Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,
There would be little sign I would do 80;
Why, then, should I this robbery delay?
Oh! she may wake, and therewith angry grow!
Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,
And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.

The Steadfast Shepherd.
Hence away, thou Syren ; leave me.

On her sweet breast,
Pish! unclasp these wanton arins ; That is the pride of Cynthia's train ;
Sugared words can ne'er deceive me--

Then stay thy tongue;
Though thou prove a thousand charms.

Thy mermaid song
Fie, fie, forbear;

Is all bestowed on me in vain.
No common snare
Can ever my affection chain :

He's a fool that basely dallies
Thy painted baits,

Where each peasant mates with him :
And poor deceits,

Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, Are all bestowed on me in vain.

Whilst there's noble hills to climb ?

No, no, though clowns I'm no slave to such as you be;

Are scared with frowns, Neither shall that snowy breast,

I know the best can but disdain : Rolling eye, and lip of ruby,

And those I'll prove,
Ever rob me of my rest;

So will thy lovo
Go, go, display

Be all bestowed on me in vain.
Thy beauty's ray
To some more soon enamoured swain: I do scorn to vow a duty,
Those common wiles,

Where each lustful lad may woo
Of sighs and smiles,

Give me her whose sunlike beauty
Are all bestowed on me in vain.

Buzzards dare not soar unto :

She, she it is I have elsewhere vowed a duty;

Affords that bliss, Turn away thy tempting eye:

For which I would refuse no pain; Shew not me a painted beauty;

But such as you,
These impostures I defy:

Fond fools, adieu,
My spirit loathes

You seek to captive me in vain.
Where gaudy clothes
And feigned oaths may love obtain : Leave me, then, thou Syren, leave me;
I love her so

Seek no more to work my harms;
Whose look swears no,

Crafty wiles cannot deceive me,
That all your labours will be vain.

Who am proof against your charms:

You labour may Can he prize the tainted posies,

To lead astray Which on every breast are worn; The heart, that constant shall remain; That may pluck the virgin roses

* And I the while From their never-touched thorn ?

Will sit and smile
I can go rest

To see you spend your time in vain.

Christmas.
So now is come our joyfulest feast; Without the door let Sorrow lie;
Let every man be jolly;

And if for cold it bap to die,
Each room with ivy leaves is dressed, We'll bury 't in a Christmas pie,
And every post with holly.

And evermore be merry.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine, Now every lad is wondrous trim,
Drown Sorrow in a cup of wine,

And no man minds his labour;
And let us all be merry.

Our lasses have provided them

A bagpipe and a tabour ; Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, Young men and maids, and girls and boys,

And Christmas blocks are buuning: Give life to one another's joys; Their ovens they with baked meat choke, And you anou shall by their noise And all their spits are turning.

Perceive that they are merry.

7

Rank misers now do sparing shun; Though others' purses be more fat,
Their hall of music soundeth ;

Why should we pine or grieve at that? And dogs thence with whole shoulders Hang Sorrow! care will kill a cat,

And therefore let's be merry.
run,
So all things there aboundeth.
The country-folks themselves advance, Hark! now the wags abroad do call
With crowdy-muttons out of France; Each other forth to rambling;
And Jack shall pipe, and Gill shall dance, Anon you'll see them in the hall,
And all the towu be
merry.

For nuts and apples scrambling.

Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound; Ned Squash hath fetched his bands from Anon they'll think the house goes rond, pawn,

For they the cellar's depth have fouud, And all his best apparel ;

And there they will be merry.
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn
With dropping of the barrel.

The wenches with their wassail bowls And those that hardly all the year

About the streets are singing : Had bread to eat, or rags to wear,

The boys are come to catch the owls, Will have both lothes and dainty fare, The wild mare in is bringing. And all the day be merry.

Qur kitchen-boy hath broke his box;

And to the dealing of the ox, Now poor men to the justices

Our honest neighbours come by flocks, With capons make their errants ;

And here they will be merry. And if they hap'to fail of these,

They plague them with their warrants: Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes But now they feed them with good cheer,

have, And what they want they take in beer, And mate with everybody ; For Christmas comes but once a year,

The honest now may play the knave, And then they shall be merry.

And wise men play the noddy:

Some youths wiil i jw a mumming go, Good farmers in the country nurse

Some others play at Rowland-bo, The poor,

that else were undone ; And twenty other game boys mo, Some landlords spend their money worse,

Because they will be merry.
On lust and pride at London.
There the roysters they do play,

Then, wherefore, in these merry days, Drab and dice their lands away,

Should we, I pray, be duller ? Which may be ours another day,

No, let us sing some roundelays, And therefore let's be merry.

To make our mirth the fuller :

And, while we thus inspired sing, The client now his suit forbears,

Let all the streets with echoes ring; The prisoner's heart is eased ;

Woods and hills, and everything, The debtor drinks away his cares,

Bear witness we are merry. And for the time is pleased.

LADY ELIZABETH CAREW.

LADY ELIZABETH CAREw is believed to be the author of the tragedy of 'Mariam, the Fair Queen of Jewry,' 1613. Though wanting in dramatic interest and spirit, there is a vein of fine sentiment and feeling in this forgotten drama. The following chorus, in act the fourth, possesses a generous and noble simplicity :

If we a worthy enemy do find,

To yield to worth it must be nob.y done;
But if of baser metal be his mind,

In base revenge there is no honour won.
Who would a worthy courage overthrow,
And who would wrestle with a worthless foe ?
We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield;

Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor :
Great hearts are tasked beyond their power, but seld

The weakest lion will the loudest roar.
Truth's school for certain doth the same allow,
High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bồw.
A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn.

To scorn to owe a duty over-long;
To scorn to be for benefits forborne;

To scorn to lie; to scorn to do a wrong;
To scorn to bear an injury in mind;
To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind.
But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have,

Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind;
Do we his body from our fury save,

And let our hate prevail against our mind ?
What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be,
Than make his foe more worthy far than he ?
Had Mariam scorned to leave a due unpaid,

She would to Herod then have paid her love,
And not have been hy sullen passion swayed.

To fix her thoughts all injury above
18 virtuous pride. Had Mariain thus been proud,
Long famous life to her had been allowed.

BISHOP CORBET.

RICHARD CORBET (1582–1635) was the son of a man who, though only a gardener, must have possessed superior qualities, as he obtained the hearty commendations, in verse, of Ben Jonson. The son was educated at Westminster and Oxford, and having taken orders, he became successively bishop of Oxford and bishop of Norwich. The social qualities of witty Bishop Corbet, and his never-failing vivacity, joined to a moderate share of dislike to the Puritans, recommended him to the patronage of King James, by whom he was raised to the mitre. His liabits were rather 100 convivial for the dignity of his office, if we may credit some of the anecdotes which have been related of him. Meeting a ballad-singer one market-day at Abingdon, and the man complaining that he could get 1o custom, the j.lly doctor put off his gown, and arrayed himself in the leathern jacket of the itinerant vocalist, and being a handsome man, with a clear full voice, he presently vended the stock of ballads. One time, as he was confirming, the country people pressing in to see the ceremony, Corbet exclaimed: ‘Bear off there, or I'll confirm ye with my staff.'. The bishop and his chaplain, Dr. Lushington, it is said, would sometimes repair to the wine-cellar together, and Corbet used to put off his episcopal hood, saying: 'There lies the doctor;' then he put off his gown, saying: There lies the bishop ;' then the toast went round: 'Here's to thee, Corbet ;' 'Here's to thee, Lushington.' Jovialities like these seem more like the feats of the jolly Friar of Copmanhurst than the acts of a Frotestant bishop : but Corbet had higher qualities; lis toleration, solid sense, and lively talents procured bim deserved esteem and respect. His poems were first collected and published in 1647. They are of a miscellaneous character, the best known being a 'Journey to France,' written in a light easy strain of descriptive humour. The 'Farewell to the Fairies' is equally lively, and more poetical.

To Vincent Corbet, his Son.
What shall I leave thee, none can tell, I wish thee all thy mother's graces,
But all shall say I wish thee well:

Thy father's fortunes and his places. I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth, I wish thee friends, and one at court, Both bodily and ghostly health;

Not to build on, but to support; . Nor too much wealth nor wit come to To keep thee not in doing many thee,

Oppressions, but from suffering any. So much of either may undo thee. I wish thee peace in all thy ways, I wish thee learning not for show,

Nor lazy nor contentious days; Enough for to instruct and know; And, when thy soul and body part, Not such as gentlemen require

As innocent as now thou art. To prate at table or at fire.

From the 'Journey to France' I went from England into France,

Yet all the world knows that's a fable, Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance, For so good clothes ne'er lay in stable, Nor yet to ride nor fence:

Upon a lock of bay.
Nor did I go like one of those
That do return with half a nose

There is one of the cross's nails,
They carried from hence.

Which, whoso sees, his bonnet vails,

And, if he will, may kneel. But I to Paris rode along,

Some say 'twas false, 'twas never so Much like John Dory* in the song,

Yet, feeling it, thus much I know,
Upon a holy tide.

It is as true as steel.
Ion an ambling nag did get-
I trust he is not paid for yet-

There is a lanthorn which the Jews, And spurred him on each side. When Judas led them forth, did use;

It weighs my weight downright: And to Saint Denis fast we came,

But, to believe it, you must think To see the sights of Notre Dame The Jews did put a candle in 't, The man that shews them snuffles

And then 'twas very light. Where who is apt for to believe, May see our Lady's right-arm sleeve, There's one saint there hath lost his nose: And eke her old pantofles;

Another's head, but not his toes,

His elbow and his thumb. Her breast, her milk, her very gown

But when that we had seen the rags, That she did wear in Bethlehem town,

We went to th’inn and took our nags, When in the inn she lay :

And so away did come. This alludes to one of the inost celebrated of the old English ballads. It was the favourite performance

of the English minstrels, as lately as the reigu of Charles 11.; and Dryden alludes to it as to the most hackneyed song of the time:

Bat Sunderland, Godolphin, Lory,
These will appear such chits in story,

'Twill turn all politics to jests,
To be repenteil like John Dory,
When fiddlers sing at leasts.

Ritson's Ancient Songs,

We came to Paris on the Seine;

Saint Innocents, whose earth devours 'Tis wondrous fair, 'tis nothing clean, Dead corpse in four-and-twenty hours, 'Tis Europe's greatest town.

And there the king was killed : How strong it is, I need not tell it, For all the world may easily smell it, The Bastile, and Saint Denis Street, That walk it up and down.

The Shaftlenist, like London Fleet,

The arsenal no toy.
There many strange things are to see, But if you'll see the prettiest thing,
The palace and great gallery,

Go to the court and see the king,
The Place Royal doth excel:

Oh, 'tis a hopeful boy.*
The new bridge, and the statues there,
At Notre Dame, Saint Q. Pater,

He is, of all dukes and peers,
The steeple bears the bell.

Reverenced for much wit at 's years,

Nor must you think it much ; For learning, th’ University;

For he with little switch doth play, And, for old clothes, the Frippery, And make fine dirty pies of clay, The house the queen did build.

Oh, never king made such!

Farewell to the Fairies. Farewell rewards and fairies,

Witness those rings and roundelays Good housewives now may say,

Of theirs, which yet remain, For now foul sluts in dairies

Were footed in Queen Mary's days Do fare as well as they.

Ou many a grassy plain ; And though they sweep their hearths no But since of late Elizabeth, less

And later, James came in, Than maids were wont to do,

They never danced on any heath Yet who of late, for cleanliness,

As when the time hath been. Finds sixpence in her shoe ?

By which we note the fairies Lament, lament, old abbeys,

Were of the old profession, The fairies lost command ;

Their songs were Ave-Maries,
They did but change priests' babies, Their dances were procession;

But some have changed your land; But now, alas! they all are dead
And all your children sprung from thence Or gone beyond the seas;
Are now grown Puritans;

Or farther for religion fled,
Who live as changelings ever since,

Or else they take their ease. For love of your doinains.

A tell-tale in their company At morning and at evening both,

They never could endure, You merry were and glad,

And whoso kept not secretly So little care of sleep or sloth

Their mirth, was punished sure; These pretty ladies had;

It was a just and Christian deed, When Tom came home from labour, To pinch such black and blue: Or Cis to milking rose,

Oh, how the commonwealth doth need Then merrily went their tabour,

Such justices as you ! And nimbly went their toes.

WILLIAM HABINGTON. WILLIAM HABINGTON (1605–1645) bad all ihe vices of the metaphysical school, excepting its occasional and frequently studied liceniiousness. He tells us himself in his preface), that if the innocency of a chaste muse shall be more acceptable, and weigh heavier in the balance of esteem, than a fame begot in adultery of study, I doubt I shall leave no hope of competition. And of a pure attachment, he says finally, that “when Love builds upon the rock of Chastity, it may safely contemn the battery of the waves and threatenings of the