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His terse lines on Life are more familiar :

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-
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid to-night :
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The Spring entombed in Autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past—and man forgot!

SIR H. WOTTON's admired lines, entitled The Happy Life, are well worthy of a place among the most perfect passages of our English poetry:—

How happy is he born and taught

That serveth not another's win;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death-
Untied unto the worldly care

Of public fame or private breath!




Who God doth late and early pray

More of His grace than gifts to lend ;

And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend:
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
Lord of himself-though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.

WOTTON is also justly celebrated for his brilliant stanzas addressed to the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of James I. :

You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your numbers than your light,—
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the moon shall rise?


Ye violets, that first appear,

By your pure, purple mantles known,-
Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the Spring were all your own,—
What are you
when the rose is blown?
Ye curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?

So, when my mistress shall be seen,

In sweetness of her looks and mind;
By virtue first, then choice, a queen-
Tell me, if she was not designed
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

Another of those courtly minstrels was SIR JOHN SUCKLING; and here, with some of his graceful contributions to our poetic anthology, we conclude the first of our evening studies:

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Pr'ythee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Pr'ythee, why so pale?

Why so pale and mute, young sinner?
Pr'ythee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't move her,
Saying nothing do't?

Pr'ythee, 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!

His most celebrated piece is The Wedding, written in honour of the beautiful daughter of the Earl of Suffolk. sparkling stanzas :—

Here are a few of the

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 looked 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 feared 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 Catharine pear

(The side that's next the sunj.

Her lips were red, and one was thin, Compared 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 Júly.



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