For, though banished from my flocks,
And confined within these rocks,
Here I waste away the light,

And consume the sullen night,
She doth for my comfort stay,
And keeps many cares away.
Though I miss the flowery fields,

With those sweets the spring-tide yields,
Though I may not see those groves,
Where the shepherds chant their loves,
And the lasses more excel
Than the sweet-voiced Philomel.
Though of all those pleasures past,
Nothing now remains at last,
But remembrance, poor relief,

That more makes than mends my grief:
She's my mind's companion still,
Maugre envy's evil will.

(Whence she would be driven, too,
Were 't in mortal's power to do.)
She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow:
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace;
And the blackest discontents
Be her fairest ornaments.
In my former days of bliss,
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from everything I saw,
I could some invention draw,
And raise pleasure to her height,
Through the meanest object's sight;
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustleing.
By a daisy, whose leaves spread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree,

She could more infuse in me,

Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.

By her help I also now

Make this churlish place allow

Some things that may sweeten gladness,
In the very gall of sadness.

The dull loneness, the black shade,
That these hanging vaults have made;
The strange music of the waves,
Beating on these hollow caves;
This black den which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss :
The rude portals that give light
More to terror than delight:
This my chamber of neglect,
Walled about with disrespect.
From all these, and this dull air,
A fit object for despair,

She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this.

Poesy, thou sweet'st content

That e'er Heaven to mortals lent:
Though they as a trifle leave thee,
Whose dull thoughts

thee,

cannot

Though thou be to them a scorn, That to nought but earth are born, Let my life no longer be

Than I am in love with thee!

conceive

Though our wise ones call it madness,
Let me never taste of gladness,
If I love not thy maddest fits
Above all their greatest wits.

And though some, too seeming holy,
Do account thy raptures folly,
Thou dost teach me to contemn
What makes knaves and fools of them.

Sonnet upon a Stolen Kiss.

Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes
Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe;
And free access unto that sweet lip lies,
From whence I long the rosy breath to draw,
Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal
From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss;
None sees the theft that would the theft reveal,
Nor rob I her of ought what she can miss :
Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,
There would be little sign I would do so;
Why, then, should I this robbery delay?

Oh! she may wake, and therewith angry grow!
Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,
And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.

The Steadfast Shepherd.

Hence away, thou Syren; leave me.
Pish! unclasp these wanton arms;
Sugared words can ne'er deceive me-
Though thou prove a thousand charms.
Fie, fie, forbear;

No common snare

Can ever my affection chain:
Thy painted baits,
And poor deceits,

Are all bestowed on me in vain.

I'm no slave to such as you be;
Neither shall that snowy breast,
Rolling eye, and lip of ruby,
Ever rob me of my rest;
Go, go, display

Thy beauty's ray

To some more soon enamoured swain : Those common wiles,

Of sighs and smiles,

Are all bestowed on me in vain.

I have elsewhere vowed a duty;
Turn away thy tempting eye:
Shew not me a painted beauty;
These impostures I defy:
My spirit loathes

Where gaudy clothes

And feigned oaths may love obtain:
I love her so

Whose look swears no,
That all your labours will be vain.
Can he prize the tainted posies,

Which on every breast are worn;
That may pluck the virgin roses
From their never-touched thorn?
I can go rest

On her sweet breast,
That is the pride of Cynthia's train;
Then stay thy tongue;

Thy mermaid song

Is all bestowed on me in vain.

He's a fool that basely dallies

Where each peasant mates with him : Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, Whilst there's noble hills to climb?

No, no, though clowns
Are scared with frowns,

I know the best can but disdain:
And those I'll prove,
So will thy love

Be all bestowed on me in vain.

I do scorn to vow a duty,

Where each lustful lad may woo; Give me her whose sunlike beauty Buzzards dare not soar unto :

She, she it is

Affords that bliss,

For which I would refuse no pain;
But such as you,

Fond fools, adieu,

You seek to captive me in vain.

Leave me, then, thou Syren, leave me ;
Seek no more to work my harms;
Crafty wiles cannot deceive me,

Who am proof against your charms :
You labour may

To lead astray

The heart, that constant shall remain ; And I the while

Will sit and smile

To see you spend your time in vain.

Christmas.

So now is come our joyfulest feast;
Let every man be jolly;
Each room with ivy leaves is dressed,
And every post with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine,
Drown Sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry.

Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning
Their ovens they with baked meat choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let Sorrow lie;
And if for cold it hap to die,
We'll bury't in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry.

Now every lad is wondrous trim,
And no man minds his labour;
Our lasses have provided them

A bagpipe and a tabour;

Young men and maids, and girls and boys,
Give life to one another's joys;
And you anon shall by their noise
Perceive that they are merry.

Rank misers now do sparing shun;
Their hall of music soundeth;

And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things there aboundeth.
The country-folks themselves advance,
With crowdy-muttons out of France;
And Jack shall pipe, and Gill shall dance,
And all the town be merry.

Ned Squash hath fetched his bands from pawn,
And all his best apparel;

Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn

With dropping of the barrel.

And those that hardly all the year
Had bread to eat, or rags to wear,

Will have both clothes and dainty fare,
And all the day be merry.

Now poor men to the justices
make their errants;
And if they hap to fail of these,

With capons

They plague them with their warrants: But now they feed them with good cheer, And what they want they take in beer, For Christmas comes but once a year, And then they shall be merry.

Good farmers in the country nurse
The poor, that else were undone ;
Some landlords spend their money worse,
On lust and pride at London.

There the roysters they do play, Drab and dice their lands away, Which may be ours another day, And therefore let's be merry.

The client now his suit forbears,
The prisoner's heart is eased;
The debtor drinks away his cares,
And for the time is pleased.
Though others' purses be more fat,
Why should we pine or grieve at that?
Hang Sorrow! care will kill a cat,
And therefore let's be merry.

Hark! now the wags abroad do call
Each other forth to rambling;
Anon you'll see them in the hall,

For nuts and apples scrambling.
Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound;
Anon they'll think the house goes round,
For they the cellar's depth have found,
And there they will be merry.

The wenches with their wassail bowls
About the streets are singing;
The boys are come to catch the owls,
The wild mare in is bringing.
Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box;
And to the dealing of the ox,

Our honest neighbours come by flocks,
And here they will be merry.

Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have,
And mate with everybody;

The honest now may play the knave,
And wise men play the noddy.
Some youths will now a-mumming go,
Some others play at Rowland-bo,
And twenty other game boys mo,
Because they will be merry.

We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield;
Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor:
Great hearts are tasked beyond their power, but seld
The weakest lion will the loudest roar.
Truth's school for certain doth this same allow,
High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow.

A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn.

To scorn to owe a duty over-long ;

To scorn to be for benefits forborne ;

To scorn to lie; to scorn to do a wrong; To scorn to bear an injury in mind;

To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind.

But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have, Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind; Do we his body from our fury save,

And let our hate prevail against our mind? What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be, Than make his foe more worthy far than he?

Had Mariam scorned to leave a due unpaid,

She would to Herod then have paid her love, And not have been by sullen passion swayed. To fix her thoughts all injury above

Is virtuous pride. Had Mariam thus been proud, Long famous life to her had been allowed.

BISHOP CORBET.

RICHARD CORBET (1582-1635) was the son of a man who, though only a gardener, must have possessed superior qualities, as he obtained the hearty commendations, in verse, of Ben Jonson. The son was educated at Westminster and Oxford, and having taken orders, he became successively bishop of Oxford and bishop of Norwich. The social qualities of witty Bishop Corbet, and his never-failing vivacity, joined to a moderate share of dislike to the Puritans, recommended him to the patronage of King James, by whom he was raised to the mitre. His habits were rather too convivial for the dignity of his office, if we may credit some of the anecdotes which have been related of him. Meeting a ballad-singer one market-day at Abingdon, and the man complaining that he could get no custom, the jolly doctor put off his gown, and arrayed himself in the leathern jacket of the itinerant vocalist, and being a handsome man, with a clear full voice, he presently vended the stock of ballads. One time, as he was confirming, the country people pressing in to see the ceremony, Corbet exclaimed: 'Bear off there, or I'll confirm ye with my staff.' The bishop and his chaplain, Dr Lushington, it is said, would sometimes repair to the wine-cellar together, and Corbet used to put off his episcopal hood, saying: "There lies the doctor;' then he put off his gown, saying: 'There lies the bishop;' then the toast went round: 'Here's to thee, Corbet;' 'Here's to thee, Lushington.' Jovialities like these seem more like the feats of the jolly Friar of Copmanhurst than the acts of a Protestant bishop: but Corbet had higher qualities; his toleration, solid sense, and lively talents procured him deserved esteem and respect. His poems were first collected and published in 1647. They are of a miscellaneous character, the best known being a Journey to France, written in a light easy strain of descriptive humour. The Farewell to the Fairies is equally lively, and more poetical.

To Vincent Corbet, his Son.

What I shall leave thee, none can tell,
But all shall say I wish thee well:
I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth,
Both bodily and ghostly health;

Nor too much wealth nor wit come to thee,
So much of either may undo thee.
I wish thee learning not for show,
Enough for to instruct and know;
Not such as gentlemen require
To prate at table or at fire.

I wish thee all thy mother's graces,
Thy father's fortunes and his places.
I wish thee friends, and one at court,
Not to build on, but support;
To keep thee not in doing many
Oppressions, but from suffering any.
I wish thee peace in all thy ways,
Nor lazy nor contentious days;
And, when thy soul and body part,
As innocent as now thou art.

From the 'Journey to France.

I went from England into France,
Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance,
Nor yet to ride nor fence:
Nor did go like one of those
That do return with half a nose
They carried from hence.

But I to Paris rode along,
Much like John Dory* in the song,
Upon a holy tide.

I on an ambling nag did get-
I trust he is not paid for yet-

And spurred him on each side.
And to Saint Denis fast we came,
To see the sights of Notre Dame-

The man that shews them snufflesWhere who is apt for to believe, May see our Lady's right-arm sleeve,

And cke her old pantofles;

But since of late Elizabeth,

There's one saint there hath lost his nose : Another 's head, but not his toes,

His elbow and his thumb.

But when that we had seen the rags,
We went to th' inn and took our nags,
And so away did come.

We came to Paris on the Seine;
"Tis wondrous fair, 'tis nothing clean,
'Tis Europe's greatest town.
How strong it is, I need not tell it,
For all the world may easily smell it,
That walk it up and down.

There many strange things are to see,
The palace and great gallery,

The Place Royal doth excel :
The new bridge, and the statues there,
At Notre Dame, Saint Q. Pater,
The steeple bears the bell.

For learning, th' University;
And, for old clothes, the Frippery,

The house the queen did build.
Saint Innocents, whose earth devours
Dead corpse in four-and-twenty hours,
And there the king was killed:

The Bastile, and Saint Denis Street,
The Shafflenist, like London Fleet,
The arsenal no toy.

But if you'll see the prettiest thing,
Go to the court and see the king,
Oh, 'tis a hopeful boy.*

He is, of all his dukes and peers,
Reverenced for much wit at 's years,
Nor must you think it much;
For he with little switch doth play,
And make fine dirty pies of clay,
Oh, never king made such!

Farewell to the Fairies.

Farewell rewards and fairies,

Good housewives now may say,

For now foul sluts in dairies

Do fare as well as they.

And though they sweep their hearths no less
Than maids were wont to do,

Yet who of late, for cleanliness,
Finds sixpence in her shoe?

Lament, lament, old abbeys,

The fairies lost command;

They did but change priests' babies,

But some have changed your land; And all your children sprung from thence Are now grown Puritans; Who live as changelings ever since, For love of your domains.

At morning and at evening both,
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleep or sloth
These pretty ladies had;

When Tom came home from labour,
Or Cis to milking rose,
Then merrily went their tabour,
And nimbly went their toes.

Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary's days
On many a grassy plain;

* Louis XIII,

And later, James came in,
They never danced on any heath
As when the time hath been.

By which we note the fairies
Were of the old profession,
Their songs were Ave-Maries,
Their dances were procession:
But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas;
Or farther for religion fled,
Or else they take their ease.
A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure,
And whoso kept not secretly

Their mirth, was punished sure;
It was a just and Christian deed,
To pinch such black and blue:
Oh, how the commonwealth doth need
Such justices as you!

WILLIAM HABINGTON,

WILLIAM HABINGTON (1605-1645) had all the vices of the metaphysical school, excepting its occasional and frequently studied licentiousness. He tells us himself (in his preface), that if the innocency of a chaste muse shall be more acceptable, and weigh heavier in the balance of esteem, than a fame begot in adultery of study, I doubt I shall leave no hope of competition.' And of a pure attachment, he says finely, that 'when Love builds upon the rock of Chastity, it may safely contemn the battery of the waves and threatenings of the wind; since Time, that makes a mockery of the firmest structures, shall itself be ruinated before that be demolished.' Habington's life presents few incidents, though he came of a plotting family. His father was implicated in Babington's conspiracy; his uncle suffered death for his share in the same transaction. The poet's mother atoned, in some measure, for these disloyal intrigues; for she is said to have been the writer of the famous letter to Lord Monteagle, which averted the execution of the Gunpowder Plot. The poet was educated at St Omer's, but declined to become a Jesuit. He married Lucia, daughter of the first Lord Powis, whom he had celebrated under the name of Castara. His collected poems -also entitled Castara-were published in 1634 (second edition, 1635); the volume consisting of the Mistress, the Wife, and the Holy Man. These titles include each several copies of verses, and the same design was afterwards adopted by Cowley. The short life of the poet seems to have glided quietly away, cheered by the society and affection of his Castara. He had no stormy passions to agitate him, and no unruly imagination to control or subdue. His poetry is of the same unruffled description-placid, tender, and often elegant, but studded with conceits to shew his wit and fancy. When he talks of meadows wearing a 'green plush,' of the fire of mutual love being able to purify the air of an infected city, and of a luxurious feast being so rich that heaven must have rained showers of sweetmeats, as if

Heaven were

Blackfriars, and each star a confectioner

we are astonished to find one who could ridicule the 'madness of quaint oaths,' and the 'fine