Therefore I'll give no more, but I'll undo Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me BEN JONSON. [Born in Westminster, 1574; died there, 6 August 1637]. WHO says that Giles and Joan at discord be? No more would Joan he should. Giles riseth early, TO CAPTAIN HUNGRY. Do what you come for, captain, with your news,— 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; Of your Moravian horse, Venetian bull; Tell them what parts you've ta'en, whence run away, 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,- Give your young statesmen (that first make you drunk, A FIT OF RHYME AGAINST RHYME. That expresseth but by fits True conceit, Wresting words from their true calling; 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; Whilst the Latin, queen of tongues, Scarce the Hill again doth flourish, 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 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. Laden with belly, and doth hardly approach And stroke the water, nimble, chaste, and fair,— Widow or wife, without the jealousy Such, if her manners like you, I do send ; 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 Some willing man that might instruct his sons, First, that he lie upon the truckle-bed, Whiles his young master lieth o'er his head. Third, that he never change his trencher twice. How many jerks she would his breech should line. 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! Then how my lungs do tickle! And things in cambric rails, Sing best against a prickle. Ha ha ha ha! Ho ho ho ho ho ! Laugh! Laugh! Laugh! Laugh! A smile is for a simpering novice,- Nor knows the smack of dear anchovies. Ho ho ho ho ho ! A giggling waiting-wench for me, That shows her teeth how white they be,- 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 Ho ho ho ! "How brave lives he that keeps a fool, Although the rate be deeper!" Does live a great deal cheaper. "Sure I shall burst, burst, quite break, 1 Changed by Seward to "How I miss thy laugh, and ha-sense.' Neither reading is very convincing. |