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How durst thou cast a glance on this rich jewel,
I have bought for my own wearing ?

Spring. Bought! art thou sold then?
Ray. Yes, with her gifts; she buys me with her

Health. Graces ? a witch!
Spring. What can she give thee?
Ray. All things.
Spring. My Raybright, hear me; I regard not

these. Ray. What dowry can you bring me ?

Spring. Dowry? ha!
Is 'i come to this ? am I held poor and base!
A girdle make whose buckles, stretch'd to the

Shall reach from th' arctic to th' antarctic pole;
What ground soe'er thou canst with that enclose
I'll give thee freely: not a lark, that calls!
The morning up, shall build on any curf,
But she shall be thy tenant, call thee lord,
And for her rent, pay thee in change of songs.

Ray. I must turn bird-catcher.
Fol. Do you think to have him for a song ?
Hum. Live with me still, and all the measures,

Play'd to by the spheres, I'll teach thee;
Let's but thus dally, all the pleasures
The moon beholds, her man shall reach


1 Not a lark, &c.] I attribute, without scruple, all these incidental glimpses of rural nature to Decker. Ford rarely, if ever, indulges in them. The lark is justly a great favourite with our old poets; and I should imagine, from my own observations, that a greater number of descriptive passages might be found respecting him than of the nightingale. A judicious collection of both would furnish not a few pages of surpassing taste and beauty. While I am writing this, the following simple and pretty address occurs to me. It is that of young Fitzwalter to his mistress, whom he meets at daybreak.

“So early! then I see love's the best larke .

For the corne-builder has not warbled yet
Ilis morning's caroll to the rising sun.”- The Palsg.:


Ray. Divinest !
Fot. Here's a lady!
Spring. Is't come to who gives most?
The self-same bay-tree, into which was turn'd
Peneian Daphne, I have still kept green;
That tree shall now be thine: about it sit
All the old poets, with fresh laurel crown'd,
Singing in verse the praise of chastity;
Hither when thou shalt come, they all shall rise,
Sweet cantos of thy love and mine to sing,
And invoke none but thee as Delian king.

Ray. Live by singing ballads!

Fol. Oh, base! turn poet? I would not be one myself. Hum. Dwell in mine arms aloft we'll hover,

And see

fields of armies fighting :
Oh, part not from me! I'll discover

There all but books of Fancy's writing.
Del. Not far off stands the Hippocrenian well,
Whither I 'll lead thee; and but drinking there,
To welcome thee nine Muses shall appear,
And with full bowels of knowledge thee inspire.

Ray. Hang knowledge, drown your Muses !

Fol. Ay, ay, or they'll drown themselves in sack and claret. Hum. Do not regard their toys;

Be but my darling, age to free thee

From her curse shall fall a-dying ;
Call me thy

empress, Time to see thee
Shall forget his art of flying.
Ray. Oh, my all excellence!
Spring. Speak thou for me; I am fainting.

[To HEALTH. Health. Leave her; take this, and travel through

the world, I 'll bring thee into all the courts of kings, Where thou shalt stay, and learn their languages ;

VOL. II.-10

Kiss ladies, revel out the nights in dancing,
The day in manly pastimes; snatch from Time
His glass, and let the golden sands run forth
As thou shalt jog them; riot it, go brave,
Spend half a world, my queen shall bear thee out:
Yet all this while, though thou climb hills of years,
Shall not one wrinkle sit upon thy brow,
Nor any sickness shake thee: Youth and Health,
As slaves, shall lackey by thy chariot-wheels:
And who, for two such jewels, would not sell
Th' East and West Indies ? both are thine, so that-

Ray. What?

Fol. All lies! gallop over the world, and not grow old, nor be sick ? a lie. One gallant went but into France last day, and was never his own man since; another stepped but into the Low Countries, and was drunk dead under the table; another did but peep into England, and it cost him more in good-morrows blown up to him under his window, by drums and trumpets, than his whole voyage; besides he ran mad upon 't.' Hum. Here's my last farewell: ride along with

I'll raise by art out of base earth a palace,
Whither thyself
Shalt call together the most glorious spirits
Of all the kings that have been in the world;
And they shall come, only to feast with thee.

Ray. Rare!
Huin. At one end of this palace shall be heard
That music which gives motion to the heaven;
And in the midst Orpheus shall sit and weep,

1 The streets of London appear to have been grievously infested at this time with noises (i. e. little knots) of fiddlers, who pressed into all companies, and pestered every new-comer with their salutations.GIFFORD.

2 The original copy appears, from some mutilated remains of it, to have contained a description of the palace itseif, and also its garden: it was thought useless, however, to excite the reader's regret by insers ing the mere fragments..

For sorrow that his lute had not the charms
To bring his fair Eurydice from hell:
Then, at another end, -

Ray. I'll hear no more:
This ends your strife ; you only I adore.

{To HUMOUR. Spring. Oh, I am sick at heart! unthankful man, 'Tis thou hast wounded me; farewell !

[She is led in by DELIGHT. Ray. Farewell! Fol. Health, recover her; sirrah, Youth, look

to her. Health. That bird that in her nest sleeps out the

spring, May Ay in summer; but—with sickly wing.

(Exeunt Health and Youth. Hum. In triumph now I lead thee ;-no, be thou

Cæsar, And lead me.

Ray. Neither! we'll ride with equal state, Both in one chariot, since we have equal fate.




The Confines of Spring and Summer.

Enter RAYBRIGHT melancholy.
Ray. Oh, my dear love the Spring, I am cheated

of thee! Thou hadst a body, the four elements Dwelt never in a fairer; a mind, princely: Thy language, like thy singers, musical. How cool wert thou in anger! in thy diet, How temperate, and yet sumptuous ! thou wouldst

not waste

The weight of a sad violet in excess ;

1 See note, p. 134.

Yet still thy board had dishes numberless :
Dumb beasts even loved thee; once a young lark
Sat on thy hand, and gazing on thine eyes,
Mounted and sung, thinking them moving skies.
Enter FOLLY, singing an epitaph on the departed

Ray. Thou idiot! hast thou none
To poison with thy nasty jigs but mine,
My matchless frame of nature, creation's wonder ?
Out of my sight!

Fol. I am not in it; if I were, you'd see but scurvily. You find fault as patrons do with books, to give nothing. Ray. Vex me not, fool; turn out o' doors your

roarer, French tailor, and that Spanish gingerbread, And your Italian skipper; then, sir, yourself.

Fol. Myself! hang me, I'll not stir; poor Folly, honest Folly, jocundary Folly, forsake your lordship! no true gentleman hates me; and how many women are given daily to me, some not far off know. Tailor gone, Toledan gone, all gone, but I

Enter HUMOUR. Hum. My waiters quoited off by you! you flay

them! Whence come these thunderbolts? what furies

haunt you ?
Ray. You.
Fot. She!
Ray. Yes, and thou.
Fol. Bow wow !

Ray. I shall grow old, diseased, and melancholy; For you have robb’d me both of Youth and Health, And that Delight my Spring bestow'd upon me: But for you two I should be wondrous good;

1 Soe notos, p. 113 and 157.

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