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And none to other find the way at all.

Raym. Pursue the project, scholar; what we can do

To help endeavour, join our lives thereto.*


Jesus' daughter, Mary's child,
Holy matron, woman mild,

For thee a Mass shall still be said,
Every sister drop a bead;

And those again, succeeding them,
For you shall sing a Requiem.

To her Father. May your happy soul be blithe, 10

That so truly pay your tithe;

He, that many children gave,

"Tis fit that he one child should have.

To Millisent. Then, fair virgin, hear my spell,

For I must your duty tell.

First a-mornings take your book,

The glass wherein yourself must look ;
Your young thoughts, so proud and jolly,
Must be turn'd to motions holy;

For your busk, attires, and toys,
Have your thoughts on heavenly joys:
And for all your follies past,

You must do penance, pray and fast.
You shall ring the sacring bell,
Keep your hours, and toll your knell,


* This scene has much of Shakspeare's manner in the sweetness and goodnaturedness of it. It seems written to make the reader happy. Few of our dramatists or novelists have attended enough to this. They torture and wound us abundantly. They are economists only in delight. Nothing can be finer, more gentlemanlike, and noble, than the conversation and compliments of these young men. How delicious is Raymond Mounchensey's forgetting, in his fears, that Jerningham has a "Saint in Essex;" and how sweetly his friend reminds him!-I wish it could be ascertained that Michael Drayton was the author of this piece it would add a worthy appendage to the renown of that Panegyrist of my native Earth; who has gone over her soil (in his Polyolbion) with the fidelity of a herald, and the painful love of a son; who has not left a rivulet (so narrow that it may be stept over) without honourable mention; and has animated Hills and Streams with life and passion above the dreams of old mythology.

Rise at midnight to your matins,
Read your psalter, sing your Latins;
And when your blood shall kindle pleasure,
Scourge yourself in plenteous measure.
You must read the morning mass,
You must creep unto the cross,
Put cold ashes on your head,
Have a hair-cloth for your bed,
Bid your beads, and tell your needs,
Your holy Aves and your Creeds;
Holy maid, this must be done,
If you mean to live a Nun.

XXX. (G.)


The things we but present: if these,
Free from the loathsome Stage-disease,
So over-worn, so tired and stale;
Not satirising but to rail;-
May win your favors, and inherit
But calm acceptance of his merit,-
He vows by paper, pen, and ink,
And by the Learned Sisters' drink,
To spend his time, his lamps, his oil,



In the Prologue the Poet protests the innocence of his Play
and gives a promise of better things.
Home-bred mirth our Muse doth sing;
The Satyr's tooth, and waspish sting,
Which most do hurt when least suspected,
By this Play are not affected;
But if conceit, with quick-turn'd scenes,
Observing all those ancient streams
Which from the Horse-foot fount do flow-
As time, place, person--and to show
Things never done with that true life,
That thoughts and wits shall stand at strife,
Whether the things now shewn be true,
Or whether we ourselves now do



And never cease his brain to toil,
Till from the silent hours of night
He doth produce, for your delight,
Conceits so new, so harmless free,
That Puritans themselves may see
A Play; yet not in public preach,
That Players such lewd doctrine teach,
That their pure joints do quake and tremble,
When they do see a man resemble
The picture of a villain.-This,
As he a friend to Muses is,

To you by me he gives his word,
Is all his Play does now afford.

XXXI. (G.)


Song at a Court Masque.

Are they shadows that we see?
And can shadows pleasure give?
Pleasures only shadows be,
Cast by bodies we conceive;
And are made the things we deem,
In those figures which they seem.
But these pleasures vanish fast,
Which by shadows are exprest:
Pleasures are not, if they last ;
In their passing is their best.
Glory is most bright and gay
In a flash, and so away.
Feed apace then, greedy eyes,
On the wonder you behold.
Take it sudden as it flies,
Tho' you take it not to hold:
When your eyes have done their part,
Thought must length it in the heart.




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