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I have elsewhere vow'd a duty;
Turn away thy tempting eye:
Show not me a painted beauty:
These impostures I defy :
My spirit loaths

Where gaudy clothes

And feigned oaths may love obtain :
I love her so,

Whose look swears No,
That all your labours will be vain.

Can he prize the tainted posies,

Which on every breast are worn, That may pluck the virgin roses From their never-touched thorn? I can go rest

On her sweet breast,

That is the pride of Cynthia's train:
Then stay thy tongue,

Thy mermaid song

Is all bestow'd on me in vain.

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DR. HENRY KING.

[Born, 1592. Died, 1669.]

DR. HENRY KING was chaplain to James the First, and Bishop of Chichester *.

SONG.

DRY those fair, those crystal eyes,
Which like growing fountains rise

To drown their banks! Grief's sullen brooks
Would better flow in furrow'd looks:
Thy lovely face was never meant
To be the shore of discontent.

Then clear those waterish stars again,
Which else portend a lasting rain;
Lest the clouds which settle there
Prolong my winter all the year,
And thy example others make
In love with sorrow, for thy sake.

* His" Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes and Sonnets" (8vo. 1657) have a neatness, elegance and even a tenderness, which entitle them to more attention than they now obtain.]

SIC VITA.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are ;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
Even such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies;
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot:
The flight is past-and man forgot.

LIFE.

WHAT is the existence of man's life
But open war or slumber'd strife?
Where sickness to his sense presents
The combat of the elements,
And never feels a perfect peace
Till death's cold hand signs his release.

It is a storm-where the hot blood
Outvies in rage the boiling flood:
And each loud passion of the mind
Is like a furious gust of wind,
Which beats the bark with many a wave,
Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower-which buds, and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose;
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleep,
Then shrinks into that fatal mould
Where its first being was enroll'd.

It is a dream-whose seeming truth
Is moralised in age and youth;
Where all the comforts he can share
As wand'ring as his fancies are,
Till in a mist of dark decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial-which points out
The sunset as it moves about ;
And shadows out in lines of night
The subtle stages of Time's flight,
Till all-obscuring earth hath laid
His body in perpetual shade.

It is a weary interlude

Which doth short joys, long woes, include:
The world the stage, the prologue tears;
The acts vain hopes and varied fears;
The scene shuts up with loss of breath,
And leaves no epilogue but Death!

DR. ROBERT WILDE

WAS a dissenting clergyman. The dates of his birth and death are not given by Jacob. He

was author of a poem, entitled "Iter Boreale," and "The Benefice," a comedy.

A COMPLAINT OF A LEARNED DIVINE IN PURITAN TIMES.

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252

SIR JOHN MENNIS AND JAMES SMITH.

All the arts I have skill in,
Divine and human,

Yet all's not worth a shilling.
When the women hear me
They do but jeer me,
And say I am profane.
Once I remember

I preached with a weaver;
I quoted Austin,

He quoted Dod and Clever :
I nothing got,

He got a cloak and beaver.

Alas, poor, &c.

Ships, ships, ships I discover,
Crossing the main ;

Shall I in and go over,
Turn Jew or Atheist,
Turk or Papist,

To Geneva or Amsterdam ?

Bishoprics are void

In Scotland, shall I thither?
Or follow Windebank
And Finch, to see if either

Do want a priest to shrieve them?

O no, 'tis blustering weather.
Alas, poor, &c.

Ho, ho, ho, I have hit it:
Peace, Goodman fool!
Thou hast a trade will fit it;
Draw thy indenture,

Be bound at a venture

An apprentice to a free-school;
There thou mayst command,

By William Lilly's charter;
There thou mayst whip, strip,
And hang, and draw and quarter,
And commit to the red rod

Both Will, and Tom, and Arthur.
Ay ay, 'tis hither, hither will I go.

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Hath gnawn these cords, and marr'd them quite, Thy paunch, and draw thy glaring eyes?

Leaving such relics as may be

For frets, not for my lute, but me.

Puss, I will curse thee! may'st thou dwell
With some dry hermit in a cell,

Where rat ne'er peep'd, where mouse ne'er fed,
And flies go supperless to bed;

Or with some close-pared brother, where
Thou'lt fast each sabbath in the year;
Or else, profane, be hang'd on Monday,
For butchering a mouse on Sunday.
Or may'st thou tumble from some tower,
And miss to light upon all-four,

Did not thy conscious stomach find
Nature profaned, that kind with kind
Should stanch his hunger? think on that,
Thou cannibal and cyclops cat!
For know, thou wretch, that every string
Is a cat's gut which art doth bring
Into a thread; and now suppose
Dunstan, that snuff'd the devil's nose,
Should bid these strings revive, as once
He did the calf from naked bones;
Or I, to plague thee for thy sin,
Should draw a circle, and begin

To conjure, for I am, look to't,
An Oxford scholar, and can do't.
Then with three sets of mops and mows,
Seven of odd words, and motley shows,
A thousand tricks that may be taken
From Faustus, Lambe, or Friar Bacon;
I should begin to call my strings
My catlings, and my minikins ;

And they re-catted, straight should fall
To mew, to purr, to caterwaul;
From puss's belly, sure as death,
Puss should be an engastrumeth.
Puss should be sent for to the king,
For a strange bird or some rare thing.
Puss should be sought to far and near,
As she some cunning woman were.
Puss should be carried up and down,
From shire to shire, from town to town,
Like to the camel lean as hag,
The elephant, or apish nag,

For a strange sight; puss should be sung
In lousy ballads' midst the throng,
At markets, with as good a grace

As Agincourt, or Chevy Chace.
The Troy-sprung Briton would forego
His pedigree, he chanteth so,
And sing that Merlin (long deceased)
Return'd is in a nine-lived beast.

Thus, puss, thou see'st what might betide thee;
But I forbear to hurt or chide thee.
For't may be puss was melancholy,
And so to make her blithe and jolly,
Finding these strings, she'd have a fit
Of mirth; nay, puss, if that were it,
Thus I revenge me, that as thou
Hast play'd on them, I on thee now;
And as thy touch was nothing fine,

So I've but scratch'd these notes of mine.

JASPER MAYNE.

[Born, 1604 Died, 1679.]

THIS writer has a cast of broad humour that is amusing, though prone to extravagance. The idea in The City Match of Captain Quartfield and his boon companions exposing simple Timothy dead drunk, and dressed up as a sea-monster for a show, is not indeed within the boundaries of either taste or credibility; but amends is made for it in the next scene, of old Warehouse and Seathrift witnessing in disguise the joy of their heirs at their supposed deaths. Among the many interviews of this nature by which comedy has sought to produce merriment and surprise, this is not one of the worst managed. Plotwell's cool impudence is well supported, when he gives money to the waterman (who tells that he had escaped by swimming at the time the old citizens were drowned,)

There, friend, there is

A fare for you: I'm glad you 'scaped; I had
Not known the news so soon else.

Dr. Mayne was a clergyman in Oxfordshire. He lost his livings at the death of Charles I. and became chaplain to the Earl of Devonshire, who made him acquainted with Hobbes; but the philosopher and poet are said to have been on no very agreeable terms. At the Restoration he was reinstated in his livings, made a canon of Christ-church, archdeacon of Chichester, and chaplain in ordinary to the king. Besides the comedy of the City Match, he published a tragicomedy called The Amorous War; several sermons; dialogues from Lucian; and a pamphlet on the Civil Wars.

FROM "THE CITY MATCH," ACT III. SCENE III.

A son and nephew receiving the news of a father's and an uncle's death.

Persons-WAREHOUSE and SEATHRIFT, two wealthy old merchants in disguise; CYPHER the former's factor, disguised as a waterman; PLOTWELL, nephew to WAREHOUSE; TIMOTHY, son to SEATHRIFT; CAPTAIN QUARTFIELD, BRIGHT, and NEWCUT, companions of PLOTWell.

PLACE:-A Tavern.

Cyph. THEN I must tell the news to you 'tis sad. Plot. I'll hear't as sadly.

Cyph. Your uncle, sir, and Mr. Seathrift are Both drown'd, some eight miles below Greenwich. Plot. Drown'd!

Cyph. They went i' th' tilt-boat, sir, and I was one O' th' oars that row'd 'em ; a coal-ship did o'er-run us,

I 'scaped by swimming; the two old gentlemen Took hold of one another, and sunk together. Bright. How some men's prayers are heard! We did invoke

The sea this morning, and see the Thames has took 'em.

Plot. It cannot be; such good news, gentlemen, Cannot be true.

Ware. "Tis very certain, sir; 'Twas talk'd upon th' Exchange.

Sea. We heard it too

In Paul's now as we came.

Plot. There, friend, there is

A fare for you; I'm glad you 'scaped; I had
Not known the news so soon else. [Gives him money.
Cyph. Sir, excuse me.

Plot. Sir, it is conscience; I do believe you might Sue me in chancery.

Cyph. Sir, you show the virtues of an heir.
Ware. Are you rich Warehouse's heir, sir?
Plot. Yes, sir, his transitory pelf,

And some twelve hundred pound a year in earth,
Is cast on me. Captain, the hour is come,
You shall no more drink ale, of which one draught
Makes cowards, and spoils valour; nor take off
Your moderate quart-glass. I intend to have
A musket for you, or glass cannon, with
A most capacious barrel, which we'll charge
And discharge with the rich valiant grape
Of my uncle's cellar; every charge shall fire
The glass, and burn itself i' th' filling, and look
Like a piece going off.

Quart. I shall be glad

To give thanks for you, sir, in pottle draughts, And shall love Scotch-coal for this wreck the better As long as I know fuel.

Plot. Then my poet

No longer shall write catches, or thin sonnets,
Nor preach in verse as if he were suborn'd
By him that wrote the Whip, to pen lean acts,
And so to overthrow the stage for want
Of salt or wit. Nor shall he need torment
Or persecute his muse; but I will be

His god of wine t'inspire him. He shall no more Converse with the five-yard butler; who, like thunder,

Can turn beer with his voice, and roar it sour:
But shall come forth a Sophocles and write
Things for the buskin. Instead of Pegasus,
To strike a spring with's hoof, we'll have a steel
Which shall but touch a butt, and straight shall
A purer, higher, wealthier Helicon.

[flow
Sale. Frank, thou shalt be my Phoebus. My next
Shall be thy uncle's tragedy, or the Life
And Death of two Rich Merchants.

Plot. Gentlemen,

[poem

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New. 'Slight, sir, here be

Two fishmongers to buy you, beat the price;
Now y'are awake yourself.

Tim. How's this! my hands

Transmuted into claws? my feet made flounders?
Array'd in fins and scales? Are n't you
Ashamed to make me such a monster? Pray
Help to undress me.

Plot. We have rare news for you.

Tim. No letter from the lady, I hope?
Plot. Your father,

And my grave uncle, sir, are cast away.
Tim. How?

Plot. They by this have made a meal
For jacks and salmon they are drown'd.
Bright. Fall down,

And worship sea-coals, for a ship of them
Has made you, sir, an heir.

Plot. This fellow here

Brings the auspicious news: and these two friends Of ours confirm it.

Cyph. "Tis too true, sir.

Tim. Well,

We are all mortal; but in what wet case
Had I been now, if I had gone with him!
Within this fortnight I had been converted
Into some pike, you might ha' cheap'ned me
In Fish-street; I had made an ordinary,
Perchance, at the Mermaid. Now could I cry
Like any image in a fountain which
Runs lamentations. O my hard misfortune!
[He feigns to weep.
Sea. Fie, sir! good truth, it is not manly in you,
To weep for such a slight loss as a father.
Tim. I do not cry for that.

Sea. No?

Tim. No, but to think,
My mother is not drown'd too.
Sea. I assure you,

And that a shrewd mischance.
Tim. For then might I

Ha' gone to th' counting-house, and set at liberty
Those harmless angels, which for many years
Have been condemn'd to darkness.

Plot. You'd not do

Like your penurious father, who was wont
To walk his dinner out in Paul's, whilst you
Kept Lent at home, and had, like folk in sieges,
Your meals weigh'd to you.

New. Indeed they say he was a monument of
Pauls.

Tim. Yes, he was there

As constant as Duke Humphrey. I can show
The prints where he sate, holes i' th' logs.
Plot. He wore

More pavement out with walking than would make
A row of new stone-saints, and yet refused
To give to th' reparation.

Bright. I've heard

He'd make his jack go empty, to cozen neighbours. Plot. Yes, when there was not fire enough to warm A mastich-patch t' apply to his wife's temples,

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