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he so represented Rome to us, in its rites, ceremonies, and customs, that if one of their poets had written either of his tragedies, we had seen less of it than in him. If there was any fault in his language, 'twas that he weaved it too closely and laboriously, in his comedies especially: perhaps, too, he did a little too much Romanise our tongue, leaving the words which he translated almost as much Latin as he found them; wherein, though he learnedly followed their language, he did not enough comply with the idiom of ours. If I would compare him with Shakspeare, I must acknowledge him the more correct poet, but Shakspeare the greater wit. Shakspeare was the Homer, or father of our dramatic poets: Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elaborate writing; I admire him, but I love Shakspeare. To conclude of him: as he has given us the most correct plays, so, in the precepts which he has laid down in his " Discoveries," we have as many and profitable rules for perfecting the stage, as any wherewith the French can furnish us.-Dryden.


Beaumont and Fletcher, of whom I am next to speak, had, with the advantage of Shakspeare's wit, which was their precedent, great natural gifts, improved by study; Beaumont especially, being so accurate a judge of plays, that Ben Jonson, while he lived, submitted all his writings to his censure, and, 'tis thought, used his judgment in correcting, if not contriving, all his plots. What value he had for him, appears by the verses he writ to him, and therefore I need speak no farther of it. The first play that brought Fletcher and him in esteem was their "Philaster;" for before that they had written two or three very unsuccessful: as the like is reported of Be

Jonson, before he writ "Every Man in his Humour." Their plots were generally more regular than Shakspeare's, especially those which were made before Beaumont's death; and they understood and imitated the conversation of gentlemen much better; whose wild debaucheries, and quickness of wit in repartees, no poet before them could paint as they have done. Humour, which Ben Jonson derived from particular persons, they made it not their business to describe: they represented all the passions very lively, but above all, love. I am apt to believe the English language in them arrived to its highest perfection: what words have since been taken in, are rather superfluous than ornamental. Their plays are now the most pleasant and frequent entertainments of the stage; two of theirs being acted through the year, for one of Shakspeare's or Jonson's: the reason is, because there is a certain gaiety in their comedies, and pathos in their more serious plays, which suits generally with all men's humours. Shakspeare's language is likewise a little obsolete, and Ben Jonson's wit comes short of theirs.-Dryden.


Go, lovely rose !

Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her, that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That, had'st thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retir'd;
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desir'd,

And not blush so to be admir'd.

Then die that she

The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee,

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair!



YONDER is a little drum
Hanging on the wall,

Dusty wreaths and tatter'd flags
Round about it fall.

A Shepherd youth on Cheviot's hills
Watch'd the sheep whose skin
A cunning workman wrought and gave
The little drum its din.

O pleasant are fair Cheviot's hills
With velvet verdure spread,
And pleasant 'tis amid its heath
To make your summer bed.

And sweet and clear are Cheviot's rills
That trickle to its vales,

And balmily its tiny flowers

Breathe on the passing gales.

And thus hath felt the Shepherd boy
Whilst tending of his fold,

Nor thought there was in all the world
A spot like Cheviot's wold.

And so it was for many a day,
But change with Time will come,
And he (Alas! for him the day!)
He heard the little drum.

"Follow," said the drummer-boy,
"Would you live in story;
"For he who strikes a foeman down,
"Wins a wreath of glory!"

"Rub-a-dub and rub-a-dub,”
The drummer beats away-
The Shepherd let his bleating flock
On Cheviot wildly stray.

On Egypt's arid waste of sand
The Shepherd now is lying,
Around him many a parching tongue
For water's faintly crying.

O that he were on Cheviot's hills
With velvet verdure spread,
Or lying 'mid the blooming heath,
Where oft he 'd made his bed.

Or could he drink of those sweet rills
That trickle to the vales,

Or breathe once more the balminess
Of Cheviot's mountain gales.

At length upon his wearied eyes
The mists of slumber come,
And he is in his home again-
Till waken'd by the drum.

"Take arms! Take arms," his leader cries, "The hated foeman's nigh ;'

Guns loudly roar-steel clanks on steel,
And thousands fall to die.

The Shepherd's blood makes red the sand,
"Oh! water-give me some!
"My voice might reach a friendly ear,
"But for that little drum!"

'Mid moaning men-'
-'mid dying men,
The drummer kept his way,
And many a one, by "glory" lured,
Did curse the drum that day.

"Rub-a-dub and rub-a-dub,"
The drummer beat aloud-
The Shepherd died, and ere the morn,
The hot sand was his shroud.

And this is glory? Yes; and still
Will man the tempter follow,
Nor learn that glory, like its drum,

Is but a sound and hollow.-Mark Lemon.


During the confinement of king John, the provost of the merchants and sheriffs of Paris made a present to the church of Notre Dame, of a wax-candle, (probably rolled up,) of the same length as the circumference of the walls of Paris.-St. Foix.

In the Formulæ of Marculphus, edited by Jerome Bignon, he tells us, with respect to lights, that the use of them was of great antiquity in the church; that the primitive Christians made use of them in the assemblies, which they held before day, out of necessity; and that afterwards they were retained even in day-light, as tokens of joy, and in honour of the Deity.

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