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WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

1611-1643.

[IT was of William Cartwright Ben Jonson said, 'My son, Cartwright writes like a man.' He has not left much behind to justify this eulogium; but his minor poems exhibit evidences of taste and scholarship which sufficiently explain the esteem and respect in which he was held by his contemporaries. His father, after spending a fortune, was reduced to the necessity of keeping an inn at Cirencester; but the son, obtaining a king's scholarship, was enabled to enter Westminster School, and from thence was elected a student of Christ Church, Oxford. He afterwards went into holy orders, and in 1643 was chosen junior proctor of the University. He is said to have studied sixteen hours a day, was an accomplished linguist, and added to his other graces a handsome person. A malignant fever that prevailed at Oxford seized upon him in 1643, and terminated his life in the thirty-second year of his age.]

THE ORDINARY.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF EATING.

HEN our music is in prime,

THEN

When our teeth keep triple time;
Hungry notes are fit for knells.

May lankness be

No guest to me:

The bag-pipe sounds when that it swells.

May lankness, &c.

A mooting-night brings wholesome smiles,

When John-a-Nokes and John-a-Stiles

Do grease the lawyer's satin.

A reading day

Frights French away,

The benchers dare speak Latin.

A reading, &c.

He that's full doth verse compose;
Hunger deals in sullen prose:
Take notice and discard her.
The empty spit

Ne'er cherished wit;
Minerva loves the larder.

The empty spit, &c.

First to breakfast, then to dine,

Is to conquer Bellarmine:

Distinctions then are budding.

Old Sutcliff's wit

Did never hit,

But after his bag-pudding.

Old Sutcliff's wit, &c.

PHINEAS FLETCHER.

1584-1650.

[THE author of the Purple Island and the Piscatory Eclogues. His out-of-door poetry is his best, and frequently recalls the sweetness and luxuriance of Spenser, and of his own namesake and cousin, the dramatic poet. Phineas was what honest Walton would have called 'a true brother of the nangle,' and his master-passion betrays itself in the most unexpected places. It appears even in the characters and subject of his only dramatic work, which he describes on the title-page as A Piscatory.]

OVE is the fire, dam, nurse, and seed
Of all that air, earth, waters breed.
All these earth, water, air, and fire,
Though contraries, in love conspire.

Fond painters, love is not a lad
With bow, and shafts, and feathers clad,
As he is fancied in the brain

Of some loose loving idle swain.
Much sooner is he felt than seen;
Substance subtle, slight and thin,
Oft leaps he from the glancing eyes;
Oft in some smooth mount he lies;
Soonest he wins, the fastest flies;
Oft lurks he 'twixt the ruddy lips,
Thence, while the heart his nectar sips,
Down to the soul the poison slips;
Oft in a voice creeps down the ear;
Oft hides his darts in golden hair;
Oft blushing cheeks do light his fires;
Oft in a smooth soft skin retires;
Often in smiles, often in tears,
His flaming heat in water bears;
When nothing else kindles desire,
Even virtue's self shall blow the fire.
Love with a thousand darts abounds,
Surest and deepest virtue wounds,
Oft himself becomes a dart,

And love with love doth love impart.
Thou painful pleasure, pleasing pain,
Thou gainful life, thou losing gain,
Thou bitter sweet, easing disease,
How dost thou by displeasing please?
How dost thou thus bewitch the heart,
To love in hate, to joy in smart,
To think itself most bound when free,
And freest in its slavery?

Every creature is thy debtor;

None but loves, some worse, some better.

Only in love they happy prove

Who love what most deserves their love.

WILLIAM HABINGTON.

1605-1654

[WILLIAM HABINGTON is not generally known as a dramatist. His poetical reputation rests on a volume of verses called Castara, divided into three parts, the first and second addressed to his wife before and after marriage, and the third to religious subjects. The play from which this song is taken is his only dramatic work, and the song itself, which has something of the nonchalance and freedom of Suckling, without his airiness, is the happiest passage it contains.]

THE QUEEN OF ARRAGON.

F

INDIFFERENCE.

INE young folly, though you were
That fair beauty I did swear,

Yet you ne'er could reach my heart:
For we courtiers learn at school,
Only with your sex to fool;

You are not worth the serious part.

When I sigh and kiss your hand,
Cross my arms, and wondering stand,
Holding parley with your eye,

Then dilate on my desires,

Swear the sun ne'er shot such fires-
All is but a handsome lie.

When I eye your curl or lace,

Gentle soul, you think your face

Straight some murder doth commit;

And your virtue doth begin

To grow scrupulous of my sin,

When I talk to shew my wit.

Therefore, madam, wear no cloud,
Nor to check my love grow proud;
In sooth I much do doubt,

'Tis the powder in your hair,
Not your breath, perfumes the air,
And your clothes that set you out.

Yet though truth has this confessed,
And I vow I love in jest,

When I next begin to court,
And protest an amorous flame,
You will swear I in earnest am:
Bedlam! this is pretty sport.

BARTEN HOLIDAY.

1661.

[BARTEN HOLIDAY was born in the latter end of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, became at an early age a student of Christ Church College, Oxford, entered orders in 1615, and was appointed archdeacon of the diocese of Oxford. He died in 1661. Langbaine says that he was a general scholar, a good preacher, a skilful philosopher, and an excellent poet.' He translated Juvenal and Persius, and published numerous sermons. The singular drama which supplies the following lively song is allegorical, the characters forming a sort of commonwealth of the arts and sciences. In order to give the true relish to this vagrant ditty it should be observed that it is sung by a humorous serving-man, dressed, according to the stage directions, 'in a pale russet suit, on the back whereof is expressed one filling a pipe of tobacco, his hat set round with tobacco-pipes, with a can of drink hanging at his girdle.']