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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,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hill and valley, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of Aowers, and a kirtle,
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold,
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber steds :
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
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
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong
His settled peace, or to disturb the same ;
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey !
He also wrote the following sprightly song :
Love is a sickness full of
All remedies refusing ;
A plant that most with cutting, grows;
Most barren, with best using :
More we enjoy it, more it djes ;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries-
Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
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 :
And if I sleep, there percheth he
With pretty Aight,
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 :
Whist, wanton, still ye,
Else I, with roses, every day
Will whip you hence,
you long to play,
For your offence :
I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in;
I'll make you fast it for your sin ;
I'll count your power not worth a pin;
Alas! what hereby shall I win,
If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod ?
He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid ! so thou pity me,
Spare not, but play thee.
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 Aowers 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 alnıost blind; for thee (loved clay)
I languish out, not live, the day,
Using no other exercise
But what I practise with mine eyes :
By which wet glasses I find out
How lazily Time creeps about
To one that mourns: this, only this,
My exercise and business is :
So I compute the weary hours
With sighs dissolved into showers.