Imágenes de página

For as a surfeit of the sweetest things
The deepest loathing to the Atomach brings;
Or as the heresies, that men do leave,
Are hated most, of those they did deceive ;
So thou, my surfeit, and my herely,
Of all be hated ; but the most by me.

Shakespear's Midsummer-night's Dream.
0! there's a further cause of hate. Their breasts.
Are guilty, that we know their obscure springs,
And base beginnings; thence the anger grows.

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.
Thou kingdom's corr'five, home-begotten hate,

limits never that wast bounded ;
When didit thou yet seize upon any state,
By thee that was not utterly confounded ?:
How many empires be there that do rue thee ?
Happy the world was, till too well it knew thee.

Drayton's Pierce Gaveston,
For hatred hatch'd at home is a tame tyger,
May fawn and sport, but never leaves his nature ;
The jars of brothers, two such mighty ones,
Is like a small stone thrown into a river,
The breach scarce heard ; but view the beaten current,

shall see a thousand angry rings
Rise in his face, fill swelling and still growing ;
So jars cirling distrusts, diftrufts breeding dangers;
And dangers death, the greatest extreme. shallow ;
Till nothing bound them but the shore their graves.

Beaumont and Fletcher's Bloody Brothers.
C 6.


[ocr errors]

Haply the fire of hate is quite extinct
From the dead embers ; now to take them up,
Should the least fpark of discontent appear,
To make the flame of hatred burn afresh,
The heat of this diffention might scorch us ;
Which in his own cold ashes (mother'd up,
May die in silence and revive no more.

How a Man may choose a good Wife from a bad.
It is the wit, the policy of fin,
To hate those men we have abus'd.

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 ;
Therefore these plaits and folds the found restrain,

That it the organ may more gently touch.
As streams which with their winding banks do play,

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.
And though this sense first gentle mufick found,

Her proper object is the speech of men ;
But that speech chiefly which God's heraulds found,
When their tongues utter what his sprit did pen.


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,

[ocr errors]

Favour of greatness, or an hours faint pleasure !
As men, in scorn of a true fame that's near,
Should run to light their taper at a glow-worm.

Shirley's St. Patrick for Ireland.
Heav'n is a great way off, and I shall be
Ten thousand years in travel, yet 'twere happy

If I may find a lodging there at last,
Though my poor soul get thither upon crutches. .

Shirley's Duke's Mistress

This law the heav'ns inviolably keep,
Their justice well may Number, but ne'er fleep.

Glapthorne's Albertus Wallenftein
Bleft heav'n, how are thy ways just like thy orbs,
Involv'd within each other ? yet still we find
Thy judgments are like comets, that do blaze,
Aflright, but die withal ; whilft that thy mercies
Are like the stars, who oft-times are obscur'd,
Buc ftill remain the same behind the clouds.

Fountain's Rowards of Virtue.
There is a heaven :
This fhred of life cannot be all the web
Nature hath wrought to govern divine spirits ::
There is a heaven, because there's misery..
The divine power ever blest and good,
Made not the world for an ill-natur’d jelt,
To sport himself in pains of those he made:

Crown's Regulus.
Now, grandfire ; you that hold me at hard meat,
And keep me out at the dag's end, I'll fit you ;
Under his lordship's leave, all must be mine,
He and his will confesses; what I take then,
Is but a borrowing of so much before hand:
I'll pay him again when he dies, in so many blacks;
I'll have the church hung round, a noble a yard ;
Or requite him in fcutcheons ; let him trap me
In gold, and I'll wrap him in lead ; quid pro quo : I
Muit look none of his angels in the face forsooth,

[ocr errors]

Until his face be not worth looking on: Tut, lads,
Let fires and granfires keep us low ; we must
Live when they're flesh, as well as when they're duft.

Middleton's Mad World my. Mafters. For fince in my time and knowledge, so many rich

Of the city, conclude in beggary, I had rather
Make a wise stranger my executor, than a foolish
Son my heir ; and to have my lands call'd after my
Wit, than after my name; and that's my nature.

Beaumont and Fletcher's Wit at several Weapons
Thy father hoards up gold for thee to spend,
When death will play the office of a friend,
And take him hence ; which yet he thinks too late :
My nothing to inherit is a fate
Above thy birthright fhould it double be ;
No longing expectation tortures me.

father's rev'rend head survey,
And yet not wish that ev'ry hair was grey.
My constant genius fays, I happier ftand,
And richer in his life, than in his land ;
And when thou hast an heir that for thy gold
Will think each day makes thee a year too old ;
And ever gaping to poffefs thy store,
Conceives thy age to be above fourscore
'Cause his is one and twenty ; and will pray
The too flow hours to hast, and ev'ry day
Bespeaks thy coffin, cursing ev'ry bell.
That he hears toll, 'cause 'tis another's knell :
And justly at thy life he may repine,
For his is but a wardshipduring thine.

Divines and dying men may talk of hell,
But in my heart her sev'ral torments dwell.

Shakespear's Yorkshire Tragedy.

I can my


« AnteriorContinuar »