Amazed to see so strange a sight,
She shot, and shot, but all in vain :
The more his wounds, the more his might,
Love yielded strength amid his pain.
Her angry eyes were great with tears,
She blames her hand, she blames her skill,
The bluntness of her shafts she fears,
And try them on herself she will.
Take heed, sweet nymph, try not thy shaft
Each little touch will pierce thy heart:
Alas! thou know'st not Cupid's craft;
Revenge is joy: the end is smart.
Yet try she will, and pierce some bare;
Her hands were gloved, but next to hand
Was that fair breast, that breast so rare,
That made the shepherd senseless stand.
That breast she pierced; and through that breast
Love found an entry to her heart:
At feeling of this new-come guest,
Lord! how this gentle nymph did start!
She runs not now; she shoots no more;
Away she throws both shafts and bow:
She seeks for what she shunned before,
She thinks the shepherd's haste too slow.
Though mountains meet not, lovers may ;
What other lovers do, did they :
The god of love sate on a tree,
And laughed that pleasant sight to see.
XL. JOHN MARSTON.
1. PIERO AND MARIA.
Piero. Sit close unto my breast, heart of my love; Advance thy drooping eyes. Thy son is drowned. Rich happiness that such a son is drowned. Thy husband's dead, life of my joys most blest, In that the sapless log, that pressed thy bed With an unpleasant weight, being lifted hence, E'en I Piero live to warm his place.
I tell you, lady, had you viewed us both
With an unpartial eye, when first we wooed
Your maiden beauties, I had borne the prize;
'Tis firm I had for, fair, I ha' done that-
which he would quake to have adventur'd: Thou knowést I have
Pie. Borne out the shock of war, and done, what not, That valour durst. Dost love me, fairest ? Say. Mar. As I do hate my son, I love thy soul.
Pie. Why then, Io to Hymen! mount a loftier note. Fill red-cheek'd Bacchus, let Lyæus float
In burnished goblets. Force the plump-lipped god;
Skip light la-voltas in your full-sapped veins:
'Tis well brim full: e'en I have glut of blood :
Let quaff carouse.
I drink this Bourdeau wine
Unto the health of dead Andrugio,
Feliche, Strozzo, and Antonio's ghosts.
Would I'd some poison to infuse it with;
That having done this honour to the dead,
I might send one to give them notice out.
I would endear my favour to the full.
Boy, sing aloud; make heaven's vault to ring
With thy breath's strength. I drink now loudly sing.
I cannot tell: 'tis now grown fashion;
What's out of railing 's out of fashion.
A man can scarce put on a tucked-up cap,
A buttoned frizado suit, scarce eat good meat,
Anchovies, caviari, but he's satired
And termed fantastical. By the muddy spawn
Of slimy newts, when troth, fantastickness-
That which the natural sophisters term
Phantasia incomplexa-is a function
E'en of the bright immortal part of man,
It is the common pass, the sacred door,
Unto the privy chamber of the soul;
That barred, naught passeth past the baser court.
Of outward sense by it the inamorate
Most lively thinks he sees the absent beauties
Of his loved mistress.
By it we shape a new creation
Of things as yet unborn: by it we feed
Our ravenous memory, our intention feast:
Slid he that's not fantastical's a beast.
XLI. JOSEPH HALL.
1. THE DESERTED MANSION.
Beat the broad gates a goodly hollow sound;
With double echoes, doth again rebound;
But not a dog doth bark to welcome thee,
Nor churlish porter canst thou chafing see.
All dumb and silent like the dead of night,
Or dwelling of some sleepy Sybarite;
The marble pavement hid with desert weed,
With house-leek, thistle, dock, and hemlock seed.
Look to the tower'd chimneys, which should be
The wind-pipes of good hospitality,
Through which it breatheth to the open air,
Betok'ning life and liberal welfàre.
Lo, there the unthankful swallow takes her rest,
And fills the tunnel with her circled nest.
A gentle squire would gladly entertain
Into his house some teacher-chapelain;
Some willing man that would instruct his sons,
And that would stand to good conditions.
First, that he lie upon the truckle-bed,
Whiles his young master lieth o'er his head.
Second, that he do, on no default,
Ever presume to sit above the salt.
Third, that he never charge his trencher twice,
Fourth, that he use all common courtesies;
Sit bare at meals, and one half rise and wait.
Last, that he never his young master beat,
But he must ask his mother to define,
How many jerkes she would his breech should line.
All these observed, he could contented be,
To give five marks and winter livery.
XLII. GEORGE SANDYS.
THE WORKS OF GOD.
Great God! how manifold, how infinite
Are all thy works! with what a clear foresight
Didst thou create and multiply their birth!
Thy riches fill the far-extended earth :
The ample sea, in whose unfathom'd deep
Innumerable sorts of creatures creep:
Bright-scaled fishes in her entrails glide,
And high-built ships upon her bosom ride;
About whose sides the crooked dolphin plays,
And monstrous whales huge spouts of water raise.
All on the land, or in the ocean bred,
On Thee depend, in their due season fed;
They gather what thy bounteous hands bestow,
And in the summer of thy favour grow,
When thou contract'st thy clouded brows, they mourn
And dying, to their former dust return.
XLIII. JOHN WEBSTER.
DEATH OF VIRGINIA.
Virginius. Farewell, my sweet Virginia; never, never,
Shall I taste fruit of the most blessed hope
I had in thee. Let me forget the thought
Of thy most pretty infancy; when first
Returning from the wars I took delight
To rock thee in my target when my girl
Would kiss her father in his burganet
Of glittering steel hung 'bout his armèd neck;
And viewing the bright metal, smile to see
Another fair Virginia smile on thee:
When I first taught thee how to go, to speak:
And when my wounds have smarted, I have sung
With an unskilful, yet a willing voice,
To bring my girl asleep. O my Virginia,
When we begun to be, begun our woes,
Increasing still as dying life still grows.
Thus I surrender her into the court [kills her]
Of all the gods! And see, proud Appius, see,
Although not justly, I have made her free.
XLIV. SIR THOMAS OVERBURY.
FROM THE WIFE.
All shapes, all colours, are alike in night,
Nor doth our touch distinguish foul or fair:
But man's Imagination, and his sight,
And those but the first week; by custom are
Both made alike, which differ'd at first view,
Nor can that difference absence much renew.
XLV. RICHARD CORBET.
1. BOSWORTH FIELD.
Mine host was full of ale and history;
And on the morrow, when he brought us nigh
Where the two Roses joined, you would suppose
Chaucer ne'er made the Romaunt of the Rose.
Hear him-" See ye yon wood? There Richard lay
With his whole army: look the other way,
And to where Richmond in a bed of gorse
Encamped himself ere night, and all his force.
Upon this hill they met." Why, he could tell
The inch where Richmond stood, where Richard fell.
Beside what of his knowledge he could say,
He had authentic notice from the play ;
Which I might guess by his mustering up the ghosts
And policies not incident to hosts;
But chiefly by that one perspicuous thing,
Where he mistook a player for a king;
For when he would have said, King Richard died, And called-A horse! a horse! he Burbage cried.
2. A FAIR HOSTESS.
Oh, there an hostess was,
To whom the Castle and the Dun Cow are
Sights after dinner; she is morning ware.
Her whole behaviour borrowed was and mixed,
Half fool, half puppet, and her face betwixt
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