Lapas attēli

But she's Juno when she walks, And Minerva when she talks.



CHARIS, guess, and do not miss,
Since I drew a morning kiss
From your lips, and sucked an air
Thence, as sweet as you are fair,
What my Muse and I have done :

Whether we have lost or won,
If by us the odds were laid,
That the bride, allowed a maid,
Looked not half so fresh and fair,
With the advantage of her hair,'
And her jewels to the view
Of the assembly, as did you !

Or that did you sit or walk,
You were more the eye and talk
Of the court, to-day, than all
Else that glistered in Whitehall;
So, as those that had your sight,
Wished the bride were changed to-

And did think such rites were due
To no other Grace but you!

Or, if you did move to-night
In the dances, with what spite
Of your peers you were beheld,
That at every motion swelled
So to see a lady tread,
As might all the Graces lead,
And was worthy, being so seen,
To be envied of the queen.

Or if you would yet have stayed,
Whether any would upbraid
To himself his loss of time;

Or have charged his sight of crime,
To have left all sight for you.
Guess of these which is the true;
And if such a verse as this
May not claim another kiss.

Luce deas; video tres quoque luce deas: Hoc majus, tres uno in corpore; Calia ridens Est Venus, incedens Juno, Minerva loquens. This quotation (says Dr. Farmer) recalls to my memory a very extraordinary fact. A few years ago, at a great court on the continent, a countryman of ours (Sir Charles Hanbury Williams) exhibited with many other candidates his complimental epigram on the birthday, and carried the prize in triumph

O Regina orbis prima et pulcherrima: ridens Es Venus, incedens Fuño, Minerva loquens. The compliment has since passed through other hands, and was not long ago applied to one who



For Love's sake, kiss me once again,
I long, and should not beg in vain.
Here's none to spy or see;

Why do you doubt or stay?

I'll taste as lightly as the bee, That doth but touch his flower, and flies away.

Once more, and, faith, I will be gone,
Can he that loves ask less than one?
Nay, you may err in this,

And all your bounty wrong:
This could be called but half a kiss;
What we're but once to do, we should do

I will but mend the last, and tell
Where, how, it would have relished well;
Join lip to lip, and try:

Each suck the other's breath,

And whilst our tongues perplexed lie, Let who will think us dead, or wish our death.



CHARIS one day in discourse Had of Love, and of his force, Lightly promised she would tell What a man she could love well: And that promise set on fire All that heard her with desire. With the rest, I long expected When the work would be effected; But we find that cold delay, And excuse spun every day, As, until she tell her one, We all fear she loveth none. Therefore, Charis, you must do't, For I will so urge you to't,

had as little of Venus and Juno in her as her panegyrist had of originality. Minerva had nothing to do with either.

in Jonson's days were always led to the altar With the advantage of her hair.] Brides with their hair hanging down. To this he alludes in several of his masques; and H. Peacham, in describing the marriage of the Princess Elizabeth with the Palsgrave, says that "the bride came into the chapell with a coronet of pearle on her head, and her haire disheveled, and hanging down over her shoulders."

* [Drummond mentions that these lines were amongst "the most commonplace of his repetition; ie., special favourites of the author, and frequently on his tongue."F. C.10 2009

You shall neither eat nor sleep,
No, nor forth your window peep,
With your emissary eye,1

To fetch in the forms go by,

And pronounce, which band or lace
Better fits him than his face :
Nay, I will not let you sit
'Fore your idol glass a whit,
To say over every purl2
There; or to reform a curl;
Or with Secretary Sis
To consult, if fucus this
Be as good as was the last :-
All your sweet of life is past,
Make account, unless you can,
And that quickly, speak your Man.




Of your trouble, BEN, to ease me, will tell what Man would please me. I would have him, if I could, Noble; or of greater blood; Titles, I confess, do take me, And a woman God did make me; French to boot, at least in fashion, And his manners of that nation.

Young I'd have him too, and fair, Yet a man; with crisped hair, Cast in thousand snares and rings, For Love's fingers, and his wings: Chestnut colour, or more slack, Gold, upon a ground of black. Venus and Minerva's eyes, For he must look wanton-wise. Eyebrows bent like Cupid's bow, Front, an ample field of snow; Even nose, and cheek withal, Smooth as is the billiard-ball: Chin as woolly as the peach; And his lip should kissing teach, Till he cherished too much beard, And made Love or me afeard.

With your emissary eye.] Oculis emissitiis. Plautus.-WHAL.

To say over every purl.] i.e., to try. Purl, I believe, is wire whipt with cotton or silk, for puffing out fringe, lace, hair, &c. In some places it seems to mean the fringe itself: the old word is purrel.

Or were set up in a brake.] The inclosure used by blacksmiths and farriers, in which they put vicious and untractable horses, which they

He should have a hand as soft As the down, and shew it oft; Skin as smooth as any rush, And so thin to see a blush Rising through it ere it came; All his blood should be a flame, Quickly fired, as in beginners In Love's school, and yet no sinners. 'Twere too long to speak of all: What we harmony do call

In a body should be there.

Well he should his clothes, too, wear,
Yet no tailor help to make him;
Drest, you still for man should take him,
And not think h' had eat a stake,
Or were set up in a brake.

Valiant he should be as fire,
Shewing danger more than ire.
Bounteous as the clouds to earth,
And as honest as his birth;
All his actions to be such,
As to do no thing too much :
Nor o'er-praise, nor yet condemn,
Nor out-value, nor contemn;
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.4



For 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.

cannot dress or shoe without that assistance, is commonly called a smith's brake.-WHAL. But see vol. i. p. 449 a.

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.

Miscellaneous Poems.'


THE MUSICal Strife.

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. She. 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.

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.



Oh 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.

Oh 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. Oh do not steep them in thy tears, For so will sorrow slay me; Nor spread them as distract vith fears; Mine own enough betray me.*



Men, if you love us, play no more
The fools or tyrants with your friends,

She. They say the angels mark each deed To make us still sing o'er and o'er,

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 strained
To meet their high desire;

So they in state of grace retained,
May wish us of their quire.

1 I have little to add to what is already said (p. 277), 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 could anywhere 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


Mine own enough betray me.] How is it that this song is never mentioned by the critics? Simply, I believe, because they never read it.

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,

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More pleasure while the thing he makes, Than when 'tis made; why, so will we. And having pleased our art, we'll try To make a new, and hang that by.


IN DEFENCE OF THEIR INCONSTANCY. Hang 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 man, 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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He is, if they can find him, fair,
And fresh and fragrant too,
As summer's sky, or purged air,
And looks as lilies do

That are this morning blown;
Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,
And fear much more, that more of him be

But he hath eyes so round and bright,
As make away my doubt,

Where Love may all his torches light
Though hate had put them out:
But then, t' increase my fears,

What nymph soe'er his voice but

Will be my rival, though she have but ears. I'll tell no more, and yet I love,

And he loves me; yet no

One unbecoming thought doth move
From either heart, I know;

But so exempt from blame,

As it would be to each a fame,

If love or fear would let me tell his name.



Consider this small dust, here in the glass, By atoms moved:

Could you believe that this the body was
Of one that loved;

And in his mistress' flame playing like a fly,
Was turned to cinders by her eye:
Yes; and in death, as life unblest,
To have 't exprest,

Even ashes of lovers find no rest.

Would you believe that it the body was
Of one that loved?

And in his mistress' flames playing like a flie,
Was turned into cinders by her eye?
Yes; as in life, so in their deaths unblest,
A lover's ashes never can find rest."


It matters little which we take the version in Drummond's folio is the worst, but all are imperfect. I have made a trifling change or two in the arrangement; for as the lines stood be fore, some of them had no correspondent rhymes. The whole, as Whalley observes, is from the Latin of Jerom Amaltheus, one of the most



To vent that poor desire,

That others should not warm them at my fire:

I wish the sun should shine

I now think, Love is rather deaf than blind, | On all men's fruit and flowers, as well as
For else it could not be,

That she

Whom I adore so much, should so slight


And cast my suit behind:

I'm sure my language to her was as sweet,
And every close did meet

In sentence of as subtle feet,
As hath the youngest he

That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.

Oh! but my conscious fears,

That fly my thoughts between,

Tell me that she hath seen

My hundreds of gray hairs
Told six and forty years,

Read so much waste as she cannot embrace

My mountain belly and my rocky face, And all these, through her eyes, have stopt

her ears.



Wretched and foolish jealousy, How cam'st thou thus to enter me? I ne'er was of thy kind:

Nor have I yet the narrow mind


But under the disguise of love,

Thou say'st, thou only cam'st to prove
What my affections were.
Think'st thou that love is helped by

Go, get thee quickly forth, Love's sickness, and his noted want of worth.

Seek doubting men to please,
I ne'er will owe my health to a disease.



Or scorn, or pity on me take,

I must the true relation make,
I am undone to-night:
Love in a subtle dream disguised,

Hath both my heart and me surprised,
Whom never yet he durst attempt awake;
Nor will he tell me for whose sake
He did me the delight,
Or spight;

But leaves me to inquire,

In all my wild desire,

Of Sleep again, who was his aid,
And Sleep so guilty and afraid,

As since he dares not come within my sight.

ingenious and elegant of the modern Italian venomous accusations against the moral and poets.

HOROLOGIUM pulvereum, Tumulus Alcippi. Perspicuo in vitro pulvis qui dividit horas, Dum vagus angustum sæpe recurrit iter, Olim erat Alcippus, qui Gallæ ut vidit ocellos, Arsit, et est cæco factus ab igne cinis Irrequiete cinis, miseros testabere amantes More tuo nulla posse quiete frui.


Horarum in vitro pulvis nunc mensor, Iola Sunt cineres, urnam condidit acer amor; Ut, si quæ extincto remanent in amore favillæ, Nec jam tutus eat, nec requietus amet.

It appears that this little translation was made by Jonson, at the request of his "friend" Drummond, on his auspicious visit to that mirror of sincerity and hospitality. In Drummond's folio it is prefaced with an address so respectful, so cordial and affectionate, as to raise a doubt whether the perversity was in the head or the heart of the man, who could withdraw, upon receiving it, to his closet, and deliberately commit to his note-book a series of base and

religious character of his unsuspecting guest.
"To the Honouring Respect

To the Friendship contracted with
The Right Virtuous and Learned

And the Perpetuating the same by all Offices of
Love Hereafter,

I Benjamin Jonson,

Whom he hath honoured with the leave to be called his,

Have with my own hand, to satisfy his Request,
Written this imperfect Song,

On a Lover's Dust, made sand for an

The verses then follow, miserably printed, it must be confessed; after which Jonson, with the same warmth of heart subjoins: "Yet that love, when it is at full, may admit heaping, receive, another: and this a Picture of myself." It would seem from the above, that Drummond kept a kind of Album, in which he had desired our author to insert something in his own writing. The second piece is No. VII.

[The Drummond Versions will be found in the Conversations, post.-F. C.]


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