To Penshurst.

They're rear'd with no mans ruine, no mans

Of polish'd pillars or a roofe of gold:

Thou hast no lantherne, whereof tales are told; Or stayre, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile, And these grudg'd at, are reverenc'd the while. Thou joy'st in better markes, of soyle, of ayre, Of wood, of water: therein thou art faire. Thou hast thy walkes for health, as well as sport: Thy Mount, to which the Dryads doe resort, Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made,

Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade; That taller tree, which of a nut was set,

At his great birth, where all the Muses met. There, in the writhed barke, are cut the names Of many a Sylvane, taken with his flames. And thence, the ruddy Satyres oft provoke

The lighter Faunes, to reach thy Ladies oke. Thy copps, too, nam'd of Gamage, thou hast there, That never failes to serve thee season'd deere, When thou would'st feast or exercise thy friends. The lower land, that to the river bends, Thy sheepe, thy bullocks, kine, and calves doe feed:

The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed, Each banke doth yeeld thee coneyes; and the topps Fertile of wood, Ashore, and Sydney's copps, To crowne thy open table, doth provide

The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side: The painted partrich lyes in every field,

And, for thy messe, is willing to be kill'd. And if the high swolne Medway faile thy dish, Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish, Fat, aged carps, that runne into thy net,

And pikes, now weary their owne kinde to eat, As loth, the second draught, or cast to stay, Officiously, at first, themselves betray.

Bright eeles, that emulate them, and leape on land,

Before the fisher, or into his hand. Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, Fresh as the ayre, and new as are the houres. The earely cherry, with the later plum,

Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth

come:

The blushing apricot, and woolly peach

Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the contrey stone,

downe;

But all come in, the farmer and the clowne, And no one empty-handed, to salute

Thy lord and lady, though they have no sute. Some bring a capon, some a rurall cake Some nuts, some apples; some that thinke they make The better cheeses, bring 'hem; or else send By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend

This way to husbands; and whose baskets beare
An embleme of themselves, in plum or peare.
But what can this (more then expresse their love)
Adde to thy free provisions, farre above
The neede of such? whose liberall boord doth flow,

With all that hospitalitie doth know!
Where comes no guest, but is allow'd to eate,
Without his feare, and of thy lords owne meate:
Where the same beere, and bread, and selfe-same

wine,

That is his Lordships, shall be also mine. And I not faine to sit (as some, this day,

At great mens tables) and yet dine away. Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by, A waiter doth my gluttony envy: But gives me what I call, and lets me eate, He knowes, below he shall finde plentie of meate, Thy tables hoord not up for the next day, Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray For fire, or lights, or livorie: all is there; As if thou, then, wert mine, or I raign'd here: There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay. That found King James, when, hunting late this way, With his brave sonne, the prince, they saw thy

fires

Shine bright on every harth as the desires Of thy Penates had beene set on flame,

To entertayne them; or the countrey came, With all their zeale, to warme their welcome here. What (great, I will not say, but) sodayne cheare Didst thou, then, make 'hem! and what praise was heap'd

On thy good lady, then! who, therein, reap'd The just reward of her high huswifery;

To have her linnen, plate, and all things nigh, When shee was farre: and not a roome, but drest

As if it had expected such a guest! These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all. Thy lady's noble, fruitfull, chaste withall. His children thy great lord may call his owne: A fortune, in this age, but rarely knowne. They are, and have been taught religion: thence Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence. Each morne and even they are taught to pray, With the whole household, and may, every day, Reade, in their vertuous parents noble parts,

The mysteries of manners, armes, and arts. Now Penshurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see

Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else, May say, their lords have built, but thy lord

dwells.

To Celia.

Drinke to me, onely with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And Ile not looke for wine.

The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,
Doth aske a drinke divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late, à rosie wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered bee.

But thou thereon did'st onely breath,
And sent'st it backe to mee:

Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,
Not of it selfe, but thee.

Light, and humorous in her toying,
Oft building hopes, and soone destroying,
Long, but sweet in the enjoying

Neither too easie, nor too hard:
All extremes I would have bar'd.

Shee should be allowed her passions,
So they were but us'd as fashions;

Sometimes froward, and then frowning,
Sometimes sickish, and then swowning,
Every fit, with change, still crowning.
Purely jealous, I would have her,
Then onely constant when I crave her
'Tis a vertue should not save her.
Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,
Neither her peevishnesse annoy me.

Song. From the Foxe.

Come, my Celia, let us prove,
While we can, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours for ever,
He, at length, our good will sever;
Spend not then his gifts in vaine,
Sunnes, that set, may rise againe:
But if, once, we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetuall night.
Why should wee deferre our joyes?
Fame, and rumor are but toies;
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poore houshold-spies?
Or his easier eares beguile,
Thus remooved, by our wile?
'Tis no sinne, loves fruits to steale
But the sweet thefts to reveale:

To be taken, to be seene,

These have crimes accounted beene.

Scene from Volpone;

or, the Fox. A Comedy. By Ben Jonson.

Volpone as on his death bed.

Mosca. Corbaccio, an old gentleman.

Mos. Signior Corbaccio,

You are very welcome, sir.

Corb. How does your patron?

Mos. Troth, as he did, sir, no amends.

Corb. What? mends he?

Mos. No, sir, he is rather worse.

Corb. That's well. Where is he?

Can claim a part; 'tis yours without a rival,

rheum

Forth the resolved corners of his eyes.

Corb. Is't possible? yet I am better, ha! How does he with the swimming of his head? Mos. O, sir 'tis past the scotomy; he now Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort: You hardly can perceive him that he breathes. Corb. Excellent, excellent, sure I shall outlast him:

This makes me young again a score of years.

Mos. I was coming for you, sir.

Corb. Has he made his will?

What has he giv'n me?

Mos. No, sir.

Corb. Nothing? ha?

Mos. He has not made his will, sir.

Your more than many gifts, your this day's present,

And last produce your will; where (without

thought,

Or least regard unto your proper issue,

A son so brave, and highly meriting)

The stream of your diverted love hath thrown

you

Upon my master, and made him your heir:
He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead,
But out of conscience, and mere gratitude -
Corb. He must pronounce me his?

Mos. 'Tis true.

Corb. This plot

Did I think on before.

Mos. I do believe it.

Corb. Do you not believe it?

Mos. Yes, sir.

Corb. Mine own project.

Mos. Which when he hath done, sir

Corb. Published me his heir?

Mos. And you so certain to survive him Corb. I.

Mos. Being so lusty a man