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expression is preserved throughout along with the forms of speech, as well as of thought, natural to the rustic narrator:—

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen :
Oh things without compare
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair.

At Charing-Cross, hard by the way
Where we, thou knowest, do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs:"
And there did I see coming down
Such folks as are not in our town,
Worty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pestilent fine
(His beard no bigger, though, than thine)
Walked on before the rest:
Our landlord looks like nothing to him ;
The King (God bless him) 'twould undo him
Should he go still so drest.

At course-a-park, withouten doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i' the town;
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the Green,
Or Vincent of the Crown.

But wot you what? The youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing;
The parson for him staid;
Yet, by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past,
Perchance, as did the maid.

The maid—and thereby hangs a tale—
For such a maid no Whitsun ale

* The present Northumberland House, then called Suffolk House, the seat of the lady's father.

Could ever yet produce;
No grape that’s lusty ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,

Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring,
It was too wide a peck;
And to say truth (for out it must)
It looked like the great collar, just,
About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat
Like little mice stole in and out
As if they feared the light;
But oh! she dances such a way
No sun upon an Easter day"
Is half so fine a sight.

He would have kissed her once or twice,
But she would not, she was so nice,
She would not do "t in sight;
And then she looked as who should say,
I will do what I list to day,
And you shall do ’t at night.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison;
Who sees them is undone;
For streaks of red were mingled there
Such as are on a Katharine pear,
The side that 's next the sun.

Her lips were red, and one was thin
Compared to that was next her chin;
Some bee had stung it newly.
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze
Than on the sun in July.

* It was formerly believed that the sun danced on Easterday. See Brand, “Popular Antiquities” (edit. of 1841) I. 95; where the present verse is strangely quoted in illustration of this popular notion from “a rare book entitled ‘Recreation for Ingenious Head Pieces,’ &c., 8vo, Lon. 1667.”

Her mouth so small when she does speak, Thou ’dst swear her teeth her words did break That they might passage get: But she so handled still the matter, . They came as good as ours, or better, ...And are not spent a whit.

Passion o’ me ! how I run on 1
There's that that would be thought upon,
I trow, besides the bride: -
The business of the kitchen's great,
For it is fit that men should eat,
Nor was it there denied.

Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice
His summons did obey;
Each serving-man with dish in hand
Marched boldly up, like our train-band,
Presented and away.

When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able
To stay to be entreated 2
And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace
The company was seated.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house;
The bride's came thick and thick;
And, when 'twas named another's health,
Perhaps he made it her’s by stealth,
And who could help it, Dick?

O' the sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again and sigh and glance;
Then dance again and kiss:
Thus several ways the time did pass,
Whilst every woman wished her place,
And every man wished his,

By this time all were stolen aside
To counsel and undress the bride;

But that he must not know :
But yet ’twas thought he guessed her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind

Above an hour or so.

When in he came, Dick, there she lay,
Like new-fallen snow melting away:
'Twas time, I trow, to part: -
Kisses were now the only stay,
Which soon she gave, as who would say,
Goodbye, with all my heart.

But, just as heavens would have to cross it,
In came the bride-maids with the posset:
The bride-groom ate in spite;
For, had he left the women to 't,
It would have cost two hours to do 't,
Which were too much that night.

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To this date belongs a remarkable poem, the ‘Cooper's Hill' of Sir John Denham, first published in 1642. It immediately drew universal attention. Denham, however, had the year before made himself known as a poet by his tragedy of The Sophy, on the appearance of which Waller remarked that he had broken out like the Irish rebellion, threescore thousand strong, when nobody was aware or in the least suspected it. Cooper's Hill may be considered as belonging in point of composition to the same school with Sir John Davies's Nosce Teipsum ; and, if it has not all the concentration of that poem, it is equally pointed, correct, and stately, with, partly owing to the subject, a warmer tone of imagination and feeling, and a fuller swell of verse. The spirit of the same classical style pervades both; and they are the two greatest


poems in that style which had been produced down to the date at which we are now arrived. Denham is the author of a number of other compositions in verse, and especially of some songs and other shorter pieces, several of which are very spirited; but the fame of his principal poem has thrown everything else he has written into the shade. It is remarkable that many biographical notices of this poet make him to have survived nearly till the Revolution, and relate various stories of the miseries of his protracted old age; when the fact is, that he died in 1668, at the age of fifty-three.*


But, of all the cavalier poets, the one who did his cause the heartiest and stoutest service, and who, notwithstanding much carelessness or ruggedness of execution, possessed perhaps, even considered simply as a poet, the richest and most various faculty, was John Cleveland, the most popular verse-writer of his own day, the most neglected of all his contemporaries ever since. Among the one hundred and sixty-one poets, from Robert of Gloucester to Sir Francis Fane, whose choicest relics

* The readers of the ‘Mémoires de Grammont” will remember the figure he makes in that work, where he is described as “Le Chevalier Denham, comblé de richesses, aussi bien que d’années,” and as having for the first time entered into the marriage state, at the age of seventy-nine, with Miss Brook, a famous court beauty, then only eighteen. The fact is, that this was a second marriage, and that, whatever was the lady's age, Denham himself was then only about fifty. His load of riches is probably as much exaggerated by the lively historian of the Comte de Grammont as his load of years.

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