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Loaden with kisses, armed with thousand Cupids, SONG

Shall never clasp our necks! no issue know us, Asp. Lay a garland on my hearse

No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see, of the dismal yew :

To glad our age, and like young eagles teach them
Maidens, willow branches bear;

Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say,
Say I died true.

"Remember what your fathers were, and conquer!'
My love was false, but I was firm,
From my hour of birth;

The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments, Upon my buried body, lie

And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune, Lightly, gentle earth!

Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done Madam, good-night ; may no discontent

To youth and nature. This is all our world : Grow 'twixt your love and you ; but if there do,

We shall know nothing here but one another ; Inquire of me, and I will guide your moan;

Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes. Teach you an artificial way to grieve,

The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it : To keep your sorrow waking. Love your lord

Summer shall come, and with her all delights, No worse than I ; but if you love so well,

But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still. Alas ! you may displease him ; so did I.

Pal. 'Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds, This is the last time you shall look on me :

That shook the aged forest with their echoes, Ladies, farewell ; as soon as I am dead,

No more now must we halloo; no more shake Come all, and watch one night about my hearse ;

Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine Bring each a mournful story and a tear

Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages, To offer at it when I go to earth :

Struck with our well-steeled darts! All valiant uses

The food and nourishment of noble minds-
With flattering ivy clasp my coffin round,
Write on my brow my fortune, let my bier

In us two here shall perish : we shall die

Which is the curse of honour-lastly,
Be borne by virgins that shall sing by course
The truth of maids and perjuries of men.

Children of grief and ignorance.
Evad. Alas! I pity thee.

[Amintor enters.

Arc. Yet, cousin,

Even from the bottom of these miseries, Asp. Go, and be happy in your lady's love ;

[To Amintor. From all that fortune can inflict upon us, May all the wrongs that you have done to me

I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings, Be utterly forgotten in my death.

If the gods please to hold here: a brave patience, I'll trouble you no more, yet I will take

And the enjoying of our griefs together. A parting kiss, and will not be denied.

Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish You 'll come, my lord, and see the virgins weep

If I think this our prison ! When I am laid in earth, though you yourself

Pal. Certainly Can know no pity : thus I wind myself

'Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes Into this willow garland, and am prouder

Were twined together ; 'tis most true, two souls That I was once your love—though now refused —

Put in two noble bodies, let them suffer
Than to have had another true to me.

The gall of hazard, so they grow together,
The Maid's Tragedy, Act II. sc. 1.

Will never sink ; they must not ; say they could,
A willing man dies sleeping, and all 's done.

Arc. Shall we make worthy uses of this place
Palamon and Arcite, Captives in Greece.

That all men hate so much?

Pal. How, gentle cousin ? Palamon. How do you, noble cousin ?

Arc. Let's think this prison a holy sanctuary, Arcite. How do you, sir?

To keep us from corruption of worse men ! Pal. Why, strong enough to laugh at misery,

We are young, and yet desire the ways of honour, And bear the chance of war yet; we are prisoners, That liberty and common conversation, I fear for ever, cousin.

The poison of pure spirits, might—like womenArc. I believe it,

Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing And to that destiny have patiently

Can be, but our imaginations Laid up my hour to come.

May make it ours ? °And here being thus together, Pal. Oh, cousin Arcite,

We are an endless mine to one another ;
Where is Thebes now? where is our noble country? We are one another's wife, ever begetting
Where are our friends and kindreds ? Never more New births of love; we are father, friends, acquaintance ;
Must we behold those comforts, never see

We are, in one another, families;
The hardy youths strive for the games of honour, I am your heir, and you are mine ; this place
Hung with the painted favours of their ladies,

Is our inheritance ; no hard oppressor
Like tall ships under sail ; then start amongst them, Dare take this from us : here, with a little patience,
And as an east wind leave them all behind us

We shall live long, and loving ; no surfeits seek us ; Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite,

The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas Even in the wagging of a wanton leg,

Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty, Outstript the people's praises, won the garlands A wife might part us lawfully, or business ; Ere they have time to wish them ours. Oh, never Quarrels consume us ; envy of ill men Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour,

Crave our acquaintance ; I might sicken, cousin, Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses

Where you should never know it, and so perish Like proud seas under us; our good swords now- Without your noble hand to close mine eyes, Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore

Or prayers to the gods : a thousand chances, Ravished our sides, like age, must run to rust,

Were we from hence, would sever us.
And deck the temples of those gods that hate us ;

Pal. You have made me-
These hands shall never draw them out like lightning I thank you, cousin Arcite !-almost wanton
To blast whole armies more !

With my captivity: what a misery
Arc. No, Palamon,

It is to live abroad, and everywhere ! Those hopes are prisoners with us; here we are, 'Tis like a beast, methinks ! I find the court here, And here the graces of our youths must wither

I'm sure, a more content ; and all those pleasures, Like a too timely spring; here age must find us, That woo the wills of men to vanity, And—which is heaviest–Palamon, unmarried ;

I see through now; and am sufficient The sweet embraces of a loving wife

To tell the world, 'Tis but a gaudy shadow, 164

That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him.

I must go, I must run, What had we been, old in the court of Creon,

Swifter than the fiery sun.

[Exit. Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance

Clorin. And all my fears go with thee. The virtues of the great ones? Cousin Arcite,

What greatness, or what private hidden power, Had not the loving gods found this place for us,

Is there in me to draw submission We had died, as they do, ill old men, unwept,

From this rude man and beast?--sure I am mortal; And had their epitaphs, the people's curses.

The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal, Shall I say more?

And she that bore me mortal ; prick my hand Arc. I would hear you still.

And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and Pol. You shall.

The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink, Is there record of any two that loved

Makes me a-cold: my fear says I am mortal: Better than we do, Arcite ?

Yet I have heard--my mother told it meAro. Sure there cannot.

And now I do believe it, if I keep Pal. I do not think it possible our friendship

My virgin flower uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair, Should ever leave us.

No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend, Art. Till our deaths it cannot ;

Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves, And after death our spirits shall be led

Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion
To those that love eternally.

Draw me to wander after idle fires,
The Two Noble Kinsmen, Act II. sc. 1. Or voices calling me in dead of night

To make me follow, and so tole me on

Through mire and standing pools, to find my ruin. Pastoral Love. From the ' Faithful Shepherdess.' Else why should this rough thing, who never knew CLORIN and a SATYR with basket of fruit.

Manners nor smooth humanity, whose heats

Are rougher than himself, and more misshapen, Satyr. Through yon same bending plain

Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there's a power That Alings his arms down to the main,

In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast And through these thick woods, have I run,

All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites Whose bottom never kissed the sun,

That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity, Since the lusty spring began.

Be thou my strongest guard; for here I'll dwell All to please my master Pan,

In opposition against late and hell!
Have I trotted without rest,
To get him fruit; for at a feast

Perigor and AMORET appoint to meet at the Virtuous Well.
He entertains, this coming night,
His paramour the Syrinx bright:

Perigot. Stay, gentle Amoret, thou fair-browed maid. But behold a fairer sight!

(Seeing CLORIN. Thy shepherd prays thee stay, that holds thee dear, By that heavenly form of thine,

Equal with his soul's good. Brightest fair, thou art divine,

Amoret. Speak, I give Sprung from great immortal race

Thee freedom, shepherd, and thy tongue be still Of the gods; for in thy face

The same it ever was, as free from ill Shines more awful majesty

As he whose conversation never knew Than dull weak mortality

The court or city : be thou ever true. Dare with misty eyes behold,

Peri. When I fall off from my affection, And live : therefore, on this mould

Or mingle my clean thoughts with ill desires, Lowly do I bend my knee,

First let our great God cease to keep my flocks, In worship of thy deity.

That being left alone without a guard, Deign it, goddess, from my hand

The wolf, or winter's rage, summer's great heat, To receive whate'er this land

And want of water, rots, or what to us From her fertile womb doth send

Of ill is yet unknown, fall speedily, Of her choice fruits; and but lend

And in their general ruin let me go. Belief to that the Satyr tells,

Amo. I pray thee, gentle shepherd, wish not so : Fairer by the famous wells,

I do believe thee, 'tis as hard for me To this present day ne'er grew,

To think thee false, and harder than for thee Never better, nor more true.

To hold me foul. Here be grapes whose lusty blood

Peri. Oh, you are fairer far Is the learned poets' good,

Than the chaste blushing morn, or that fair star Sweeter yet did never crown

That guides the wandering seamen through the deep, The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown

Straighter than straightest pine upon the steep Than the squirrel whose teeth crack them;

Head of an aged mountain, and more white Deign, O fairest fair, to take them :

Than the new milk we strip before daylight For these, black-eyed Driope

From the full-freighted bags of our fair flocks. Hath oftentimes commanded me

Your hair more beauteous than those hanging locks With my clasped knee to climb:

Of young Apollo. See how well the lusty time

Amo. Shepherd, be not lost, Hath decked their rising cheeks in red,

Y' are sailed too far already from the coast Such as on your lips is spread.

Of our discourse. Here be berries for a queen,

Peri. Did you not tell me once Some be red, some be green;

I should not love alone, I should not lose These are of that luscious meat

Those many passions, vows, and holy oaths, The great god Pan himself doth eat :

I've sent to heaven? Did you not give your hand, All these, and what the woods can yield,

Even that fair hand, in hostage? Do not then The hanging mountain or the field,

Give back again those sweets to other men I freely offer, and ere long

You yourself vowed were mine. Will bring you more, more sweet and strong;

Amo. Shepherd, so far as maiden's modesty Till when, humbly leave I take,

May give assurance, I am once more thine. Lest the great Pan do awake,

Once more I give my hand; be ever free That sleeping lies in a deep glade,

From that great foe to faith, foul jealousy. Under a broad beech's shade.

Peri. I take it as my best good; and desire,

For stronger confirmation of our love,

Fear examples, and be wise : To meet this happy night in that fair grove,

Fair Calisto was a nun: Where all true shepherds have rewarded been

Leda, sailing on the stream,
For their long service. Say, sweet, shall it hold?

To deceive the hopes of man,
Amo. Dear friend, you must not blame me if I make Love accounting but a dream,
A doubt of what the silent night may do

Doted on a silver swan;
Maids must be fearful.

Danae in a brazen tower,
Peri. Oh, do not wrong my honest simple truth ;

Where no love was, loved a shower.
Myself and my affections are as pure
As those chaste flames that burn before the shrine

Hear ye, ladies that are coy,
Of the great Dian : only my intent

What the mighty Love can do ; To draw you thither was to plight our troths,

Fear the fierceness of the boy ; With interchange of mutual chaste embraces,

The chaste moon he makes to woo; And ceremonious tying of ourselves.

Vesta, kindling holy fires, For to that holy wood is consecrate

Circled round about with spies, A Virtuous Well, about whose flowery banks

Never dreaming loose desires, The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds

Doting at the altar dies; By the pale moonshine, dipping oftentimes

Ilion, in a short hour, higher
Their stolen children, so to make them free

He can build, and once more fire.
From dying flesh and dull mortality.
By this fair fount hath many a shepherd sworn
And given away his freedom, many a troth

To Sleep.- From the same.
Been plight, which neither Envy nor old Time
Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss given

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, In hope of coming happiness : by this

Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose Fresh fountain many a blushing maid

On this afflicted prince : fall like a cloud Hath crowned the head of her long-loved shepherd

In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud With gaudy flowers, whilst he happy sung

Or painful to his slumbers ; easy, sweet (light?), Lays of his love and dear captivity.

And as a purling stream, thou son of Night, Act I. sc. 3.

Pass by his troubled senses, sing his pain

Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver rain. The lyrical pieces scattered throughout Beau

Into this prince, gently, oh, gently slide, mont and Fletcher's plays are generally in the And kiss him into slumbers like a bride! same graceful and fanciful style as the poetry of the Faithful Shepherdess. Some are here subjoined:

Song to Pan, at the Conclusion of the Faithful

Shepherdess.
Melancholy. From 'Nice Valour.'

All ye woods, and trees, and bowers,
Hence, all you vain delights,

All ye virtues and ye powers
As short as are the nights

That inhabit in the lakes,
Wherein you spend your folly!

In the pleasant springs or brakes,
There's nought in this life sweet,

Move your feet
If man were wise to see 't,

To our sound,
But only melancholy !

Whilst we greet

All this ground,
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,

With his honour and his name
A sigh that piercing mortifies,

That defends our flocks from blame.
A look that 's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up, without a sound !

He is great, and he is just,
Fountain heads, and pathless groves,

He is ever good, and must

Thus be honoured. Daffodilies,
Places which pale passion loves !
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls

Roses, pinks, and loved lilies,

Let us fling,
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls !

Whilst we sing,
A midnight bell, a parting groan !
These are the sounds we feed upon;

Ever holy,
Then stretch your bones in a still gloomy valley:

Ever holy,

Ever honoured, ever young!
Nothing's so dainty-sweet as lovely melancholy.

Thus great Pan is ever sung.
Song.From the 'False One.'
Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air !

From 'Rollo.'
Even in shadows you are fair.
Shut-up beauty is like fire,

Take, O take those lips away,
That breaks out clearer still and higher.

That so sweetly were forsworn;
Though your beauty be confined,

And those eyes, the break of day,
And soft Love a prisoner bound,

Lights that do mislead the morn;
Yet the beauty of your mind

But my kisses bring again,
Neither check nor chain hath found.

Seals of love, though sealed in vain.
Look out nobly, then, and dare
Even the fetters that you wear !

Hide, O hide those hills of snow,

Which thy frozen bosom bears,
The Power of Love.--From 'Valentinian.'

On whose tops the pinks that grow

Are yet of those that April wears ;
Hear ye, ladies that despise

But first set my poor heart free,
What the mighty Love has done;

Bound in those icy chains by thee.

166

He knocked his chin against his darkened breast, GEORGE CHAPMAN.

And struck a churlish silence through his powers.

Terror of darkness! O thou king of flames ! GEORGE CHAPMAN, the translator of Homer, That with thy music-footed horse dost strike wrote early and copiously for the stage. His first The clear light out of crystal on dark earth;

And hurl'st instinctive fire about the world : play, the Blind Beggar of Alexandria, was printed in 1598, the same year that witnessed Ben Jonson's

Wake, wake the drowsy and enchanted night first and masterly dramatic effort. Previous to

That sleeps with dead eyes in this heavy riddle.

Or thou, great prince of shades, where never sun this, Chapman had translated part of the Iliad;

Sticks his far-darted beams; whose eyes are made and his lofty fourteen-syllable rhyme, with such

To see in darkness, and see ever best lines as the following, would seem to have Where sense is blindest : open now the heart promised a great tragic poet :

Of thy abashed oracle, that, for fear

Of some ill it includes, would fain lie hid : From his bright helm and shield did burn a most And rise thou with it in thy greater light.

unwearied fire, Like rich Autumnus' golden lamp, whose brightness In the same play are the following lines :

men admire, Past all the other host of stars, when with his cheerful

False Greatness. face, Fresh washed in lofty ocean waves, he doth the sky

As cedars beaten with continual storms, enchase.

So great men flourish; and do imitate

Unskilful statuaries, who suppose, The beauty of Chapman's compound Homeric In forming a Colossus, if they make him epithets, as far-shooting Phæbus, the ever-living

Straddle enough, strut, and look big, and gape,

Their work is goodly: so men merely great, gods, the many-headed hill, silver-footed Thetis,

In their affected gravity of voice, the triple-feathered helm, the fair-haired boy,

Sourness of countenance, manners' cruelty, high-walled Thebes, the strong-winged lance,

Authority, wealth, and all the spawn of fortune, &c. bear the impress of a poetical imagination, Think they bear all the kingdom's worth before them; chaste yet luxuriant. But however spirited and Yet differ not from those colossic statues, lofty as a translator, Chapman proved but a heavy Which, with heroic forms without o'erspread, and cumbrous dramatic writer. He continued to Within are nought but mortar, flint, and lead. supply the theatre with tragedies and comedies up to 1620, or later; yet of the sixteen that have The life of Chapman was a scene of content descended to us, not one possesses the creative and prosperity. He was born at Hitching Hill, and vivifying power of dramatic genius. In didac- in Hertfordshire, in 1557 ; was educated both at tic observation and description he is sometimes Oxford and Cambridge ; enjoyed the royal patronhappy, and hence he has been praised for possess- age of King James and Prince Henry, and the ing more thinking' than most of his contem- friendship of Spenser, Jonson, and Shakspeare. poraries of the buskined muse. His judgment, He was temperate and pious, and, according to however, vanished in action, for his plots are Oldys, “preserved in his conduct the true dignity unnatural, and his style was too hard and artificial of poetry, which he compared to the flower of the to admit' of any nice delineation of character. sun, that disdains to open its leaves to the eye His extravagances are also as bad as those of of a smoking taper.' The life of this venerable Marlowe, and are seldom relieved by poetic scholar and poet closed in 1634, at the ripe age thoughts or fancy. The best known plays of of seventy-seven. Chapman are Eastward Hoe-written in con- Chapman's Homer is a wonderful work, conjunction with Jonson and Marston-Bussy d'Am- sidering the time when it was produced, and the bois, Byron's Conspiracy, All Fools, and the continued spirit which is kept up. Chapman had Gentleman Usher. 'In a sonnet prefixed to All a vast field to traverse, and though he trod it hurFools, addressed to Sir T. Walsingham, Chapman riedly and negligently, he preserved the fire and states that he was ‘marked by age for aims of freedom of his great original. Pope and Waller greater weight.' This play was printed in 1605. both praised his translation, and perhaps it is It contains the following fanciful lines :

now more frequently in the hands of scholars

and poetical students than the more polished and I tell thee love is Nature's second sun,

musical version of Pope. Chapman's translaCausing a spring of virtues where he shines : And as without the sun, the world's great eye,

tions consist of the Iliad (which he dedicated to All colours, beauties both of art and nature,

Prince Henry), the Odyssey (dedicated to the Are given in vain to men ; so, without love,

royal favourite, Carr, Earl of Somerset), and the All beauties bred in women are in vain,

Georgics of Hesiod, which he inscribed to Lord All virtues bred in men lie buried;

Bacon. A version of Hero and Leander, left unFor love informs them as the sun doth colours.

finished by Marlowe, was completed by Chapman,

and published in 1606. In Bussy d'Ambois is the following invocation to a Spirit of Intelligence, which has been highly lauded by Charles Lamb:

THOMAS DEKKER.

THOMAS DEKKER appears to have been an I long to know How my dear mistress fares, and be informed

industrious author, and Collier gives the names What hand she now holds on the troubled blood

of above twenty plays which he produced, either Of her incensed lord. Methought the spirit,

wholly or in part. He was connected with Jonson When he had uttered his perplexed presage,

in writing for the Lord Admiral's theatre, conThrew his changed countnance headlong into clouds: ducted by Henslowe; but Ben and he became His forehead bent, as he would hide his face : bitter enemies; and the former, in his Poetaster,

performed in 1601, has satirised Dekker under She, crowned with reverend praises, passed by them; the character of Crispinus, representing himself I, though with face masked, could not 'scape the hem; as Horace! Jonson's charges against his adver

For, as if heaven had set strange marks on such, sary are ‘his arrogancy and impudence in com

Because they should be pointing-stocks to man, mending his own things, and for his translating.'

Drest up in civilest shape, a courtesan, The origin of the quarrel does not appear, but in

Let her walk saint-like, noteless, and unknown,

Yet she's betrayed by some trick of her own. an apologetic dialogue added to the Poetaster, Jonson says:

The picture of a lady seen by her lover : Whether of malice, or of ignorance,

My Infelice's face, her brow, her eye, Or itch to have me their adversary, I know not, The dimple on her cheek : and such sweet skill Or all these mixed; but sure I am, three years Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown, They did provoke me with their petulant styles These lips look fresh and lively as her own; On every stage.

Seeming to move and speak. Alas! now I see

The reason why fond women love to buy Dekker replied by another drama, Satiromastix,

Adulterate complexion : here 'tis read; or the Untrussing the Humorous Poet, in which False colours last after the true be dead. Jonson appears as Horace junior. There is more Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, raillery and abuse in Dekker's answer than wit Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, or poetry, but it was well received by the play- Of all the music set upon her tongue, going public. Jonson had complained that his Of all that was past woman's excellence, lines were often maliciously misconstrued and In her white bosom ; look, a painted board misapplied, complacently remarking:

Circumscribes all! Earth can no bliss afford;

Nothing of her but this! This cannot speak;
The error is not mine, but in their eye

It has no lap for me to rest upon;
That cannot take proportions.

No lip worth tasting. Here the worms will feed, Dekker replies happily to this querulous display

As in her coffin. Hence, then, idle art, of egotism:

True love's best pictured in a true love's heart.

Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead, Horace! to stand within the shot of galling tongues

So that thou livest twice, twice art buried.
Proves not your guilt ; for could we write on paper

Thou figure of my friend, lie there !
Made of these turning leaves of heaven, the clouds,
Or speak with angels' tongues, yet wise men know

Picture of Court-life.- From Old Fortunalus.' That some would shake the head, though saints should sing:

For still in all the regions I have seen, Some snakes must hiss, because they 're born with I scorned to crowd among the muddy throng stings.

Of the rank multitude, whose thickened breath Be not you grieved

Like to condensed fogs-do choke that beauty, If that which you mould fair, upright, and smooth,

Which else would dwell in every kingdom's cheek. Be screwed awry, made crooked, lame, and vile, No; I still boldly stept into their courts : By racking comments.

For there to live 'tis rare, O 'tis divine ! So to be bit it rankles not, for Innocence

There shall you see faces angelical ; May with a feather brush off the foul wrong.

There shall you see troops of chaste goddesses, But when your dastard wit will strike at men

Whose starlike eyes have power--might they still In corners, and in riddles fold the vices

shineOf your best friends, you must not take to heart To make night day, and day more crystalline. If they take off all gilding from their pills,

Near these you shall behold great heroes, And only offer you the bitter core.

White-headed councillors, and jovial spirits,

Standing like fiery cherubim to guard Dekker's Fortunatus, or the Wishing-cap, and The monarch, who in godlike glory sits the Honest Whore, are his best. The latter was In midst of these, as if this deity a great favourite with Hazlitt, who says it unites

Had with a look created a new world, 'the simplicity of prose with the graces of poetry.”

The standers-by being the fair workmanship: The poetic diction of Dekker is choice and elegant, And. Oh, how my soul is rapt to a third'heaven! but he often wanders into absurdity. Passages

I'll travel sure, and live with none but kings. like the following would do honour to any drama

Amp. But tell me, father, have you in all courts tist. Of Patience :

Beheld such glory, so majestical,

In all perfection, no way blemished ? Patience ! why, 'tis the soul of peace :

Fort. In some courts shall you see Ambition Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven :

Sit, piecing Dædalus's old waxen wings; It makes men look like gods. The best of men

But being clapt on, and they about to fly, That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer,

Even when their hopes are busied in the clouds, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit;

They melt against the sun of Majesty, The first true gentleman that ever breathed.

And down they tumble to destruction.

By travel, boys, I have seen all these things. The contrast between female honour and shame : Fantastic Compliment stalks up and down,

Trickt in outlandish feathers; all his words, Nothing did make me, when I loved them best,

His looks, his oaths, are all ridiculous,
To loathe them more than this : when in the street

All apish, childish, and Italianate.
A fair, young, modest damsel I did meet ;
She seemed to all a dove when I passed by,

Dekker is supposed to have died about the year And I to all a raven : every eye.

1641. His life seems to have been spent in irreguThat followed her, went with a bashful glance : At me each bold and jeering countenance

larity and poverty. According to Oldys, he was Darted forth scorn: to her, as if she had been

three years in the King's Bench prison.' In one Some tower unvanquished, would they all vail :

of his own beautiful lines, he says: 'Gainst me swoln Rumour hoisted every sail ;

We ne'er are angels till our passions die.

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