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 giv'n, by Oberon's free areed, Pasture for me, and all my swarms to feed.1
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 ofttimes2 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 oftentimes 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 faln
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
1[See page 451 for further extracts.] "["Among "should be "beneath."]
2["Ofttimes" should be "only."] [Four words omitted.]
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 Heav'n, which holds the purest vows most rich, May not permit her still to weep in vain,
But grant her wish, (for, would the Gods not1 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's spoke loud of for the act; While she, from whose so unaffected tears His laurel sprung, for ever dwells unknown.2
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.
1["Not" should be "ne'er."]
Is it possible that Cowper might have remembered this sentiment in his description of the advantages which the world, that scorns him, may derive from the noiseless hours of the contemplative man?
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. [Bk. vi., 948.
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.
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 ofttimes take more pains Who look for Pins, than those who find out Stars.
Innocence vindicated at last.
Heav'n 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 Stoln Pleasure of the Gods, Which never ends in shame, as that of Men
Doth ofttimes do; but like the Sun breaks forth, When it hath gratified another world; And to our unexpecting eyes appears
More glorious thro' 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 Indure the highest test; and then it feels The sum of delectation, since it now
Attains its perfect end; and shows its object,
[The preceding lines really follow those that here succeed them.]
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 Heav'n 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 thro' 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 ;
And, tho' her words were gentler far than those That holy priests do speak to dying Saints, Yet never thunder signified so much.
And (what did more impress whate'er she said) Methought her whispers were my injured Queen's, Her manner just like hers! and when she urged, Among a thousand things, the injury
I did the faithful'st Princess in the world; Who now supposed me sick, and was perchance Upon her knees offering up holy vows
For him who mock'd both Heav'n and her, and was Now breaking of that vow he made her, when With sacrifice he call'd the Gods to witness: When she urged this, and wept, and spake so like My poor deluded Queen, Pyrrhus, I trembled ; Almost persuaded that it was her angel Spake thro' Urania's lips, who for her sake Took care of me, as something she much loved. It would be long to tell thee all she said, How oft she sigh'd, how bitterly she wept :
But the effect-Urania still is chaste; And with her chaster lips hath promised to Invoke blest Heav'n for my intended sin.
ALL FOOLS. A COMEDY. BY GEORGE CHAPMAN. [PUBLISHED] 1605
'tis Nature's second Sun,
Causing a spring of Virtues where he shines; And as without the Sun, the world's Great Eye, All colours, beauties, both of art and nature, Are given in vain to man; so without Love All beauties bred in women are in vain,
All virtues born in men lie buried ;
For Love informs them as the Sun doth colours: And as the Sun, reflecting his warm beams Against the earth, begets all fruits and flowers, So Love, fair shining in the inward man, Brings forth in him the honourable fruits Of valour, wit, virtue, and haughty thoughts, Brave resolution, and divine discourse.
such Love is like a smoky fire
In a cold morning. Though the fire be chearful, Yet is the smoke so foul and cumbersome,
"Twere better lose the fire than find the smoke.
I walking in the place where men's Law Suits Are heard and pleaded, not so much as dreaming Of any such encounter; steps me forth
Their valiant Foreman with the word "I 'rest you." I made no more ado but laid these paws
Close on his shoulders, tumbling him to earth; And there sat he on his posteriors
Like a baboon: and turning me about,
1[For further extracts from this play see Appendix, p. 591.] 2[Mermaid Series, ed. Phelps, 1895.]
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