Mos. And besides, sir, You are not like the thresher that doth stand With a huge flail, watching a heap of corn, And, hungry, dares not taste the smallest grain, But feeds on mallows, and such bitter herbs; Nor like the merchant, who hath fill'd his vaults With Romagnia, and rich Candian wines, Yet drinks the lees of Lombard's vinegar : You will lie not in straw, whilst moths and worms Feed on your sumptuous hangings and soft beds; You know the use of riches, and dare give now From that bright heap, to me, your poor observer, Or to your dwarf, or your hermaphrodite, Your eunuch, or what other household trifle Your pleasure allows maintenance Volp. Hold thee, Mosca, [Gives him money. But cocker up my genius, and live free Volp. Good! and not a fox Stretch'd on the earth, with fine delusive sleights, Mocking a gaping crow? ha, Mosca ! Mos. Sharp sir. Volp. Give me my furs. [Puts on his sick dress.] Mos. I cannot chuse, sir, when I apprehend Implies it. Hood an ass with reverend purple, Volp. My caps, my caps, good Mosca. Fetch him in. Mos. Stay, sir; your ointment for your eyes. Despatch, despatch: I long to have possession Mos. That, and thousands more, I hope to see you lord of. Volp. Thanks, kind Mosca. Mos. And that, when I am lost in blended dust, And hundred such as I am, in successionVolp. Nay, that were too much, Mosca. Mos. You shall live, Still, to delude these harpies. I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe To write me in your family. All my hopes Volt. It shall both shine, and warm thee, Mosca. I am a man, that hath not done your love Volt. But am I sole heir? [morning: Mos. Without a partner, sir; confirm'd this The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry Upon the parchment. Volt. Happy, happy me! By what good chance, sweet Mosca ? Mos. Your desert, sir; I know no second cause. Volt. Thy modesty Is not to know it; well, we shall requite it. Mos. He ever liked your course, sir; that first took him. I oft have heard him say, how he admired Who's that? one knocks; I would not have you seen, sir. And yet pretend you came, and went in haste; [sir Mos. When will you have your inventory brought Or see a copy of the will?-Anon !— I'll bring them to you, sir. Away, be gone, Put business in your face. [Exit VOLTORE. Volp. [springing up.] Excellent Mosca! Come hither, let me kiss thee. Mos. Keep you still, sir. Here is Corbaccio. Volp. Set the plate away: The vulture's gone, and the old raven's come! A wretch, who is indeed more impotent Enter CORBACCIO. Signior Corbaccio! You're very welcome, sir. Corb. What! mends he? Mos. No, sir: he's rather worse. Corb. That's well. Where is he? Mos. Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleep. Corb. Does he sleep well? Mos. No wink, sir, all this night, Nor yesterday; but slumbers. Corb. Good! he should take Some counsel of physicians: I have brought him An opiate here, from mine own doctor. Mos. He will not hear of drugs. Corb. Not I his heir? Mos. Not your physician, sir. Corb. O, no, no, no; I do not mean it. Mos. No, sir, nor their fees He cannot brook: he says, they flay a man, Before they kill him. Corb. Right, I do conceive you. Mos. And then they do it by experiment; For which the law not only doth absolve them, But gives them great reward: and he is loth To hire his death, so. Corb. It is true, they kill With as much license as a judge. Mos. Nay, more; For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns, And these can kill him too. Mos. His pulse beats slow, and dull. Corb. Good symptoms still. Mos. And from his brain Corb. I conceive you; good. Mos. Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum, Forth the resolved corners of his eyes. Corb. Is't possible? Yet I am better, ha! How does he, with the swimming of his head? Mos. O, sir, 'tis past the scotomy; he now Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort: You hardly can perceive him, that he breathes. Corb. Excellent, excellent! sure I shall outlast This makes me young again, a score of years. [him: Mos. I was a coming for you, sir. Corb. Has he made his will? What has he given me ? I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca, look, Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines, Will quite weigh down his plate. Mos. [taking the bag.] Yea, marry, sir, This is true physic, this your sacred medicine; No talk of opiates, to this great elixir ! Corb. 'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile. Mos. It shall be minister'd to him, in his bowl. Corb. Ay, do, do, do. Mos. Most blessed cordial! This will recover him. Corb. Yes, do, do, do. Mos. I think it were not best, sir. Corb. O, but colour? Mos. This will, sir, you shall send it unto me. Or least regard, unto your proper issue, The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you Corb. I thought on that too. See, how he Mos. You have not only done yourself a good- Corb. Still, my invention. Mos. 'Las, sir! heaven knows, It hath been all my study, all my care, (I e'en grow gray withal,) how to work things- Mos. Your knowledge is no better than your Corb. I do not doubt, to be a father to thee. Mos. Your worship is a precious ass! Mos. I do desire your worship to make haste, sir. Mos. Contain Your flux of laughter, sir: you know this hope Volp. O, but thy working, and thy placing it! Mos. Ay, with our help, sir. [ment Volp. So many cares, so many maladies, And all turns air? [Knocking within.] Who's Mos. Close, to your couch again; I hear his It is Corvino, our spruce merchant. [voice: Corb. I know thee honest. Mos. You do lie, sir! [Aside. Volp. [lies down as before.] Dead. THOMAS CAREW. [Born, 1589. Died, 1639.] WHEN Mr. Ellis pronounced that Carew cer- | a zealous adherent of the fortunes of Charles I. tainly died in 1634, he had probably some reasons for setting aside the date of the poet's birth assigned by Lord Clarendon ; but as he has not given them, the authority of a contemporary must be allowed to stand. He was of the Carews of Gloucestershire, a family descended from the elder stock of that name in Devonshire, and a younger brother of Sir Matthew Carew, who was He was educated at Oxford, but was neither matriculated nor took any degree. After returning from his travels, he was received with distinction at the court of Charles I. for his elegant manners and accomplishments, and was appointed gentleman of the privy chamber, and sewer in ordinary to his majesty. The rest of his days seem to have passed in affluence and ease, and he died just in time to save him from witnessing the gay and gallant court, to which he had contributed more than the ordinary literature of a courtier, dispersed by the storm of civil war that was already gathering *. The want of boldness and expansion in Carew's thoughts and subjects, excludes him from rivalship with great poetical names; nor is it difficult, even within the narrow pale of his works, to discover some faults of affectation, and of still more objectionable indelicacy. But among the poets who have walked in the same limited path, he is pre-eminently beautiful, and deservedly ranks among the earliest of those who gave a cultivated grace to our lyrical strains. His slowness in composition was evidently that sort of care in the poet, which saves trouble to his reader. His poems have touches of elegance and refinement, which their trifling subjects could not have yielded without a delicate and deliberate exercise of the fancy; and he unites the point and polish of later times with many of the genial and warm tints of the elder muse. Like Waller, he is by no means free from conceit; and one regrets to find him addressing the Surgeon bleeding Celia, in order to tell him that the blood which he draws proceeds not from the fair one's arm, but from the lover's heart. But of such frigid thoughts he is more sparing than Waller; and his conceptions, compared to that poet's, are like fruits of a richer flavour, that have been cultured with the same assiduity*. PERSUASIONS TO LOVE. THINK not, 'cause men flattering say, * Starve not yourself, because you may The snake each year fresh skin resumes, But if your beauties once decay, [* He is mentioned as alive in 1638 in Lord Falkland's verses on Jonson's death; and as there is no poem of Carew's in the Jonsonus Virbius, it is not unlikely that he was dead before its publication.] Spend not in vain your life's short hour, SONG. MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED. GIVE me more love, or more disdain, The torrid, or the frozen zone The temperate affords me none; Like Danae in a golden shower, Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture-hopes; and he's possess'd Of heaven that's but from hell released: Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; Give me more love, or more disdain. TO MY MISTRESS SITTING BY A RIVER'S SIDE, MARK how yon eddy steals away [*"Few will hesitate to acknowledge that he has more fancy and more tenderness than Waller; but less choice, less judgment and knowledge where to stop, less of the equability which never offends, less attention to the unity and thread of his little pieces. I should hesitate to give him, on the whole, the preference as a poet, taking collectively the attributes of that character."HALLAM, Lit. Hist, vol. iii. p. 507.] |