Ale 's a Physician,
No Mountebank bragger,
Can cure the chill ague,
Though 't be with the stagger.
Ale 's a strong wrestler,
Flings all it hath met;
And makes the ground slippery,
Though 't be not wet.
Ale is both Ceres,
And good Neptune too,
Ale's froth was the Sea,
From whence Venus grew.
Ale is immortal :
And be there no stops,
In bonny Lads' quaffing,
Can live without hops.1
Then come my boon fellows,
Let's drink it around;
It keeps us from the grave,
Though it lays us o' th' ground.
1 The original distinction of beer from the old drink of our forefathers, which was made without that ingredient.
ANDRONICUS, A TRAGEDY :
BY PHILONAX LOVEKIN, 1661.
Effect of religious structures on different minds. Crato. I grieve the chapel was defaced; 'twas stately. Cleobulus. I love no such triumphant churches, They scatter my devotion; whilst my sight Is courted to observe their sumptuous cost, heart lost in my eyes;
my Whilst that a holy horror seems to dwell Within a dark obscure and humble cell. Crato. But I love churches, mount up to the skies, For my devotion rises with their roof: Therein my soul doth heaven anticipate.
Come, Somnus, with thy potent charms,
And seize this captive in thy arms;
And sweetly drop on every sense
Thy soul-refreshing influence.
His sight, smell, hearing, touch, and taste,
Unto the peace do thou bind fast.
On working brains, at school all day,
At night thou dost bestow a play,
And troubled minds thou dost set free;
Thou mak'st both friends and foes agree:
All are alike, who live by breath,
In thee, and in thy brother Death.
THE REWARDS OF VIRTUE, A COMEDY: BY JOHN FOUNTAIN.
Success in Battle not always attributable to the General. GENERALS oft-times famous grow
By valiant friends, or cowardly enemies s;
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.1
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.
There must be some proportion still to pity
1 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.
Between ourselves and what we moan: 'tis hard
For men to be aught sensible how motes
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.
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.
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
|