« VorigeDoorgaan »
For though this clime were blest of yore,
O beauteous queen of second Troy,
Now th' air is sweeter than sweet balm,
O beauteous queen, &c.
Now birds record new harmony,
O beauteous queen, &c.
Herrick is the great May-day Poet:
Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn
See how Aurora throws her fair
The dew bespangling herb and tree.
Nay, not so much as out of bed;
Nay, profanation to keep in,
Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen
And, sweet as Flora, take no care
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Come and receive them while the light
Retires himself, or else stands still
Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
Made green, and trimm'd with trees; see how
An ark, a tabernacle is,
Can such delights be in the street
The proclamation made for May ;
There's not a budding boy or girl, this day,
A deal of youth, ere this, is come
Before that we have left to dream;
Many a green gown has been given;
From out the eye, love's firmament;
Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,
As fast away as does the sun;
So when or you or I are made
Lies drown’d with us in endless night.
HERRICK. The decay of the old custom forms the subject of an anonymous lament, a century old, written under the title of Pasquil's Palinodia : '
Fairly we marched on, till our approach
Within the spacious passage of the Strand
Yclep'd a Maypole, which, in all our land,
Of harmless mirth and honest neighbourhood,
To mount the rod of peace, and none withstood :
For then true love and amity was found,
And Whitsun ales and May games did abound :
And all the lusty younkers, in a rout,
Rejoiced when they beheld the farmers flourish,
To see the country gallants dance the morrice.
75.-SCENES FROM THE ALCHEMIST.
Ben Jonson. [“ O RARE BEx Jonson!”—the inscription on his tomb-stone in Westminster Abbey, which a mason cut for eighteen pence to please a looker on when the grave was covering—is a familiar phrase to many who have not ever opened the works of this celebrated man. Jonson was born in 1574, and died in 1637. He was a ripe scholar—a most vigorous thinker. There are passages and delineations of character in his plays, which are matchless of their kind ;-but he is the dramatist of peculiarities, then called “ humours;”—he is the converse of what he described Shakspere to be-he is " for an age," and not “for ali time."]
SCENE I. Lovewit, a housekeeper in London, has fled to the country during a season when the plague was raging. His servant, Face, abusing his opportunities, admits an impostor, Subtle, and his female confederate, Dol, into the house; and there the three worthies carry on a profitable trade by pretending to tell fortunes, and transmute metals into gold The first Scene exhibits the Alchemist and the Servant in high quarrel :Dol. Will
Subtle. I shall mar
Face. You most notorious whelp, you insolent slave,
Sub. Yes, faith; yes, faith,
Face. Why, who
Sub. I'll tell you,
Face. Speak lower, rogue.
Sub. Yes, you were once (time 's not long past) the good, Honest, plain, livery-three-pound-thrum, that kept Your master's worship’s house here in the Friars, For the vacations Face. Will
be so loud ? Sub. Since, by my means, translated suburb-captain. Face. By your means, doctor dog ?
Sub. Within man's memory,
Face, Why, I pray you, have I
Sub. I do not hear well.
Face. Not of this, I think it.
Sub. I wish you could advance your voice a little.
Face. When you went pinn'd up in the several rags
Sub, So, Sir!
Face. When all your alchemy, and your algebra,