XXXVII. A SATIRICAL SHRUB.2 WOMAN'S friendship! God, whom I Forgive me this one foolish deadly sin, That ne'er was known to last above a fit! That their whole life was wickedness, though weav'd do see, Knew I this woman? yes, and you 2 This is more in the style and manner of Donne than of our author. It may, however, be his; though I suspect that the loose scraps found after his death, among his papers, were committed to the press without much examination. There was undoubtedly an intercommunity of verse between the two friends; but I do not wish to carry the argument any further. 3 Here (the folio says) something is wanting. XXXVIII. A LITTLE SHRUB GROWING BY. SK not to know this Man. If fame should speak His name in any metal, it would break. Two letters were enough the plague to tear Out of his grave, and poison every ear. A parcel of Court-dirt, a heap, and mass Of all vice hurl'd together, there he was, Proud, false, and treacherous, vindictive, all That thought can add, unthankful, the lay-stall Of putrid flesh alive! of blood the sink! And so I leave to stir him, lest he stink. XXXIX. AN ELEGY. HOUGH beauty be the mark of praise, A virtue, like allay, so gone Throughout your form; as though that move, This subjects you to love of one, Wherein you triumph yet; because 'Tis of yourself, and that you use The noblest freedom, not to choose Against or faith, or honour's laws. ▲ Ask not to know this Man, &c.] This too is in the style of Donne. It was evidently designed to be a pendant of the former; whoever wrote that wrote this. 5 1 But who could less expect from you, And on them burn so chaste a flame, Is And you are he; the deity To whom all lovers are design'd, Who, as an offering at your shrine, 5 To light upon a love of mine. Which, if it kindle not, but scant Who, as an offering, &c.] The folio reads "offspring. Corrected by Whalley. XL. AN ELEGY. AIR friend, 'tis true, your beauties move I neither love, nor yet am free, It little wants of love but pain; 'Tis not a passion's first access But like love's calmest state it is It is like love to truth reduc'd, 'Tis either fancy or 'tis fate, To love you more than I: I love you at your beauty's rate, Less were an injury. Like unstampt gold, I weigh each grace, So that you may collect Th' intrinsic value of your face, Safely from my respect. This little piece, which is not without merit, is carelessly thrown in towards the conclusion of the old folio, where it is united to "A New-year's Gift to king Charles!" And this respect would merit love, XLI. AN ODE. TO HIMSELF. ZHERE dost Thou careless lie W Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die; It is the common moth, That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both :7 Are all the Aonian springs Dried up? lies Thespia waste? To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defac'd? If hence thy silence be, As 'tis too just a cause; Should not on fortune pause, 'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause. 7 That eats on wits and arts, and destroys them both.] A syllable is evidently lost, necessary to complete the measure; I have inserted a monosyllable that helps it out, Versus fultura cadentis. WHAL. Whalley's choice fell on quite; I prefer so: the reader, perhaps, may stumble upon a better substitute than either. |