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To be taken, to be seen,
TO THE SAME.
Kiss me, sweet: the wary lover
While you breathe. First give a hundred.
THAT WOMEN ARE BUT MEN'S
Follow a shadow, it still flies you,
Seem to fly it, it will pursue: So court a mistress, she denies you; Let her alone, she will court you. Say are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men? At morn and even shades are longest ; At noon they are or short or none: So men at weakest, they are strongest, But grant us perfect, they're not known. Say are not women truly then, Styled but the shadows of us men?
["Pembrok and his Lady discoursing, the Earl said, The woemen were men's shadowes, and she maintained them. Both appealing to Johnson, he affirmed it true; for which my Lady gave a pennance to approve it in verse: hence his epigram. B. J., Conversations with Drummond.
Why, DISEASE, dost thou molest
Take heed, Sickness, what you do,
That distill their husband's land
Echo, Narcissum, dum fugit, insequitur. Ergo voluntati plerumque adversa repugnans Famina, jure sui dicitur umbra viri. F. C.] That for the oil of talc dare spend More than citizens dare lend.] See vol. ii. p. 38 a. Whalley has strangely confounded this cosmetic with a nauseous unction for the tick in sheep.
And for thee at common game, Play away health, wealth, and fame. These, Disease, will thee deserve; And will long, ere thou shouldst starve, On their beds, most prostitute, Move it, as their humblest suit, In thy justice to molest
None but them, and leave the rest.
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosie wreath, Not so much honouring thee,
• No part of Jonson has been so frequently quoted as this song, which, pleasing as it is, is not superior to many others scattered through his works.
"I was surprised (Cumberland_says), the other day to find our learned poet Ben Jenson had been poaching in an obscure collection of love letters, written by the sophist Philostratus in a very rhapsodical stile, merely for the purpose of stringing together a parcel of unnatural far-fetched conceits, more calculated to disgust a man of Jonson's classical taste, than to put him upon the humble task of copying them, and then fathering the translation. The little poem he has taken from this despicable sophist is now become a very popular song." Observer, No. lxxiv.
Cumberland, who reasoned very loosely, was hardly aware, I think, of the extraordinary compliment he was paying Jonson in this passage. | But why should he be surprised? Did we not know that he was directed to Philostratus by a more skilful and excursive finger than his own, we might perhaps be surprised at finding the critic there; but they must have a very imperfect acquaintance with Jonson who are unpreoared to meet with him in any volume which antiquity has bequeathed to us. It need not follow that our poet admired every writer that he read: he might not, perhaps, have judged more favourably of Philostratus than Mr. Cumberland, or rather Dr. Bentley; yet he had the address to turn him to some account. But to the quotations: which, it must be added, are translated without much apparent knowledge of the original:
Εμοι δε μόνοις προπινε τους ομμασιν. Ει δε βουλει, τοις χείλεσι προσφέρουσα, πληρου φιλη
ματων το εκπωμα, και ούτως διδου. “ Drink to me with thine eyes only-Or, if thou wilt, putting the cup to thy lips, fill it with kisses, and so bestow it upon me."-Lett. xxiv.
Εγω, επειδαν ίδω σε, δίψω, και το έκπωμα κατέχων, και το μεν ου προσαγω τοις χείλεσι, σου δε οιδα πινων. "I, as soon as I behold thee, thirst, and taking hold of the cup, do not indeed apply that to my lips for drink, but thee." Lett. xxv. This is by no means the sense. was not thus that Jonson read Philostratus.
Πεπομφα σου στέφανον ροδων, ου σε τιμων και τούτο μεν γαρ), αλλ' αυτοις τι χαριζόμενος Tols podols, iva un μapavon. "I sent thee a rosy wreath, not so much honouring thee (though this also is in my thoughts) as bestowing favour upon the roses, that so they might not be withered." Lett. xxx.
Ει δε βουλει τι φιλῳ χαρίζεσθαι, τα λείψανα αυτων αντιπεμψον, μηκετι πνεοντα ροδον μόνον ada kai σov. "If thou wouldst do a kindness to thy lover, send back the reliques of the roses (I gave thee) no longer smelling of themselves only, but of thee." Lett. xxxi.
Mr. Cumberland is quite scandalized at the omission of the poet's acknowledgments to Philostratus: this is very natural in so scrupulous a borrower as himself; but he ought to have known that this was not the practice of Jonson's times.
It is a little singular that the artful arrangement of this song (which is peculiar to our poet) should have escaped the critics. Cumberland divides it into four stanzas; so do the ingenious authors of the Anthology, who, from the incorrect manner in which they have given it, evidently overlooked the construction.
This Præludium (which is merely sportive)
together with the admirable Epode to which it forms an introduction, must have been among the earliest of Jonson's works, since both are prefixed to a volume of rare occurrence (obligingly communicated to me by T. Hill, Esq.), called Love's Martyr, or Rosalin's Complaint. Allegorically shadowing the truth of Love in the constant fate of the Phoenix and Turtle-now first translated out of the venerable Italian Torquato Cæliano, by Robert Chester, to which are added some new compositions of several writers, 1601." The Epode is immediately followed by "the Phoenix Analysed," and the Ode" given below (8) both, as it would seem, by our author, though his name does not appear to them.
Till the discovery of this volume, of which Whalley apparently knew nothing, these poems could scarcely be considered as intelligible. Shakspeare, Marston, and Chapman united with Jonson in this commendation of the Phoenix, and "consecrated their verses (the preface says) to the love and merit of the true noble knight, Sir John Salisburie."
THE PHOENIX ANALYSED. (8.)
Now after all, let no man
Do turn into a woman.
Or, by our Turtle's augure,
That Nature's fairest creature Prove of his mistress' feature But a bare type and figure.
My Muse up by commission; no, I bring My own true fire: now my thought takes wing,
And now an EPODE to deep ears I sing.
Not to know vice at all, and keep true state,
Next to that virtue, is to know vice well,
At the eye and ear, the ports unto the mind,
Object arrive there, but the heart, our spy,
Will quickly taste the treason, and commit
"Tis the securest policy we have,
To make our sense our slave.
Splendor! O more than mortal
Yet she's not nice to show them, Nor takes she pride to know them. [The T. Hill, Esq., who brought this volume to light, was better known as Tom Hill, and better still as the Paul Pry of Liston, the H of Gilbert Gurney, and the Tom Faver ɔf "Vanity Fair."-F. C.]
But this true course is not embraced by A fixed thought, an eye untaught to
By many scarce by any.
For either our affections do rebel,
Or else the sentinel,
That should ring larum to the heart, doth sleep;
Or some great thought doth keep Back the intelligence, and falsely swears They are base and idle fears Whereof the loyal conscience so complains.
Thus, by these subtle trains,
Do several passions invade the mind,
And strike our reason blind,
Of which usurping rank, some have thought n love
The first; as prone to move Most frequent tumults, horrors, and unrests
In our enflamed breasts :
But this doth from the cloud of error grow, Which thus we over-blow.
The thing they here call Love, is blind Desire,
Armed with bow, shafts, and fire; Inconstant, like the sea, of whence 'tis born, Rough, swelling, like a storm : With whom who sails, rides on the surge of fear,
And boils, as if he were
In a continual tempest. Now, true Love
It is a golden chain let down from heaven,
The soft, and sweetest minds
In equal knots: this bears no brands nor darts,
To murther different hearts,
But in a calm and god-like unity
O, who is he that in this peace enjoys
The Elixir of all joys?
A form more fresh than are the Eden
And lasting as her flowers:
Who, blest with such high chance,
Of all his happiness? But soft, I hear
That cries we dream, and swears there's no such thing
As this chaste love we sing. Peace, Luxury,2 thou art like one of those Who, being at sea, suppose,
Because they move, the continent doth so. No, Vice, we let thee know,
Though thy wild thoughts with sparrows wings do fly.
Turtles can chastly die; And yet (in this t' express ourselves more clear)
We do not number here Such spirits as are only continent,
Because lust's means are spent:
Or those who doubt the common mouth of fame,
And for their place and name, Cannot so safely sin: their chastity Is mere necessity.
Nor mean we those whom vows and conscience
Have filled with abstinence: Though we acknowledge, who can so abstain,
Makes a most blessed gain. He that for love of goodness hateth ill, Is more crown-worthy still, Than he which for sin's penalty forbears; His heart sins, though he fears. But we propose a person like our Dove, Graced with a Phoenix' love; A beauty of that clear and sparkling light, Would make a day of night,
And turn the blackest sorrows to bright joys;
Whose odorous breath destroys
All taste of bitterness, and makes the air
As sweet as she is fair.
A body so harmoniously composed,
As if Nature disclosed
All her best symmetry in that one feature ! O, so divine a creature,
Richer than Time, and as Time's virtue Who could be false to? chiefly when he
Sober, as saddest care;
And as Time's virtue rare.] Truth, which is said proverbially to be the daughter of Time. WHAL.
Peace, Luxury.] i.e., lust. It is simply the Fr. luxure, then in general use. On this trite word Steevens (under the name of Collins) has
How only she bestows
poured out, for the benefit of the youthful readers of Shakspeare, pages of the grossest indecency:
"Verbis, nudum olido stans Fornice mancipium quibus abstinet l
Whilst that for which all virtue now is With you, I know, my offering will find
And almost every vice, almighty gold, That which, to boot with hell, is thought worth heaven,
And for it life, conscience, yea souls are given,
Toils, by grave custom, up and down the court,
To every squire or groom that will report Well or ill, only all the following year, Just to the weight their this day's presents bear;
While it makes huishers serviceable men, And some one apteth to be trusted then, Though never after; whiles it gains the voice
Of some grand peer, whose air doth make rejoice
The fool that gave it: who will want and weep,
When his proud patron's favours are asleep;
While thus it buys great grace, and hunts poor fame;
Runs between man and man; 'tween dame and dame;
For what a sin 'gainst your great father's spirit,
Were it to think that you should not inherit
His love unto the Muses, when his skill Almost you have, or may have when you will?
Wherein wise nature you a dowry gave Worth an estate treble to that you have. Beauty I know is good, and blood is more; Riches thought most; but, madam, think what store
'The world hath seen, which all these had
And now lie lost in their forgotten dust.
The souls she loves. Those other glorious notes,
Inscribed in touch or marble, or the coats Painted or carved upon our great men's tombs,
Or in their windows, do but prove the wombs
That knows the weight of guilt, &c.] This the appearance of this volume, as did her is from Seneca, the tragedian:
Quid pæna presens consciæ mentis pavor, Animusque culpa plenus, et semet timens : Scelus aliqua tutum, nulla securum tulit.
Elizabeth, Countess of Rutland.] The lady to whom the 79th epigram is addressed, daugh ter of Sir Philip Sidney, and wife of Roger Manners, fifth Earl of Rutland. She died before a
When her ingots Were yet unfound, and better placed in earth, &c.]