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A FRAGMENT OF ONE OF THE LOST QUATER
58 NIONS OF EUPHEME. You worms (my rivals), whiles she was alive How many thousands were there that did strive To have your freedom ? For their sakes for
bear Unseemly holes in her soft skin to wear; But, if you must (as what worm can abstain ?) Taste of her tender body, yet refrain, With your disordered eating, to deface her, And feed yourselves so as you most may grace
her. First, through yon ear-tips see you work a pair Of holes, which as the moist enclosed air Turns into water, may the cold drops take, And in her ears a pair of jewels make. That done, upon her bosom make your feast, Where, on a cross, carve Jesus in her breast. Have you not yet enough of that soft skin, The touch of which in times past might have
been Enough to ransom many a thousand soul Captived to love? Then hence your bodies roll A little higher; when I would you have This epitaph upon her forehead grave: Living, she was fair, young, and full of wit; Dead, all her faults are in her forehead writ.
From Notes and Queries, Ist.
58 See ante, page 298. series, III. 367.
ON THE AUTHOR, worKS AND TRANSLATOR.59 Who tracks this author's, or translator's, pen Shall find that either hath read books and men: To
say but one were single : Then it chimes When the old words do strike on the new times, As in this Spanish Proteus; who, though writ But in one tongue, was formed with the world's
wit; And hath the noblest mark of a good book, That an ill man dares not securely look Upon it, but will loathe or let it pass, As a deformed face doth a true glass. Such books deserve translators of like coat, As was the genius wherewith they were wrote: And this hath met that one that may be styled More than the foster father of this child. For though Spain gave him his first air and
vogue He would be called henceforth The English
Rogue, But that he's too well suited, in a cloth Finer than was his Spanish, if my oath Will be received in Court; if not, would I Had cloathed him so. Here's all I can supply
59 Prefixed to the Translation of The Spanish Rogue, by James Mabbe, 1623. James Mabbe learned his Spanish by accompanying Sir John Digby when he went as ambassador to Spain. He alopted the quaint name of Don Diego Puede Ser (that is, Don James May-Be), and translated other Spanish books,
To your desert, who have done it, friend. And
this Fair emulation and as envy is, When
behold me with myself the man That would have done that which you only can.
Who saith our times nor have nor can
Produce us a black swan ?
Whose note and hue
60 These spirited and thoroughly Jonsonian stanzas are prefixed to a Poem published in 1603, with the following title, “ PANCHARIS : The First Booke, containing The Preparation of the Love betweene Owen Tudyr, and the Queene, long since intended to her Maiden Majestie; And now dedicated to The Invincible James, Second and greater Monarch of Great Britaine, King of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland, with the Islands adjacent. Printed at London, by V. S. for Clement Knight. 1603.”
This work, of which only one copy is known to exist (among Burton's books in the Bodleian) was first described in 1865 by Mr. Collier, in his Bibliographical Catalogue, Vol. II. p. 443, and afterwarıls reprinted in the following year in his
green series,” or “Illustrations of our old English Literature.” Particular attention was called by him to this Ode of Jonson's, which has, notwithstanding, been overlooked by Mr. Hazlitt. The notices of Scotland are especially interesting, as showing for how many years before he actually visited it the localities of his ancestral land had occupied his mind. His mention of the drinking habits of the Danes, in the same year in which Hamlet was first published, has hitherto escaped Shakespearian commentators.- CUNNINGHAM.
Besides the other swans admiring him,
Betray it true:
Mark, mark, but when his wing he takes
How fair a flight he makes !
Whilst pleased Apollo
In vain to follow.
He showed him first the hoof-cleft spring,
Near which Thespiads sing;
Where Pindar swam ;
And when they came
This changed his down, till this, as white
As the whole beard in sight,
That part nor wind,
Nor sun could make to vary from the rest,
Or alter kind;
Be then both rare and good : and long
Continue thy sweet song.
Thy tunes alone;
Salute old Mône. But first to Cluid stoop low, The vale that bred thee pure as her hills' snow.
From thence display thy wing again
Over Ierna main
There charm the rout
That late were out. Music hath power to draw, Where neither force can bend, nor fear can awe.
Be proof, the glory of his hand,
(Charles Montjoy) whose command
And more hath won