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LXXIII.

EPISTLE

TO MASTER Arthur SQUIB.

I am to dine, friend, where I must weighed

be

For a just wager, and that wager paid
If I do lose it; and, without a tale,
A merchant's wife is regent of the scale.
Who when she heard the match, concluded
straight,

An ill commodity! it must make good weight.1

So that, upon the point, my corporal fear
Is, she will play Dame Justice too severe;
And hold me to it close; to stand upright
Within the balance, and not want a mite;
But rather with advantage to be found
Full twenty stone, of which I lack two
pound;

That's six in silver now within the socket

Stinketh my credit, if, into the pocket It do not come: one piece I have in store,

Lend me, dear ARTHUR, for a week, five more,

And you shall make me good in weight and fashion,

And then to be returned; or protestation To go out after :-till when take this letter

For your security. I can no better.

An ill commodity, &c.] The lady alludes, I presume, to the decisive depression of the scale, exacted in the weighing of coarse merchandize.

* But, rather with advantage to be found Full twenty stone; of which I lack two pound: That's six in silver.] The wager, it seems, was that the poet weighed full twenty stone, but he found that he wanted two pounds of that weight. This he artfully turns to a reason for borrowing five pounds in money of his friend Mr. Squib, which added to the pound he had of his own, would make up the deficiency in his weight. Six pounds in silver, he says, will weigh two pounds in weight: it may be so; we will take his word.-WHAL.

I doubt whether we understand the nature of

this wager, which was probably a mere jest. the sense be as Whalley states it, there is little of art as of honesty in it.

If

as

To Master John Burges.] Burges was probably the deputy paymaster of the household. He had made Jonson a present of some ink, and this little production, which wants neither spirit nor a proper self-confidence, inclosed, perhaps, the return for it. Master Burges might have sent the wine at the same time.

LXXIV.

TO MASTER JOHN BURGES.3

Would God, my BURGES, I could think
Thoughts worthy of thy gift, this ink,
Then would I promise here to give

Verse that should thee and me outlive.
But since the wine hath steeped my brain,
I only can the paper stain;
Yet with a dye that fears no moth,
But scarlet-like, outlasts the cloth.

LXXV.
EPISTLE

TO MY LADY COVELL.

You won not verses, madam, you won me,
When you would play so nobly and so free.
A book to a few lines! but it was fit
You won them too, your odds did merit it.
So have you gained a Servant and a Muse:
The first of which I fear you will refuse,
And you may justly; being a tardy, cold,
Unprofitable chattel, fat and old,

Laden with belly, and doth hardly approach His friends but to break chairs, or crack a coach.

His weight is twenty stone within two pound;

And that's made up as doth the purse abound.4

Marry, the Muse is one can tread the air, And stroke the water, nimble, chaste, and fair;

Jonson, who lived much about the court while his health permitted him to come abroad, seems to have made friends of most of those who held official situations there, and to have been supplied with stationery, and, perhaps, many other petty articles. The following is transcribed from the blank leaf of a volume of miscellaneous poetry, formerly in the possession of Dr. John Hoadly, son of the Bishop of Winchester. He has written over it, "A Relique of Ben Jonson."

To my worthy and deserving Brother
Mr. Alexander Glover,

as the Token of my Love,
And the perpetuating of our Friendship,
I send this small, but hearty Testimony:
Till I, at much expense of time and taper,
And with Charge, that it remayne wth Him,
With 'Chequer-Ink, upon his gift, my paper,
To make these good, and what comes after, better.
Shall pour forth many a line, drop many a letter
BEN JONSON.

And that's made up, &c.] Is this too a hint ?-If so, it must have sorely puzzled the lady, unless she had previously seen the Epistle to Master Squib.

Sleep in a virgin's bosom without fear,
Run all the rounds in a soft lady's ear,
Widow or wife, without the jealousy
Of either suitor or a servant by.

Such, if her manners like you, I do send:
And can for other graces her commend,
To make you merry on the dressing-stool
A mornings, and at afternoons to fool
Away ill company, and help in rhyme
Your Joan to pass her melancholy time.
By this, although you fancy not the man,
Accept his muse; and tell, I know you can,
How many verses, madam, are your due!
I can lose none in tendering these to you.
I gain in having leave to keep my day,
And should grow rich had I much more to
pay.

LXXVI.

TO MASTER JOHN BURGES.

Father JOHN BURGES,
Necessity urges
My woeful cry

To Sir Robert Pie :1

And that he will venture
To send my debenture.
Tell him his Ben
Knew the time when
He loved the Muses;
Though now he refuses,
To take apprehension
Of a year's pension,
And more is behind :
Put him in mind
Christmas is near;
And neither good cheer,
Mirth, fooling, nor wit,
Nor any least fit
Of gambol or sport
Will come at the Court;
If there be no money,
No plover or coney
Will come to the table,
Or wine to enable
The muse or the poet,
The parish will know it.

My woeful cry

To Sir Robert Pie.] Sir Robert Pie was appointed to the Exchequer about 1618, upon the resignation of Sir John Bingley, who was implicated in a charge of peculation with the Lord Treasurer, the Earl of Suffolk. Sir Robert was a retainer of Buckingham's, to whose interest he owed his promotion. He was the ancestor of the late laureate, under whose hands the family estate vanished. Mr. Pye had probably raised his woeful cry to the treasurer of the day as loudly as Jonson, for he was equally clamorous and necessitous. Such are the mutations of time!

Nor any quick warming-pan help him to bed If the 'Chequer be empty, so will be his head.

LXXVII.
EPIGRAM

TO MY BOOKSELLER.

Thou, friend, wilt hear all censures; unto thee

All mouths are open and all stomachs free: Be thou my book's intelligencer, note What each man says of it, and of what coat Thank him; if other, he can give no bays. His judgment is; if he be wise, and praise, If his wit reach no higher but to spring Thy wife a fit of laughter; a cramp-ring Will be reward enough; to wear like those That hang their richest jewels in their nose: Like a rung bear or swine; grunting out wit As if that part lay for a [ ]2 most fit! If they go on, and that thou lov'st a-life Their perfumed judgments, let them kiss thy wife.

LXXVIII.

AN EPITAPH

ON HENRY, LORD LA-WARE.3

If, Passenger, thou canst but read,
Stay, drop a tear for him that's dead:
HENRY, the brave young LORD LA-WARE,
Minerva's and the Muses' care!
What could their care do 'gainst the spite
Of a disease, that loved no light
Of honour, nor no air of good :
But crept like darkness through his blood,
Offended with the dazzling flame
Of virtue, got above his name?
No noble furniture of parts,
No love of action and high arts;
No aim at glory, or in war,
Ambition to become a star,
Could stop the malice of this ill,
That spread his body o'er to kill:
And only his great soul envièd,
Because it durst have noblier died.

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* A word has been dropt in the folio, and I cannot reinstate it. [A word has not been dropt," the blank being left between hooks, precisely as it is now represented in the text.— F. C.]

first settler of the colony of Virginia, of which The son of Thomas, Lord De-la-ware, the he was appointed captain-general by James I. in 1609. Henry succeeded him as fourth Lord De-la-ware, in 1618, and died 1628, the date of this Epitaph, at the early age of 25. He was a young man of great promise.

LXXIX.

AN EPIGRAM,1

TO THE LORD-Keeper.

That you have seen the pride, beheld the

sport,

And all the games of fortune, played at Court,

Viewed there the market, read the wretched rate,

At which there are would sell the Prince and State:

That scarce you hear a public voice alive, But whispered counsels, and those only thrive;

Yet are got off thence, with clear mind

and hands

To lift to heaven, who is't not understands Your happiness, and doth not speak you blest,

To see you set apart thus from the rest, T' obtain of God what all the land should ask?

A nation's sin got pardoned! 'twere a task
Fit for a bishop's knees! O bow them oft,
My lord, till felt grief make our stone
hearts soft,

And we do weep to water for our sin.-
He that in such a flood as we are in,

1 This is not inscribed to any one in the folio, but was evidently addressed to the Lord-Keeper Williams, Bishop of Lincoln. It was probably written in 1625, when the chancellorship was transferred from him to Sir Thomas Coventry.

2 Jonson has given the date of this Epigram, 1629. In that wretched tissue of ignorance and malice, called in Cibber's Collection "the Life of Ben Jonson," it is stated that "in the year 1629, Ben fell sick, and was then poor, and lodged in an obscure alley; his Majesty was supplicated in his favour, who sent him ten guineas. When the messenger delivered the sum, Ben took it in his hand, and said, 'His Majesty has sent me ten guineas because I am poor and live in an alley; go and tell him that his soul lives in an alley," in vol. i. P. 238. Here is a fair specimen of the injustice with which the character of Jonson is universally treated. The writer of his "Life" had before him not only the poet's own acknowledgment that the sum sent to him by the king was one hundred pounds, but three poems in succession full of gratitude, thankfulness, and respectful duty, all written at the very period selected by his enemies for charging him with a rude and ungrateful message to his benefactor.

Of riot and consumption, knows the way To teach the people how to fast and pray, And do their penance to avert God's rod, He is the Man, and favourite, of God.

LXXX.

AN EPIGRAM,

TO KING CHARLES, FOR AN HUNDRED POUNDS HE SENT ME IN MY SICKNESS, MDCXXIX.2

Great CHARLES, among the holy gifts of grace,

Annexed to thy person and thy place,
'Tis not enough (thy piety is such)
To cure the called king's-evil with thy
touch;

But thou wilt yet a kinglier mastery try,
To cure the poet's-evil, poverty:
And in these cures dost so thyself en-
large,

As thou dost cure our evil at thy charge.
Nay, and in this thou show'st to value

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hood, as well he might: he goes farther, and "wonders," why Smollett should insert this contemptible lie in his "History of England," and above all, "where he found it." Mr. Malone's surprise is gratuitous. He could not be ignorant of Cibber's publication, for he has borrowed from it; and he must have been equally aware that it was the polluted source from which Smollett, who was probably acquainted with the writer (Shiels, a Scotchman), derived his ridiculous anecdote. Smollett knew less of Jonson than even Mr. Malone; he knew enough, however, of the public to be convinced that in calumniating him he was on the right side.

Is it too much to hope that this palpable perversion of a recorded fact will be less current hereafter? Or is the calumniation of Jonson so indispensable to the interests of sound literature, that a falsehood once charged upon him must immediately assume a sacred character, and in despite of shame, be promulgated, as a duty, from book to book, and from age to age?

8

To value more

alludes to the angel, or ten shilling-piece which One poet, than of other folks tenscore.] This was given to all who presented themselves to be This fabrication was too valuable to be neg-doubtedly presents the true key both of the touched for the king's-evil, and which unnumerous applications, and the cures. score angels make an hundred pounds.

lected; it has therefore been disseminated in a variety of forms by most of the Shakspeare commentators. Mr. Malone indeed rejects the false

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To our great and good King Charles.] In taking leave of the Epigrams of this year, let me pluck one solitary sprig to adorn the head of this good king" (who has been stripped of all his honours by the insatiable rancour of the heirs of the ancient puritanism), from the garland woven for him by Dr. Burney.

"This prince (Charles I.), however his judg. ment, or that of his councillors, may have misled him in the more momentous concerns of government, appears to have been possessed of an invariable good taste in all the fine arts; a quality which, in less morose and fanatical times, would have endeared him to the most enlightened part of the nation: but now his patronage of poetry, painting, architecture, and music, was ranked among the deadly sins, and his passion for the works of the best artists in the nation, profane, pagan, popish, idolatrous, dark, and damnable.

Indeed, when had Great Britain greater

cause

Than now, to love the sovereign and the laws;

When you that reign are her example grown,

And what are bounds to her, you make your own?

When your assiduous practice doth secure
That faith which she professeth to be pure?
When all your life's a precedent of days,
And murmur cannot quarrel at your ways?
How is she barren grown of love, or broke,
That nothing can her gratitude provoke !
O times! O manners! surfeit bred of ease,
The truly epidemical disease!
"Tis not alone the merchant, but the clown,
Is bankrupt turned; the cassock, cloke,
and gown,

Are lost upon account, and none will know
How much to heaven for thee, great
Charles, they owe !

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As to the expenses of his government, for the levying which he was driven to illegal and violent expedients, if compared with what has been since peaceably and cheerfully granted to his successors, his extravagance in supporting the public splendour and amusements of his court, will be found more moderate, and perhaps more innocent, than that of secret service in later times; and however gloomy state-reformers may execrate this prince, it would be ungrateful, in professors of any of the fine arts, to lose all reverence for the patron of Ben Jonson, Vandyke, Inigo Jones, and Dr. Child."-History of Musick, vol. iii.

This Epigram is addressed, in the Newcastle MS., "To the great and good King Charles, by his Majesty's most humble and thankful servant, Ben Jonson." Another proof of the poet's "insolence and ingratitude:!"

And still to stand so. Haste now, envious moon,

And interpose thyself,' (care not how soon) And threat the great eclipse; two hours but

run,

Sol will re-shine: if not, CHARLES hath a
Son.

Non displicuisse meretur
Festinat Cæsar qui placuisse tibi.2

LXXXIV.

AN EPIGRAM,

TO THE QUEEN, THEN LYING-IN, MDCXXX.

Hail, Mary, full of grace! it once was said,
And by an angel, to the blessed'st maid,
The Mother of our Lord: why may not I,
Without profaneness, as a poet, cry,
Hail, MARY, full of honours ! to my Queen,

The mother of our Prince? when was there seen,

Except the joy that the first Mary brought,
Whereby the safety of mankind was wrought,
So general a gladness to an isle,
To make the hearts of a whole nation smile,
As in this prince? let it be lawful, so
To compare small with great, as still we owe
Glory to God. Then, hail to Mary! spring
Of so much safety to the Realm and King!

1

moon.

Haste now, envious moon,

And interpose thyself, &c.] The prince (Charles II.) was born this year, on the 29th of May, on which day there was an eclipse of the This day was also memorable for the appearance of a star. "On the 29th of May (Sir Richard Baker says) the queen was brought to bed of a son, which was baptized at St. James's on the 27th of June, and named Charles. It is observed that at his nativity, at London, was seen a star about noon-time: what it portended, good or ill, we leave to the astrologers."

Bishop Corbet has a congratulatory poem"To the new-borne Prince, upon the opposition of a star and the following eclipse:" it abounds in all that extravagance of conceit which characterizes the poetry of his school. Of the moon he says,

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LXXXV.

AN ODE OR SONG,

BY ALL THE MUSES, IN CELEBRATION OF HER MAJESTY'S BIRTHDAY, MDCXXX.

1. Clio. Up, public joy, remember This sixteenth of November,

Some brave uncommon way: And though the parish steeple Be silent to the people,

Ring thou it holy-day.

2. Mel. What though the thrifty Tower, And guns there spare to pour

Their noises forth in Thunder: As fearful to awake 'This city, or to shake

Their guarded gates asunder?

3. Thal. Yet let our trumpets sound,
And cleave both air and ground,
With beating of our drums:
Let every lyre be strung,

Harp, lute, theorbo sprung,

With touch of learned thumbs.
4. Eut. That when the quire is full,
The harmony may pull

The angels from their spheres:
And each intelligence
May wish itself a sense,
Whilst it the ditty hears.

Thee, that they thought their countless eyes too few

For such an object?" &c.

2 After this Epigram the 12mo edition, 1640, inserts two others on the same subject. The first, on the Birth of the Prince, bears, perhaps, some remote resemblance of Jonson's style, at least as much of it as is here subjoined; but the concluding part is of a different character, and imitator of Donne. The second piece, called a could only have proceeded from some wretched Parallel of the Prince to the King, is utterly unworthy of notice. I cannot descend to vindicate the poet from either of them.

ON THE BIRTH OF THE PRINCE.

Another Phoenix, though the first is dead,
A second's flown from his immortal bed,
To make this our Arabia to be
The nest of an eternal progeny.
Choice nature framed the former, but to find,
What error might be mended in mankind:
Like some industrious workmen, which affect
Their first endeavours only to correct:
So this the building, that the model was,
The type of all that now is come to pass:
That but the shadow, this the substance is,
All that was but the prophecy of this:
And when it did this after birth forerun,
'Twas but the morning star unto this sun;
The dawning of this day, &c.

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