathers shot, and colours torn,
And brag that they were therefore born.
Let this man sweat, and wrangle at the bar,
For every price, in every jar,

And change possessions oftner with his breath,
Than either money, war, or death:

Let him, than hardest sires, more disinherit,
And each where boast it as his merit,
To blow up orphans, widows, and their states;
And think his power doth equal fate's.
Let that go heap a mass of wretched wealth,
Purchased by rapine, worse than stealth,
And brooding o'er it sit, with broadest eyes,
Not doing good, scarce when he dies.
Let thousands more go flatter vice, and win,
By being organs to great sin;

Get place and honour, and be glad to keep
The secrets that shall break their sleep:
And so they ride in purple, eat in plate,
Though poison, think it a great fate.
But thou, my Wroth, if I can truth apply,
Shalt neither that, nor this envỳ:

Thy peace is made; and when man's state is well, 'Tis better, if he there can dwell.

God wisheth none should wreck on a strange shelf:
To him man's dearer, than t' himself,

And howsoever we may think things sweet,
He always gives what he knows meet;

2 God wisheth none should wreck on a strange shelf:

To him man's dearer than t' himself.] The sentiment, with the

Which who can use is happy: Such be thou.
Thy morning's and thy evening's vow
Be thanks to him, and earnest pray'r, to find
A body sound, with sounder mind;
To do thy country service, thy self right;
That neither want do thee affright,

Nor death; but when thy latest sand is spent,
Thou may'st think life a thing but lent.

3

IV.

TO THE WORLD.

A Farewell for a Gentlewoman, virtuous and noble.

ALSE world, good-night! since thou hast brought

That hour upon my morn of age,
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,
My part is ended on thy stage.

Do not once hope that thou canst tempt
A spirit so resolv'd to tread

Upon thy throat, and live exempt

From all the nets that thou canst spread.

following verses, is taken from that celebrated passage in the 10th satire of Juvenal:

Permittes ipsis expendere Numinibus, quid
Conveniat nobis, rebusque sit utile nostris;
Nam pro jucundis aptissima quæque dabunt dii.
Carior est illis homo, quam sibi-

Orandum est, ut sit mens sana in corpore sano.

A shelf, or shelve, is a bank of sand. WHAL.

3 Thou may'st think life a thing but lent.] This is a very beautiful Epode, honourable alike to the writer, and the subject of it. How nobly do Jonson's lines rise above the common addresses of his age! he is familiar with decorum, and moral with dignity; while his unbounded command of classic images gives a force to his language, which renders his description of the humblest object interesting.

I know thy forms are studied arts,
Thy subtle ways be narrow straits;
Thy courtesy but sudden starts,

And what thou call'st thy gifts are baits.

I know too, though thou strut and paint, Yet art thou both shrunk up, and old; That only fools make thee a saint,

And all thy good is to be sold.

I know thou whole art but a shop
Of toys and trifles, traps and snares,
To take the weak, or make them stop:
Yet art thou falser than thy wares.

And knowing this should I yet stay,
Like such as blow away their lives,
And never will redeem a day,

Enamour'd of their golden gyves?

Or having 'scaped shall I return,
And thrust my neck into the noose,
From whence so lately, I did burn,
With all my powers, my self to loose?

What bird, or beast is known so dull,
That fled his cage, or broke his chain,
And tasting air and freedom, wull
Render his head in there again?

If these who have but sense, can shun The engines, that have them annoy'd; Little for me had reason done,

If I could not thy gins avoid.

Yes, threaten, do. Alas, I fear
As little, as I hope from thee:
I know thou canst nor shew, nor bear
More hatred, than thou hast to me.

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