I'm sure my language to her was as sweet, In sentence of as subtle feet, That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree. Read so much waist as she cannot embrace, And all these, through her eyes, have stopt her ears. INVITING A FRIEND TO SUPPER. To-night, grave sir, both my poor house and I Do equally desire your company: Not that we think us worthy such a guest, But that your worth will dignify our feast With those that come; whose grace may make that seem Something which else would hope for no esteem. It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates The entertainment perfect, not the cates. Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen, Lemons and wine for sauce; to these, a coney1 Is not to be despaired of for our money; And, though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks,2 I'll tell you of more (and lie, so you will come), Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some Livy, or of some better book, to us, Of which we'll speak our minds amidst our meat : To this if aught appear which Î not know of, 1 A rabbit. Is a pure cup of rich canary wine, Which is the Mermaid's1 now, but shall be mine; AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD OF QUEEN Weep with me, all you that read This little story: And know, for whom a tear you shed 'Twas a child that so did thrive In grace and feature, As heaven and nature seemed to strive Years he numbered scarce thirteen Yet three filled zodiacs had he been And did act, what now we moan, Old men so duly As, sooth, the Parcae thought him one, He played so truly! So, by error, to his fate They all consented; But, viewing him since, alas, too late And have sought, to give new birth, In baths to steep him; But, being so much too good for earth, 1 The famous Mermaid Tavern. 2 Are no better than Luther's beer in comparison with this canary which I sing. 3 A little actor, otherwise than in these lines quite unremembered, who excelled in performing the parts of old men, and died at twelve years of age. AN EPIGRAM TO THE HOUSEHOLD OF CHARLES I., 1630. The King's fame lives. Go now, deny his tierce! GILES FLETCHER. 1 -1623.) WHEN Spenser died in 1599, there were already growing to manhood a younger generation of Spenserians, pastoral poets, who would in course of years acknowledge for Spenser something of the docile reverence which he had expressed in his youth for Chaucer, his English Tityrus." Among these younger poets, youths in their teens at the date of Spenser's death, were the brothers Giles and Phineas Fletcher. They were first cousins of John Fletcher the dramatist, and sons of Dr. Giles Fletcher, who was at one time Ambassador at the court of Russia, and who had dedicated a book, entitled Of the Russe Common Wealth, to Queen Elizabeth in 1591, which she as quickly suppressed, "lest," says Anthony Wood, "it might give offence to a prince in amity with England." Phineas and his brother were educated at Cambridge. Giles graduated as B.D., and obtained the living of Alderton in Suffolk, while Phineas became rector at Hilgay in Norfolk; and each of them produced a very remarkable poem. The Christ's Victory of Giles Fletcher was published at Cambridge in 1610. Its 1 See p. 352. measure is a full flowing eight-lined stanza, which is, in fact, Spenser's own stanza with the seventh line omitted. It is written in a tone of exalted and rapturous piety. Giles Fletcher was emphatically a pastoral poet; but he cast away the oft-sung themes of Arcadian romance, and chose for the subject of his poem the most exquisite and sublime of all pastoral stories. FROM CHRIST'S VICTORY AND TRIUMPH. THE BIRTH OF CHRIST. Who can forget, never to be forgot, The time that all the world in slumber lies, On earth? Was never sight of pareil1 fame; And yet but newly he was infanted, But scarcely fled away, when, by and by, The tyrant's sword with blood is all defiled, Cries, "O, thou cruel king!" and "O, my sweetest child!" A Star comes dancing up the orient, That springs for joy over the strawy tent; Where gold, to make their Prince a crown, they all present... With that, the mighty thunder dropt away From God's unwary arm, now milder grown, And melted into tears; as if to pray For pardon and for pity it had known, That should have been for sacred vengeance thrown : Their former rage, and, all to Mercy bowed, So, down she let her eyelids fall, to shine Whose woods drop honey and her rivers skip with wine. CHRIST'S ASCENSION INTO HEAVEN. So long He wandered in our lower sphere A globe of wingèd angels, swift as thought, The rest, that yet amazèd stood below With eyes cast up, as greedy to be fed, And hands upheld, themselves to ground did throw : As through the Italian woods they say he fled, Some lest he should have fallen back afraid, "Toss up your heads, ye everlasting gates, And let the Prince of Glory enter in ; At whose brave volley of sidereal states The sun to blush and stars grow pale were seen; |