rhetoric of clothes,' in the gallants of his day, and whose sentiments on love were so pure and noble, fall into such absurd and tasteless puerilities. Epistle to a Friend. Addressed to his noblest friend, J. C. Esq.' I hate the country's dirt and manners, yet And on each action comment, with more skill And neighbour thee, dear friend? who so dost give all And foreign plots. Do but in thy own shade- O' th' country dead our thoughts, nor busy care Description of Castara. Like the violet which, alone, For she's to herself untrue,. Such is her beauty, as no arts Folly boasts a glorious blood; Cautious, she knew never yet Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no difference makes. She obeys with speedy will She nor acts, nor understands: If once to ill they know the way. She sails by that rock, the court, Her pure thoughts to heaven fly: THOMAS CAREW. THOMAS CAREW (1589-1639) was the representative of a numerous class of poets-courtiers of a gay and gallant school, who, to personal accomplishments, rank, and education, united a taste and talent for the conventional poetry then most popular and cultivated. Their influence may be seen even in Cowley and Dryden: Carew and Waller were perhaps the best of the class; Rochester was undoubtedly the most debased. Their visions of fame were in general bounded by the circle of the court and the nobility. To live in future generations, or to sound the depths of the human heart, seems not to have entered into their contemplations. A loyal panegyric was the epic strain of their ambition: a rosy cheek or coral lip' formed their ordinary theme. The court applauded; the lady was flattered or appeased by the compliment; and the poet was praised for his wit and gallantry; while all the time the heart had as little to do with the poetical homage thus tendered and accepted, as with the cold abstractions and 'rare poesies' on wax or ivory. A foul taint of immorality and irreligion often lurked under the flowery surface, and insidiously made itself known and felt. Carew sometimes went beyond this strain of heartless frivolity, and is graceful in sentiment as well as style-piling up stones of lustre from the brook ;' but he was capable of far higher things; and in him, as in Suckling, we see only glimpses of a genius which might have been ripened into permanent and beneficial excellence. Carew was descended from an ancient Gloucestershire family. He was educated at Oxford, then travelled abroad, and on his return obtained the notice and patronage of Charles I. He was appointed gentleman of the privy-chamber, and sewer in ordinary to the king. His after-life was that of a courtierwitty, affable, and accomplished-without reflection; and in a strain of loose revelry which, according to Clarendon, the poet deeply repented in his latter days. 'He died,' says the state historian, 'with the greatest remorse for that license, and with the greatest manifestation of Christianity that his best friends could desire.' The poems of Carew are short and occasional. His longest is a mask, written by command of It is the king, entitled Calum Britannicum. partly in prose; and the lyrical pieces were set to music by Dr Henry Lawes, the poetical musician of that age. The short amatory pieces and songs of Carew were exceedingly popular, and are now the only productions of his which are read. They are often indelicate, but rich in expression. Thirty or forty years later, he would have fallen into the frigid style of the court-poets after the Restoration; but at the time he wrote, the passionate and imaginative vein of the Elizabethan period was not wholly exhausted. The 'genial and warm tints' of the elder muse still coloured the landscape, and were reflected back in some measure by Carew. He abounded, however, in tasteless conceits, even on grave elegiac subjects. In his Epitaph on the Daughter of Sir Thomas Wentworth, he says: And here the precious dust is laid, Else the soul grew so fast within, It broke the outward shell of sin, And so was hatched a cherubin! Song. Ask me no more where Jove bestows, Ask me no more whither do stray Ask me no more whither doth haste Ask me no more if east or west The Compliment. I do not love thee for that fair I do not love thee for those flowers I do not love thee for those soft Song. Would you know what's soft? I dare Nor, if you would music hear, Or on food were your thoughts placed, Mediocrity in Love Rejected. Give me more love, or more disdain ; The temperate affords me none; Give me a storm; if it be love, Disdain, that torrent will devour Disdain Returned. He that loves a rosy cheek, But a smooth and steadfast mind, No tears, Celia, now shall win I have searched thy soul within, And find nought but pride and scorn; I have learned thy arts, and now Can disdain as much as thou. Candies the grass, or calls an icy cream SIR JOHN SUCKLING. SIR JOHN SUCKLING (1609-1641) possessed such a natural liveliness of fancy, and exuberance of animal spirits, that he often broke through the artificial restraints imposed by the literary taste of his times, but he never rose into the poetry of strong passion. He is a delightful writer of what have been called 'occasional poems.' His polished wit, playful fancy, and knowledge of life and society, enabled him to give interest to trifles, and to clothe familiar thoughts in the garb of poetry. His own life seems to have been one summer-day The ladies ran all to the windows to see But he, like a cruel knight, spurred on; For, till he came there, what had he to fear? The king (God bless him!) had singular hopes The Borderers they, as they met him on the way, None liked him so well as his own colonell, For when the Scots army came within sight, He ran to his tent; they asked what he meant ; The colonell sent for him back agen, But Sir John did swear he would not come there, But now there is peace, he 's returned to increase But his honour lost must lie still in the dust; Youth at the prow, and Pleasure at the helm. He dreamed of enjoyment, not of fame. The father of Suckling was secretary of state and comptroller of the household to James I. and Charles I. He died in 1627, while his son was pursuing his studies at Trinity College, Cambridge. Thus emancipated from all restraint, with an immense fortune, Suckling set off on his travels. He afterwards joined an auxiliary army of 6000 raised in England, and commanded by the Marquis of Hamilton, to act under the king of Sweden. Suckling served in several sieges and battles, and Suckling continued steadfast to the royal cause, on his return in 1632, became celebrated for his even when it seemed desperate. He joined in a wit, gallantry, and munificence at the court of scheme to promote the escape of Strafford from Charles I. He was also considered the best the Tower; but the plot being detected, he fled bowler and card-player in England; and his to France, and died shortly afterwards-certainly sisters, it is said, distressed and alarmed at his before 1642. A romantic story is told of his passion for gambling, came one day to the Picca- death. Having been robbed by his valet, the dilly bowling-green, 'crying for the fear he should treacherous domestic is represented as having put lose all their portions.' Fortune, however, would an open razor-one account says a penknife, not seem to have deserted the poet; for when another a nail-in his master's boot, which being Charles I. took up arms against the parliament, drawn hastily on, an artery was divided, and fever Suckling presented the king with a hundred horse- and death ensued. Aubrey states that Suckling men, richly equipped and maintained at his own took poison at Paris, and, unfortunately, family expense, at a cost, it is said, of £12,000. This tradition confirms the statement*-a sad termingaudy regiment formed part of the cavalry com-ation to the life of the splendid cavalier-poet! manded by Lord Holland; but no sooner had they come within sight of the Scots army at Dunse, than they turned and fled. Suckling was no worse than the rest, but he was made the subject of numerous lampoons and satires. A rival wit and poet, Sir John Mennes or Mennis (1591-1671), who was successively a military and naval commander, and author of several pieces in a poetical miscellany entitled Musarum Delicia, 1656, indited a ballad on the retreat at Dunse, which is worth copying, as one of the liveliest and most successful of political ballads. Sir John Suckling's Campaign. Sir John he got him an ambling nag, With a hundred horse more, all his own, he swore, The works of Suckling consist of miscellaneous poems, four plays-possessing no vivid dramatic interest-a short prose treatise on Religion by Reason, and a small collection of letters written in a studied artificial style. His poems are all short, and the best of them are dedicated to love and gallantry. With the freedom of a cavalier, Suckling has greater purity of expression than most of his contemporaries. His sentiments are sometimes too voluptuous, but are rarely coarse; and there is so much elasticity and vivacity in his verses, that he never becomes tedious. His Ballad upon a Wedding is inimitable for witty levity and choice beauty of expression. It has * Memoir of Suckling, prefixed to his works by Rev. Alfred Suckling, 1836. Pope, in his Conversations with Spence, relates the romantic version of Suckling's death, saying it might be proved from letters in Lord Oxford's collection. It seems highly improbable. touches of graphic description and liveliness equal to the pictures of Chaucer. One well-known verse has never been excelled : Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, &c. Song.-'Tis now, since I sat down before. 'Tis now, since I sat down before That foolish fort, a heart Time strangely spent !-a year, and more; And still I did my part: Made my approaches, from her hand The language of her eyes; Proceeded on with no less art— My tongue was engineer; I thought to undermine the heart By whispering in the ear. When this did nothing, I brought down I then resolved to starve the place, To draw her out, and from her strength, And brought myself to lie at length, When I had done what man could do, And thought the place mine own, The enemy lay quiet too, And smiled at all was done. I sent to know from whence, and where, A spy informed, Honour was there, 'March, march,' quoth I; 'the word straight give ; Let's lose no time, but leave her; That giant upon air will live, And hold it out for ever. 'To such a place our camp remove As will no siege abide; I hate a fool that starves for love, Only to feed her pride.' A Ballad upon a Wedding. I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, Where I the rarest things have seen; Oh, things without compare! Such sights again cannot be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair. At Charing Cross, hard by the way And there did I see coming down Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine- Our landlord looks like nothing to him: At Course-a-park, without all doubt, But wot you what? the youth was going The parson for him staid : The maid, and thereby hangs a tale, Her finger was so small, the ring And, to say truth-for out it must- Her feet beneath her petticoat, Is half so fine a sight.* ... Her cheeks so rare a white was on, Who sees them is undone ; The side that 's next the sun. Her lips were red; and one was thin, Than on the sun in July. Her mouth so small, when she does speak, But she so handled still the matter, Passion o' me! how I run on! There's that that would be thought upon, I trow, besides the bride : The bus'ness of the kitchen's great, Nor was it there denied. Like Sir Fretful Plagiary, Herrick had not skill to steal with taste. Wycherley also purloined Herrick's simile for one of his plays. The allusion to Easter-day is founded upon a beautiful old superstition of the English peasantry, that the sun dances upon that morning. Just in the nick, the cook knocked thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving-man, with dish in hand, Marched boldly up, like our trained band, Presented, and away. When all the meat was on the table, And this the very reason was, Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; And who could help it, Dick? O' the sudden up they rise and dance; By this time all were stolen aside But that he must not know: But yet 'twas thought he guessed her mind, And did not mean to stay behind Above an hour or so.* Constancy. Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather. Time shall moult away his wings, But the spite on't is, no praise Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she, There had been at least ere this Song. I prithee send me back my heart, Yet now I think on 't, let it lie; For thou 'st a thief in either eye Why should two hearts in one breast lie, *The wedding thus immortalised was that of Lady Margaret Howard, daughter of the Earl of Suffolk, with Lord Broghill, after wards Earl of Orrery. He RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658) was another accomplished cavalier poet. He was well descended, being the son of Sir William Lovelace, knight. He was educated at Oxford, and afterwards presented at court. Anthony Wood describes him at the age of sixteen as the most amiable and beautiful person that eye ever beheld; a person also of innate modesty, virtue, and courtly deportment, which made him then, but especially after, when he retired to the great city, much admired and adored by the female sex.' Thus personally distinguished, and a royalist in principle, Lovelace was chosen by the county of Kent to deliver a petition to the House of Commons, praying that the king might be restored to his rights, and the government settled. The Long Parliament was then in the ascendant, and Lovelace was thrown into prison for his boldness. He was liberated on heavy bail, but spent his fortune in fruitless efforts to succour the royal cause. afterwards served in the French army, and was wounded at Dunkirk.__Returning in 1648, he was again imprisoned. To beguile the time of his confinement, he collected his poems, and published them in 1649, under the title of Lucasta: Odes, Sonnets, Songs, &c. &c. The general title was given them on account of the 'lady of his love,' Miss Lucy Sacheverell, whom he usually called Lux Casta. This was an unfortunate attachment; for the lady, hearing that Lovelace died of his wounds at Dunkirk, married another person. From this time the course of the poet was downward. The ascendant party did, indeed, release his person, when the death of the king had left them the less to fear from their opponents; but Lovelace was now penniless, and the reputation of a broken cavalier was no passport to better circumstances. It appears that, oppressed with want and melancholy, the gallant Lovelace fell into a consumption. Wood relates that he became very poor in body and purse, was the object of charity, |