Lio. And all these deeds were seen

without offence,

Or the least hazard of their innocence.

Rob. Those charitable times had no mistrust:

Shepherds knew how to love, and not to lust.

Cla. Each minute that we lose thus, I confess,

Deserves a censure on us, more or less;
But that a sadder chance hath given allay
Both to the mirth and music of this day.
Our fairest shepherdess we had of late
Here upon Trent is drowned; for whom
her mate,

Young Æglamour, a swain, who best could tread

Our country dances, and our games did lead,

Lives like the melancholy turtle, drowned Deeper in woe than she in water: crowned With yew and cypress, and will scarce admit

The physic of our presence to his fit.

Lio. Sometimes he sits and thinks all day, then walks,

Then thinks again, and sighs, weeps, laughs, and talks;

And 'twixt his pleasing frenzy and sad grief,

Is so distracted as no sought relief

By all our studies can procure his peace.

Cla. The passion finds in him that large increase,

As we doubt hourly we shall lose him too. Rob. You should not cross him then, whate'er you do.

For phant'sie stopped will soon take fire, and burn

Into an anger, or to a phrensie turn.

Cla. Nay, so we are advised by Alken here,

A good sage shepherd, who, although he

wear

An old worn hat and cloke, can tell us more Than all the forward fry that boast their lore.

Lio. See, yonder comes the brother of the maid,

Young Karolin: how curious and afraid
He is at once! willing to find him out,
And loth to offend him.

1 I'll carve it on the trees, &c.] This thought is sufficiently familiar to every pastoral writer; but the particular object of Jonson's imitation was Spenser:

"Her name in every tree I will endosse,

Enter Karolin.

Kar. Sure he's here about. Cla. See where he sits.

[Points to Eglamour, sitting upon a bank hard by.

1

Æg. It will be rare, rare, rare! An exquisite revenge! but peace, no words! Not for the fairest fleece of all the flock: If it be known afore, 'tis all worth nothing! I'll carve it on the trees, and in the turf, On every green sward, and in every path, Just to the margin of the cruel Trent. There will I knock the story in the ground, In smooth great pebble, and moss fill it round,

Till the whole country read how she was drowned;

And with the plenty of salt tears there shed, Quite alter the complexion of the spring. Or I will get some old, old, grandam thither,

Whose rigid foot but dipped into the water Shall strike that sharp and sudden cold throughout,

As it shall lose all virtue; and those nymphs,

Those treacherous nymphs pulled in Earine, Shall stand curled up like images of ice, And never thaw! mark, never! a sharp justice!

Or stay, a better! when the year's at hottest,

And that the dog-star foams, and the stream boils,

And curls, and works, and swells ready to sparkle,

To fling a fellow with a fever in,
To set it all on fire, till it burn

Blue as Scamander 'fore the walls of Troy, When Vulcan leaped into him to consume him.

Rob. A deep hurt phant'sie!

[They approach him. Eg. Do you not approve it? Rob. Yes, gentle glamour, we all

494

Eg. A spring, now she is dead! of what? of thorns,

Briars and brambles? thistles, burs, and docks?

Cold hemlock, yew? the mandrake, or the box?

These may grow still; but what can spring beside?

Did not the whole earth sicken when she died?

As if there since did fall one drop of dew, But what was wept for her! or any stalk Did bear a flower, or any branch a bloom, After her wreath was made!! In faith, in faith,

me,

Which can in no sort be: Earine,

Who had her very being, and her name, With the first knots or buddings of the spring, 2

Born with the primrose and the violet,
Or earliest roses blown: when Cupid

smiled,

And Venus led the Graces out to dance, And all the flowers and sweets in nature's lap Leaped out, and made their solemn conjuration,

To last but while she lived! Do not I know

How the vale withered the same day? how Dove,

Dean, Eye, and Erwash, Idel, Snite, and Soare,

Each broke his urn, and twenty waters more,

That swelled proud Trent, shrunk themselves dry? that since

No sun or moon, or other cheerful star, Looked out of heaven, but all the cope was dark,

Yet I have heard they both bear darts,
And both do aim at human hearts:

And then again, I have been told,
Love wounds with heat, as Death with cold;
So that I fear they do but bring
Extremes to touch, and mean one thing.

As in a ruin we it call

One thing to be blown up, or fall;
Or to our end, like way may have,
By a flash of lightning, or a wave:
So Love's inflamed shaft or brand,
May kill as soon as Death's cold hand,
Except Love's fires the virtue have
To fright the frost out of the grave."

Æg. Do you think so? are you in that
good heresy,

I mean, opinion? if you be, say nothing: I'll study it as a new philosophy,

But by myself, alone: now you shall leave

prejudice against Jonson is strongly exemplified in the neglect of his minor poems. While even the worst of Shakspeare's pieces have been sought out with avidity (nay, the silly trash which passes under his name, such as "When I was a little tiny boy," &c.), and set to music, a number of exquisite songs dispersed among the works of Jonson remain wholly unnoticed. "All is but fortune," as Stephano truly observes; and though it be too much perhaps to expect a Mus. Doc. to read for himself, yet he may fairly be expected to follow the fashion; and Jonson may yet have his turn. overlooked by the great composers of former times is certain; the song before us was set to music by Nicholas Lanneare, and inserted in the compilation of Ayres and Dialogues, by Henry Lawes, 1653.

That he was not thus

Here every day with wonder on the wold. Lio. And with fame's voice.

Alken. Save that some folk delight

To blend all good of others with some spight.

Cla. He and his Marian are the sum and talk

Of all that breathe here in the green-wood walk.

Mel. Or Belvoir vale.

Lio. The turtles of the wood.

Cla. The billing pair.
Alken. And so are understood

For simple loves, and sampled lives beside.

Mel. Faith, so much virtue should not be envied.

Alken. Better be so than pitied, Mellifleur :

For 'gainst all envy, virtue is a cure;

1 The lovers' scriptures, Heliodores or Tatii, Longi, &c.] For the first two see vol. ii. p. 367 a. Longus is the author of the beautiful pastoral of Daphnis and Chloe; Eustathius of the story of Ismene and Ismenias; and Prodromus of a love tale in metre called Doricles and Rhodantes.

2 All the sweet morsels called tongue, ears, and dowcets !] [This word occurred before, in The Magnetic Lady, p. 430 a.]

Scar. Yes,

up,

deer!

1 And never hunted change!] Hounds are said to hunt change when they take a fresh scent and follow another chase.--WHAL.

2 I love these interruptions in a story;] How beautifully is this touched by Milton!

"Her husband the relater, she preferred
Before the angel-he would intermix
Grateful digression, and solve high dispute
With conjugal caresses; from his lips,
Not words alone pleased her."

8 Mar. You do know as soon

As the assay is taken.] To take the assay or say, is to draw a knife along the belly of the deer, beginning at the brisket, to discover how

fat he is.-WHAL.

This was a mere ceremony: the knife was put into the hands of the "best person" in the field, and drawn lightly down the belly, that the chief huntsman might be entitled to his fee. When this was done, the making of the arbor, in plain English, the cutting up of the game, was entrusted to more skilful operators. What follows

huntsmen,

Especially old Scathlock, thought it ominous;

Swore it was Mother Maudlin, whom he

met

At the day-dawn, just as he roused the deer Out of his lair: but we made shift to run him

Off his four legs, and sunk him ere we left.

Enter Scathlock.

Is the deer come?

Scath. He lies within on the dresser. Mar. Will you go see him, Mellifleur? Mel. I attend you.

Mar. Come, Amie, you'll go with us? Amie. I am not well.

Lio. She's sick of the young shepherd that bekissed her.4

Mar. Friend, cheer your friends up, we will eat him merrily.

[Exeunt Mar. Mell, and Amie. Alken. Saw you the raven, friend? Scath. Ay, wha suld let me?

I suld be afraid o' you, sir, suld I?

in the text is not found in the Gentleman's Recreation: but is thus noticed by the good prioress of St. Albans. "Slitteth anone

n

The belly to the side from the corbyn bone, That is corbyn's fee, at the deth he will be.' And more fully by Tuberville, whom the poet might have in view. "There is (says he), a little gristle, which is upon the spoone of the brisket, which we call the raven's bone; because it is cast up to the crows or ravens which attend hunters. And I have seen in some places a would never fayle to croake and cry for it all the raven so wont and accustomed to it that she while you were in breaking up of the deare, and

would not depart until she had it."-P. 135.

She's sick of the young shepherd that be kissed her.] So Shirley:

"I should gather
By symptoms of my mistress, she is sick
Of the younger gentleman."
The Sisters.

Cla. Huntsman,

A dram more of civility would not hurt you. Rob. Nay, you must give them all their rudenesses;

They are not else themselves without their language.

Alken. And what do you think of her? Scath. As of a witch.

They call her a wise-woman,' but I think her

An arrant witch.

Cla. And wherefore think you so?
Scath. Because I saw her since broiling

the bone

Was cast her at the quarry.

Alken. Where saw you her?

Scath. In the chimley-nuik, within : she's there now.

Re-enter Marian."

Rob. Marian!

Your hunt holds in his tale still; and tells more !

Mar. My hunt! what tale? Rob. How! cloudy, Marian! What look is this?

Mar. A fit one, sir, for you. Hand off, rude ranger !--Sirrah, get you in, [To Scathlock.

And bear the venison hence: it is too good For these coarse rustic mouths, that cannot open,

Or rather ask yourselves, if she be she; Or I be I.

Mar. Yes, and you are the spy; And the spied spy that watch upon my walks, To inform what deer I kill or give away! Where! when! to whom ! but spy your worst, good spy,

I will dispose of this where least you like! Fall to your cheese-cakes, curds, and clouted cream,

Your fools, your flawns; and [swill] of ale a stream3

To wash it from your livers: strain ewes' milk

Into your cyder syllabubs, and be drunk To him whose fleece hath brought the earliest lamb

This year; and wears the baudric at your board!

Where you may all go whistle and record This in your dance; and foot it lustily.

[Exit.

1 They call her a wise woman, but I think her

An arrant witch.] A wise woman was a fortune-teller, a recoverer of stolen goods, &c. In some of our old writers indeed she takes a higher character, and deals with familiars. She is then a white-witch, and is meritoriously employed in counteracting the malignity of the witch Kar' εξοχην. This valuable character, once so common, is now unfortunately extinct, unless the last of the race should be thought to

VOL. II.

Alken. And to await the issue.

Rob. The dead or lazy wait for't! I will find it. [Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.-The Forest as before.

The Witch's Dimble, cottage, oak, well, &c. Enter Maudlin in her proper shape, and

Douce in the dress of Earine.

Maud. Have I not left them in a brave confusion?

linger with the last ghost at the village of Sampford.

2 Re-enter Marian.] i.e., Maudlin the witch, in her shape.

s Your fools, your flawns; and of ale a stream.] Fools, as every one knows, are gooseberries boiled and beaten up with cream: fawns are custards. The sense as well as the measure of this verse is defective, so that some word was probably lost at the press. I have inserted swill at a venture.

K K