XXXVII.

A SATIRICAL SHRUB.2

WOMAN'S friendship! God, whom I
trust in,

Forgive me this one foolish deadly sin,
Amongst my many other, that I may
No more, I am sorry for so fond cause, say
At fifty years, almost, to value it,

That ne'er was known to last above a fit!
Or have the least of good, but what it must
Put on for fashion, and take up on trust.
Knew I all this afore? had I perceiv'd,

That their whole life was wickedness, though weav'd
Of many colours; outward, fresh from spots,
But their whole inside full of ends, and knots ?
Knew I that all their dialogues and discourse
Were such as I will now relate, or worse?

do see,

Knew I this woman? yes, and you
How penitent I am, or I should be.
Do not you ask to know her, she is worse
Than all ingredients made into one curse,
And that pour'd out upon mankind, can be:
Think but the sin of all her sex, 'tis she!
I could forgive her being proud! a whore !
Perjur'd! and painted! if she were no more-
But she is such, as she might yet forestall
The devil, and be the damning of us all.

2 This is more in the style and manner of Donne than of our author. It may, however, be his; though I suspect that the loose scraps found after his death, among his papers, were committed to the press without much examination. There was undoubtedly an intercommunity of verse between the two friends; but I do not wish to carry the argument any further.

3 Here (the folio says) something is wanting.

XXXVIII.

A LITTLE SHRUB GROWING BY.

SK not to know this Man. If fame should speak

His name in any metal, it would break.

Two letters were enough the plague to tear Out of his grave, and poison every ear. A parcel of Court-dirt, a heap, and mass Of all vice hurl'd together, there he was, Proud, false, and treacherous, vindictive, all That thought can add, unthankful, the lay-stall Of putrid flesh alive! of blood the sink! And so I leave to stir him, lest he stink.

XXXIX.

AN ELEGY.

HOUGH beauty be the mark of praise,
And yours of whom I sing, be such,
As not the world can praise too much,
Yet 'tis your virtue now I raise.

A virtue, like allay, so gone

Throughout your form; as though that move,
And draw, and conquer all men's love,

This subjects you to love of one,

Wherein you triumph yet; because

'Tis of yourself, and that you use The noblest freedom, not to choose Against or faith, or honour's laws.

▲ Ask not to know this Man, &c.] This too is in the style of Donne. It was evidently designed to be a pendant of the former; whoever wrote that wrote this.

5

1

But who could less expect from you,
In whom alone Love lives agen?
By whom he is restor❜d to men;
And kept, and bred, and brought up true?
His falling temples you have rear'd,
The wither'd garlands ta'en away;
His altars kept from the decay
That envy wish'd, and nature fear'd:

And on them burn so chaste a flame,
With so much loyalty's expense,
As Love t' acquit such excellence,
gone himself into your name.

Is

And you are he; the deity

To whom all lovers are design'd,
That would their better objects find;
Among which faithful troop am I.

Who, as an offering at your shrine, 5
Have sung this hymn, and here entreat
One spark of your diviner heat

To light upon a love of mine.

Which, if it kindle not, but scant
Appear, and that to shortest view,
Yet give me leave t' adore in you
What I, in her, am grieved to want.

Who, as an offering, &c.] The folio reads "offspring. Corrected by Whalley.

XL.

AN ELEGY.

AIR friend, 'tis true, your beauties move
My heart to a respect;
Too little to be paid with love,
Too great for your neglect.

I neither love, nor yet am free,
For though the flame I find
Be not intense in the degree,
'Tis of the purest kind.

It little wants of love but pain;
Your beauty takes my sense,
And lest you should that price disdain,
My thoughts too feel the influence.

'Tis not a passion's first access
Ready to multiply;

But like love's calmest state it is
Possest with victory.

It is like love to truth reduc'd,
All the false values gone,
Which were created, and induc'd
By fond imagination.

'Tis either fancy or 'tis fate,

To love you more than I:

I love you at your beauty's rate,

Less were an injury.

Like unstampt gold, I weigh each grace,

So that you may collect

Th' intrinsic value of your face,

Safely from my respect.

This little piece, which is not without merit, is carelessly thrown in towards the conclusion of the old folio, where it is united to "A New-year's Gift to king Charles!"

And this respect would merit love,
Were not so fair a sight
Payment enough; for who dares move
Reward for his delight?

XLI.

AN ODE.

TO HIMSELF.

ZHERE dost Thou careless lie
Buried in ease and sloth?

W

Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die;
And this security,

It is the common moth,

That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both :7

Are all the Aonian springs

Dried up? lies Thespia waste?
Doth Clarius' harp want strings,
That not a nymph now sings;
Or droop they as disgrac'd,

To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defac'd?

If hence thy silence be,

As 'tis too just a cause;
Let this thought quicken thee:
Minds that are great and free

Should not on fortune pause,

'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.

7 That eats on wits and arts, and destroys them both.] A syllable is evidently lost, necessary to complete the measure; I have inserted a monosyllable that helps it out,

Versus fultura cadentis.

WHAL.

Whalley's choice fell on quite; I prefer so: the reader, perhaps, may stumble upon a better substitute than either.