But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

which, pleasing as it is, is not superior to many others scattered through his works.

"I was surprised, (Cumberland says) the other day to find our learned poet Ben Jonson had been poaching in an obscure collection of love letters, written by the sophist Philostratus in a very rhapsodical stile, merely for the purpose of stringing together a parcel of unnatural far-fetched conceits, more calculated to disgust a man of Jonson's classical taste, than to put him upon the humble task of copying them, and then fathering the translation. The little poem he has taken from this despicable sophist is now become a very popular song." Observer, No. lxxiv.

Cumberland, who reasoned very loosely, was hardly aware, I think, of the extraordinary compliment he was paying Jonson in this passage. But why should he be surprised?-Did we not know that he was directed to Philostratus by a more skilful and excursive finger than his own, we might perhaps be surprised at finding the critic there; but they must have a very imperfect acquaintance with Jonson who are unprepared to meet with him in any volume which antiquity has bequeathed to us. It need not follow that our poet admired every writer that he read: he might not, perhaps, have judged more favourably of Philostratus than Mr. Cumberland, or, rather, Dr. Bentley; yet he had the address to turn him to some account: but to the quotations; which, it must be added, are translated without much apparent knowledge of the original.

66

•Εμοι δε μονοις προπινε τοις ομμασιν. Ει δε βουλει, τοις χείλεσι προσφέρουσα, πληρου φιλημάτων το εκπωμα, και ούτως διδου.” Drink to me with thine eyes only-Or, if thou wilt, putting the cup to thy lips, fill it with kisses, and so bestow it upon me." Lett. xxiv.

“ Εγω, επειδαν ιδω σε, διψω, και το εκπωμα κατεχων, και το μεν ου προσαγω τοις χείλεσι, σου δε οιδα πινων.” “I, as soon as I behold thee, thirst, and taking hold of the cup, do not indeed apply that to my lips for drink, but thee." Lett. xxv. This is by no means the sense. It was not thus that Jonson read Philostratus.

Πεπομφα σου στεφανον ῥόδων, ου σε τιμων, (και τουτο μεν γαρ) αλλ' αυτοις τι χαριζόμενος τοις ρόδοις, ίνα μη μαρανδη.” “ I sent the a rosy wreath, not so much honouring thee (though this also is in my thoughts) as bestowing favour upon the roses, that so they might not be withered." Lett. xxx.

* Ει δε βούλει τι φιλῳ χαρίζεσθαι, τα λείψανα αυτων αντιπεμψον, μηκετι πνεοντα ῥοδον μονον αλλα και σου.” "If thou wouldst do a kindness to thy lover, send back the reliques of the roses (I gave

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not wither'd be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me :

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

X.

PRELUDIUM.7

ND must I sing? what subject shall I choose?
Or whose great name in poets' heaven use,
For the more countenance to my active
muse?

Hercules? alas, his bones are yet sore,
With his old earthly labours: t' exact more,
Of his dull godhead, were sin. I'll implore

thee) no longer smelling of themselves only, but of thee." Lett. xxxi.

Mr. Cumberland is quite scandalized at the omission of the poet's acknowledgments to Philostratus: this is very natural in so scrupulous a borrower as himself; but he ought to have known that this was not the practice of Jonson's times.

It is a little singular that the artful arrangement of this song (which is peculiar to our poet) should have escaped the critics. Cumberland divides it into four stanzas; so do the ingenious authors of the Anthology, who, from the incorrect manner in which they have given it, evidently overlooked the construction.

This Præludium, (which is merely sportive) together with the admirable Epode, to which it forms an introduction, must have been among the earliest of Jonson's works, since both are prefixed to a volume of rare occurrence (obligingly communicated to me by T. Hill, Esq.) called "Love's Martyr, or Rosalin's complaint. Allegorically shadowing the truth of Love in the constant fate of the Phoenix and Turtle-now first translated out of the venerable Italian Torquato Cæliano, by Robert Chester, to which are added some new compositions of several writers, 1601." The Epode is

Phoebus. No, tend thy cart still.

Envious day
Shall not give out that I have made thee stay,
And founder'd thy hot team, to tune my lay.

Nor will I beg of thee, Lord of the vine,
To raise my spirits with thy conjuring wine,

In the green circle of thy ivy twine.

Pallas, nor thee I call on, mankind maid,

That at thy birth, mad'st the poor smith afraid,
Who with his axe, thy father's midwife plaid.

Go, cramp dull Mars, light Venus, when he snorts,
Or with thy tribade trine, invent new sports;
Thou nor thy looseness with my making sorts.

Let the old boy, your son, ply his old task,
Turn the stale prologue to some painted mask;
His absence in my verse, is all I ask.

Hermes, the cheater, shall not mix with us,
Though he would steal his sisters' Pegasus,
And rifle him; or pawn his petasus.

immediately followed by "the Phoenix analyzed," and the "Ode" given below (*) both, as it would seem, by our author, though his name does not appear to them.

Till the discovery of this volume, of which Whalley apparently knew nothing, these poems could scarcely be considered as intelligible. Shakspeare, Marston, and Chapman united with Jonson in this commendation of the Phoenix, and "consecrated their verses (the Preface says) to the love and merit of the true noble knight, sir John Salisburie."

*THE PHOENIX ANALYSED.

Now after all, let no man
Receive it for a fable,
If a bird so amiable

Do turn into a woman.

Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake,

Though they were crush'd into one form, could make A beauty of that merit, that should take

Or, by our Turtle's augure,

That nature's fairest creature
Prove of his mistress' feature
But a bare type and figure.

ODE ενθουσιαστικη.

Splendor! O more than mortal
For other forms come short all,
Of her illustrious brightness
As far as sin's from lightness.
Her wit as quick and sprightful
As fire, and more delightful
Than the stolen sports of lovers,
When night their meeting covers.
Judgment, adorn'd with learning
Doth shine in her discerning,
Clear as a naked vestal
Closed in an orb of crystal.

Her breath for sweet exceeding
The Phoenix' place of breeding,

But mix'd with sound, transcending

All nature of commending.

Alas then whither wade I

In thought to praise this lady,
When seeking her renowning
My self am so near drowning?

Retire, and say her graces
Are deeper than their faces,
Yet she's not nice to show them,
Nor takes she pride to know them.

My muse up by commission; no, I bring
My own true fire: now my thought takes wing,
And now an Epode to deep ears I sing.

XI.

EPODE.

COT to know vice at all, and keep true state,
Is virtue and not fate :

Next to that virtue, is to know vice well,
And her black spite expel.
Which to effect (since no breast is so sure,
Or safe, but she'll procure

Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard
Of thoughts to watch, and ward

At the eye and ear, the ports unto the mind,
That no strange, or unkind
Object arrive there, but the heart, our spy,
Give knowledge instantly,

To wakeful reason, our affections' king:
Who, in th' examining,

Will quickly taste the treason, and commit
Close, the close cause of it.

'Tis the securest policy we have,

To make our sense our slave.

But this true course is not embraced by many :
By many! scarce by any.

For either our affections do rebel,

Or else the sentinel,

That should ring larum to the heart, doth sleep;
Or some great thought doth keep

Back the intelligence, and falsly swears,
They are base, and idle fears

Whereof the loyal conscience so complains.
Thus, by these subtile trains,