The bounds of loyalty are made of glass, Soon broke, but can in no date be repair'd.
Chapman's First Part of Byron's Confpiracy
To wear your loyal habit still,
When it is out of fashion, and hath done Service enough, were ruftick mifery : The habit of a fervile loyalty,
Is reckon'd now amongst privations;
With blindness, dumbnefs, deafnefs, filence, death: All which, are neither natures by themselves,
Nor fubftances, but mere decays of form, And abfolute deceffions of nature,
Think you it not as ftrong a point of faith, To rectify your loyalties to me,
As to be trufty in each others wrong? Trust that deceives our felves is treachery, And truth that truth conceals, an open lye.
Chapman's Second Part of Byron's Conspiracy.
God gives to kings the honour to command; To fubjects all their glory to obey :
Who ought in time of war, as rampiers stand; In peace, as ornaments of state array.
We are our own revengers; but at home, On princes that are eminent, and ours, Tis fit the gods fhould judge us.
Beaumont and Fletcher's Valentinian. -Confider
We're but fhadows, motions others give us ; And though our pities may become the times, Juftly our pow'rs cannot: Make me worthy To be your friend ever in fair allegiance, But not in force: for durft mine own foul urge me, And by that foul, I speak my just affections,
To turn my hand from truth, which is obedience, And give the helm my virtue holds, to anger; Though I had both the bleffings of the Bruti, And both their inftigations; though my cause Carry'd a face of juftice beyond theirs; And as I am a fervant to my fortunes, That daring foul, that firft taught disobedience, Should feel the firft example. Say the prince, As I may well believe it, feems vicious; Who juftly knows, tis not to try our honours? Or fay he be an ill prince; are we therefore Fit fires to purge him? no, my dearest friend; The elephant is never won with anger,
Nor must that man that would reclaim a lion, Take him by the teeth.
Beaumont and Fletcher's Valentinian No more, my worthy friend; though these be truths, And though these truths would ask a reformation, At leaft a little fquaring: yet remember, . We are but fubjects, Maximus; obedience... To what is done, and grief for what is ill done, Is all we can call ours. The hearts of princes Are like the temples of the gods; pure incenfe, Untill unhallow'd hands defile thofe off'rings, Burns ever there; we must not put them out, Because the priests that touch those sweets are wicked.
Tempted too far, is like the trial of . ̈ A good fword on an anvil: as that often Flies in pieces without fervice to the owner; So truft enforc'd too far, proves treachery, And is too late repented.
Maflinger's Great Duke of Florence.
-Love with bounty levied,
Is a fure guard; obedience forc'd from fear, Paper fortification: which in danger K 5
Will yield to the impreffion of a reed,
Or of it felf fall off.
Maflinger's Emperor of the Eaft.
With fuch a general loyalty in fubjects, That if you flept among the multitude,
Even when fome rage poffefs'd them, undefended With any arms, but that, th' imperfect flumber Need not to be broken with a fear.
Nabbs's Unfortunate Mother. Allegiance in me, like the ftring of a watch, Wound up too high, and forc'd above the nick, Run back, and in a moment was unravell'd all. Suckling's Aglaura.
LUXURY
We will eat fuch at a meal:
The heads of parrots, tongues of nightingales, The brains of peacocks and of eftriches Shall be our food; and could we get the phoenix, Though nature loft her kind, fhe were our difh. Johnson's Volpone. I will have all my beds blown up, not stuft; Down is too hard and then, mine oval room Fill'd with fuch pictures as Tiberius took From Elephantis, and dull Aretine, But coldly imitated. Then, my glaffes, Cut in more fubtle angles, to difperfe And multiply the figures, as I walk Naked between my Succube; my mifts I'll have of perfume, vapour'd 'bout the room, To lofe our felves in; and my baths, like pits To fall into; from whence we will come forth, And rowl us dry in goffamore and rofes: And my flatterers
Shall be the pure, and graveft of divines, That I can get for money. My meet fools, Eloquent burgeffes; and then my poet The fame that writ fo fubtily of the fart: Whom I will entertain ftill for that subject.
The few that would give out themselves, to be Court and town ftallions, and each where bely Ladies, who are known most innocent; for them, Those will I beg, to make me eunuchs of: And they fhall fan me with ten estrich tails A piece, made in a plume, to gather wind, My meat shall all come in in Indian fhells, Dishes of agat fet in gold, and ftudded With em'ralds, faphirs, hyacinths, and rubies : With tongues sof carps, dormice, and camels heels, Boil'd i' the spirit of fol, and diffolv'd pearl ; Apicius' diet 'gainst the epilepfy:
And I will eat these broths with spoons of amber, Headed with diamond, and carbuncle.
My foot-boy fhall eat pheasants, calver'd falmons, Knots, godwits, lampreys: I my felf will have The beards of barbels ferv'd inftead of fallads; Oil'd mushrooms; and the fwelling unctuous paps Of a fat pregnant fow, newly cut off,
Dreft with an exquisite and poignant fauce ; For which, I'll fay unto my cook, there's gold; Go forth, and be a knight. My fhirts I'll have of taffata farfnet, foft and light As cob-webs; and for all my other raiment, It shall be such as might provoke the Perfian Were he to teach the world riot anew. My gloves of fishes, and birds skins, perfum'd With gums of paradife, and eastern air.
Johnfon's Alchemi We'll therefore go withal, and live
In a free ftate, where we will eat our mullets, Sous'd in high country wines; fup pheasants eggs, And have our cockles, boil'd in filver fhells; Our fhrimps to fwim again, as when they liv'd In a rare butter made of dolphins milk,
Whofe cream does look like opals: and with these Delicate meats fet our felves high for pleasure, And take us down again; and then renew K 6
Our youth and strength with drinking th' Elixir;
And fo enjoy a perpetuity
Of life and luft.
Who yieldeth unto pleasures and to luft, Is a poor captive, that in golden fetters,
And pretious as he thinks, but holding gyves, Frets out his life.
Beaumont and Fletcher's Knight of Malta.
Men may talk of conntry christmasses, and
Court gluttony; their thirty pound butter'd eggs; Their pies of carps tongues, their pheasants drench'd with
Ambergreefe, the carcaffes of three fat
Weathers bruis'd for gravy to make sauce for A fingle peacock; yet their feafts were fafts Compar'd with the city's.
There were three fucking pigs ferv'd up in a dish, Took from the fow as foon as farrowed,
A fortnight fed with dates, and muscadine ; That flood my mafter in twenty marks a piece,
Befides the puddings in their bellies made
Of I know not what: But here's the mischief, though The difhes were rais'd one on another,
As woodmongers do billets, for the first,
The fecond, and third courfe; and moft of the shops Of the beft confectioners in London ranfack'd To furnish out a banquet; yet my lady
Call'd me penurious rafcal; and cry'd out There was nothing worth the eating.
Tempe is painted with, and ftrew his way : Tranflate my bow'rs to Turia's rofy banks, There, with a chorus of fweet nightingales Make it continual fpring: If the fun's rays Offend his tender skin, and make it fweat, Fan him with filken wings of mildest air,
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