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I would have been content if he would play,
In that one strain, to pass the night away;
But, fearing much to do his patience wrong,
Unwillingly have ask'd some other song:
So, in this diff'ring key, though I could well
A many hours, but as few minutes tell,
Yet, lest mine own delight might injure you,
(Though loath so soon) I take my song anew.


The sable mantle of the silent night
Shut from the world the ever-joysome light.
Care fled away, and softest slumbers please
To leave the court for lowly cottages.
Wild beasts forsook their dens on woody hills,
And sleightful otters left the purling rills;
Rooks to their nests in high woods now were flung,
And with their spread wings shield their naked young.
When thieves from thickets to the cross-ways stir,
And terror frights the lonely passenger;
When nought was heard but now and then the howl
Of some vile cur, or whooping of the owl.



The writings of FRANCIS QUARLES (1592-1644) are more like those of a divine, or contemplative recluse, than of a busy man of the world, who held various public situations, and died at the age of fifty-two. Quarles was a native of Essex, educated at Cambridge, and afterwards a student of Lincoln's Inn. He was successively cup-bearer to Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, secretary to Archbishop Usher, and chronologer to the city of London. He espoused the cause of Charles I., and was so harassed by the opposite party, who injured his property, and plundered him of his books and rare manuscripts, that his death was attributed to the affliction and ill health caused by these disasters. Notwithstanding his loyalty, the works of Quarles have a tinge of Puritanism and ascetic piety that might have mollified the rage of his persecutors. His poems sist of various pieces-Job Militant, Sion's Elegies, The History of Queen Esther, Argalus and Parthenia, The Morning Muse, The Feast of Worms, and The Divine Emblems. The latter were published in 1645, and were so popular, that Phillips, Milton's nephew, styles Quarles the darling of our plebeian judgments.' The eulogium still holds good to some extent, for the Divine Emblems, with their quaint and grotesque illustrations, are still found in the cottages of our peasants. After the Restoration, when everything sacred and serious was either neglected or made the subject of ribald jests, Quarles seems to have been entirely lost to the public. Even Pope, who, had he read him, must have relished his lively fancy and poetical expression, notices only his bathos and absurdity. The better and more tolerant taste of modern times has admitted the divine em. blemist into the laurelled fraternity of poets,' where,


[Pastoral Employments.]

But since her stay was long: for fear the sun
Should find them idle, some of them begun
To leap and wrestle, others threw the bar,
Some from the company removed are
To meditate the songs they meant to play,
Or make a new round for next holiday;
Some, tales of love their love-sick fellows told;
Others were seeking stakes to pitch their fold.
This, all alone, was mending of his pipe;

That, for his lass, sought fruits, most sweet, most ripe. if he does not occupy a conspicuous place, he is at
Here (from the rest), a lovely shepherd's boy
Sits piping on a hill, as if his joy
Would still endure, or else that age's frost
Should never make him think what he had lost,
Yonder a shepherdess knits by the springs,
Her hands still keeping time to what she sings;
Or seeming, by her song, those fairest hands
Were comforted in working. Near the sands
Of some sweet river, sits a musing lad,
That moans the loss of what he sometime had,
His love by death bereft: when fast by him
An aged swain takes place, as near the brim
Of's grave as of the river.

Ileast sure of his due measure of homage and atten.
tion. Emblems, or the union of the graphic and
poetic arts, to inculcate lessons of morality and re-
ligion, had been tried with success by Peacham and
Wither. Quarles, however, made Herman Hugo, a
Jesuit, his model, and from the 'Pia Desideria' of this
author, copied a great part of his prints and mottoes.
His style is that of his age-studded with conceits,
often extravagant in conception, and presenting the
most outré and ridiculous combinations. There is
strength, however, amidst his contortions, and true
wit mixed up with the false. His epigrammatic
point, uniting wit and devotion, has been considered
the precursor of Young's Night Thoughts.

[The Syren's Song.]

[From the 'Inner Temple Masque."]

Steer hither, steer your winged pines,
All beaten mariners,

Here lie undiscover'd mines

A prey to passengers;
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the phoenix urn and nest;
Fear not your ships,

Nor any to oppose you save our lips;

But come on shore,
Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts,

Where never storms arise,
Exchange; and be awhile our guests;
For stars, gaze on our eyes.
The compass, love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.


As when a lady, walking Flora's bower,
Picks here a pink, and there a gilly-flower,
Now plucks a violet from her purple bed,
And then a primrose, the year's maidenhead,
There nips the brier, here the lover's pansy,
Shifting her dainty pleasures with her fancy,
This on her arms, and that she lists to wear
Upon the borders of her curious hair;
At length a rose-bud (passing all the rest)
She plucks, and bosoms in her lily breast.

The Shortness of Life.

And what's a life?-a weary pilgrimage,
Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage
With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age.
And what's a life-the flourishing array
Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day
Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.

Read on this dial, how the shades devour
My short-lived winter's day! hour eats up hour;
Alas! the total's but from eight to four.
Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made,
Fair copies of my life, and open laid
To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade!
Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon;
My non-aged day already points to noon;
How simple is my suit !-how small my boon!

Nor do I beg this slender inch to wile

The time away, or falsely to beguile

My thoughts with joy: here's nothing worth a smile.

Mors Tua.

Can he be fair, that withers at a blast?

Or he be strong, that airy breath can cast?
Can he be wise, that knows not how to live?
Or he be rich, that nothing hath to give?
Can he be young, that's feeble, weak, and wan?
So fair, strong, wise, so rich, so young is man.
So fair is man, that death (a parting blast)
Blasts his fair flower, and makes him earth at last;
So strong is man, that with a gasping breath
He totters, and bequeaths his strength to death;
So wise is man, that if with death he strive,
His wisdom cannot teach him how to live;
So rich is man, that (all his debts being paid)
His wealth's the winding-sheet wherein he's laid;
So young is man, that, broke with care and sorrow,
He's old enough to-day, to die to-morrow:
Why bragg'st thou then, thou worm of five feet long?
Thou'rt neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales
Of endless treasure;
Thy bounty offers easy sales

Of lasting pleasure;
Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,
And swear'st to ease her:
There's none can want where thou supply'st:
There's none can give where thou deny'st.
Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.
What well-advised ear regards
What earth can say?
Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay:
Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou canst not play:
Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;
If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st:

Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint

Of new-coin'd treasure;
A paradise, that has no stint,

No change, no measure;
A painted cask, but nothing in't,
Nor wealth, nor pleasure:
Vain earth that falsely thus comply'st
With man; vain man! that thou rely'st

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The Vanity of the World.
False world, thou ly'st thou canst not lend
The least delight:
Thy favours cannot gain a friend,
They are so slight:

Thy morning pleasures make an end
To please at night:
Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,
And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st
With heaven; fond earth, thou boasts; false world, The highest honours that the world can boast,
thou ly'st.

Are subjects far too low for my desire;
The brightest beams of glory are (at most)
But dying sparkles of thy living fire:

The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be
But nightly glow-worms, if compared to thee.
Without thy presence wealth is bags of cares;
Wisdom but folly; joy disquiet-sadness:
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;
Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness;
Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be,
Nor have they being, when compared with thee.

I love the sea she is my fellow-creature,
My careful purveyor; she provides me store:
She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore :

But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee,
What is the ocean, or her wealth to me?

To heaven's high city I direct my journey,
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney,
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky:

But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee!
Without thy presence heaven 's no heaven to me.
Without thy presence earth gives no refection;
Without thy presence sea affords no treasure;
Without thy presence air 's a rank infection;
Without thy presence heaven itself no pleasure:
If not possess'd, if not enjoy'd in thee,
What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me!

In having all things, and not thee, what have I ?
Not having thee, what have my labours got?
Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I!
And having thee alone, what have I not?

I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be
Possess'd of heaven, heaven unpossess'd of thee.

Decay of Life.

The day grows old, the low-pitch'd lamp hath made
No less than treble shade,

And the descending damp doth now prepare

To uncurl bright Titan's hair ;

Whose western wardrobe now begins to unfold
Her purples, fringed with gold,
To clothe his evening glory, when the alarms

On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st. Of rest shall call to rest in restless Thetis' armis.

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He threatens youth with age; and now, alas!

He owns not what he is, but vaunts the man he was.

Grey hairs peruse thy days, and let thy past
Read lectures to thy last :

George Herbert.


mitted his works to him before publication. poet was also in favour with King James, who gave him a sinecure office worth £120 per annum, which Queen Elizabeth had formerly given to Sir Philip Sidney. With this,' says Izaak Walton, and his annuity, and the advantages of his college, and of his oratorship, he enjoyed his genteel humour for clothes and court-like company, and seldom looked towards Cambridge unless the king were there, but then he never failed.' The death of the king and of two powerful friends, the Duke of Richmond and Marquis of Hamilton, destroyed Herbert's court hopes, and he entered into sacred orders. He was first prebend of Layton Ecclesia (the church of which he rebuilt), and afterwards was made rector of Bemerton, in Wiltshire, where he passed the remainder of his life. After describing the poet's marriage on the third day after his first interview with the lady, old Izaak Walton relates, with characteristic simplicity and minuteness, a matrimonial scene preparatory to their removal to Bemerton :The third day after he was made rector of Bemerton, and had changed his sword and silk clothes into regularly at Layton Ecclesia), he returned so habited a canonical habit (he had probably never done duty with his friend Mr Woodnot to Bainton; and immediately after he had seen and saluted his wife, he must now so far forget your father's house as not to said to her, "You are now a minister's wife, and claim a precedence of any of your parishioners; for you are to know that a priest's wife can challenge no precedence or place but that which she purchases by her obliging humility; and I am sure places so purchased do best become them. And let me tell you, I am so good a herald as to assure you that this is truth." And she was so meek a wife, as to assure him it was no vexing news to her, and that he should see her observe it with a cheerful willingness.' His father was descended from the earls of Pembroke, Herbert discharged his clerical duties with saintand lived in Montgomery Castle, Wales, where the poet was born. His elder brother was the celebrated | Rev. W. Lisle Bowles. *The rectory of Bemerton is now held by another poet, the

GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1632) was of noble birth, though chiefly known as a pious country clergyman-holy George Herbert,' who

The lowliest duties on himself did lay.

Those hasty wings that hurried them away

Will give these days no day :

The constant wheels of nature scorn to tire

Until her works expire:

That blast that nipp'd thy youth will ruin thee;
That hand that shook the branch will quickly strike

the tree.

To Chastity.

Oh, Chastity!-the flower of the soul,
How is thy perfect fairness turn'd to foul!
How are thy blossoms blasted all to dust,
By sudden light'ning of untamed lust!
How hast thou thus defil'd thy ev'ry feet,
Thy sweetness that was once, how far from sweet!
Where are thy maiden smiles, thy blushing cheek-
Thy lamb-like countenance, so fair, so meek?
Where is that spotless flower, that while-ere
Within thy lily bosom thou did'st wear?
Has wanton Cupid snatched it? hath his dart
Sent courtly tokens to thy simple heart?
Where dost thou bide? the country half disclaims thee;
The city wonders when a body names thee:
Or have the rural woods engrost thee there,
And thus forestall'd our empty markets here?
Sure thou art not; or kept where no man shows thee;
Or chang'd so much scarce man or woman knows thee.


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like zeal and purity, but his strength was not equal to his self-imposed tasks, and he died at the early age of thirty-nine. His principal production is entitled, The Temple, or Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations. It was not printed till the year after his death, but was so well received, that Walton says twenty thousand copies were sold in a few years after the first impression. The lines on Virtue

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

are the best in the collection; but even in them we find, what mars all the poetry of Herbert, ridiculous conceits or coarse unpleasant similes. His taste was very inferior to his genius. The most sacred subject could not repress his love of fantastic imagery, or keep him for half a dozen verses in a serious and natural strain. Herbert was a musician, and sang his own hymns to the lute or viol; and indications of this may be found in his poems, which have sometimes a musical flow and harmonious cadence. It may be safely said, however, that Herbert's poetry alone would not have preserved his name, and that he is indebted for the reputation he enjoys, to his excellent and amiable character, embalmed in the pages of good old Walton, to his prose work, the Country Parson, and to the warm and fervent piety which gave a charm to his life and breathes through all his writings.


Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dews shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;
Thy root is ever in its grave;

And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses;
A box where sweets compacted lie;
Thy music shows ye have your closes;
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season'd timber never gives;
But, though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.


All may of thee partake;
Nothing can be so mean,
Which, with this tincture, for thy sake,
Will not grow bright and clean.

This is the famous stone

That turneth all to gold,

For that which God doth touch and own, Cannot for less be told.


[Oddly called by Herbert The Pulley.'' When God at first made man,

Having a glass of blessings standing by, 'Let us,' said he, pour on him all we can; Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span.'

So strength first made away;
Then beauty flow'd; then wisdom, honour,

When almost all was out, God made a stay;
Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should,' said he,

'Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in nature, not the God of natureSo both should losers be. Yet let him keep the rest

But keep them, with repining restlessnessLet him be rich and weary; that, at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast.'

Matin Hymn.

I cannot ope mine eyes

But thou art ready there to catch
My mourning soul and sacrifice,

Then we must needs for that day make a match.

My God, what is a heart?

Silver, or gold, or precious stone,
Or star, or rainbow, or a part

Of all these things, or all of them in one?

My God, what is a heart?

That thou should'st it so eye and woo, Pouring upon it all thy art,

As if that thou hadst nothing else to do

Indeed, man's whole estate
Amounts (and richly) to serve thee;
He did not heaven and earth create,

Yet studies them, not him by whom they be.

Teach me thy love to know;
That this new light which now I see
May both the work and workman show;
Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee.


O day most calm, most bright, The fruit of this the next world's bud, The indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a Friend, and with his blood; The couch of time, care's balm and bay: The week were dark, but for thy light; Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou Make up one man; whose face thou art, Knocking at heaven with thy brow: The workydays are the back-part; The burden of the week lies there, Making the whole to stoop and bow, Till thy release appear.

Man had straight forward gone
To endless death: but thou dost pull
And turn us round, to look on one,
Whom, if we were not very dull,
We could not choose but look on still;
Since there is no place so alone,

The which he doth not fill.
Sundays the pillars are,

On which heaven's palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful beds and borders
In God's rich garden: that is bare,

Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life, Threaded together on Time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal glorious King. On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope; Blessings are plentiful and rifeMore plentiful than hope.

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WILLIAM HABINGTON (1605-1654) had all the vices of the metaphysical school, excepting its occasional and frequently studied licentiousness. He tells us himself (in his preface) that, if the innocency of a chaste muse shall be more acceptable, and weigh heavier in the balance of esteem, than a fame begot in adultery of study, I doubt I shall leave no hope of competition.' And of a pure attachment, he says finely, that when love builds upon the rock of chastity, it may safely contemn the battery of the waves and threatenings of the wind; since time, that makes a mockery of the firmest structures, shall itself be ruinated before that be demolished.' Habington's life presents few incidents, though he came of a plotting family. His father was implicated in Babington's conspiracy; his uncle suffered death for his share in the same transaction. The poet's mother atoned, in some measure, for these disloyal intrigues; for she is said to have been the writer of the famous letter to Lord Monteagle, which averted the execution of the Gunpowder Plot. The poet was educated at St Omer's, but declined to become a Jesuit. He married Lucia, daughter of the first Lord Powis, whom he had celebrated under the name of Castara. Twenty years before his death, he published his poems, consisting of The Mistress, The Wife, and The Holy Man. These titles include each several copies of verses, and the same design was afterwards adopted by Cowley. The life the poet seems to have glided quietly away, cheered by the society and affection of his Castara. He had no stormy passions to agitate him, and no unruly imagination to control or subdue. His poetry is of the same unruffled descriptionplacid, tender, and often elegant-but studded with conceits to show his wit and fancy. When he talks of meadows wearing a 'green plush,' of the fire of mutual love being able to purify the air of an infected city, and of a luxurious feast being so rich that heaven must have rained showers of sweetmeats, as if

Heaven were Blackfriars, and each star a confectioner

we are astonished to find one who could ridicule the 'madness of quaint oaths,' and the fine rhetoric of clothes,' in the gallants of his day, and whose sentiments on love were so pure and noble, fall into such absurd and tasteless puerilities.

[Epistle to a Friend.]

[Addressed' to his noblest friend, J. C., Esq.']

I hate the country's dirt and manners, yet
I love the silence; I embrace the wit
And courtship, flowing here in a full tide,
But loathe the expense, the vanity and pride.
No place each way is happy. Here I hold
Commerce with some, who to my care unfold
(After a due oath ministred) the height
And greatness of each star shines in the state,
The brightness, the eclipse, the influence.
With others I commune, who tell me whence
The torrent doth of foreign discord flow;
Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,
Soon as they happen; and by rote can tell
Those German towns, even puzzle me to spell.
The cross, or prosperous fate, of princes, they
Ascribe to rashness, cunning, or delay;
And on each action comment, with more skill
Than upon Livy did old Machiavel.
O busy folly! Why do I brain
Perplex with the dull policies of Spain,

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