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SAMUEL ROWLANDS.

[Died, 1634?]

THE history of this author is quite unknown, except that he was a prolific pamphleteer in the reigns of Elizabeth, James I. and Charles I. Ritson has mustered a numerous catalogue of his works, to which the compilers of the Censura Literaria have added some articles. It has been remarked by the latter, that his muse is generally found in low company, from which it is inferred that he frequented the haunts of dissipation. The conclusion is unjust-Fielding was not a blackguard, though he wrote the adventures of

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TRAGEDY OF SMUG THE SMITH.

FROM THE NIGHT RAVEN.

A SMITH for felony was apprehended,
And being condemn'd for having so offended,
The townsmen, with a general consent,
Unto the judge with a petition went,
Affirming that no smith did near them dwell,
And for his art they could not spare him well;
For he was good at edge-tool, lock, and key,
And for a farrier most rare man, quoth they.
The discreet judge unto the clowns replied,
How shall the law be justly satisfied?

A thief that steals must die therefore, that's flat.
O Sir, said they, we have a trick for that:
Two weavers dwelling in our town there are,
And one of them we very well can spare ;
Let him be hang'd, we very humbly crave—
Nay, hang them both, so we the smith may save.
The judge he smiled at their simple jest,
And said, the smith would serve the hangman best.

THE VICAR.

FROM HIS EPIGRAMS, NO. XXXVII.

In the Letting of Humour's Blood, in the Head Vein.
First published in 1600.

An honest vicar and a kind consort,
That to the ale-house friendly would resort,
To have a game at tables now and than,
Or drink his pot as soon as any man;
As fair a gamester, and as free from brawl,
As ever man should need to play withal;
Because his hostess pledged him not carouse,
Rashly, in choler, did forswear her house :
Taking the glass, this was his oath he swore-
"Now, by this drink, I'll ne'er come hither more."
Bat mightily his hostess did repent,
For all her guests to the next ale-house went,

Following the vicar's steps in everything,
He led the parish even by a string;
At length his ancient hostess did complain
She was undone, unless he came again;
Desiring certain friends of hers and his,
To use a policy, which should be this:
Because with coming he should not forswear him,
To save his oaths they on their backs should bear
him.

Of this good course the vicar well did think,
And so they always carried him to drink.

LIKE MASTER, LIKE MAN.
FROM THE KNAVE OF SPADES.

Two serving men, or rather two men-servers,
For unto God they were but ill deservers,
Conferr'd together kindly, knave with knave,
What fitting masters for their turns they have.
"Mine," quoth the one, "is of a bounteous sprite,
And in the tavern will be drunk all night,
Spending most lavishly he knows not what,
But I have wit to make good use of that:
And is for tavern and for bawdy house,

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Then, pray thee, let us two in love go drink,
And on these matters for our profit think :
To handle such two masters turn us loose;
Shear thou the sheep, and I will pluck the goose."

FOOLS AND BABES TELL TRUE.

FROM THE SAME.

Two friends that met would give each other wine,
And made their entrance at next bush and sign,
Calling for claret, which they did agree,
(The season hot) should qualified be

With water and sugar: so the same being brought
By a new boy, in vintners' tricks untaught,
They bad him quickly bring fair water in,
Who look'd as strange as he amazed had bin.
"Why dost not stir," quoth they," with nimble
"'Cause, gentlemen," said he, "it is not meet [feet?"
To put in too much water in your drink,
For there's enough already, sure, I think;
Richard the drawer, by my troth I vow,
Put in great store of water even now."

THE MARRIED SCHOLAR.

A SCHOLAR, newly enter'd marriage life,
Following his study, did offend his wife,
Because when she his company expected,
By bookish business she was still neglected;
Coming unto his study, "Lord,” quoth she,
"Can papers cause you love them more than me?
I would I were transform'd into a book,
That your affection might upon me look!
But in my wish withal be it decreed,

I would be such a book you love to read.
Husband (quoth she) which book's form should I
take?"

"Marry," said he, " 'twere best an almanack:
The reason wherefore I do wish thee so,
Is, every year we have a new, you know."

[* Malone attributes this saying to Dryden, but it was said before Dryden was born; is in Rowlands, and among the jests of Drummond of Hawthornden.]

JOHN DONNE, D.D.

[Born, 1573. Died, 1631.]

but the chancellor would not again take him into
his service; and the brutal father-in-law would
not support the unfortunate pair. In their dis-
tress, however, they were sheltered by Sir
Francis Wolley, a son of Lady Ellesmere by a
former marriage, with whom they resided for
several years, and were treated with a kindness!
that mitigated their sense of dependence.

Donne had been bred a catholic, but on mature reflection had made a conscientious renunciation of that faith. One of his warm friends, Dr. Morton, afterwards bishop of Durham, wished to have provided for him, by generously surrendering one of his benefices: he therefore pressed

THE life of Donne is more interesting than his poetry. He was descended from an ancient family; his mother was related to Sir Thomas More, and to Heywood, the epigrammatist. A prodigy of youthful learning, he was entered of Hart Hall, now Hertford College, at the unprecedented age of eleven: he studied afterwards with an extraordinary thirst for general knowledge, and seems to have consumed a considerable patrimony on his education and travels. Having accompanied the Earl of Essex in his expedition to Cadiz, he purposed to have set out on an extensive course of travels, and to have visited the holy sepulchre at Jerusalem. Though compelled to give up his design by the insuper-him to take holy orders, and to return to him able dangers and difficulties of the journey, he did not come home till his mind had been stored with an extensive knowledge of foreign languages and manners, by a residence in the south of Europe. On his return to England, the Lord Chancellor Ellesmere made him his secretary, and took him to his house. There he formed a mutual attachment to the niece of Lady Ellesmere, and without the means or prospect of support, the lovers thought proper to marry. The lady's father, Sir George More, on the declaration of this step, was so transported with rage, that he insisted on the chancellor's driving Donne from his protection, and even got him imprisoned, together with the witnesses of the marriage. He was soon released from prison,

the third day with his answer to the proposal. "At hearing of this," (says his biographer.) "Mr. Donne's faint breath and perplexed countenance gave visible testimony of an inward conflict. He did not however return his answer till the third day; when, with fervid thanks, he declined the offer, telling the bishop that there were some errors of his life which, though long repented of, and pardoned, as he trusted, by God, might yet be not forgotten by some men, and which might cast a dishonour on the sacred office." We are not told what those irregularities were; but the conscience which could dictate such an answer was not likely to require great offences for a stumbling-block. This occurred in the poet's thirty-fourth year.

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After the death of Sir F. Wolley, his next protector was Sir Robert Drury, whom he accompanied on an embassy to France. His wife, with an attachment as romantic as poet could wish for, had formed the design of accompanying him as a page. It was on this occasion, and to dissuade her from the design, that he addressed to her the verses beginning, By our first strange and fatal interview." Isaak Walton relates, with great simplicity, how the poet, one evening, as he sat alone in his chamber in Paris, saw the vision of his beloved wife appear to him with a dead infant in her arms, a story which wants only credibility to be interesting. He had at

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last the good fortune to attract the regard of King James; and, at his majesty's instance, as he might now consider that he had outlived the remembrance of his former follies, he was persuaded to become a clergyman. In this capacity he was successively appointed chaplain to the king, lecturer of Lincoln's Inn, vicar of St. Dunstan's Fleet Street, and dean of St. Paul's. His death, at a late age, was occasioned by consumption. He was buried in St. Paul's,

where his figure yet remains in the vault of St. Faith's, carved from a painting for which he sat a few days before his death, dressed in his winding-sheet.

SONG.

SWEETEST love, I do not go

For weariness of thee,

Nor in hope the world can show

A fitter love for me.

But since that I

Must die at last, 'tis best
Thus to use myself in jest
By feigned death to die.

Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here to-day;
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way:
Then fear not me,

But believe that I shall make
Hastier journeys, since I take
More wings and spurs than he.

THE BREAK OF DAY.

STAY, oh Sweet! and do not rise:

The light that shines comes from thine eyes;
The day breaks not-it is my heart,
Because that you and I must part.
Stay, or else my joys will die,
And perish in their infancy.

Tis true, it's day-what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise because 'tis light?
Did we lie down because 'twas night?
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should, in despite of light, keep us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;

If it could speak as well as spy,

This were the worst that it could say,
That, being well, I fain would stay,

And that I loved my heart and honour so,
That I would not from her that had them go.

Must business thee from hence remove?
O, that's the worst disease of love!
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busy man.

He which hath business and makes love, doth do
Such wrong as when a married man doth woo.

THE DREAM.

IMAGE of her whom I love more than she
Whose fair impression in my faithful heart
Makes me her medal, and makes her love me
As kings do coins, to which their stamps impart
The value-go, and take my heart from hence,
Which now is grown too great and good for me.
Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense
Strong objects dull; the more, the less we see.
When you are gone, and reason gone with you,
Then phantasy is queen, and soul, and all;
She can present joys meaner than you do,
Convenient, and more proportional.

So if I dream I have you, I have you,

For all our joys are but fantastical,
And so I 'scape the pain, for pain is true;
And sleep, which locks up sense, doth lock out all.
After such a fruition I shall wake,

And, but the waking, nothing shall repent;
And shall to love more thankful sonnets make,
Than if more honour, tears, and pains, were spent.
But, dearest heart, and dearer image, stay ;
Alas! true joys at best are dreams enough.
Though you stay here you pass too fast away,
For even at first life's taper is a snuff.
Fill'd with her love, may I be rather grown
Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.

ON THE LORD HARRINGTON, &c.

TO THE COUNTESS OF BEDFORD.

FAIR Soul! which wast not only, as all souls be,
Then when thou wast infused, harmony,
But didst continue so, and now dost bear

A part in God's great organ, this whole sphere;

If looking up to God, or down to us,
Thou find that any way is pervious
'Twixt heaven and earth, and that men's ac-
tions do

Come to your knowledge and affections too,
See, and with joy, me to that good degree
of goodness grown, that I can study thee;
And by these meditations refined,
Can unapparel and enlarge my mind;
And so can make, by this soft extacy,
This place a map of heaven, myself of thee.
Thou see'st me here at midnight now all rest,
Time's dead low-water, when all minds divest

To-morrow's business, when the lab'rers have
Such rest in bed, that their last churchyard grave,
Subject to change, will scarce be a type of this.
Now, when the client, whose last hearing is
To-morrow, sleeps; when the condemned man,
(Who, when he opes his eyes, must shut them, then,
Again by death!) although sad watch he keep,
Doth practise dying by a little sleep.
Thou at this midnight seest me, and as soon
As that sun rises, to me midnight's noon;
All the world grows transparent, and I see
Through all, both church and state, in seeing thee.

THOMAS PICKE.

Of this author I have been able to obtain no farther information, than that he belonged to the Inner Temple, and translated a great number of John Owen's Latin epigrams into English. His

songs, sonnets, and elegies, bear the date of 1631. Indifferent as the collection is, entire pieces of it are pilfered.

FROM SONGS, SONNETS, AND ELEGIES, BY T. PICKE.

THE night, say all, was made for rest ;
And so say I, but not for all;
To them the darkest nights are best,
Which give them leave asleep to fall;
But I that seek my rest by light,
Hate sleep, and praise the clearest night.

Bright was the moon, as bright as day,
And Venus glitter'd in the west,
Whose light did lead the ready way,
That led me to my wished rest;
Then each of them increased their light,
While I enjoy'd her heavenly sight.

Say, gentle dames, what moved your mind
To shine so bright above your wont ?
Would Phoebe fair Endymion find,
Would Venus see Adonis hunt?

No, no, you feared by her sight,
To lose the praise of beauty bright.

At last for shame you shrunk away,
And thought to reave the world of light;
Then shone my dame with brighter ray,
Than that which comes from Phoebus' sight;
None other light but hers I praise,

Whose nights are clearer than the days.

GEORGE HERBERT.

[Born, 1593. Died, 1632-3.]

"HOLY George Herbert," as he is generally called, was prebendary of Leighton Ecclesia, a village in Huntingdonshire. Though Bacon is

said to have consulted him about some of his writings, his memory is chiefly indebted to the affectionate mention of old Isaak Walton.

FROM HIS POEMS, ENTITLED "THE TEMPLE, SACRED POEMS, AND PRIVATE EJACULATIONS.”

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

The bridal of the earth and sky,

Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

8vo. 1633.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shows you have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season'd timber, never gives,
But when the whole world turns to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

JOHN MARSTON.

[Died, 1634.]

THIS writer was the antagonist of Jonson in the drama, and the rival of Bishop Hall in satire*, though confessedly inferior to them both in their respective walks of poetry. While none of his biographers seem to know anything about him, Mr. Gifford (in his Memoirs of Ben Jonson) conceives that Wood has unconsciously noticed him as a gentleman of Coventry, who married Mary, the daughter of the Rev. W. Wilkes, chaplain to King James, and rector of St. Martin, in Wiltshire. According to this notice, our poet died at London, in 1634, and was buried in the church belonging to the Temple. These particulars agree with what Jonson said to Drummond respecting this dramatic opponent of his, in his conversation at Hawthornden, viz. that Marston wrote his father-in-law's preachings, and his father-in-law Marston's comedies. Marston's comedies are somewhat dull; and it is not difficult to conceive a witty sermon of those days,

when puns were scattered from the pulpit, to have been as lively as an indifferent comedy. Marston is the Crispinus of Jonson's Poetaster, where he is treated somewhat less contemptuously than his companion Demetrius (Dekker); an allusion is even made to the respectability of his birth. Both he and Dekker were afterwards reconciled to Jonson; but Marston's reconcilement, though he dedicated his Malcontent to his propitiated enemy, seems to have been subject to relapses. It is amusing to find Langbaine descanting on the chaste purity of Marston as a writer, and the author of the Biographia Dramatica transcribing the compliment immediately before the enumeration of his plays, which are stuffed with obscenity. To this disgraceful characteristic of Marston an allusion is made in "The Return from Parnassus," where it is said, "Give him plain naked words stript from their shirts, That might beseem plain-dealing Aretine."

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FROM SOPHONISBA, A TRAGEDY.

ACT V. SCENE III.

SOPHONISBA, the daughter of Asdrubal, has been wooed by Syphax and Massinissa, rival kings of Africa, and both the allies of Carthage. She prefers Massinissa; and Syphax,

indignant at her refusal, revolts to the Romans. Massinisssa, on the night of his marriage, is summoned to the assistance of the Carthaginians, on the alarm of Scipio's invasion. The senate of Carthage, notwithstanding Massinissa's fidelity, decree that Syphax shall be tempted back to them by the offer of Sophonisba in marriage. Sophonisha is on the point of being sacrificed to the enforced nuptials, when Massinissa, who had been apprised of the treachery of Carthage, attacks the troops of Syphax, joins the Romans, and brings Syphax a captive to Scipio's feet. Syphax, in his justification to Scipio, pleads, that his love for Sophonisba alone had tempted him to revolt from Rome. Scipio therefore orders that the daughter of Asdrubal, when taken prisoner, shall belong to the Romans alone. Lelius and Massinissa march on to Cirta, and storm the palace of Syphax, where they find Sophonisba.

The cornets sounding a march, MASSINISSA enters with his beaver up.

Mass. MARCH to the palace!
Soph. Whate'er man thou art,

Of Lybia thy fair arms speak, give heart

To amazed weakness: hear her that for long time
Hath seen no wished light. Sophonisba,
A name for misery much known, 'tis she
Intreats of thy graced sword this only boon:

He wrote the Scourge of Villany; three books of tires, 1599. He was also author of the Metamorphosis of Pigmalion's Image, and certain Satires, published 1598, which makes his date as satirist nearly coeval with that of Bishop Hall.

Let me not kneel to Rome; for though no cause
Of mine deserves their hate, though Massinissa
Be ours to heart, yet Roman generals
Make proud their triumphs with whatever captives.
O'tis a nation which from soul I fear,

As one well knowing the much-grounded hate
They bear to Asdrubal and Carthage blood!
Therefore, with tears that wash thy feet with hands
Unused to beg, I clasp thy manly knees.
O save me from their fetters and contempt,
Their proud insults, and more than insolence !
Or if it rest not in thy grace of breath

To grant such freedom, give me long-wish'd death;
For 'tis not much-loathed life that now we crave-
Only an unshamed death and silent grave,
We will now deign to bend for.

Mass. Rarity!

By thee and this right hand, thou shalt live free!
Soph. We cannot now be wretched.
Mass. Stay the sword!

Let slaughter cease! sounds, soft as Leda's breast, [Soft music. Slide through all ears! this night be love's high feast. Soph. O'erwhelm me not with sweets; let me not drink

Till my breast burst! O Jove! thy nectar, think-
[She sinks into MASSINISSA's arms.
Mass. She is o'ercome with joy.
Soph. Help, help to bear

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