Chapter 14

9 At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet, Nor at no wanton play, Nor gazing in an open street, Nor gadding, as astray.

10 The modest mirth that she doth use, Is mix'd with shamefastness; All vice she doth wholly refuse, And hateth idleness.

11 O Lord, it is a world to see How virtue can repair, And deck in her such honesty, Whom Nature made so fair.

12 Truly she doth as far exceed Our women now-a-days, As doth the gilliflower a wreed, And more a thousand ways.

13 How might I do to get a graff Of this unspotted tree? For all the rest are plain but chaff Which seem good corn to be.

14 This gift alone I shall her give, When death doth what he can: Her honest fame shall ever live Within the mouth of man.

THAT ALL THINGS SOMETIME FIND EASE OF THEIR PAIN, SAVE ONLY THE LOVER.

1 I see there is no sort Of things that live in grief, Which at sometime may not resort Where as they have relief.

2 The stricken deer by kind Of death that stands in awe, For his recure an herb can find The arrow to withdraw.

3 The chased deer hath soil To cool him in his heat; The ass, after his weary toil. In stable is up set.

4 The coney hath its cave, The little bird his nest, From heat and cold themselves to save At all times as they list.

5 The owl, with feeble sight, Lies lurking in the leaves, The sparrow in the frosty night May shroud her in the eaves.

6 But woe to me, alas! In sun nor yet in shade, I cannot find a resting-place, My burden to unlade.

7 But day by day still bears The burden on my back, With weeping eyes and wat'ry tears, To hold my hope aback.

8 All things I see have place Wherein they bow or bend, Save this, alas! my woful case, Which nowhere findeth end.

FROM 'THE PHOENIX' NEST.'

O Night, O jealous Night, repugnant to my pleasure, O Night so long desired, yet cross to my content, There's none but only thou can guide me to my treasure, Yet none but only thou that hindereth my intent.

Sweet Night, withhold thy beams, withhold them till to-morrow, Whose joy, in lack so long, a hell of torment breeds, Sweet Night, sweet gentle Night, do not prolong my sorrow, Desire is guide to me, and love no loadstar needs.

Let sailors gaze on stars and moon so freshly shining, Let them that miss the way be guided by the light, I know my lady's bower, there needs no more divining, Affection sees in dark, and love hath eyes by night.

Dame Cynthia, couch a while; hold in thy horns for shining, And glad not low'ring Night with thy too glorious rays; But be she dim and dark, tempestuous and repining, That in her spite my sport may work thy endless praise.

And when my will is done, then, Cynthia, shine, good lady, All other nights and days in honour of that night, That happy, heavenly night, that night so dark and shady, Wherein my love had eyes that lighted my delight.

FROM THE SAME.

1 The gentle season of the year Hath made my blooming branch appear, And beautified the land with flowers; The air doth savour with delight, The heavens do smile to see the sight, And yet mine eyes augment their showers.

2 The meads are mantled all with green, The trembling leaves have clothed the treen, The birds with feathers new do sing; But I, poor soul, whom wrong doth rack, Attire myself in mourning black, Whose leaf doth fall amidst his spring.

3 And as you see the scarlet rose In his sweet prime his buds disclose, Whose hue is with the sun revived; So, in the April of mine age, My lively colours do assuage, Because my sunshine is deprived.

4 My heart, that wonted was of yore, Light as the winds, abroad to soar Amongst the buds, when beauty springs, Now only hovers over you, As doth the bird that's taken new, And mourns when all her neighbours sings.

5 When every man is bent to sport, Then, pensive, I alone resort Into some solitary walk, As doth the doleful turtle-dove, Who, having lost her faithful love, Sits mourning on some wither'd stalk.

6 There to myself I do recount How far my woes my joys surmount, How love requiteth me with hate, How all my pleasures end in pain, How hate doth say my hope is vain, How fortune frowns upon my state.

7 And in this mood, charged with despair, With vapour'd sighs I dim the air, And to the gods make this request, That by the ending of my life, I may have truce with this strange strife, And bring my soul to better rest.

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

1 Go, Soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless errand, Fear not to touch the best, The truth shall be thy warrant; Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie.

2 Go tell the Court it glows, And shines like rotten wood; Go, tell the Church it shows What's good and doth no good; If Church and Court reply, Then give them both the lie.

3 Tell potentates they live, Acting by others' actions, Not loved, unless they give, Not strong, but by their factions; If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie.

4 Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate; And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie.

5 Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending; And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie.

6 Tell Zeal it lacks devotion, Tell Love it is but lust, Tell Time it is but motion, Tell Flesh it is but dust; And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie.

7 Tell Age it daily wasteth, Tell Honour how it alters, Tell Beauty how she blasteth, Tell Favour how she falters; And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie.

8 Tell Wit how much it wrangles In treble points of niceness, Tell Wisdom she entangles Herself in overwiseness; And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie.

9 Tell Physic of her boldness, Tell Skill it is pretension, Tell Charity of coldness, Tell Law it is contention; And as they do reply, So give them still the lie.

10 Tell Fortune of her blindness, Tell Nature of decay, Tell Friendship of unkindness, Tell Justice of delay; And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie.

11 Tell Arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming, Tell Schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming; If Arts and Schools reply, Give Arts and Schools the lie.

12 Tell Faith it's fled the city, Tell how the country erreth, Tell Manhood shakes off pity, Tell Virtue least preferreth; And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie.

13 And when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing, Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing; Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the Soul can kill.

* * * * *

SECOND PERIOD.

FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

This remarkable man, from his intimate connexion with Fletcher, is better known as a dramatist than as a poet. He was the son of Judge Beaumont, and descended from an ancient family, which was settled at Grace Dieu in Leicestershire. He was born in 1585-86, and educated at Cambridge. Thence he passed to study in the Inner Temple, but seems to have preferred poetry and the drama to law. He was married to the daughter of Sir Henry Isley of Kent, who bore him two daughters. He died in his 30th year, and was buried March 9, 1615-16, in St Benedict's Chapel, Westminster Abbey. More of his connexion with Fletcher afterwards.

After his death, his brother published a collection of his miscellaneous pieces. We extract a few, of no little merit. His verses to Ben Jonson, written before their author came to London, and first appended to a play entitled 'Nice Valour,' are picturesque and interesting, as illustrating the period.

TO BEN JONSON.

The sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring To absent friends, because the selfsame thing They know, they see, however absent) is Here, our best haymaker (forgive me this, 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, Brink apt to bring in drier heresies Than beer, good only for the sonnet's strain, With fustian metaphors to stuff the brain, So mix'd, that, given to the thirstiest one, 'Twill not prove alms, unless he have the stone. I think, with one draught man's invention fades: Two cups had quite spoil'd Homer's Iliades. 'Tis liquor that will find out Sutcliff's wit, Lie where he will, and make him write worse yet; Fill'd with such moisture in most grievous qualms, Did Robert Wisdom write his singing psalms; And so must I do this: And yet I think It is a potion sent us down to drink, By special Providence, keeps us from fights, Makes us not laugh when we make legs to knights. 'Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our states, A medicine to obey our magistrates: For we do live more free than you; no hate, No envy at one another's happy state, Moves us; we are all equal: every whit Of land that God gives men here is their wit, If we consider fully, for our best And gravest men will with his main house-jest Scarce please you; we want subtilty to do The city tricks, lie, hate, and flatter too: 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 cancell'd; and when that was gone, We left an air behind us, which alone Was able to make the two next companies Eight witty; though but downright fools were wise. When I remember this, * * * I needs must cry I see my days of ballading grow nigh; I can already riddle, and can sing Catches, sell bargains, and I fear shall bring Myself to speak the hardest words I find Over as oft as any with one wind, That takes no medicines, but thought of thee Makes me remember all these things to be The wit of our young men, fellows that show No part of good, yet utter all they know, Who, like trees of the garden, have growing souls. Only strong Destiny, which all controls, I hope hath left a better fate in store For me, thy friend, than to live ever poor. Banish'd unto this home: Fate once again Bring me to thee, who canst make smooth and plain The way of knowledge for me; and then I, Who have no good but in thy company, Protest it will my greatest comfort be, To acknowledge all I have to flow from thee, Ben; when these scenes are perfect, we'll taste wine; I'll drink thy muse's health, thou shalt quaff mine.

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER.

Mortality, behold and fear, What a charge of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heap of stones: Here they lie, had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands; Where, from their pulpits seal'd with dust, They preach--in greatness is no trust. Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royal'st seed, That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried, Though gods they were, as men they died: Here are wands, ignoble things, Dropp'd from the ruin'd sides of kings. Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

AN EPITAPH.

Here she lies, whose spotless fame Invites a stone to learn her name: The rigid Spartan that denied An epitaph to all that died, Unless for war, in charity Would here vouchsafe an elegy. She died a wife, but yet her mind, Beyond virginity refined, From lawless fire remain'd as free As now from heat her ashes be: Keep well this pawn, thou marble chest; Till it be call'd for, let it rest; For while this jewel here is set, The grave is like a cabinet.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

The verses attributed to this illustrious man are few, and the authenticity of some of them is doubtful. No one, however, who has studied his career, or read his 'History of the World,' can deny him the title of a great poet.

We cannot be expected, in a work of the present kind, to enlarge on a career so well known as that of Sir Walter Kaleigh. He was born in 1552, at Hayes Farm, in Devonshire, and descended from an old family there. He went early to Oxford, but finding its pursuits too tame for his active and enterprising spirit, he left it, and became a soldier at seventeen. For six years he fought on the Protestant side in France, besides serving a campaign in the Netherlands. In 1579, he went a voyage, which proved disastrous, to Newfoundland, in company with his half-brother, Sir Humphrey Gilbert. There can be no doubt that this early apprenticeship to war and navigation was of material service to the future explorer and historian. In 1580, he fought in Ireland against the Earl of Desmond, who had raised a rebellion there, and on one occasion is said to have defended a ford of Shannon against a whole band of wild Irish rebels, till the stream ran purple with their blood and his own. With the Lord- Deputy, Lord Grey de Wilton, he got into a dispute, and to settle it came over to England. Here high favour awaited him. His handsome appearance, his graceful address, his ready wit and chivalric courtesy, dashed with a fine poetic enthusiasm, (see them admirably pictured in 'Kenilworth,') combined to exalt him in the estimation of Queen Elizabeth. On one occasion he flung his rich plush cloak over a miry part of the way, that she might pass on unsoiled. By this delicate piece of enacted flattery he 'spoiled a cloak and made a fortune.' The Queen sent him, along with some other courtiers, to attend the Duke of Anjou, who had in vain solicited her hand, back to the Netherlands. In 1584, he fitted two ships, and sent them out for the discovery and settlement of those parts of North America not already appropriated by Christian states, and the next year there followed a fleet of seven ships under the command of Sir Richard Grenville, Raleigh's kinsman. The attempt to colonise America at that time failed, but two important things were transplanted through means of the expedition from Virginia to Britain, namely, tobacco and the potato, --the former of which has ever since been offered up in smoky sacrifice to Raleigh's memory throughout the whole world, and the latter of which has become the most valuable of all our vegetable esculents. Raleigh first planted the potato in Ireland, a country of which it has long been the principal food. A ludicrous story is told about this. It is said that he had invited a number of his neighbours to an entertainment, in which the new root was to form a prominent part, but when the feast began Raleigh found, to his horror, that the servants had boiled the plums, a most unsavoury mess, and immediately, we suppose, 'tabulae solvuntur risu.' In 1584 the Queen had knighted him, and shortly after she granted him certain lucrative monopolies, and an estate in Ireland, in addition to one he had possessed for some years. In 1588, he was of material service as one of Her Majesty's Council of War, formed to resist the Spanish Armada, and as one of the volunteers who joined the English fleet with ships of their own. Next year he accompanied a number of his countrymen in an expedition, which had it in view to restore Don Antonio to the throne of Portugal, of which the Spaniards had deprived him. On his return he lost caste considerably, both with the Queen and country, by taking bribes, and otherwise abusing the influence he had acquired at Court. Yet, about this time, his active mind was projecting what he called an 'Office of Address,'--a plan for facilitating the designs of literary and scientific men, promoting intercourse between them, gaining, in short, all those objects which are now secured by our literary associations and philosophical societies. Raleigh was eminently a man before his age, but, alas! his age was too far behind him.

While visiting Ireland, after his expedition to Portugal, he contracted an intimacy with Spenser. (See our 'Life of Spenser,' vol. ii.) In 1592, he commanded a large naval expedition, destined to attack Panama and intercept the Spanish Plate-fleet, but was recalled by the Queen, not, however, till he had seized on an important prize, and, in common parlance, had 'feathered his nest.' On his return he excited Her Majesty's wrath, by an intrigue with Elizabeth Throgmorton, one of the maids of honour, and, although Raleigh afterwards married her, the Queen imprisoned both the offending parties for some months in the Tower. Spenser is believed to allude to this in the 4th Book of his great poem. (See vol. in. of our edition, p. 88.) Even after he was released from the Tower, Raleigh had to leave the Court in disgrace; instead, however, of wasting time in vain regrets, he undertook, at his own expense, an expedition against Guiana, where he captured the city of San Joseph, and which he occupied in the Queen's name. After his return he published an account of his expedition, more distinguished by glowing eloquence than by rigid regard to truth. In 1596, having in some measure regained the Queen's favour, he was appointed to a command in the expedition against Cadiz, under the Earl of Essex. In this, as well as in the expedition against the Spanish Plate-fleet the next year, he won laurels, but was unfortunate enough to excite the jealousy of his Commander-in-Chief. When the favourite got into trouble, Raleigh eagerly joined in the hunt, wrote a letter to Cecil urging him to the destruction of Essex, and witnessed his execution from a window in the Armoury. This is undoubtedly a deep blot on the escutcheon of our hero.

Cecil had been glad of Raleigh's aid in ruining Essex, but he bore him no good-will otherwise, and is said to have poisoned James, who now succeeded to the English throne, against him. Assuredly the new King was no friend of Raleigh's. Stimulated by Cecil, after first depriving him of his office of Captain of the Guards, he brought him to trial for high treason. He was accused of conspiring to establish Popery, to dethrone the King, and to put the crown on the head of Arabella Stewart. Sir Edward Coke, the Attorney-General, led the accusation, and disgraced himself by heaping on Raleigh's head every foul epithet, calling him 'viper,' 'damnable atheist,' 'monster,' 'traitor,' 'spider of hell,' &c., and by his violence, although to his own surprise, as he never expected to gain his cause in full, he browbeat the jury to bring in a verdict of high treason.

Raleigh's defence was a masterpiece of temper, dignity, strength of reasoning, and eloquence, and his enemies were ashamed of the decision to which they had driven the jury. He was therefore reprieved, and committed to the Tower, where his wife was allowed to bear him company, and where his youngest son was born. His estates were, in general, preserved to him, but Carr, the infamous minion of the King, under some pretext of a flaw in the conveyance of it by Raleigh to his son, seized upon his manor of Sherborne. In the Tower he continued for twelve years. These years his industry and genius rendered the happiest probably of his life. Immured in the

'towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, By many a foul and midnight murder fed,'

his winged soul soared away, like the dove of the Deluge, over the wild ocean of the past. The Tower confined his body, but this great globe the world seemed too little for the sweep of his spirit. To fill up the vast void which a long imprisonment created around him, and to shew that his powers retained all their elasticity, he projected a work on the largest scale, and with the noblest purpose--'The History of the World.' In this undertaking he found literary men ready to lend him their aid. A hundred hands were generously stretched out to gather materials, and to bring them to the captive in the Tower. Cart-loads of books were sent. One Burrell, formerly his chaplain, assisted him in much of the critical and chronological drudgery. Rugged Ben Jonson sent in a piece of rugged writing on the Punic War, which Raleigh polished and set as a carved stone in his magnificent temple. Some have, on this account, sought to detract from the merit of the author. As if ever an architect could rear a building without hodmen! But in Raleigh's case the hodmen were Titans. 'The best wits in England assisted him in his undertaking;' and what a compliment was this to the strength and stature of the master-builder!