Therefore I'll give no more, but I'll undo
The world by dying; because love dies too.
Then all your beauties will be no more worth
Than gold in mines, where none doth draw it forth;
And all your graces no more use shall have
Than a sun-dial in a grave.

Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me
Love her who doth neglect both me and thee,
To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all three.

BEN JONSON.

[Born in Westminster, 1574; died there, 6 August 1637].
ON GILES AND JOAN.

WHO says that Giles and Joan at discord be?
The observing neighbours no such mood can see.
Indeed, poor Giles repents he married ever;
But that his Joan doth too. And Giles would never,
By his free will, be in Joan's company;

No more would Joan he should. Giles riseth early,
And, having got him out of doors, is glad;
The like is Joan :-but, turning home, is sad;
And so is Joan. Ofttimes when Giles doth find
Harsh sights at home, Giles wisheth he were blind;
All this doth Joan: or that his long-yearned life
Were quite out-spun; the like wish hath his wife.
The children that he keeps Giles swears are none
Of his begetting; and so swears his Joan.
In all affections she concurreth still.
If now, with man and wife, to will and nill
The selfsame things a note of concord be,
I know no couple better can agree.

TO CAPTAIN HUNGRY.

Do what you come for, captain, with your news,—
That's sit and eat; do not my ears abuse.

I oft look on false coin to know't from true;

Not that I love it more than I will you.

Tell the gross Dutch those grosser tales of yours;
How great you were with their two emperors,
And yet are with their princes: fill them full

Of your Moravian horse, Venetian bull;

Tell them what parts you've ta'en, whence run away,
What states you gulled, and which yet keeps you in pay;

Give them your services, and embassies

In Ireland, Holland, Sweden, pompous lies!

In Hungary and Poland, Turkey too;

What at Leghorn, Rome, Florence, you did do ;

And, in some year, all these together heaped,-
For which there must more sea and land be leaped
(If but to be believed you have the hap)
Than can a flea at twice skip i' the map.

Give your young statesmen (that first make you drunk,
And then lie with you, closer than a punk,
For news) your Villeroys, and Silleries,
Janins, your Nuncios, and your Tuileries,
Your Arch-dukes' agents, and your Beringhams,
That are your words of credit. Keep your names
Of Hannow, Shieter-huissen, Popenheim,
Hans-spiegle, Rotteinberg, and Boutersheim,
For your next meal; this you are sure of. Why
Will you part with them here, unthriftily?
Nay, now you puff, tusk, and draw up your chin,
Twirl the poor chain you run a-feasting in.
Come, be not angry; you are hungry,―eat';
Do what you come for, captain; there's your meat.

A FIT OF RHYME AGAINST RHYME.
RHYME, the rack of finest wits,

That expresseth but by fits

True conceit,

Wresting words from their true calling;
Propping verse for fear of falling

To the ground;

Jointing syllabes, drowning letters,

Fastening vowels, as with fetters

They were bound!

Soon as lazy thou wert known,

All good poetry hence was flown,

And art banished;

For a thousand years together,

All Parnassus' green did wither,

And wit vanished

Pegasus did fly away;

At the wells no Muse did stay,

But bewailed

So to see the fountain dry,

And Apollo's music die,

All light failed.

Starveling rhymes did fill the stage,—

Not a poet in an age,

Worthy crowning;

Not a work deserving bays,

Nor a line deserving praise,

Pallas frowning.

Greek was free from rhyme's infection;
Happy Greek, by this protection,
Was not spoiled;

Whilst the Latin, queen of tongues,
Is not yet free from rhyme's wrongs,
But rests foiled.

Scarce the Hill again doth flourish,
Scarce the world a wit doth nourish,
To restore

Phoebus to his crown again,

And the Muses to their brain,

As before.

Vulgar languages that want

Words and sweetness, and be scant

Of true measure,

Tyrant rhyme hath so abused

That they long since have refused
Other censure.

He that first invented thee,

May his joints tormented be,

Cramped for ever ;

Still may syllabes jar with time,

Still may reason war with rhyme,

Resting never!

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.
Marry, the Muse is one can tread the air,

And stroke the water, nimble, chaste, and fair,—
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.

BISHOP (JOSEPH) HALL.

[Born in 1574 died in 1656. He became Bishop of Exeter in 1627, and of Norwich in 1641; soon after which, the troubles of the time, in church and state, ousted him from his see, and he expired unrestored, but much esteemed for character and piety. His Satires are the first compositions of that kind, in a regular form, in the English language. So at least they are generally accounted; though I hardly know why the claims of Wyatt in this respect should be ignored. Even as regards Hall himself, some of his Satires are of a very curt and casual sort, as our specimen shows].

A TRENCHER CHAPLAIN.

A GENTLE Squire would gladly entertain
Into his house some trencher-chapelain;

Some willing man that might instruct his sons,
And that would stand to good conditions.

First, that he lie upon the truckle-bed,

Whiles his young master lieth o'er his head.
Second, that he do, on no default,
Ever presume to sit above the salt.

Third, that he never change his trencher twice.
Fourth, that he use all common courtesies;
Sit bare at meals, and one half rise and wait.
Last, that he never his young master beat,
But he must ask his mother to define

How many jerks she would his breech should line.
All these observed, he could contented be

To give five marks and winter livery.

JOHN FLETCHER.

[Born in Northamptonshire, 1576, son of a Bishop of London; died of the plague, 1625. The constant colleague of Francis Beaumont as a dramatist, and in daily life as well: it is said "that they lived together on the Bank-side, and not only pursued their studies in close companionship, but carried their community of habits so far that they had only one bench between them, and used the same clothes and cloaks in common.' ." Fletcher is believed to have composed the larger portion of the plays, and the great majority of the interspersed songs. The following comes from a drama, The Nice Valour, which is ascribed to Fletcher singly].

LAUGHING SONG.

[For several voices.]

OH how my lungs do tickle! ha ha ha!
Oh how my lungs do tickle! ho ho ho ho!
Set a sharp jest
Against my breast,

Then how my lungs do tickle!
As nightingales,

And things in cambric rails,

Sing best against a prickle.

Ha ha ha ha!

Ho ho ho ho ho !

Laugh! Laugh! Laugh! Laugh!
Wide! Loud! And vary!

A smile is for a simpering novice,-
One that ne'er tasted caviarë,

Nor knows the smack of dear anchovies.
Ha ha ha ha ha!

Ho ho ho ho ho !

A giggling waiting-wench for me,

That shows her teeth how white they be,-
A thing not fit for gravity,

For theirs are foul and hardly three.

Ha ha ha!

Ho ho ho !

"Democritus, thou ancient fleerer,

How I miss thy laugh, and ha' since!"1
There thou named the famous[est] jeerer
That e'er jeered in Rome or Athens.
Ha ha ha!

Ho ho ho !

"How brave lives he that keeps a fool,

Although the rate be deeper!"
But he that is his own fool, sir,

Does live a great deal cheaper.

"Sure I shall burst, burst, quite break,
Thou art so witty."

1 Changed by Seward to

"How I miss thy laugh, and ha-sense.'

Neither reading is very convincing.