Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 43

13 He is, of all his dukes and peers, Reverenced for much wit at's years, Nor must you think it much; For he with little switch doth play, And make fine dirty pies of clay, Oh, never king made such!

14 A bird that can but kill a fly, Or prate, doth please his majesty, Tis known to every one; The Duke of Guise gave him a parrot, And he had twenty cannons for it, For his new galleon.

15 Oh that I e'er might have the hap To get the bird which in the map Is call'd the Indian ruck!

I'd give it him, and hope to be As rich as Guise or Livine, Or else I had ill-luck.

16 Birds round about his chamber stand, And he them feeds with his own hand, 'Tis his humility; And if they do want anything, They need but whistle for their king, And he comes presently.

17 But now, then, for these parts he must Be enstyled Lewis the Just, Great Henry's lawful heir; When to his style to add more words, They'd better call him King of Birds, Than of the great Navarre.

18 He hath besides a pretty quirk, Taught him by nature, how to work In iron with much ease; Sometimes to the forge he goes, There he knocks and there he blows, And makes both locks and keys;

19 Which puts a doubt in every one, Whether he be Mars' or Vulcan's son, Some few believe his mother; But let them all say what they will, I came resolved, and so think still, As much the one as th' other.

20 The people too dislike the youth, Alleging reasons, for, in truth, Mothers should honour'd be; Yet others say, he loves her rather As well as ere she loved her father, And that's notoriously.

21 His queen,[1] a pretty little wench, Was born in Spain, speaks little French, She's ne'er like to be mother; For her incestuous house could not Have children which were not begot By uncle or by brother.

22 Nor why should Lewis, being so just, Content himself to take his l.u.s.t With his Lucina's mate, And suffer his little pretty queen, From all her race that yet hath been, So to degenerate?

23 'Twere charity for to be known To love others' children as his own, And why? it is no shame, Unless that he would greater be Than was his father Henery, Who, men thought, did the same.

[1] Anne of Austria.

FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES.

1 Farewell, rewards and fairies, Good housewives now may say, For now foul s.l.u.ts in dairies Do fare as well as they.

And though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do, Yet who of late, for cleanliness, Finds sixpence in her shoe?

2 Lament, lament, old Abbeys, The fairies lost command; They did but change priests' babies, But some have changed your land; And all your children sprung from thence Are now grown Puritans; Who live as changelings ever since, For love of your domains.

3 At morning and at evening both, You merry were and glad, So little care of sleep or sloth These pretty ladies had; When Tom came home from labour, Or Cis to milking rose, Then merrily went their tabor, And nimbly went their toes.

4 Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs, which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a gra.s.sy plain; But since of late Elizabeth, And later, James came in, They never danced on any heath As when the time hath been.

5 By which we note the fairies Were of the old profession, Their songs were Ave-Maries, Their dances were procession: But now, alas! they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas; Or further for religion fled, Or else they take their ease.

6 A tell-tale in their company They never could endure, And whoso kept not secretly Their mirth, was punish'd sure; It was a just and Christian deed, To pinch such black and blue: Oh, how the commonwealth doth need Such justices as you!

BEN JONSON.

As 'rare Ben' chiefly shone as a dramatist, we need not recount at length the events of his life. He was born in 1574; his father, who had been a clergyman in Westminster, and was sprung from a Scotch family in Annandale, having died before his birth. His mother marrying a bricklayer, Ben was brought up to the same employment. Disliking this, he enlisted in the army, and served with credit in the Low Countries.

When he came home, he entered St John's College, Cambridge; but his stay there must have been short, since he is found in London at the age of twenty, married, and acting on the stage. He began at the same time to write dramas. He was unlucky enough to quarrel with and kill another performer, for which he was committed to prison, but released without a trial. He resumed his labours as a writer for the stage; but having failed in the acting department, he forsook it for ever. His first hit was, 'Every Man in his Humour,' a play enacted in 1598, Shakspeare being one of the actors. His course afterwards was chequered. He quarrelled with Marston and Dekker,--he was imprisoned for some reflections on the Scottish nation in one of his comedies,--he was appointed in 1619 poet- laureate, with a pension of 100 marks,--he made the same year a journey to Scotland on foot, where he visited Drummond at Hawthornden, and they seem to have mutually loathed each other,'--he fell into habits of intemperance, and acquired, as he said himself,

'A mountain belly and a rocky face.'

His favourite haunts were the Mermaid, and the Falcon Tavern, Southwark.

He was engaged in constant squabbles with his contemporaries, and died at last, in 1637, in miserably poor circ.u.mstances. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, under a square tablet, where one of his admirers afterwards inscribed the words,

'O rare Ben Jonson!'

Of his powers as a dramatist we need not speak, but present our readers with some rough and racy specimens of his poetry.

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

Underneath this sable hea.r.s.e Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother; Death! ere thou hast slain another, Learn'd and fair, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee!

THE PICTURE OF THE BODY.

Sitting, and ready to be drawn, What make these velvets, silks, and lawn, Embroideries, feathers, fringes, lace, Where every limb takes like a face?

Send these suspected helps to aid Some form defective, or decay'd; This beauty, without falsehood fair, Needs nought to clothe it but the air.

Yet something to the painter's view, Were fitly interposed; so new, He shall, if he can understand, Work by my fancy, with his hand.

Draw first a cloud, all save her neck, And, out of that, make day to break; Till like her face it do appear, And men may think all light rose there.

Then let the beams of that disperse The cloud, and show the universe; But at such distance, as the eye May rather yet adore, than spy.

TO PENSHURST.

(FROM 'THE FOREST')

Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row Of polish'd pillars, or a roof of gold: Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told; Or stair, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile, And these grudged at, are reverenced the while.

Thou joy'st in better marks of soil and air, Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair.

Thou hast thy walks for health as well as sport; Thy mount to which the dryads do resort, Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade; That taller tree which of a nut was set At his great birth where all the Muses met.

There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names Of many a Sylvan token with his flames.

And thence the ruddy Satyrs oft provoke The lighter Fauns to reach thy Ladies' Oak.

Thy copse, too, named of Gamage, thou hast here That never fails, to serve thee, season'd deer, When thou would'st feast or exercise thy friends.

The lower land that to the river bends, Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed: The middle ground thy mares and horses breed.

Each bank doth yield thee conies, and the tops Fertile of wood. Ash.o.r.e, and Sidney's copse, To crown thy open table doth provide The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side: The painted partridge lies in every field, And, for thy mess, is willing to be kill'd.

And if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish, Thou hast thy ponds that pay thee tribute fish, Fat, aged carps that run into thy net, And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat, As both the second draught or cast to stay, Officiously, at first, themselves betray.

Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land, Before the fisher, or into his hand.

Thou hast thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours.

The early cherry with the later plum, Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come: The blus.h.i.+ng apricot and woolly peach Hang on thy walls that every child may reach.

And though thy walls be of the country stone, They're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's groan; There's none that dwell about them wish them down; But all come in, the farmer and the clown, And no one empty-handed, to salute Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit.

Some bring a capon, some a rural cake, Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make The better cheeses, bring them, or else send By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend This way to husbands; and whose baskets bear An emblem of themselves, in plum or pear.

But what can this (more than express their love) Add to thy free provision, far above The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow With all that hospitality doth know!

Where comes no guest but is allow'd to eat Without his fear, and of thy lord's own meat: Where the same beer, and bread, and selfsame wine That is his lords.h.i.+p's shall be also mine.

And I not fain to sit (as some this day At great men's tables) and yet dine away.