Chapter 21

7 There is a Ianthorn which the Jews, When Judas led them forth, did use, It weighs my weight downright; But to believe it, you must think The Jews did put a candle in 't, And then 'twas very light.

8 There's one saint there hath lost his nose, Another's head, but not his toes, His elbow and his thumb; But when that we had seen the rags, We went to th' inn and took our nags, And so away did come.

9 We came to Paris, on the Seine, 'Tis wondrous fair,'tis nothing clean, 'Tis Europe's greatest town; How strong it is I need not tell it, For all the world may easily smell it, That walk it up and down.

10 There many strange things are to see, The palace and great gallery, The Place Royal doth excel, The New Bridge, and the statutes there, At Notre Dame St Q. Pater, The steeple bears the bell.

11 For learning the University, And for old clothes the Frippery, The house the queen did build. St Innocence, whose earth devours Dead corps in four-and-twenty hours, And there the king was kill'd.

12 The Bastille and St Denis Street, The Shafflenist like London Fleet, The Arsenal no toy; But if you'll see the prettiest thing, Go to the court and see the king-- Oh, 'tis a hopeful boy!

13 He is, of all his dukes and peers, Reverenced for much wit at's years, Nor must you think it much; For he with little switch doth play, And make fine dirty pies of clay, Oh, never king made such!

14 A bird that can but kill a fly, Or prate, doth please his majesty, Tis known to every one; The Duke of Guise gave him a parrot, And he had twenty cannons for it, For his new galleon.

15 Oh that I e'er might have the hap To get the bird which in the map Is call'd the Indian ruck! I'd give it him, and hope to be As rich as Guise or Livine, Or else I had ill-luck.

16 Birds round about his chamber stand, And he them feeds with his own hand, 'Tis his humility; And if they do want anything, They need but whistle for their king, And he comes presently.

17 But now, then, for these parts he must Be enstyled Lewis the Just, Great Henry's lawful heir; When to his style to add more words, They'd better call him King of Birds, Than of the great Navarre.

18 He hath besides a pretty quirk, Taught him by nature, how to work In iron with much ease; Sometimes to the forge he goes, There he knocks and there he blows, And makes both locks and keys;

19 Which puts a doubt in every one, Whether he be Mars' or Vulcan's son, Some few believe his mother; But let them all say what they will, I came resolved, and so think still, As much the one as th' other.

20 The people too dislike the youth, Alleging reasons, for, in truth, Mothers should honour'd be; Yet others say, he loves her rather As well as ere she loved her father, And that's notoriously.

21 His queen,[1] a pretty little wench, Was born in Spain, speaks little French, She's ne'er like to be mother; For her incestuous house could not Have children which were not begot By uncle or by brother.

22 Nor why should Lewis, being so just, Content himself to take his lust With his Lucina's mate, And suffer his little pretty queen, From all her race that yet hath been, So to degenerate?

23 'Twere charity for to be known To love others' children as his own, And why? it is no shame, Unless that he would greater be Than was his father Henery, Who, men thought, did the same.

[1] Anne of Austria.

FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES.

1 Farewell, rewards and fairies, Good housewives now may say, For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they. And though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do, Yet who of late, for cleanliness, Finds sixpence in her shoe?

2 Lament, lament, old Abbeys, The fairies lost command; They did but change priests' babies, But some have changed your land; And all your children sprung from thence Are now grown Puritans; Who live as changelings ever since, For love of your domains.

3 At morning and at evening both, You merry were and glad, So little care of sleep or sloth These pretty ladies had; When Tom came home from labour, Or Cis to milking rose, Then merrily went their tabor, And nimbly went their toes.

4 Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs, which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain; But since of late Elizabeth, And later, James came in, They never danced on any heath As when the time hath been.

5 By which we note the fairies Were of the old profession, Their songs were Ave-Maries, Their dances were procession: But now, alas! they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas; Or further for religion fled, Or else they take their ease.

6 A tell-tale in their company They never could endure, And whoso kept not secretly Their mirth, was punish'd sure; It was a just and Christian deed, To pinch such black and blue: Oh, how the commonwealth doth need Such justices as you!

BEN JONSON.

As 'rare Ben' chiefly shone as a dramatist, we need not recount at length the events of his life. He was born in 1574; his father, who had been a clergyman in Westminster, and was sprung from a Scotch family in Annandale, having died before his birth. His mother marrying a bricklayer, Ben was brought up to the same employment. Disliking this, he enlisted in the army, and served with credit in the Low Countries. When he came home, he entered St John's College, Cambridge; but his stay there must have been short, since he is found in London at the age of twenty, married, and acting on the stage. He began at the same time to write dramas. He was unlucky enough to quarrel with and kill another performer, for which he was committed to prison, but released without a trial. He resumed his labours as a writer for the stage; but having failed in the acting department, he forsook it for ever. His first hit was, 'Every Man in his Humour,' a play enacted in 1598, Shakspeare being one of the actors. His course afterwards was chequered. He quarrelled with Marston and Dekker,--he was imprisoned for some reflections on the Scottish nation in one of his comedies,--he was appointed in 1619 poet- laureate, with a pension of 100 marks,--he made the same year a journey to Scotland on foot, where he visited Drummond at Hawthornden, and they seem to have mutually loathed each other,'--he fell into habits of intemperance, and acquired, as he said himself,

'A mountain belly and a rocky face.'

His favourite haunts were the Mermaid, and the Falcon Tavern, Southwark. He was engaged in constant squabbles with his contemporaries, and died at last, in 1637, in miserably poor circumstances. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, under a square tablet, where one of his admirers afterwards inscribed the words,

'O rare Ben Jonson!'

Of his powers as a dramatist we need not speak, but present our readers with some rough and racy specimens of his poetry.

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother; Death! ere thou hast slain another, Learn'd and fair, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee!

THE PICTURE OF THE BODY.

Sitting, and ready to be drawn, What make these velvets, silks, and lawn, Embroideries, feathers, fringes, lace, Where every limb takes like a face?

Send these suspected helps to aid Some form defective, or decay'd; This beauty, without falsehood fair, Needs nought to clothe it but the air.

Yet something to the painter's view, Were fitly interposed; so new, He shall, if he can understand, Work by my fancy, with his hand.

Draw first a cloud, all save her neck, And, out of that, make day to break; Till like her face it do appear, And men may think all light rose there.

Then let the beams of that disperse The cloud, and show the universe; But at such distance, as the eye May rather yet adore, than spy.

TO PENSHURST.

(FROM 'THE FOREST')

Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row Of polish'd pillars, or a roof of gold: Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told; Or stair, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile, And these grudged at, are reverenced the while. Thou joy'st in better marks of soil and air, Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair. Thou hast thy walks for health as well as sport; Thy mount to which the dryads do resort, Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade; That taller tree which of a nut was set At his great birth where all the Muses met. There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names Of many a Sylvan token with his flames. And thence the ruddy Satyrs oft provoke The lighter Fauns to reach thy Ladies' Oak. Thy copse, too, named of Gamage, thou hast here That never fails, to serve thee, season'd deer, When thou would'st feast or exercise thy friends. The lower land that to the river bends, Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed: The middle ground thy mares and horses breed. Each bank doth yield thee conies, and the tops Fertile of wood. Ashore, and Sidney's copse, To crown thy open table doth provide The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side: The painted partridge lies in every field, And, for thy mess, is willing to be kill'd. And if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish, Thou hast thy ponds that pay thee tribute fish, Fat, aged carps that run into thy net, And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat, As both the second draught or cast to stay, Officiously, at first, themselves betray. Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land, Before the fisher, or into his hand. Thou hast thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. The early cherry with the later plum, Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come: The blushing apricot and woolly peach Hang on thy walls that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the country stone, They're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's groan; There's none that dwell about them wish them down; But all come in, the farmer and the clown, And no one empty-handed, to salute Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. Some bring a capon, some a rural cake, Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make The better cheeses, bring them, or else send By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend This way to husbands; and whose baskets bear An emblem of themselves, in plum or pear. But what can this (more than express their love) Add to thy free provision, far above The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow With all that hospitality doth know! Where comes no guest but is allow'd to eat Without his fear, and of thy lord's own meat: Where the same beer, and bread, and selfsame wine That is his lordship's shall be also mine. And I not fain to sit (as some this day At great men's tables) and yet dine away. Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by, A waiter doth my gluttony envy: But gives me what I call, and lets me eat; He knows below he shall find plenty of meat; Thy tables hoard not up for the next day, Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray For fire, or lights, or livery: all is there, As if thou, then, wert mine, or I reign'd here. There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay. This found King James, when hunting late this way With his brave son, the Prince; they saw thy fires Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires Of thy Penates had been set on flame To entertain them; or the country came, With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here. What (great, I will not say, but) sudden cheer Did'st thou then make them! and what praise was heap'd On thy good lady then, who therein reap'd The just reward of her high housewifery; To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh, When she was far; and not a room but drest As if it had expected such a guest! These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all; Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste withal. His children * * * * * have been taught religion; thence Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence. Each morn and even they are taught to pray, With the whole household, and may, every day, Head, in their virtuous parents' noble parts, The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts. Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see Those proud ambitious heaps, and nothing else, May say their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US.

To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor Muse can praise too much, 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest ignorance on these would light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise. But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. I therefore will begin: Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakspeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further off, to make thee room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still, while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, I mean with great but disproportion'd Muses: For if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine, Or sporting Kyd or Marlow's mighty line, And though thou had small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honour thee I will not seek For names; but call forth thund'ring Aeschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To live again, to hear thy buskin tread, And shake a stage: or when thy socks were on Leave thee alone for the comparison Of all, that insolent Greece or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age, but for all time! And all the Muses still were in their prime, When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury, to charm! Nature herself was proud of his designs, And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines, Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please; But antiquated and deserted lie, As they were not of nature's family, Yet must I not give nature all; thy art, My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part, For though the poet's matter nature be, His art doth give the fashion; and, that he Who casts to write a living line, must sweat (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same, And himself with it, that he thinks to frame; Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn; For a good poet's made as well as born, And such wert thou! Look how the father's face Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines In his well-turned and true-filed lines; In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were To see thee in our water yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames That so did take Eliza and our James! But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there! Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage, Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage, Which since thy flight from hence hath mourn'd like night, And despairs day, but for thy volume's light!

ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKSPEARE.

(UNDER THE FRONTISPIECE TO THE FIRST EDITION OF HIS WORKS: 1623.)

This figure that thou here seest put, It was for gentle Shakspeare cut, Wherein the graver had a strife With nature, to outdo the life: Oh, could he but have drawn his wit, As well in brass, as he hath hit His face; the print would then surpass All that was ever writ in 'brass: But since he cannot, reader, look Not on his picture but his book.

VERE, STORRER, &c.

In the same age of fertile, seething mind which produced Jonson and the rest of the Elizabethan giants, there flourished some minor poets, whose names we merely chronicle: such as Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford, born 1534, and dying 1604, who travelled in Italy in his youth, and returned the 'most accomplished coxcomb in Europe,' who sat as Grand Chamberlain of England upon the trial of Mary Queen of Scots, and who has left, in the 'Paradise of Dainty Devices,' some rather beautiful verses, entitled, 'Fancy and Desire;'--as Thomas Storrer, a student of Christ Church, Oxford, and the author of a versified 'History of Cardinal Wolsey,' in three parts, who died in 1604;--as William Warner, a native of Oxfordshire, born in 1558, who became an attorney of the Common Pleas in London, and died suddenly in 1609, having made himself famous for a time by a poem, entitled 'Albion's England,' called by Campbell 'an enormous ballad on the history, or rather the fables appendant to the history of England,' with some fine touches, but heavy and prolix as a whole;--as Sir John Harrington, who was the son of a poet and the favourite of Essex, who was created a Knight of the Bath by James I., and who wrote some pointed epigrams and a miserable translation of Ariosto, in which heeffectually tamed that wild Pegasus; --as Henry Perrot, who collected, in 1613, a book of epigrams, entitled, 'Springes for Woodcocks;'--as Sir Thomas Overbury, whose dreadful and mysterious fate, well known to all who read English history, excited such a sympathy for him, that his poems, 'A Wife,' and 'The Choice of a Wife,' passed through sixteen editions before the year 1653, although his prose 'Characters,' such as the exquisite and well-known 'Fair and Happy Milkmaid,' are far better than his poetry;--as Samuel Rowlandes, a prolific pamphleteer in the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I., author also of several plays and of a book of epigrams;--as Thomas Picke, who belonged to the Middle Temple, and published, in 1631, a number of songs, sonnets, and elegies;--as Henry Constable, born in 1568, and a well-known sonneteer of his day;--as Nicholas Breton, author of some pretty pastorals, who, it is conjectured, was born in 1555, and died in 1624;--and as Dr Thomas Lodge, born in 1556, and who died in 1625, after translating Josephus into English, and writing some tolerable poetical pieces.

THOMAS RANDOLPH.

This was a true poet, although his power comes forth principally in the drama. He was born at Newnham, near Daventry, Northamptonshire, in 1605, being the you of Lord Zouch's steward. He became a King's Scholar at Westminster, and subsequently a Fellow in Trinity College, Cambridge. Ben Jonson loved him, and he reciprocated the attachment. Whether from natural tendency or in imitation of Jonson, who called him, as well as Cartwright, his adopted son, he learned intemperate habits, and died, in 1634, at the age of twenty-nine. His death took place at the house of W. Stafford, Esq. of Blatherwyke, in his native county, and he was buried in the church beside, where Sir Christopher, afterwards Lord Hatton, signalised the spot of his rest by a monument. He wrote five dramas, which are imperfect and formal in plan, but written with considerable power. Some of his miscellaneous poems discover feeling and genius.

THE PRAISE OF WOMAN.

He is a parricide to his mother's name, And with an impious hand murders her fame, That wrongs the praise of women; that dares write Libels on saints, or with foul ink requite The milk they lent us! Better sex! command To your defence my more religious hand, At sword or pen; yours was the nobler birth, For you of man were made, man but of earth-- The sun of dust; and though your sin did breed His fall, again you raised him in your seed. Adam, in's sleep again full loss sustain'd, That for one rib a better half regain'd, Who, had he not your blest creation seen In Paradise, an anchorite had been. Why in this work did the creation rest, But that Eternal Providence thought you best Of all his six days' labour? Beasts should do Homage to man, but man shall wait on you; You are of comelier sight, of daintier touch, A tender flesh, and colour bright, and such As Parians see in marble; skin more fair, More glorious head, and far more glorious hair; Eyes full of grace and quickness; purer roses Blush in your cheeks; a milder white composes Your stately fronts; your breath, more sweet than his, Breathes spice, and nectar drops at every kiss.

* * * * *

If, then, in bodies where the souls do dwell, You better us, do then our souls excel?

No. * * * * Boast we of knowledge, you are more than we, You were the first ventured to pluck the tree; And that more rhetoric in your tongues do lie, Let him dispute against that dares deny Your least commands; and not persuaded be, With Samson's strength and David's piety, To be your willing captives.

* * * * *

Thus, perfect creatures, if detraction rise Against your sex, dispute but with your eyes, Your hand, your lip, your brow, there will be sent So subtle and so strong an argument, Will teach the stoic his affections too, And call the cynic from his tub to woo.

TO MY PICTURE.

When age hath made me what I am not now, And every wrinkle tells me where the plough Of Time hath furrow'd, when an ice shall flow Through every vein, and all my head be snow; When Death displays his coldness in my cheek, And I, myself, in my own picture seek, Not finding what I am, but what I was, In doubt which to believe, this or my glass; Yet though I alter, this remains the same As it was drawn, retains the primitive frame, And first complexion; here will still be seen, Blood on the cheek, and down upon the chin: Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye, The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye. Behold what frailty we in man may see, Whose shadow is less given to change than he.

TO A LADY ADMIRING HERSELF IN A LOOKING-GLASS.

Fair lady, when you see the grace Of beauty in your looking-glass; A stately forehead, smooth and high, And full of princely majesty; A sparkling eye, no gem so fair, Whose lustre dims the Cyprian star; A glorious cheek, divinely sweet, Wherein both roses kindly meet; A cherry lip that would entice Even gods to kiss at any price; You think no beauty is so rare That with your shadow might compare; That your reflection is alone The thing that men must dote upon. Madam, alas! your glass doth lie, And you are much deceived; for I A beauty know of richer grace,-- (Sweet, be not angry,) 'tis your face. Hence, then, oh, learn more mild to be, And leave to lay your blame on me: If me your real substance move, When you so much your shadow love, Wise Nature would not let your eye Look on her own bright majesty; Which, had you once but gazed upon, You could, except yourself, love none: What then you cannot love, let me, That face I can, you cannot see.

'Now you have what to love,' you'll say, 'What then is left for me, I pray?' My face, sweet heart, if it please thee; That which you can, I cannot see: So either love shall gain his due, Yours, sweet, in me, and mine in you.

ROBERT BURTON.