I sent thee late a rosy wreath, not so much honouring thee, : Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd; Though art's hid causes are not found, Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free; Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Than all the adulteries of art: They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. Another of his exquisite songs is the well-known Hymn to Diana,' 1 1 Diana is here addressed as the moon, rather than the goddess of hunting. in which the spirit of the classic lyre is beautifully illustrated. It is supposed to be derived from Philostratus : Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Seated in thy silver chair, Earth, let not thy envious shade Cynthia's shining orb was made. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever; There is such a fulness of inspiration about the old poets, such prodigality of fancy and imagery, that their chief difficulty appears to have been to find place for their thick-coming fancies. For instance, take BEAUMONT'S fine Ode to Melancholy: Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly! If man were wise to see't, But only melancholy; Oh, sweetest melancholy! Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes, A look that's fastened to the ground, A tongue chained up without a sound; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley, Here is a delicious lyric from the same source:— Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air! Shut-up beauty is like fire, That breaks out clearer still and higher. Though your beauty be confin'd, And soft Love a prisoner bound, Yet the beauty of your mind Neither check nor chain hath found; Look out nobly, then, and dare E'en the fetters that you wear! What a fine figure has BEAUMONT employed in the following lines to illustrate the influence of woman : The bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath, Its moss and lichen freshen and revive; And thus the heart, most sear'd to human pleasure, SHIRLEY, the latest of the Elizabethan dramatists, wrote the fol lowing: Woodmen, shepherds, come away, This is Pan's great holiday; Throw off cares, with your heaven-aspiring airs- While valleys with your echoes ring. Nymphs that dwell within these groves, Leave your arbours, bring your loves, Gather posies, crown your golden hair with roses : What stateliness and vigor of expression characterize his celebrated Dirge The glories of our blood and state, Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate: Death lays his icy hand on kings; Sceptre and crown must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade! Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; They tame but one another still: And must give up their murmuring breath, The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar, now, See, where the victor-victim bleeds: All heads must come to the cold tomb; Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. Listen to the sweet music and melancholy flow of this fine old Go sit by the summer sea, thou whom scorn wasteth, Mark, how o'er ocean's breast rolls the hoar billow's crest, Such is his heart's unrest who of love tasteth. Griev'st thou that hearts should change? Lo, where life reigneth, Or the free sight doth range, what long remaineth? Spring, with her flowers, doth die, fast fades the gilded sky, |