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H A TRE D.
Shakespear's Midsummer-night's Dream.
Johnson's Sejanus. No hate more harms, than that which looks like love,
E. of Sterline's Julius Cæfar. Spite ! thou impoftume of aspiring, hearts,
Whose nature is, that if the bag remain,
The wicked humours straight will fill again ; I will lay open thee, and all thy arts.
Lord Brooke's Alaham.
limits never that wast bounded ;
Drayton's Pierce Gaveston,
shall see a thousand angry rings
Beaumont and Fletcher's Bloody Brothers.
Haply the fire of hate is quite extinct
How a Man may choose a good Wife from a bad.
Sir W. Davenant's Just Italian,
H E A R I N G. Now let us hear how she the ears employs :
Their office is, the troubled air to take ; Which in their mazes forms a found or noise,
Whereof herself doth true distinction make, These wickets of the soul are plac'd on high,
Because all sounds do lightly move aloft ; And that they may not pierce too violently,
They are delay'd with turns and windings oft. For should the voice directly strike the brain,
It would astonish and confuse it much ;
That it the organ may more gently touch.
Stopp'd by their creeks, run softly through the plain : So in th' ear's labyrinth the voice doth stray,
And doth with easy motion touch the brain. This is the slowest, yet the daintieft sense;
For ev'n the ears of such as have no skill, Perceive a discord, and conceive offence ;
And knowing not what's good, yet find the ill.
Her proper object is the speech of men ;
Our eyes are lids, our ears still ope we fee,
Quickly to hear how ev'ry tale is prov'd : Our
eyes ftiļl move, our ears unmoved be ;
That though we hear quick, we be not quickly mov'd. Thus by the organs of the eye and ear,
The soul with knowledge doth herself endue : Thus the her prison may with pleasure bear,
Having some prospects, all the world to view. These conduit-pipes of knowledge feed the mind,
But th' other three attend the body ftill ; For by their services the foul doch find, What things are to the body good or ill.
Sir John Davies. H Ę A V E N. There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth, No joint-benumbing cold, nor scorching heat, Famine nor age have any being there: Forget for fame your Tempe, bury in Oblivion, your feign'd Hesperian orchards, The golden fruit kept by the watchful dragon, Which did require Hercules to get it, Compar'd with what grows in all plenty there Deserves not to be nam'd. The pow'r I serve Laughs at your happy Arabie, or the Elysian fades ; for he hath made his bow'rs Better indeed than you can fancy yours.
Mafinger and Dekker's Virgin Martyr. We to heaven Do climb with loads upon our shoulders borne ; Nor muft we tread on roses, but on thorn.
Shirley's St. Patrick for Ireland. What a poor value do men set of heav'n? Heav'n, the perfection of all that can Be faid, or thought, riches, delight, or harmony, Health, beauty ; and all these not subject to The waste of time ; but in their height eternal; Loft for a pension, or poor spot of earth,
Favour of greatness, or an hours faint pleasure !
Shirley's St. Patrick for Ireland.
If I may find a lodging there at last,
Shirley's Duke's Mistress
Glapthorne's Albertus Wallenftein
Fountain's Rowards of Virtue.
Until his face be not worth looking on: Tut, lads,
Middleton's Mad World my. Mafters. For fince in my time and knowledge, so many rich
Beaumont and Fletcher's Wit at several Weapons
father's rev'rend head survey,
Shakespear's Yorkshire Tragedy.
I can my