Whene'er such wanderers I meet, As from their night-sports they trudge home, With counterfeiting voice I greet, And call them on with me to roam : Through woods, through lakes; Or else, unseen, with them I go, To play some trick, And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho! Sometimes I meet them like a man, Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; To trip and trot about them round. My back they stride, More swift than wind away I go, When lads and lasses merry be, With possets and with junkets fine; I eat their cakes and sip their wine! I puff and snort: And out the candles I do blow : They shriek-Who's this? I answer nought but ho, ho, ho! Yet now and then, the maids to please, Their malt up still; I dress their hemp; I spin their tow; If any wake, And would me take, I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho! Away we fling; And babes new born steal as we go; And elf in bed We leave in stead, And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho! From hag-bred Merlin's time, have I The hags and goblins do me know; My feats have told, So vale, vale; ho, ho, ho! The Old and Young Courtier. An old song made by an aged old pate, Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages; But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows, And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk hose, And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose; Like an old courtier, &c. With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, With good cheer enough to furnish every old room, And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb; Like a young courtier, &c. With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold, And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, Among the young courtiers of the king, Time's Alteration. When this old cap was new, But all things plenty were: (Believe me this is true); Which was not in those days, When this old cap was new. The nobles of our land, Were much delighted then, To have at their command A crew of lusty men, Which by their coats were known, Of tawny, red, or blue, Now pride hath banish'd all, The coach allows but two; Good hospitality Was cherish'd then of many; Now poor men starve and die, And are not help'd by any: For charity waxeth cold, And love is found in few ; This was not in time of old, When this old cap was new. Where'er you travelled then, You might meet on the way Brave knights and gentlemen, Clad in their country grey; That courteous would appear, And kindly welcome you ; No puritans then were, When this old cap was new. Our ladies in those days In civil habit went ; Broad cloth was then worth praise, And gave the best content: French fashions then were scorn'd; A man might then behold, And meat for great and small: And all had welcome true; The poor from the gates were not chidden, When this old cap was new. Black jacks to every man Were fill'd with wine and beer; In those days did appear: We took not such delight In cups of silver fine; None under the degree of a knight Now each mechanical man Hath a cupboard of plate for a show; Which was a rare thing then, When this old cap was new. Then bribery was unborn, At that time hardly knew ; As they are at this day: When this old cap was new: Of that which is their due: Loyalty Confined. [Supposed to have been written by Sir Roger L'Estrange, while in confinement on account of his adherence to Charles I.] Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow; Swell, curl'd waves, high as Jove's roof; Your incivility doth show That innocence is tempest-proof; Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; Then strike, affliction, for thy wounds are balm. That which the world miscalls a jail, A private closet is to me : Into this private room was turned; The salamander should be burned; The cynic loves his poverty, The pelican her wilderness, I, as my mistress' favours, wear; I have some iron shackles there: Like some high-prized margarite; Am cloister'd up from public sight: And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee. Did only wound him to a cure: Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart- That renders what I have not, mine: Have you not seen the nightingale But though they do my corpse confine, My soul is free as ambient air, 'Mr Molyneux-Few words are best. My letters to my father have come to the eyes of some. Neither can I condemn any but you for it. If it be so, you have played the very knave with me; and so I will make you know, if I have good proof of it. But that for so much as is past. For that is to come, I assure you before God, that if ever I know you do so much as read any letter I write to my father, without his commandment, or my consent, I will thrust my dagger into you. And trust to it, for I speak it in earnest. In the mean time, farewell.' Of the following extracts, three are from Sidney's Arcadia,' and the fourth from his 'Defence of Poesy.' [A Tempest.] tioned in a history of English Literature; and in judging of his merits, we ought to bear in mind the early age at which he was cut off. His 'Arcadia,' on which the chief portion of his fame undoubtedly rests, was so universally read and admired in the reigns of Elizabeth and her successor, that, in 1633, it had reached an eighth edition. Subsequently, however, it fell into comparative neglect, in which, during the last century, the contemptuous terms in which it was spoken of by Horace Walpole contributed not a little to keep it. By that writer it is characterised as 'a tedious, lamentable, pedantic, pastoral romance, which the patience of a young virgin in love cannot now wade through.' And the judgment more recently pronounced by Dr Drake,* and Mr Hazlitt, is almost equally unfavourable. On the other hand, Sidney has found a fervent admirer in There arose even with the sun a veil of dark clouds another modern writer, who highly extols the before his face, which shortly, like ink poured into 'Arcadia' in the second volume of the Retrospective water, had blacked over all the face of heaven, preReview. A middle course is steered by Dr Zouch, paring, as it were, a mournful stage for a tragedy who, in his memoirs of Sidney, published in 1808, to be played on. For, forthwith the winds began while he admits that changes in taste, manners, and to speak louder, and, as in a tumultuous kingdom, to opinions, have rendered the Arcadia' unsuitable to think themselves fittest instruments of commandmodern readers, maintains that there are passages in ment; and blowing whole storms of hail and rain this work exquisitely beautiful-useful observations upon them, they were sooner in danger than they on life and manners-a variety and accurate discri- could almost bethink themselves of change. For then mination of characters-fine sentiments, expressed in the traitorous sea began to swell in pride against the strong and adequate terms-animated descriptions, afflicted navy, under which, while the heaven favoured equal to any that occur in the ancient or modern them, it had lain so calmly; making mountains of poets-sage lessons of morality, and judicious reflec-itself, over which the tossed and tottering ship should tions on government and policy. A reader,' he con- climb, to be straight carried down again to a pit of tinues, who takes up the volume, may be compared hellish darkness, with such cruel blows against the to a traveller who has a long and dreary road to sides of the ship, that, which way soever it went, was pass. The objects that successively meet his eye still in his malice, that there was left neither power to may not in general be very pleasing, but occa- stay nor way to escape. And shortly had it so dissionally he is charmed with a more beautiful pro- severed the loving company, which the day before had spect-with the verdure of a rich valley-with a tarried together, that most of them never met again, meadow enamelled with flowers--with a murmur of but were swallowed up in his never-satisfied mouth. a rivulet-the swelling grove-the hanging rockthe splendid villa. These charming objects abundantly compensate for the joyless regions he has traversed. They fill him with delight, exhilarate his drooping spirits and at the decline of day, he reposes with complacency and satisfaction.' This representation we are inclined to regard as doing at least ample justice to the Arcadia, the former high popularity of which is, doubtless, in some degree attributable to the personal fame of its author, and to the scarcity of works of fiction in the days of Elizabeth. But to whatever causes the admiration with which it was received may be ascribed, there can hardly, we think, be a question, that a work so extensively perused must have contributed not a little to fix the English tongue, and to form that vigorous and imaginative style which characterises the literature of the beginning and middle of the seventeenth century. Notwithstanding the occasional over-inflation and pedantry of his style, Sidney may justly be regarded as the best prose writer of his time. He was, in truth, what Cowper felicitously calls him, a 'warbler of poetic prose.' In his personal character, Sidney, like most men of high sensibility and poetical feeling, showed a disposition to melancholy and solitude. His chief fault seems to have been impetuosity of temper, an illustration of which has already been quoted from his reply to 'Leicester's Commonwealth.' The same trait appears in the following letter (containing what proved to be a groundless accusation), which he wrote in 1578 to the secretary of his father, then lord deputy of Ireland. [Description of Arcadia.] There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of eyepleasing flowers; thickets, which being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so to, by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security; while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dam's comfort; here a shepherd's boy piping, as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing; and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music. [A Stag Hunt.] Then went they together abroad, the good Kalander well he loved the sport of hunting when he was a entertaining them with pleasant discoursing-how young man, how much in the comparison thereof he disdained all chamber-delights, that the sun (how great a journey soever he had to make) could never prevent him with earliness, nor the moon, with her midnight for the deers feeding. O, said he, you will sober countenance, dissuade him from watching till never live to my age, without you keep yourself in breath with exercise, and in heart with joyfulness; too much thinking doth consume the spirits; and oft it falls out, that, while one thinks too much of his doing, he leaves to do the effect of his thinking. Then spared he not to remember, how much Arcadia was changed since his youth; activity and good fellow * Essays Illustrative of the Tatler, Spectator, &c., ii. 9. Lectures on the Dramatic Literature of the Age of Eliza-ship being nothing in the price it was then held in; beth, p. 203. but, according to the nature of the old-growing world, |