BEN JONSON.

1574-1637.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.1

The Forest. To Celia.

Still to be neat, still to be drest
As you were going to a feast.2

The Silent Woman. Acti. Sc. I.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace.
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all th' adulteries of art;

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Ibid.

In small proportion we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.
Good Life, Long Life.

Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die;
Which in life did harbour give
To more virtue than doth live.

Epitaph on Elizabeth.

Et de

1 Ἐμοὶ δὲ μόνοις πράπινε τοῖς ὄμμασιν.

βούλει, τοῖς χείλεσι προσφέρουσα, πλήρου φιλημάτων τὸ ἔκπωμα, καὶ οὕτως δίδου. Philostratus, Letter xxiv.

2 A true translation from Bonnefonius.

Jonson continued.]

Underneath this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.
Death! ere thou hast slain another,
Learn'd and fair and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.

Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke.1
Soul of the age!

The applause! delight! the wonder of our stage!
My Shakespeare rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie

A little further, to make thee a room.

To the Memory of Shakespeare.

Small Latin, and less Greek.

Ibid.

He was not of an age, but for all time.

Ibid.

Sweet swan of Avon!

Ibid.

Get

money; still get money, boy;

No matter by what means.3

Every Man in his Humour. Act ii. Sc. 3.

CYRIL TOURNEUR.

A drunkard clasp his teeth, and not undo 'em, To suffer wet damnation to run through 'em. The Revenger's Tragedy. Act iii. Sc. 1.

1 In a manuscript collection of Browne's poems preserved amongst the Lansdowne MSS., in the British Museum, this epitaph is ascribed to Browne (1590–1645). 2 Cf. Basse, p. 211.

8 Cf. Pope, Horace, Book i. Ep. 1, Line 103.

Hall. Massinger.- Overbury.

146 Hall.

BISHOP HALL. 1574-1656.

Moderation is the silken string running through the pearl chain of all virtues.

Christian Moderation. Introduc.

Death borders upon our birth, and our cradle

stands in the grave.1

Epistles. Dec. iii. Ep. 2.

PHILIP MASSINGER. 1584-1640.

Some undone widow sits upon mine arm,
And takes away the use of it; and my sword,
Glued to my scabbard with wronged orphans' tears,
Will not be drawn.

A New Way to pay Old Debts.
This many-headed monster."

Act v. Sc. I.

In part to blame is she,

Which hath without consent bin only tride: He comes to neere that comes to be denide.1 A Wife. St. 36.

1 Cf. Young, Night Thoughts, N. 5, Line 719.

2 Cf. Pope, Satires, Book ii. Ep. 1, Line 304.
8 Cf. Milton, Par. Lost, Book ii. Line 804.
4 Cf. Montague, p. 303.

JOHN FLETCHER. 1576-1625.

Man is his own star, and the soul that can
Render an honest and a perfect man
Commands all light, all influence, all fate.
Nothing to him falls early, or too late.
Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.

Upon an "Honest Man's Fortune."

All things that are

Made for our general uses are at war, -
Even we among ourselves.

Ibid.

Man is his own star, and that soul that can

Be honest is the only perfect man.

Ibid.

And he that will to bed go sober,

Falls with the leaf still in October.1

Rollo, Duke of Normandy.

Act ii. Sc. 2.

Three merry boys, and three merry boys,

And three merry boys are we,

As ever did sing in a hempen string

Under the gallows-tree.

Ibid. Act. iii. Sc. 2.

1 The following well-known catch, or glee, is formed on this song:

He who goes to bed, and goes to bed sober,

Falls as the leaves do, and dies in October;

But he who goes to bed, and goes to bed mellow,
Lives as he ought to do, and dies an honest fellow.

[Fletcher continued.

Hence, all you vain delights,

As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy;

O sweetest Melancholy!

The Nice Valour. Act iii. Sc. 3.

Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that's gone :

Violets plucked, the sweetest rain

Ibid.

Makes not fresh nor grow again.1

The Queen of Corinth. Act iii. Sc. 2.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

1586-1616.

What things have we seen

Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been

So nimble and so full of subtile flame,

As if that every one from whence they came
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,

And resolved to live a fool the rest

Of his dull life.

Letter to Ben Jonson.

1 Weep no more, lady, weep no more,

Thy sorrow is in vain ;

For violets plucked the sweetest showers

Will ne'er make grow again.

Percy's Reliques, The Friar of Orders Gray.