SAMUEL ROWLANDS.

[A prolific humorous and satirical writer of the 17th century]. THE CONJURER COZENED.

A SHIFTING knave about the town
Did challenge wondrous skill:

To tell men's fortunes and good haps,
He had the stars at will.

What day was best to travel on,
Which fit to choose a wife;

If violent or natural

A man should end his life;
Success of any suit in law,
Which party's cause prevails;
When it is good to pick one's teeth,
And ill to pare his nails.

So cunningly he played the knave
That he deluded many

With shifting, base, and cozening tricks;
For skill he had not any.

Amongst a crew of simple gulls,
That plied him to their cost,

A butcher comes and craves his help,
That had some cattle lost.

Ten groats he gave him for his fee ;
And he to conjure goes,

With characters, and vocables,

And divers antic shows.

The butcher, in a beastly fear,
Expected spirits still,

And wished himself within his shop,

Some sheep or calf to kill.

At length out of an old blind hole,

Behind a painted cloth,

A devil comes with roaring voice,

Seeming exceeding wroth.

With squibs and crackers round-about

Wild-fire he did send ;

Which swaggering Ball, the butcher's dog,

So highly did offend

That he upon the devil flies,

And shakes his horns so sore,

Even like an ox, most terrible

He made hobgoblin roar.

The cunning man cries, "For God's love, help!
Unto your mastiff call!"

Fight dog, fight devil!" butcher said,

And claps his hands at Ball.

The dog most cruelly tore his flesh,

G

The devil went to wrack,
And looked like a tattered rogue,
With ne'er a rag on's back.

"Give me my money back again,
Thou slave," the butcher said,
"Or I will see your devil's heart,
Before he can be laid!

He gets not back again to hell,
Ere I my money have;

And I will have some interest too,
Besides mine own I gave.

Deliver first mine own ten groats,
And then a crown to boot:
I smell your devil's knavery out,
He wants a cloven foot.",

The conjurer, with all his heart,
The money back repays,

And gives five shillings of his own:

To whom the butcher says,—

Farewell, most scurvy conjurer!

Think on my valiant deed,

Which has done more than English George

That made the dragon bleed.

He and his horse, the story tells,

Did but a serpent slay :

I and my dog the devil spoiled,-
We two have got the day."

ROBERT HERRICK.

Born in 1591, son of a goldsmith in Cheapside, of good family connexions: died towards 1674. Herrick entered the church, in what year is uncertain: the year 1629 is the first clear date relating to this matter, when Herrick, aged thirty-eight, was appointed to the living of Dean Prior, Devonshire. In 1648 he was ejected as a royalist; but restored in 1660. He lived a bachelor; much more (if we may judge from his verses) in the style of a jovial celibate than of a clerical ascetic. A certain section of his poems is religious or moral; the great majority of them, however, testify to a keen enjoyment of the good things of this world, whether simple or refined. Many of his compositions are, in the fullest sense of the term, trifles; others are at least exquisite trifles; some are not trifles, and are exquisite. After more than a century of neglect, ensuing upon their first ample popularity, Herrick's writings have for years been kept freshened with a steady current of literary laudation-certainly not unjustified, so far as their finer qualities go, but tending a little to the indiscriminate].

UPON A WIFE THAT DIED MAD WITH JEALOUSY.

IN this little vault she lies

Here, with all her jealousies;
Quiet yet; but, if ye make
Any noise, they both will wake,

And such spirits raise 'twill then
Trouble Death to lay again.

UPON PAGGET.

PAGGET, a schoolboy, got a sword, and then
He vowed destruction both to birch and men ;
Who would not think this younker fierce to fight?
Yet, coming home but somewhat late last night,
"Untruss," his master bade him; and that word
Made him take up his shirt, lay down his sword.

TO THE DETRACTOR.

WHERE others love and praise my verses, still
Thy long black thumb-nail marks 'em out for ill;
A fellon take it, or some white-flaw come
For to unslate or to untile that thumb !

But cry thee mercy; exercise thy nails

To scratch or claw, so that thy tongue not rails.

Some numbers prurient are, and some of these

Are wanton with their itch; scratch, and 'twill please.

THE INVITATION.

To sup with thee thou didst me home invite,
And mad'st a promise that mine appetite
Should meet and tire on such lautitious meat
The like not Heliogabalus did eat ;

And richer wine wouldst give to me, thy guest,
Than Roman Sylla poured out at his feast.
I came, 'tis true; and looked for fowl of price,
The bustard, phoenix, bird of paradise;

And for no less than aromatic wine

Of maiden's-blush commixed with jessamine.
Clean was the hearth; the mantel larded jet,
Which, wanting Lar and smoke, hung weeping wet.
At last, i'the noon of winter, did appear

A ragg'd soused neat's-foot with sick vinegar;
And in a burnished flagonet stood by

Beer small as comfort, dead as charity.

At which amazed, and pondering on the food,-
How cold it was, and how it chilled my blood,-
I cursed the master, and I damned the souce,
And swore I'd got the ague of the house.
Well, when to eat thou dost me next desire,
I'll bring a fever, since thou keep'st no fire."

FRANCIS QUARLES.

[Born in 1592, died in 1644. Chiefly known as the author of the Emblems. Quarles held the post of cup-bearer to the Queen of Bohemia, daughter of James I.; afterwards of secretary to Archbishop Usher in Ireland, and of Chronologer to the City of London. He adhered to the royal party in the civil war : hence his property was sequestrated, and his mishaps are supposed to have accelerated his death].

HEY, THEN, UP GO WE.

KNOW this, my brethren, heaven is clear,
And all the clouds are gone;

The righteous man shall flourish,

Good days are coming on.

Then come, my brethren, and be glad,
And eke rejoice with me;

Lawn sleeves and rochets shall go down,
And hey, then, up go we!

We'll break the windows which the whore
Of Babylon hath painted;

And, when the popish saints are down,

Then Barrow shall be sainted;
There's neither cross nor crucifix

Shall stand for men to see,

Rome's trash and trumpery shall go down,
And hey, then, up go we!

Whate'er the Popish hands have built

Our hammers shall undo;

We'll break their pipes and burn their copes,
And pull down churches too;
We'll exercise within the groves,

And teach beneath a tree;
We'll make a pulpit of a cask,
And hey, then, up go we!
We'll put down Universities,
Where learning is professed,
Because they practise and maintain
The language of the Beast;

We'll drive the doctors out of doors,

And all that learned be;

We'll cry all arts and learning down,

And hey, then, up go we!

We'll down with deans and prebends, too,

And I rejoice to tell ye

We then shall get our fill of pig,

And capons for the belly.

We'll burn the Fathers' weighty tomes,

And make the Schoolmen free;

We'll down with all that smells of wit,

And hey, then, up go we!

If once the Antichristian crew
Be crushed and overthrown,

We'll teach the nobles how to stoop,

And keep the gentry down.

Good manners have an ill report,

And turn to pride, we see;

We'll therefore put good manners down,
And hey, then, up go we!

The name of lords shall be abhorred,
For every man's a brother;
No reason why in Church and State
One man should rule another;
But, when the change of government
Shall set our fingers free,

We'll make these wanton sisters stoop,
And hey, then, up go we!

What though the King and Parliament
Do not accord together,

We have more cause to be content,-
This is our sunshine weather:

For, if that reason should take place,
And they should once agree,

Who would be in a Roundhead's case?
For hey, then, up go we!

What should we do, then, in this case?
Let's put it to a venture;

If that we hold out seven years' space
We'll sue out our indenture.

A time may come to make us rue,
And time may set us free,-
Except the gallows claim his due,
And hey, then, up go we!

EDMUND WALLER.

[Born on 3d March 1605, died on 21st October 1687. Was not only an admired poet and man of fashion, but also an active though not highly consistent politician; negociating for the Parliament, plotting for Charles I., lauding Cromwell, and acclaiming Charles II. As a poet, Waller is now chiefly remembered by his delightful lyric, "Go, lovely rose," and as the poetic suitor of "Saccharissa"-i. e., Lady Dorothy Sidney, whom he courted, but did not secure in marriage].

AN EPIGRAM ON A PAINTED LADY WITH ILL TEETH.
WERE men so dull they could not see

That Lyce painted,—should they flee,
Like simple birds, into a net

So grossly woven and ill set,

Her own teeth would undo the knot,
And let all go that she had got.