Thus the foul tunes the bodies inftruments,
Thefe harmonies fhe makes with life and sense; The organs fit are by the body lent,
But th'actions flow from the foul's influence.
MOURNING.
If I don't do the mourner, as lively
As your heir, and weep as luftily as
Your widow, fay there's no virtue in onions,-
That being done, I'll come to vifit the
Distress'd widow; apply old ends of comfort
To her grief: But the burden of my song
Shall be to tell her, words are but dead comforts;
And therefore counfel her to take a living
Comfort, that might ferret out the thought of
Her dead husband: And will come prepar'd with
Choice of fuiters; either my Spartan lord
For grace at the viceroy's court; or fome great
Lawyer that may folder up her crack'd eftate.
Chapman's Widow's Tears 1. This ftrain of mourning with fepulcher, like An over-doing actor, affects grofly;
And is, indeed, fo far forc'd from the life,
That it bewrays itself to be altogether
Artificial. To fet open a fhop
Of mourning! 'tis palpable. Truth, the fubftance,
Hunts not after the fhadow of popular
Fame. Her officious oftentation
Of forrow condemns her fincerity.
When did ever woman mourn fo unmeasurably,
But he did diffemble?
Thus borne, thus apparell'd with tears, and fighs,
Swoonings and all the badges of true forrow;
To be diffembl'd! By Venus, I am
Sorry I ever fet foot in't. Could the,
If the diffembl'd, thus dally with hunger,
Be deaf to the barking of her appetite,
Not having these four days reliev'd nature
With one dram of sustenance ?
1. For this does fhe look to be deify'd ;
To have hymns made of her, nay to her: the
Tomb where she is, to be no more reputed
The ancient monument of our family,
The Lyfandri; but the new erected altar
Of Cynthia to which all the Paphian
Widows fhall after their husbands fun'rals,
Offer their wet muckinders, for monuments
Of the danger they have paft; as feamen
Do their wet garments at Neptune's temple,
After a fhipwrack.
All leave our felves, it matters not where, when,
Nor how, fo we die well: and can that man that does fo
Need lamentation for him? children weep
Because they have offended, or for fear;
'Women for want of will and anger is there
In noble man, that truly feels both poifes
Of life and death, fo much of this wet weaknefs,
To drown a glorious death in child and woman?
I am afham'd to fee ye; yet ye move me-
And were't not my manhood would accufe me
For covetous to live; I fhould weep with ye.
Beaumont and Fletcher's Valentinian.
When I am gone, if any chance to number
The times that have been fad and dangerous;
Say how I felland 'tis fufficient :
-I fay, he that laments my end,
By all the gods dishonours me.
For blacks are often fuch diffembling mourners,
There is no credit giv'n to them, they've
All reputation by falfe fons and widows;
Now I would have men know what I resemble,
A truth indeed; 'tis joy clad like a joy :
Which is more honeft than a cunning grief
That's only fac'd with fables for a fhew,
But gawdy hearted.
Maffinger, Middleton, and Rowley's Old Larw. 'They truly mourn, that mourn without a witnefs. Baron's Mirza. Mourn as thou pleaseft for me; plainness shews True grief: I give thee leave to do it for Two or three years, if that thou fhalt think fit: 'Iwill fave expence in cloaths.
Cartwright's Ordinary. To mourn for we know not whom, and when Peradventure death was the beginning Of her happiness; were to abuse our Selves, and be forry fhe could be no Longer miferable.
He who wears blacks, and mourns not for the dead ; Does but deride the party buried.
Why fhould your clofer mournings more be worn?
Poor priests invented blacks for leffer coft:
Kings for their fires in regal purple mourn;
Which fhews what they have got, not what they loft.
Sir IV. Davenant's Gondibert.
MULTITUDE.
But people's voice is neither fhame nor praife:
For whom they would alive devour to-day;
To-morrow dead, they'll worship.
Mirror for Magiftrates.
I rush'd amongst the thickest of their crowds,
And with a countenance majestical,
Like the imperious fun difperfs'd their clouds ;
I have perfum'd the rankness of their breath,
And by the magick of true eloquence,
Transform'd this many-headed Cerberus,
This py'd Camelion, this beaft multitude,
Whose pow'r confifts in number, pride in threats;
Yet melts-like fnow, when majesty shines forth :
This heap of fools, who crowding in huge fwarms,
Stood at our court gates like a heap of dung,
Reeking and fhouting out contagious breath
Of pow'r, to poifon all the elements.
There have been many great men that have flatter'd The people who ne'er lov'd them; and there be Many that they liave lov'd, they know not wherefore; So that if they love, they know not why, they hate Upon no better ground.
What would ye have, ye curs,
That like nor peace, nor war? the one affrights you,
Th' other makes you proud: he that trufts to you,
Where he fhould find you lions, finds you hares:
Where foxes, geefe: you are no furer, no,
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,
Or hailstone in the fun. Your virtue is,
To make him worthy, whofe offence subdues him;
And curfe that justice did it. Who deferves greatness,
Deferves your hate; and your affections are
A fick man's appetite, who defires most that
Which would increafe his evil. He that depends
Upon your favours, fwims with fins of lead,
And hews down oaks with rushes.
The common-wealth is fick of their own choice;
Their over-greedy love hath furfeited.
An habitation giddy and unfure
Hath he, that buildeth on the vulgar heart.
O thou fond many! with what loud applaufe
Did'ft thou beat heav'n with blefling Bolingbroke,
Before he was, what thou would't have him be?
And now, being trimm'd up in thine own defires,
Thou, beaftly feeder, art fo full of him,
That thou provok'it thy felf to caft him up:
So, fo, thou common dog, did'ft thou difgorge
Thy glutton bofom of the royal Richard,
And now thou would'ft eat thy dead vomit up,
And howl'ft to find it. What truft is in these times?
They, that when Richard liv'd, would have him die,
Are now become enamour'd on his grave:
Thou, that threw'ft duft upon his goodly head,
When through proud London he came fighing on
After th' admired heels of Bolingbroke;
Cry'ft now, O earth, yield us that king again,
And take thou this! O thoughts of men accurft!
Paft, and to come, feem beft; things prefent worft.
Shakespear's Second Part of King Henry IV.
This common body,
Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream,
Goes to, and back; lacquying the varying tide,
To rot itfelf with motion.
Shakespear's Antony and Cleopatra.
Who trusts their idle murmur,
Muft never let the blood go from his cheek;
They are like flags growing on muddy banks,
Whofe weak thin heads blown with one blaft of wind,
They all will fhake, and bend themselves one way:
Great minds must not efteem what small tongues say.
All things inftate must ever have this end,
The vulgar fhould both fuffer, and commend;
If not for love, for fear: great majesty
Should do those things, which vulgars dare not fee.
Goffe's Oreftes.
As it grows bigger, will incenfe the multitude;
From whom, your fortunes and deferts have won
Both love and admiration fury then
Runs them into a lump, or monftrous form
With many heads, that carries their mad body
Reelingly forward; where they find refistance,
Growing more violent.
Nabbs's Unfortunate Mother,
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