attempts to win over the dowager queen to let him wed her daughter? It is not Nature's nature, but Imagination's substi tuted nature, which does almost as well in a fiction.]

THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES: A MASQUE.

BY JOHN DAY. PRINTED 16071.

ULANIA, a female Bee, confesses her passion for MELETUS, who loves ARETHUSA.

not a village fly, nor meadow bee,

That traffics daily on the neighbouring plain,
But will report, how all the winged train
Have sued to me for love; when we have flown
In swarms out to discover fields new-blown.
Happy was he could find the forwardest tree,
And cull the choicest blossoms out for me;
Of all their labours they allow'd me some

And (like my champions) mann'd me out, and home:
Yet loved I none of them. Philon, a bee
Well-skill'd in verse and amorous poetry,
As we have sat at work, both of one rose2,
Has humm'd sweet canzons, both in verse and prose,
Which I ne'er minded. Astrophel, a bee
(Although not so poetical as he)

Yet in his full invention quick and ripe,
In summer evenings, on his well-tuned pipe,

Upon a woodbine blossom in the sun,

(Our hive being clean-swept, and our day's work done,)
Would play me twenty several tunes; yet I
Nor minded Astrophel, nor his melody.

Then there's Amniter, for whose love fair Leade
(That pretty bee) flies up and down the mead
With rivers in her eyes; without deserving
Sent me trim acorn bowls of his own carving,

To drink May dews and mead in. Yet none of these,
My hive-born playfellows and fellow bees,

1 Whether this singular production, in which the characters are all bees, was ever acted, I have no information to determine. It it is at least as capable of representation as we can conceive the "Birds" of Aristophanes to have been.

2 Prettily pilfered from the sweet passage in the Midsummer Night's Dream, where Helena recounts to Hermia their schooldays' friendship :

We Hermia, like two artificial gods,

Created with our needles both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion.

Could I affect, until this strange bee came;
And him I love with such an ardent flame,
Discretion cannot quench.

He labours and toils,

Extracts more honey out of barren soils

Than twenty lazy drones. I have heard my father,
Steward of the hive, profess that he had rather
Lose half the swarm than him. If a bee, poor or weak,
Grows faint on his way, or by misfortune break

A wing or leg against a twig; alive,

Or dead, he'll bring into the master's hive
Him and his burthen. But the other day,
On the next plain there grew a fatal fray
Betwixt the wasps and us; the wind grew high,
And a rough storm raged so impetuously,

Our bees could scarce keep wing; then fell such rain,
It made our colony forsake the plain,

And fly to garrison: yet still he stood,

And 'gainst the whole swarm made his party good;
And at each blow he gave, cried out His Vow,
His Vow, and Arethusa!-On each bough
And tender blossom he engraves her name
With his sharp sting. To Arethusa's fame
He consecrates his actions; all his worth
Is only spent to character her forth.

On damask roses, and the leaves of pines,
I have seen him write such amorous moving lines
In Arethusa's praise, as my poor heart

Has, when I read them, envied her desert;
And wept and sigh'd to think that he should be
To her so constant, yet not pity me.

PORREX, Viceroy of Bees under KING OBERON, describes his large

prerogative.

To Us (who, warranted by Oberon's love,

Write Ourself Master Bee), both field and grove,

Garden and orchard, lawns and flowery meads,

(Where the amorous wind plays with the golden heads
Of wanton cowslips, daisies in their prime,
Sun-loving marigolds; the blossom'd thyme,
The blue-vein'd violets and the damask rose;
The stately lily, mistress of all those);
Are allow'd and given, by Oberon's free areed,
Pasture for me, and all my swarms to feed.

of these pretty little winged creatures are with continued liveliness portrayed throughout the whole of this curious old Drama, in words which bees would talk with, could they talk; the very air seems replete with humming and buzzing melodies, while we read them. Surely bees were never so be-rhymed before.]

THE REWARDS OF VIRTUE: A COMEDY,

BY JOHN FOUNTAIN. PRINTED 1661. Success in Battle not always attributable to the General. Generals oft-times famous grow

By valiant friends, or cowardly enemies;

Or, what is worse, by some mean piece of chance.
Truth is, 'tis pretty to observe

How little princes and great generals

Contribute oft-times to the fame they win.
How oft hath it been found, that noblest minds
With two short arms, have fought with fatal stars;
And have endeavour'd with their dearest blood
To mollify those diamonds, where dwell
The fate of kingdoms; and at last have fallen
By vulgar hands, unable now to do

More for their cause than die; and have been lost
Among the sacrifices of their swords;
No more remember'd than poor villagers,
Whose ashes sleep among the common flowers,
That every meadow wears! whilst other men
With trembling hands have caught a victory,
And on pale foreheads wear triumphant bays.
Besides, I have thought

A thousand times; in times of war, when we
Lift up our hands to Heaven for victory;
Suppose some virgin shepherdess, whose soul
Is chaste and clean as the cold spring, where she
Quenches all thirsts, being told of enemies,
That seek to fright the long-enjoyed Peace
Of our Arcadia hence with sound of drums,
And with hoarse trumpets' warlike airs to drown
The harmless music of her oaten reeds,
Should in the passion of her troubled sprite
Repair to some small fane (such as the gods

Hear poor folks from), and there on humble knees
Lift up her trembling hands to holy Pan,
And beg his helps: 'tis possible to think,

That Heaven, which holds the purest vows most rich,
May not permit her still to weep in vain,

But grant her wish (for, would the gods not hear

The prayers of poor folks, they'd ne'er bid them pray);
And so, in the next action, happeneth out

(The gods still using means) the enemy
May be defeated. The glory of all this
Is attributed to the general,

And none but he is spoke loud of for the act;
While she, from whose so unaffected tears
His laurel sprung, for ever dwells unknown'.

Unlawful Solicitings.

When I first

Mention'd the business to her all alone,
Poor soul, she blush'd, as if already she
Had done some harm by hearing of me speak ;
Whilst from her pretty eyes two fountains ran
So true, so native, down her fairest cheeks;
As if she thought herself obliged to cry,
'Cause all the world was not so good as she.

Proportion in Pity.

There must be some proportion still to pity
Between ourselves and what we moan: 'tis hard
For men to be aught sensible how moats
Press flies to death. Should the lion, in
His midnight walks for prey, hear some poor worms
Complain for want of little drops of dew,
What pity could that generous creature have
(Who never wanted small things) for those poor
Ambitions? yet these are their concernments,
And but for want of these they pine and die.

Modesty a bar to preferment.

Sure 'twas his modesty. He might have thriven
Much better possibly, had his ambition

Been greater much. They oft-times take more pains
Who look for pins, than those who find out stars.

1 Is it possible that Cowper might have remembered this sen timent in his description of the advantages which the world, that scorns him, may derive from the noiseless hours of the contem. plative man?

Perhaps she owes

Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring
And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes,
When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint

Walks forth to meditate at eventide,

And think on her, who thinks not on herself.-Task.

Innocence vindicated at last.

Heaven may awhile correct the virtuous ;
Yet it will wipe their eyes again, and make
Their faces whiter with their tears. Innocence
Conceal'd is the stolen pleasure of the gods,
Which never ends in shame, as that of men
Doth oft-times do; but like the sun, breaks forth,
When it hath gratified another world;

And to our unexpecting eyes appears
More glorious through its late obscurity.
Dying for a beloved person.

There is a gust in death, when 'tis for love,
That's more than all that's taste in all the world.
For the true measure of true love is death;
And what falls short of this, was never love:
And therefore when those tides do meet and strive,
And both swell high, but love is higher still,
This is the truest satisfaction of

The perfectest love: for here it sees itself
Endure the highest test; and then it feels
The sum of delectation, since it now
Attains its perfect end; and shows its object,
By one intense act, all its verity:

Which by a thousand and ten thousand words
It would have took a poor diluted pleasure
To have imperfectly express'd.

URANIA makes a mock assignation with the King, and substitutes the Queen in her place. The King describes the supposed meeting to the Confident, whom he had employed to solicit for his guilty passion.

Pyrrhus, I'll tell thee all. When now the night
Grew black enough to hide a skulking action;
And Heaven had ne'er an eye unshut to see
Her representative on earth creep 'mongst
Those poor defenceless worms, whom nature left
An humble prey to every thing, and no
Asylum but the dark; I softly stole

To yonder grotto through the upper walks,
And there found my Urania. But I found her,
I found her, Pyrrhus, not a mistress, but

A goddess rather; which made me now to be
No more her lover, but idolater.

She only whisper'd to me, as she promised,

Yet never heard I any voice so loud;

A

ngh her words were gentler far than those
ests do speak to dying saints,