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This day my Saviour rose, And did enclose this light for his; That, as each beast his manger knows, Man might not of his fodder miss. Christ hath took in this piece of ground, And made a garden there for those

Who want herbs for their wound.

The rest of our creation Our great Redeemer did remove With the same shake, which at his passion Did the earth and all things with it move. As Sampson bore the doors away, Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,

And did unhinge that day.

The brightness of that day
We sullied by our foul offence:
Wherefore that robe we cast away,
Having a new at his expense,

Whose drops of blood paid the full price,
That was required to make us gay,
And fit for paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth:

And where the week-days trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth:
O let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven,
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,
Fly hand in hand to heaven!

Mortification.

How soon doth man decay!

When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets To swaddle infants, whose young breath Scarce knows the way:

They are like little winding-sheets, Which do consign and send them unto death.

When boys go first to bed,
They step into their voluntary graves;

Sleep binds them fast; only their breath
Makes them not dead :

Successive nights, like rolling waves, Convey them quickly, who are bound for death.

When youth is frank and free, And calls for music, while his veins do swell, All day exchanging mirth and breath

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WILLIAM HABINGTON.

WILLIAM HABINGTON (1605-1654) had all the vices of the metaphysical school, excepting its occasional and frequently studied licentiousness. 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 finely, that when love builds upon the rock of chastity, it may safely contemn the battery of the waves and threatenings of the wind; since time, that makes a mockery of the firmest structures, shall itself be ruinated before that be demolished.' Habington's life presents few incidents, though he came of a plotting family. His father was implicated in Babington's conspiracy; his uncle suffered death for his share in the same transaction. The poet's mother atoned, in some measure, for these disloyal intrigues; for she is said to have been the writer of the famous letter to Lord Monteagle, which averted the execution of the Gunpowder Plot. The poet was educated at St Omer's, but declined to become a Jesuit. He married Lucia, daughter of the first Lord Powis, whom he had celebrated under the name of Castara. Twenty years before his death, he published his poems, consisting of The Mistress, The Wife, and The Holy Man. These titles include each several copies of verses, and the same design was afterwards adopted by Cowley. The life of the poet seems to have glided quietly away, cheered by the society and affection of his Castara. He had no stormy passions to agitate him, and no unruly imagination to control or subdue. His poetry is of the same unruffled descriptionplacid, tender, and often elegant-but studded with conceits to show his wit and fancy. When he talks of meadows wearing a 'green plush,' of the fire of mutual love being able to purify the air of an infected city, and of a luxurious feast being so rich that heaven must have rained showers of sweetmeats, as if

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[Epistle to a Friend.]

[Addressed' to his noblest friend, J. C., Esq. 1

I hate the country's dirt and manners, yet
I love the silence; I embrace the wit
And courtship, flowing here in a full tide,
But loathe the expense, the vanity and pride.
No place each way is happy. Here I hold
Commerce with some, who to my care unfold
(After a due oath ministred) the height
And greatness of each star shines in the state,
The brightness, the eclipse, the influence.
With others I commune, who tell me whence
The torrent doth of foreign discord flow;
Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,
Soon as they happen; and by rote can tell
Those German towns, even puzzle me to spell.
The cross, or prosperous fate, of princes, they
Ascribe to rashness, cunning, or delay;
And on each action comment, with more skill
Than upon Livy did old Machiavel.
O busy folly! Why do I my brain
Perplex with the dull policies of Spain,

Or quick designs of France! Why not repair
To the pure innocence o' th' country air,
And neighbour thee, dear friend who so dost give
Thy thoughts to worth and virtue, that to live
Blest, is to trace thy ways. There might not we
Arm against passion with philosophy;
And, by the aid of leisure, so control
Whate'er is earth in us, to grow all soul!
Knowledge doth ignorance engender, when
We study mysteries of other men,

And foreign plots. Do but in thy own shade
(Thy head upon some flow'ry pillow laid,
Kind nature's housewifery) contemplate all
His stratagems, who labours to enthral

The world to his great master, and you'll find
Ambition mocks itself, and grasps the wind.
Not conquest makes us great. Blood is too dear
A price for glory: Honour doth appear
To statesmen like a vision in the night,
And, juggler-like, works o' th' deluded sight.
Th' unbusied only wise for no respect
Endangers them to error; they affect
Truth in her naked beauty, and behold
Man with an equal eye, not bright in gold
Or tall in title; so much him they weigh
As virtue raiseth him above his clay.

Thus let us value things: and since we find
Time bend us toward earth, let's in our mind
Create new youth; and arm against the rude
Assaults of age; that no dull solitude

O' th' country dead our thoughts, nor busy care
O' th' town make us to think, where now we are
And whither we are bound. Time ne'er forgot
His journey, though his steps we number'd not.

Description of Castara.

Like the violet which, alone,
Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknown,
To no looser eye betray'd,

For she's to herself untrue,
Who delights i' th' public view.
Such is her beauty, as no arts
Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace;
Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place.

Folly boasts a glorious blood,
She is noblest, being good.
Cautious, she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant;
Nor speaks loud, to boast her wit;
In her silence eloquent :

Of herself survey she takes,

But 'tween men no difference makes.

She obeys with speedy will
Her grave parents' wise commands;
And so innocent, that ill
She nor acts, nor understands:
Women's feet run still astray,
If once to ill they know the way.

She sails by that rock, the court,
Where oft honour splits her mast;
And retir'dness thinks the port,
Where her fame may anchor cast:
Virtue safely cannot sit,

Where vice is enthron'd for wit.
She holds that day's pleasure best,
Where sin waits not on delight;
Without masque, or ball, or feast,
Sweetly spends a winter's night:

O'er that darkness, whence is thrust
Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust.

She her throne makes reason climb,
While wild passions captive lie:
And, each article of time,
Her pure thoughts to heaven fly:
All her vows religious be,
And her love she vows to me.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING (1608-1641) possessed such a natural liveliness of fancy, and exuberance of animal spirits, that he often broke through the artificial restraints imposed by the literary taste of his times, but he never rose into the poetry of passion and imagination. He is a delightful writer of what have been called 'occasional poems.' His polished wit, playful fancy, and knowledge of life and society, enabled him to give interest to trifles, and to clothe familiar thoughts in the garb of poetry. His own life seems to have been one summer-day—

Youth at the prow, and pleasure at the helm. He dreamt of enjoyment, not of fame. The father of Suckling was secretary of state to James I., and comptroller of the household to Charles I. The poet was distinguished almost from his infancy; and at sixteen he had entered on public life! His first appearance was as a soldier under the celebrated Gustavus Adolphus, with whom he served one campaign. On his return, he entered warmly into the cause of Charles I., and raised a troop of horse in his support. He intrigued with his brother cavaliers to rescue the Earl of Strafford, and was impeached by the House of Commons. To evade a trial, he fled to France, but a fatal accident took place by the way. His servant having robbed him at an inn, Suckling, learning the circumstance, drew on his boots hurriedly, to pursue him; a rusty nail, or (according to another account) the blade of a knife, I had been concealed in the boot, which wounded him, and produced mortification, of which he died. The works of Suckling consist of miscellaneous poems, five plays, and some private letters. His poems are all short, and the best of them are dedicated to love and gallantry. With the freedom of a cavalier, Suckling has greater purity of expression than most of his contemporaries. His sentiments are sometimes too voluptuous, but are rarely coarse; and there is so much elasticity and vivacity in his verses, that he never becomes tedious. His Ballad upon a Wedding is inimitable for witty levity and choice beauty of expression. It has touches of graphic description and liveliness equal to the pictures of Chaucer. One well-known verse has never been excelled

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 !*

*Herrick, who had no occasion to steal, has taken this image from Suckling, and spoiled it in the theft

Her pretty feet, like snails, did creep
A little out.

Like Sir Fretful Plagiary, Herrick had not skill to steal with taste. Wycherley also purloined Herrick's simile for one of his plays. The allusion to Easter-day is founded upon a beautiful old superstition of the English peasantry, that the sun dances upon that morning.

[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;

I 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.

Larch, 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.

1 Whitsun-ales were festive assemblies of the people of whole parishes at Whitsunday.

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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 hare 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? 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.

The Careless Lover.

Never believe me if I love,

Or know what 'tis, or mean to prove ;
And yet in faith I lie, I do,
And she's extremely handsome too;

She's fair, she's wond'rous fair,
But I care not who knows it,
E'er I'll die for love,

I fairly will forego it.

This heat of hope, or cold of fear,
My foolish heart could never bear:
One sigh imprison'd ruins more
Than earthquakes have done heretofore:
She's fair, &c.

When I am hungry I do eat,
And cut no fingers 'stead of meat;
Nor with much gazing on her face,
Do e'er rise hungry from the place:
She's fair, &c.

A gentle round fill'd to the brink,
To this and t'other friend I drink;
And if 'tis nam'd another's health,
I never make it her's by stealth:
She's fair, &c.

Blackfriars to me, and old Whitehall,
Is even as much as is the fall
Of fountains or a pathless grove,
And nourishes as much as love:
She's fair, &c.

I visit, talk, do business, play,
And for a need laugh out a day;
Who does not thus in Cupid's school,
He makes not love, but plays the fool:
She's fair, &c.

Song.

Hast thou seen the down in the air,

When wanton blasts have tost it?

Or the ship on the sea,

When ruder winds have crost it?
Hast thou mark'd the crocodiles weeping,
Or the foxes sleeping?

Or hast thou view'd the peacock in his pride,
Or the dove by his bride,

Oh! so fickle; oh! so vain ; oh! so false, so false is she!

Detraction Execrated.

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.

Much less could'st have it from the purer fire;
Our heat exhales no vapour from coarse sense,
Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond desire:
Our mutual love itself did recompense.
Thou hast no correspondence had in heaven,
And th' elemental world, thou see'st, is free.
Whence hadst thou, then, this, talking monster
From hell, a harbour fit for it and thee.
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.

The plot is complicated and obscure, and the characters are deficient in individuality. It must be read, like the Faery Queen, for its romantic descriptions, and its occasional felicity of language. The versification is that of the heroic couplet, varied, like Milton's Lycidas, by breaks and pauses in the middle even of the line.

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 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.

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[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 oper, 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'i,
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.

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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,
Fashion'd in his imagination
Or whether some fantastic form it were,

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.

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