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ANDREW MARVELL. 1620-1678. (Manual, p. 205)


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Inconstant Sylvio, when yet
I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning (I remember well),
Tied in this silver chain and bell,
Gave it to me: nay, and I know
What he said then: I'm sure I do.
Said he, "Look how your huntsmar. here
Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer."

But Sylvio soon had me beguiled.
This waxed tame while he grew wild,
And, quite regardless of my smart,
Left me his fawn, but took his heart.
Thenceforth I set myself to play
My solitary time away

With this, and very well content
Could so my idle life have spent;
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot, and heart; and did invite
Me to its game; it seemed to bless
Itself in me. How could I less
Than love it? O, I cannot be
Unkind t'a beast that loveth me.
Had it lived long, I do not know
Whether it too might have done so

As Sylvio did; his gifts might be Perhaps as false, or more, than he But I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better than The love of false and cruel man.



141. SAMUEL BUTLER. 1612-1680. (Manual, pp. 207-212.)



Quoth he, "That honor's very squeamish,
That takes a basting for a blemish :
For what's more honorable than scars,
Or skin to tatters rent in wars?

Some have been beaten till they know
What wood a cudgel's of by th' blow;
Some kicked, until they can feel whether
A shoe be Spanish or neat's leather;
And yet have met, after long running,

With some whom they have taught that cunning,
The furthest way about, t' o'ercome,

I' th' end does prove the nearest home.

By laws of learned duellists,

They that are bruised with wood, or fists,

And think one beating may for once
Suffice, are cowards and poltroons;
But if they dare engage t' a second,

They're stout and gallant fellows reckoned.
Th' old Romans freedom did bestow;
Our princes worship with a blow:

King Pyrrhus cured his splenetic

And testy courtiers with a kick.
The Negus, when some mighty lord
Or potentate's to be restored,
And pardoned for some great offence,
With which he's willing to dispense,
First has him laid upon his belly,
Then beaten back and side t' a jelly;
That done, he rises, humbly bows,
And gives thanks for the princely blows;
Departs not meanly 1 roud, and boasting

Of his magnificent rib-roasting.
The beaten soldier proves most manful,
That, like his sword, endures the anvil,
And justly's held more formidable,
The more his valor's malleable:
But he that fears a bastinado,

Will run away from his own shadow.

So th' emperor Caligula,

That triumphed o'er the British sea,
Took crabs and oysters prisoners,
And lobsters, 'stead of cuirassiers;
Engaged his legions in fierce bustles,
With periwinkles, prawns, and muscles,
And led his troops with furious gallops,
To charge whole regiments of scallops;
Not like their ancient way of war,
To wait on his triumphal car;
But when he went to dine or sup,
More bravely ate his captives up,
And left all war, by his example,
Reduced to vict'ling of a camp well.


And now the cause of all their fear
By slow degrees approached so near,
They might distinguish different noise
Of horns, and pans, and dogs, and boys,
And kettle-drums, whose sullen dub
Sounds like the hooping of a tub,
But when the sight appeared in view,
They found it was an antique show;
A triumph that, for pomp and state,
Did prdest Romans emulate:
For as the aldermen of Rome
Their foes at training overcome,
And not enlarging territory,
As some, mistaken, write in story,
Being mounted in their best array,
Upon a car, and who but they?
And followed with a world of tall lads,
That merry ditties trolled, and ballads,
Did ride with many a good-morrow,

Crying, Hey for our town, through the borough.


Are these the fruits o' th' protestation,

The prototype of reformation,

Which all the saints, and some, since martyrs,

Wore in their hats like wedding garters,
When 'twas resolvéd by their house
Six members' quarrel to espouse?

Did they for this draw down the rabble,
With zeal, and noises formidable;
And make all cries about the town
Join throats to cry the bishops down?
Who having round begirt the palace,
(As once a month they do the gallows,)
As members gave the sign about,
Set up their throats with hideous shout.
When tinkers bawled aloud, to settle
Church discipline, for patching kettle:
The oyster women locked their fish up,
And trudged away to cry No Bishop;
The mousetrap-men laid save-alls by,
And 'gainst evil counsellors did cry;
Botchers left old clothes in the lurch,
And fell to turn and patch the church;
Some cried the covenant, instead

Of pudding-pies, and gingerbread;

And some for brooms, old boots, and shoes,
Bawled out to purge the common's-house:
Instead of kitchen-stuff, some cry

A gospel-preaching ministry;

And some for old suits, coats, or cloak,

No surplices nor service-book.

A strange harmonious inclination

Of all degrees to reformation.

JOHN DRYDEN. 1631-1700. (Manual, pp. 212–221.)



Methinks already from this chymic flame,
I see a city of more precious mould:
Rich as the town which gives the Indies name,
With silver paved, and all divine with gold.

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