What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, But you are lovely leaves, where we Into the grave. Now let us rehearse that famous old song of MARLOWE, the favorite of that honest philosopher, angler, and right worthy gentle man, Izaac Walton: Come live with me and be my love, There will we sit upon the rocks, There I will make thee beds of roses, A gown made of the finest wool, Here is the opening passage of a poem by DANIEL, who, for the vigor of his verse, was styled the Atticus of his day :— He that of such a height hath built his mind, And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame Of his resolved powers; nor all the wind His settled peace, or to disturb the same; He also wrote the following sprightly song: Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing ; A plant that most with cutting, grows; Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; Love is a torment of the mind, Not well, nor full, nor fasting: Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries- Among favorite love-lyrics of the olden time, is that entitled Rosalind's Madrigal, by LODGE. Here it is: Love in my bosom, like a bee, Doth suck his sweet; And if I sleep, there percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee, The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he turns the string; He music plays if so I sing; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: Else I, with roses, every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, The following impassioned and beautiful lines are the commencement of a poem, entitled The Exequy, written by DR. KING: Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, Instead of dirges, this complaint; And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse, Receive a strew of weeping verse, From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see Quite melted into tears for thee! Dear loss! since thy untimely fate, My task hath been to meditate On thee, on thee; thou art the book, The library whereon I look, Though almost blind; for thee (loved clay) I languish out, not live, the day, Using no other exercise But what I practise with mine eyes: |