The better cheeses, bring them, or else send

That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend I mean with great but disproportion's Muses :
This way to husbands; and whose baskets bear For if I thought my judgment were of years,
An emblem of themselves, in plum or pear.

I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
But what can this (more than express their love) | And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Add to thy free provisions, far above

Or sporting Kyd or Marlow's mighty line. The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow And though thou had small Latin and less Greek, With all that hospitality doth know!

From thence to honour thée I will not seek Where comes no guest but is allow'd to eat

For names ; but call forth thund'ring Eschylus, Without his fear, and of thy lord's own meat: Euripides, and Sophocles to us, Where the same beer, and bread, and self-same wine Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dcad, That is his lordship's shall be also mine.

To live again, to hear thy buskin tread, And I not fain to sit (as some this day

And shake a stage : or when thy socks were on, At great men's tables) and yet dine away.

Leave thee alone for the comparison
Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by, Of all, that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
A waiter doth my gluttony envy:

Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
But gives me what I call, and lets me eat;

Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, He knows below he shall find plenty of meat;

To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. Thy tables board not up for the next day,

He was not of an age, but for all time! Xor, when I take my lodging, need I pray

And all the Muses still were in their prime, For fire, or lights, or livery; all is there,

When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
As if thou, then, wert mine, or I reign'd here. Our ears, or like a Mercury, to charm !
| There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.

Nature herself was proud of his designs,
This found King James, when hunting late this way And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines !
With his brave son, the Prince; they saw thy fires Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires

As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
Of thy Penates had been set on flame

The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Tu entertain them; or the country came,

Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ;
With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here. | But antiquated and deserted lie,
What (great, I will not say, but) sudden cheer As they were not of nature's family.
Did'st thou then make them! and what praise was Yet must I not give nature all; thy art,
heap'd

My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part.
On thy good lady then, who therein reap'd

For though the poet's matter nature be, The just reward of her high housewifery ;

His art doth give the fashion ; and, that he To hare her linen, plate, and all things nigh,

Who casts to write a living line, must sweat When she was far; and not a room but drest

(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat . As if it had expected such a guest!

Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same,
These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all; And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;
Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste withal.

| Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn ; His children *

For a good poet's made as well as born. * have been taught religion ; thence And such wert thou ! Look how the father's face Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence.

Lives in his issue, even so the race Each morn and even they are taught to pray,

Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines With the whole household, and may, every day, In his well turned and true filed lines : Read, in their virtuous parents' noble parts,

In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts.

As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance.
Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were
With other edifices, when they see

To see thee in our water yet appear,
Those proud ambitious heaps, and nothing else, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames
May say their lords have built, but thy lord dwells. That so did take Eliza and our James !

But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere To the Memory of my beloved Master, William Shak

Advanced, and made a constellation there!

Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage, speare, and what he hath left us.

| Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage, To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name,

Which since thy flight from hence hath mourned like Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;

night, While I confess thy writings to be such

And despairs day, but for thy volume's light !
As neither man nor Muse can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways

On the Portrait of Shakspeare.
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ;
For silliest ignorance on these would light,

(Under the frontispiece to the first edition of his works : 1623.] Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;

This figure that thou here seest put, Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance

It was for gentle Shakspeare cut, The truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance ;

Wherein the graver had a strife Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,

With nature, to outdo the life : And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise.

() could he but have drawn his wit, But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,

As well in brass, as he hath hit Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.

His face; the print would then surpass ; I therefore will begin : Soul of the age !

All that was ever writ in brass : The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage !

But since he cannot, reader, look , My Shakspeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by

Not on his picture but his book.*
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further off, to make thee room :

* This attestation of Ben Jonson to the first engraved por '; Thou art a monument without a tomb,

trait of Shakspeare, seems to prove its fidelity as a likeness. And art alive still, while thy book doth live,

The portrait corresponds with the monumental effigy at Strat. And we have wits to read, and praise to give.

the jolly Friar of Copmanhurst than the acts da

Protestant bishop, but Corbet had higher qualities; RICHARD CORBET.

his toleration, solid sense, and lively talents, proRICHARD CORBET (1582-1635) was the son of a cured him deserved esteem and respect. His pares

vho, though only a gardener, must have pos- were first collected and published in 1647. The sessed superior qualities, as he obtained the hearty are of a miscellaneous character, the best know commendations, in verse, of Ben Jonson. The son being a Journey into France, written in a light easy was educated at Westminster and Oxford, and hav- strain of descriptive humour. The Farewell to the ing taken orders, he became successively bishop of Fairies is equally lively, and more poetical. Oxford and bishop of Norwich. The social quali

[To Vincent Corbet, his Son.]
What I shall leave thee none can tell,
But all shall say I wish thee well :
I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth,
Both bodily and ghostly health ;
Nor too much wealth, nor wit come to thee,
So much of either may undo thee.
I wish thee learning not for show,
Enough for to instruct and know;
Not such as gentlemen require
To prate at table or at fire.
I wish thee all thy mother's graces,
Thy father's fortunes and his places.
I wish thee friends, and one at court
Not to build on, but support;
To keep thee not in doing many
Oppressions, but from suffering any.
I wish thee peace in all thy ways,
Nor lazy nor contentious days;
And, when thy soul and body part,
As innocent as now thou art.

[Journey to France.)
I went from England into France,
Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance,

Nor yet to ride nor fence:

But I to Paris rode along,
Much like John Dory* in the song,

Upon a holy tide.

I on an ambling nag did get,
Norwich Cathedral.

(I trust he is not paid for yet),

And spurr'd him on cach side. ties of witty Bishop Corbet, and his never-failing vivacity, joined to a moderate share of dislike to And to Saint Dennis fast we came, the Puritans, recommended him to the patronage of

To see the sights of Notre Dame, King James, by whom he was raised to the mitre.

(The man that shows them snuffles), His habits were rather too convivial for the dignity

Where who is apt for to believe, of his office, if we may credit some of the anecdotes

May see our Lady's right-arm sleere, which have been related of him. Meeting a ballad

And eke her old pantofles ; singer one market-day at Abingdon, and the man Her breast, her milk, her very gown complaining that he could get no custom, the jolly

That she did wear in Bethlehem town, doctor put off his gown, and arrayed himself in the

When in the inn she lay. leathern jacket of the itinerant vocalist, and being

Yet all the world knows that's a fable, a handsome man, with a clear full voice, he presently

For so good clothes ne'er lay in stable, vended the stock of ballads. One time, as he was

Upon a lock of hay. confirming, the country people pressing in to see the ceremony, Corbet exclaimed— Bear off there, There is one of the cross's nails, or I'll confirm ye with my staff. The bishop and Which, whoso sees, his bonnet Fails, his chaplain, Dr Lushington, it is said, would some

And, if he will, may kneel. times repair to the wine-cellar together, and Corbet Some say 'twas false, 'twas never so, used to put off his episcopal hood, saying, “There

Yet, feeling it, thus much I know, lies the doctor ;' then he put off his gown, saying,

It is as true as steel. • There lies the bishop;' then the toast went round, . Here's to thee, Corbet ;' Here's to thee, Lushing

Whose thread exceeds the usual bounds of life,

The wind blows out, the bubble dies; And feels no stroke of any fatal knife ?

The spring entomb’d in autumn lies; The destinies enjoin their wheels to run,

The dew dries up, the star is shot;
Until the length of his whole course be spun.

The flight is past and man forgot.
No envious clouds obscure his struggling light,
Which sets contented at the point of night:

The Dirge.
Yet this large time no greater profit brings,

What is the existence of man's life, Than every little moment whence it springs;

But open war, or slumber'd strife; Unless employ'd in works deserving praise,

Where sickness to his sense presents Must wear out many years and live few days.

The combat of the elements; Time flows from instants, and of these each one

And never feels a perfect peace Should be esteem'd as if it were alone

Till Denth's cold hand signs his release! The shortest space, which we so lightly prize When it is coming, and before our eyes :

It is a storm-where the hot blood Let it but slide into the eternal main,

Outvies in rage the boiling flood; No realms, no worlds, can purchase it again :

And each loose passion of the mind Remembrance only makes the footsteps last,

Is like a furious gust of wind, When winged time, which fixed the prints, is past.

Which beats his bark with many a wave,

Till he casts anchor in the grave. Sir John also wrote an epitaph on his brother, the

It is a flower—which buds, and grows, dramatist, but it is inferior to the following:

And withers as the leaves disclose;

Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, On my dear Son, Gervase Beaumont.

Like fits of waking before sleep;

Then shrinks into that fatal mould
Can I, who have for others oft compiled

Where its first being was enrollid.
The songs of death, forget my sweetest child,
Which like a flow'r crush'd with a blast, is dead, It is a dream-whose seeming truth
And ere full time hangs down his smiling head,

Is moralis'd in age and youth;
Expecting with clear hope to live anew,

Where all the conforts he can share, Among the angels fed with heavenly dew?

As wandering as his fancies are; We have this sign of joy, that many days,

Till in a mnist of dark decay, While on the earth his struggling spirit stays,

The dreamer vanish quite away. The name of Jesus in his mouth contains

It is a dial-- which points out His only food, his sleep, his ease from pains.

The sun-set, as it moves about; O may that sound be rooted in my mind,

And shadows out in lines of night Of which in him such strong effect I find !

The subtle stages of Time's flight; Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love

Till all-obscuring earth hath laid
To me was like a friendship, far above

His body in perpetual shade.
The course of nature, or his tender age;
Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage:

It is a weary interlude-
Let his pure soul--ordain'd seven years to be

Which doth short joys, long woes, include ; In that frail body, which was part of me

The world the stage, the prologue tears, Remain my pledge in heaven, as sent to show

The acts vain hopes and varied fears; How to this port at every step I go.

The scene shuts up with loss of breath,

And leaves no epilogue but death, Dr Henry King, who was chaplain to James I., and did honour to the church preferment which was bestowed upon him, was best known as a religious

FRANCIS BEAUMONT. poet. His language and imagery are chaste and

FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1585-1616), whose name is refined. Of his lighter verse, the following song

most conspicuous as a dramatist, in union with that may suffice :

of Fletcher, wrote a small number of miscellaneous

pieces, which his brother published after his death Song.

Some of these youthful effusions are witty and Dry those fair, those crystal eyes,

amusing; others possess a lyrical sweetness; and Which, like growing fountains, rise,

a few are grave and moralising. The most cele To drown their banks: grief's sullen brooks

brated is the letter to Ben Jonson, which was oriWould better flow in furrow'd looks;

ginally published at the end of the play Nige Thy lovely face was never meant

Valour,' with the following title : “Mr Francis To be the shore of discontent.

Beaumont's letter to Ben Jonson, written before he

and Master Fletcher came to London, with two of Then clear those waterish stars again,

the precedent comedies then not finished, which de Which else portend a lasting rain ;

ferred their merry meetings at the Mermaid.' NotLest the clouds which settle there,

withstanding the admiration of Beaumont for · Rare Prolong my winter all the year,

Ben,' he copied Shakspeare in the style of his dramas, And thy example others make

Fletcher, however, was still more Shakspearian that In love with sorrow for thy sake.

his associate. Hazlitt says finely of the premature

death of Beaumont and his more poetical friend Sic Vita.

· The bees were said to have come and built their Like to the falling of a star,

hive in the mouth of Plato when a child; and the

fable might be transferred to the sweeter accents of Or as the flights of eagles are; Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,

Beaumont and Fletcher. Beaumont died at the age Or silver drops of morning dew;

of five-and-twenty [thirty). One of these writers Or like a wind that chafes the flood,

makes Bellario, the page, say to Philaster, who Or bubbles which on water stood :

threatens to take his lifeEv'n such is man, whose borrow'd light

'Tis not a life, Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night.

'Tis but a piece of childhood thrown away.

But here was youth, genius, aspiring hope, growing Scarce please you ; we want subtilty to do
reputation, cut off like a flower in its summer pride, The city tricks, lie, hate, and flatter too :
or like “ the lily on its stalk green,” which makes us Here are none that can bear a painted show,

Strike when you wink, and then lament the blow;
Who, like mills, set the right way for to grind,
Can make their gains alike with every wind;
Only some fellows with the subtlest pate,
Amongst us, may perchance equivocate
At selling of a horse, and that's the most.
Methinks the little wit I had is lost
Since I saw you ; for wit is like a rest
Held up at tennis, which men do the best,
With the best gamesters : what things have we seen
Done at the Mermaid ; heard words that have been
So nimble, and so full of subtle flame,
As if that every one from whence they came
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,
And had resolved to live a fool the rest
Of his dull life : then when there had been thrown
Wit able enough to justify the town
For three days past; wit that might warrant be
For the whole city to talk foolishly
Till that were cancelled ; and when that was gone,
We left an air behind us, which alone
Was able to make the two next companies
Right witty ; though but downright fools were wise.
When I remember this,

* I needs must cry

I see my days of ballading grow nigh ;
Francis Beaumont

I can already riddle, and can sing

Catches, sell bargains, and I fear shall bring repine at fortune, and almost at nature, that seem

Myself to speak the hardest words I find to set so little store by their greatest favourites.

Over as oft as any with one wind, The life of poets is, or ought to be (judging of it

That takes no medicines, but thought of thee from the light it lends to ours), a golden dream, full

Makes me remember all these things to be of brightness and sweetness, lapt in Elysium ; and

The wit of our young men, fellows that show it gives one a reluctant pang to see the splendid

No part of good, yet utter all they know, vision, by which they are attended in their path of

Who, like trees of the garden, have growing souls. glory, fade like a vapour, and their sacred heads

Only strong Destiny, which all controls, laid low in ashes, before the sand of common mortals

I hope hath left a better fate in store has run out. Fletcher, too, was prematurely cut For me, thy friend, than to live ever poor. off by the plague.'*

Banish'd unto this home : Fate once again

Bring me to thee, who canst make smooth and plain [Letter to Ben Jonson.]

The way of knowledge for me ; and then I, The sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring

Who have no good but in thy company,

Protest it will my greatest comfort be, To absent friends, because the self-same thing

To acknowledge all I have to flow from thee, They know, they see, however absent) is

Ben ; when these scenes are perfect, we'll taste wine; Here, our best haymaker (forgive me this,

I'll drink thy muse's health, thou shalt quaff mine, It is our country's style) in this warm shine I lie, and dream of your full Mermaid wine. Oh, we have water mix'd with claret lees,

On the Tombs in Westminster. Drink apt to bring in drier heresies

Mortality, behold and fear, Than beer, good only for the sonnet's strain,

What a charge of flesh is here ! With fustian metaphors to stuff the brain,

Think how many royal bones So mixed, that, given to the thirstiest one,

Sleep within these heap of stones : "Twill not prove alms, unless he have the stone.

Here they lie, had realms and lands, I think, with one draught man's invention fades :

Who now want strength to stir their hands ; Two cups had quite spoil'd Homer's Iliades.

Where, from their pulpits seal'd with dust, 'Tis liquor that will find out Sutcliff's wit,

They preach-in greatness is no trust.
Lie where he will, and make him write worse yet; Here's an acre sown indeed
Fill'd with such moisture in most grievous qualms, With the richest, royal’st seed,
Did Robert Wisdom write his singing psalms;

That the earth did e'er suck in
And so must I do this : And yet I think

Since the first man died for sin : It is a potion sent us down to drink,

Here the bones of birth have cried, By special Providence, keeps us from fights,

Though gods they were, as men they died : Makes us not laugh when we make legs to knights. Here are wands, ignoble things, 'Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our states,

Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings. A medicine to obey our magistrates :

Here's a world of pomp and state
For we do live more free than you ; no hate,

Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
No envy at one another's happy state,
Moves us ; we are all equal : every whit

An Epitaph.
Of land that God gives men here is their wit,
If we consider fully, for our best

Here she lies, whose spotless fame
And gravest men will with his main house-jest

Invites a stone to learn her name;

The rigid Spartan that denied * Lectures on the Age of Elizabeth, &c., p. 227.

An epitaph to all that died,