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Men. Nay, then I see, 'tis love that thee doth
wring. Admet. Thou err’st, Menalchas, there is no such
thing. Men. If neither loss of friends, nor loss of wealth, Want to enjoy thy love, nor want of health, If neither discontent, nor grief, do show Care in thy face, nor sorrow in thy brow, If thou be free, as we all know thee free, Engag’d to none,—what is it grieveth thee? Admet. Wouldst know, Menalchas ? Men. Yes.
* Admet. l'll tell thee than : The case is alter'd !-I'M A MARRIED MAN!
[From the same.] [This is inserted on account of the singularity of its versi
A TIME there was, and divers there be yet
(For Virtues, turtle-like, do single sit,
A boon companion, to his liquor given,
“ I have been drunk last day, and this day too,
may be next day too for ought I know: “Tell me then, holy friar, directly, how “ Or in what sort I may my penance do?” “ Drunk ?" quoth the friar,“ now by the faith I owe, 66 I know not what it means ! nor, as I trow, “ Under confession had I it e'er till now! " Yet come next day, thou's hear what thou
" shalt do."
Meanwhile, the friar would not neglect his time
For upsefreese 'he drank from four to nine,
Upward and downward it did work so sore,
Stephen kept his steaven, 2 and, to the time he gave, Came to demand what penance he should have ? “ What penance?” quoth the friar, “ I'll tell thee,
66 knave! “ I think it fit this penance to receive. “ Go and be drunk again! for if it have “ Th'effect with thee it had with me, I'd crave “ No sharper penance for the sinfull'st slave : “ For soon it would possess me of my grave !"
[Extracted out of “ Alcilia. Philoparthen's loving Folly," &c.
By J. C. 1628, 4to. second edition.)
What thing is Beauty, Nature's dearest minion?
The snare of Youth; like the inconstant moon, Waxing and waning; error of opinion;
A morning's flower that withereth ere noon; A swelling fruit, no sooner ripe than rotten, Which sickness makes forlorn, and time forgotten.
In looking back unto my follies past,
While I the present with times past compare, And think how many hours I then did waste,
Painting on clouds, and building in the air, I sigh within myself, and say in sadness, " This thing, which fools call love, is nought but
How vain is Youth, that, cross'd in his desire,
Doth fret and fume, and inwardly repine, As though 'gainst heaven itself he would conspire,
And with his frailty 'gainst his fate combine:
Who of itself continues constant still,
Thy large smooth forehead wrinkled shall appear;
Vermilion hue to pale and wan shall turn; Time shall deface what Youth hath held most dear; Yea, those clear eyes, which once my heart did
burn, Shall in their hollow circles lodge the night, And yield more cause of terror than delight.
Lo, here the record of my follies past,
The fruits of wit unstaid, and hours mis-spent! Full wise is he that perils can forecast,
And so by others' harms his own prevent.