[SONG. 'Tis now, since I sat down before.]

Tis now, since I sat down before

That foolish fort, a heart,

(Time strangely spent !) a year, and more; And still I did my part,

Made my approaches, from her hand

Unto her lip did rise; And did already understand

The language of her eyes;

Proceeded on with no less art,
My tongue was engineer;
thought to undermine the heart
By whispering in the ear.

When this did nothing, I brought down
Great cannon-oaths, and shot
A thousand thousand to the town,
And still it yielded not.

I then resolv'd to starve the place
By cutting off all kisses,
Praising and gazing on her face,
And all such little blisses.

To draw her out, and from her strength,
I drew all batteries in:

And brought myself to lie at length,
As if no siege had been.

When I had done what man could do,
And thought the place mine own,

The enemy lay quiet too,

And smil'd at all was done.

I sent to know from whence, and where,

These hopes, and this relief?

A spy inform'd, Honour was there,

And did command in chief.

Lerch, march (quoth I); the word straight give,
Let's lose no time, but leave her;

That giant upon air will live,
And hold it out for ever.

To such a place our camp remove

As will no siege abide ;

I hate a fool that starves for love,
Only to feed her pride.

A Ballad upon a Wedding.

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen;
Oh, things without compare!
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair.

At Charing Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,

There is a house with stairs;
And there did I see coming down

Such folk as are not in our town,
Vorty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine,
(His beard no bigger, though, than thine)
Walk'd on before the rest:

Our landlord looks like nothing to him: The king, God bless him, 'twould undo him,

Should he go still so drest.

*

But wot you what? the youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing;
The parson for him staid :

Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past,
Perchance, as did the maid.

The maid, and thereby hangs a tale,
For such a maid no Whitsun-alel

Could ever yet produce:

No grape that's kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring;

It was too wide a peck:
And, to say truth (for out it must),
It look'd like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,

As if they fear'd the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!

No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,

No daisy makes comparison;

Who sees them is undone;

For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear,

The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red; and one was thin,
Compar'd to that was next her chin,
Some bee had stung it newly;
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,
Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,

That they might passage get: But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit.

Passion, oh me! how I run on !
There's that that would be thought upon,

I trow, besides the bride:

The bus'ness of the kitchen's great,

For it is fit that men should eat;

Nor was it there denied.

Just in the nick, the cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;

Each serving-man, with dish in hand, March'd boldly up, like our train'd-band,

Presented, and away.

When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able

To stay to be intreated?
And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,
The company were seated.
Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick;
And when 'twas nam'd another's health,
Perhaps he made it her's by stealth,
And who could help it, Dick ?

O' th' sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance:
Then dance again, and kiss.
Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass,
Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place,
And ev'ry man wish'd his.

Out upon it, I have lov'd

Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings,
Ere he shall discover

In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise

Is due at all to me;

Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she

And that very face,

There had been at least ere this

A dozen in her place.

Song.

I prithee send me back my heart,
Since I can not have thine,

For if from yours you will not part,

Why then should'st thou have mine ?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain;

For thou'st a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?
Oh love! where is thy sympathy,
If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,
I cannot find it out;

For when I think I'm best resolv'd,

I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine;

For I'll believe I have her heart

As much as she has mine.

Song.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover!
Prithee, why so pale ?

Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail ?
Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner 1
Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't ?
Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:
The devil take her.

Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds,
Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,
Canker of conversation! could'st thou find
Nought but our love whereon to show thy hate ?
Thou never wert, when we two were alone;
What canst thou witness then? thou, base dull aid,
Wast useless in our conversation,

Where each meant more than could by both be said.
Whence hadst thou thy intelligence-from earth?
That part of us ne'er knew that we did love:
Or, from the air? our gentle sighs had birth
From such sweet raptures as to joy did move;
Our thoughts, as pure as the chaste morning's breath,
When from the night's cold arms it creeps away,
Were clothed in words, and maiden's blush, that hath
More purity, more innocence than they.

Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale;
No briny tear has furrowed her smooth cheek;
And I was pleas'd: I pray what should he ail,
That had her love; for what else could he seek ?
We shorten'd days to moments by love's art,
Whilst our two souls in amorous ecstacy
Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part
Our love had been of still eternity.

Curst be th' officious tongue that did address

Thee to her ears, to ruin my content:
May it one minute taste such happiness,
Deserving lost unpitied it lament!

I must forbear her sight, and so repay
In grief, those hours' joy short'ned to a dream;
Each minute I will lengthen to a day,
And in one year outlive Methusalem.

JOHN CHALKHILL.

A pastoral romance, entitled Thealma and Clearchus, was published by Izaak Walton in 1683, with a title-page stating it to have been written long since by JOHN CHALKHILL, Esq., an acquaintant and friend of Edmund Spenser.' Walton tells us of the author, 'that he was in his time a man generally known, and as well beloved; for he was humble and obliging in his behaviour; a gentleman, a scholar, very innocent and prudent; and, indeed, his whole life was useful, quiet, and virtuous.' 'Thealma and Clearchus' was reprinted by Mr Singer, who expressed an opinion that, as Walton had been silent upon the life of Chalkhill, he might be altogether a fictitious personage, and the poem be actually the composition of Walton himself. A critic in the Retrospective Review, after investigating the circumstances, and comparing the Thealma with the acknowledged productions ductions of Walton, comes to the same conclusion. Sir John Hawkins, the editor of Walton, seeks to overturn the hypothesis of Singer, by the following statement:-' Unfortunately, John Chalkhill's tomb of black marble is still to be seen on the walls of Winchester cathedral, by which it appears he died in May 1679, at the age of eighty. Walton's preface speaks of him as dead in May 1678; but as the book was not published till 1683, when Walton was ninety years old, it is probably an error of memory.' The tomb in Winchester cannot be that of the author of Thealma, unless Walton committed a further error in styling Chalkhill an 'acquaintant and friend' of Spenser. Spenser died in 1599, the very year in which John Chalkhill, interred in Winchester cathedral, must have been born. We should be happy to think that the Thealma was the composition of Walton, thus adding another laurel to his venerable brow; but the internal evidence seems to us to be wholly against such a supposition. The poetry is of a cast far too high for the muse of Izaak, which dwelt only by the side of trouting streams, and among quiet meadows. The nomme de guerre of Chalkhill must also have been an old one with Walton, if he wrote Thealma; for, thirty years before its publication, he had inserted in his Complete Angler' two songs, signed 'Jo. Chalkhill.' The disguise is altogether very unlike Izaak Walton, then ninety years of age, and remarkable for his unassuming worth, probity, and piety. We have no doubt, therefore, that Thealma is a genuine poem of the days of Charles or James I. The scene of this pastoral is laid in Arcadia, and the author, like the ancient poets, describes the golden age and all its charms, which were succeeded by an age of iron, on the introduction of ambition, avarice, and tyranny. * Retrospective Review, vol. iv., page 230. The article appears to have been written by Sir Egerton Brydges, who contributed largely to that work.

[The Witch's Cave.]

Her cell was hewn out of the marble rock,
By more than human art; she need not knock;
The door stood always open, large and wide,
Grown o'er with woolly moss on either side,
And interwove with ivy's flattering twines,
Through which the carbuncle and diamond shines,
Not set by Art, but there by Nature sown

At the world's birth, so star-like bright they shone.
They serv'd instead of tapers, to give light
To the dark entry, where perpetual night,
Friend to black deeds, and sire of ignorance,
Shuts out all knowledge, lest her eye by chance
Might bring to light her follies: in they went,
The ground was strew'd with flowers, whose sweet scent,
Mix'd with the choice perfumes from India brought,
Intoxicates his brain, and quickly caught
His credulous sense; the walls were gilt, and set
With precious stones, and all the roof was fret
With a gold vine, whose straggling branches spread
All o'er the arch; the swelling grapes were red;
This, Art had made of rubies, cluster'd so,
To the quick'st eye they more than seem'd to grow;
About the walls lascivious pictures hung,
Such as were of loose Ovid sometimes sung.
On either side a crew of dwarfish elves
Held waxen tapers, taller than themselves:
Yet so well-shap'd unto their little stature,
So angel-like in face, so sweet in feature;
Their rich attire so diff'ring; yet so well
Becoming her that wore it, none could tell
Which was the fairest, which the handsomest deck'
Or which of them desire would soon'st affect.
After a low salute, they all 'gan sing,
And circle in the stranger in a ring.
Orandra to her charms was stepp'd aside,
Leaving her guest half won and wanton-ey'd.
He had forgot his herb: cunning delight
Had so bewitch'd his ears, and blear'd his sight,
And captivated all his senses so,
That he was not himself: nor did he know
What place he was in, or how he came there,
But greedily he feeds his eye and ear
With what would ruin him.

*

Next unto his view

She represents a banquet, usher'd in
By such a shape, as she was sure would win
His appetite to taste; so like she was
To his Clarinda, both in shape and face.
So voic'd, so habited, of the same gait
And comely gesture; on her brow in state
Sat such a princely majesty, as he
Had noted in Clarinda; save that she
Had a more wanton eye, that here and there
Roll'd up and down, not settling any where.
Down on the ground she falls his hands to kiss,
And with her tears bedews it; cold as ice
He felt her lips, that yet inflam'd him so,
That he was all on fire the truth to know,
Whether she was the same she did appear,
Or whether some fantastic form it were,

Fashion'd in his imagination

By his still working thoughts; so fix'd upon His lov'd Clarinda, that his fancy strove, Even with her shadow, to express his love.

A hundred virgins there he might espy Prostrate before a marble deity,

Which, by its portraiture, appear'd to be

The image of Diana:-on their knee

They tender'd their devotions: with sweet airs,
Off'ring the incense of their praise and prayers.
Their garments all alike; beneath their paps
Buckled together with a silver claps;

And cross their snowy silken robes, they wore
An azure scarf, with stars embroider'd o'er.
Their hair in curious tresses was knit up,
Crown'd with a silver crescent on the top.
A silver bow their left hand held; their right,
For their defence, held a sharp-headed flight,
Drawn from their 'broider'd quiver, neatly tied
In silken cords, and fasten'd to their side.
Under their vestments, something short before,
White buskins, lac'd with ribanding, they wore.
It was a catching sight for a young eye,
That love had fir'd before:- he might espy
One, whom the rest had sphere-like circled round,
Whose head was with a golden chaplet crown'd.
He could not see her face, only his ear

Was blest with the sweet words that came from her.

[The Votaress of Diana.]

Clarinda came at last

With all her train, who, as along she pass'd
Thorough the inward court, did make a lane,
Opening their ranks, and closing them again
As she went forward, with obsequious gesture,
Doing their reverence. Her upward vesture
Was of blue silk, glistering with stars of gold,
Girt to her waist by serpents, that enfold
And wrap themselves together, so well wrought
And fashion'd to the life, one would have thought
They had been real. Underneath she wore

A coat of silver tinsel, short before,

And fring'd about with gold: white buskins hide
The naked of her leg; they were loose tied

With azure ribands, on whose knots were seen
Most costly gems, fit only for a queen.
Her hair bound up like to a coronet,

With diamonds, rubies, and rich sapphires set;
And on the top a silver crescent plac'd.
And all the lustre by such beauty grac'd,

As her reflection made them seem more fair;
One would have thought Diana's self were there;
For in her hand a silver bow she held,

And at her back there hung a quiver fill'd
With turtle-feather'd arrows.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT (1611-1643) was one of Ben Jonson's adopted sons of the muses, and of his works Jonson remarked-'My son Cartwright writes all like a man.' Cartwright was a favourite with his contemporaries, who loved him living, and deplored his early death. This poet was the son of an innkeeper at Cirencester, who had squandered away a patrimonial estate. In 1638, after complet

ing his education at Oxford, Cartwright entered into holy orders. He was a zealous royalist, and was imprisoned by the parliamentary forces when they arrived in Oxford in 1642. In 1643, he was chosen junior proctor of the university, and was also reader in metaphysics. At this time, the poet is said to have studied sixteen hours a day! Towards the close of the same year, Cartwright caught malignant fever, called the camp disease, then pre valent at Oxford, and died December 23, 1643. The king, who was then at Oxford, went into mourning for Cartwright's death; and when his works were published in 1651, no less than fifty copies of encomiastic verses were prefixed to them by the wits and scholars of the time. It is difficult to conceive, from the perusal of Cartwright's poems, why he should have obtained such extraordinary applause and reputation. His pieces are mostly short, occasional productions, addresses to ladies and noblemen, or to his brother poets, Fletcher and Jonson, or slight amatory effusions not distinguished for elegance or fancy. His youthful virtues, his learning, loyalty, and admiration of genius, seem to have mainly contributed to his popularity, and his premature death would renew and deepen the impression of his worth and talents. Cartwright must have cultivated poetry in his youth: he was only twentysix when Ben Jonson died, and the compliment quoted above seems to prove that he had then been busy with his pen. He mourned the loss of his poetical father in one of his best effusions, in which he thus eulogises Jonson's dramatic powers:

But thou still puts true passion on; dost write With the same courage that tried captains fight; Giv'st the right blush and colour unto things; Low without creeping, high without loss of wings; Smooth yet not weak, and, by a thorough care, Big without swelling, without painting fair.

To a Lady Veiled.

So Love appear'd, when, breaking out his way
From the dark chaos, he first shed the day;
Newly awak'd out of the bud, so shows
The half seen, half hid glory of the rose,
As you do through your veils; and I may swear,
Viewing you so, that beauty doth bide there.
So Truth lay under fables, that the eye
Might reverence the mystery, not descry;
Light being so proportion'd, that no more
Was seen, but what might cause men to adore:
Thus is your dress so order'd, so contrived,
As 'tis but only poetry revived.

Such doubtful light had sacred groves, where rods
And twigs at last did shoot up into gods;
Where, then, a shade darkeneth the beauteous face,
May I not pay a reverence to the place?
So, under water, glimmering stars appear,
As those (but nearer stars) your eyes do here;
So deities darkened sit, that we may find
A better way to see them in our mind.
No bold Ixion, then, be here allow'd,
Where Juno dares herself be in the cloud.
Methinks the first age comes again, and we
See a retrieval of simplicity.

Thus looks the country virgin, whose brown hue
Hoods her, and makes her show even veil'd as you.
Blest mean, that checks our hope, and spurs our fear,
Whiles all doth not lie hid, nor all appear:
O fear ye no assaults from bolder men;
When they assail, be this your armour then.
A silken helmet may defend those parts,
Where softer kisses are the only darts!

Chloe, why wish you that your years
Would backwards run, till they met min?
That perfect likeness, which endears
Things unto things, might us combine.
Our ages so in date agree,
That twins do differ more than we.

There are two births; the one when light
First strikes the new awakened sense;
The other when two souls unite;

And we must count our life from thence:
When you lov'd me, and I lov'd you,
Then both of us were born anew.

Love then to us did new souls give,

And in those souls did plant new pow'rs: Since when another life we live,

The breath we breathe is his, not ours; Love makes those young whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young keeps young still.

Love, like that angel that shall call
Our bodies from the silent grave,
Unto one age doth raise us all;

None too much, none too little have;
Nay, that the difference may be none,
He makes two not alike, but one.

And now since you and I are such,

Tell me what's yours, and what is mine? Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch, Do, like our souls, in one combine;

So, by this, I as well may be

Too old for you, as you for me.

The Dream.

I dream'd I saw myself lie dead,
And that my bed my coffin grew,
Silence and sleep this strange sight bred,
But, waked, I found I liv'd anew.
Looking next morn on your bright face,

Mine eyes bequeath'd mine heart fresh pain;

A dart rush'd in with every grace,
And so I kill'd myself again:

O eyes, what shall distressed lovers do,
If open you can kill, if shut you view!

Love Inconcealable.

Who can hide fire? If't be uncover'd, light;
If cover'd, smoke betrays it to the sight:
Love is that fire, which still some sign affords;
If hid, they are sighs; if open, they are words.

To Cupid.

Thou, who didst never see the light,
Nor know'st the pleasure of the sight,
But always blinded, canst not say,
Now it is night, or now 'tis day;

So captivate her sense, so blind her eye,

That still she love me, yet she ne'er know why.

Thou who dost wound us with such art,
We see no blood drop from the heart,
And, subt'ly cruel, leav'st no sign
To tell the blow or hand was thine;

O gently, gently wound my fair, that she
May thence believe the wound did come from

thee!

ROBERT HERRICK.

One of the most exquisite of our early lyrical poets was ROBERT HERRICK, born in Cheapside, London, in 1591. He studied at Cambridge, and having entered into holy orders, was presented by Charles I.,

Robert Henrick

in 1629, to the vicarage of Dean Prior in Devonshire. After about twenty years' residence in this rural parish, Herrick was ejected from his living by the storms of the civil war, which, as Jeremy Taylor says, 'dashed the vessel of the church and state all in pieces.' Whatever regret the poet may have felt on being turned adrift on the world, he could have experienced little on parting with his parishioners, for he describes them in much the same way as Crabbe portrayed the natives of Suffolk, among whom he was cast in early life, as a 'wild amphibious race,' rude almost as salvages,' and 'churlish