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Nor do wrongs, nor wrongs receive,
Nor tie knots, nor knots unweave ;
And from baseness to be free,
As he durst love truth and me.
Such a man, with every part,
I could give my very heart;
But of one if short he came,
I can rest me where I am.8

X.

ANOTHER LADY'S EXCEPTION,

PRESENT AT THE HEARING.

OR his mind I do not care,
That's a toy that I could spare:
Let his title be but great,

His clothes rich, and band sit neat,

Himself

young, and face be good,

All I wish is understood.

What you please, you parts may call,
'Tis one good part I'd lie withal.

8 This lively, gallant, and graceful description is above all praise. Anacreon is not more gay, nor Catullus more elegant, nor Horace more courtly, than this poet, who is taken on the faith of the Shakspeare commentators, for a mere compound of dulness and spleen.

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COME, with our voices, let us war,
And challenge all the spheres,
Till each of us be made a star,
And all the world turn ears.

He. At such a call, what beast or fowl,
Of reason empty is?

What tree or stone doth want a soul,
What man but must lose his?

She. Mix then your notes, that we may prove
To stay the running floods;

To make the mountain quarries move,
And call the walking woods.

1 I have little to add to what is already said, (p. 282,) except that many allowances must be made for what follows. Few of these poems are dated, and fewer still bear titles explanatory of their subject. I have availed myself of such collateral helps as I could any where find; but much is necessarily left to the reader's own sagacity. The original text, which is grossly incorrect, has however been revised with great care.

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 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.

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