part ii
. chap. lvii._
SIR HENRY WOTTON. 1568-1639.
How happy is he born or taught, That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill!
_The Character of a Happy Life._
Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend.
_The Character of a Happy Life._
Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.[174-4]
_The Character of a Happy Life._
You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light; You common people of the skies,-- What are you when the moon[174-5] shall rise?
_On his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia._[174-6]
He first deceased; she for a little tried To live without him, liked it not, and died.
_Upon the Death of Sir Albert Morton's Wife._
I am but a gatherer and disposer of other men's stuff.
_Preface to the Elements of Architecture._
Hanging was the worst use a man could be put to.
_The Disparity between Buckingham and Essex._
An ambassador is an honest man sent to lie abroad for the commonwealth.[175-1]
_Reliquiæ Wottonianæ._
The itch of disputing will prove the scab of churches.[175-2]
_A Panegyric to King Charles._
FOOTNOTES:
[174-4] As having nothing, and yet possessing all things.--_2 Corinth. vi. 10._
[174-5] "Sun" in _Reliquiæ Wottonianæ_ (eds. 1651, 1654, 1672, 1685).
[174-6] This was printed with music as early as 1624, in Est's "Sixth Set of Books," etc., and is found in many MSS.--HANNAH: _The Courtly Poets._
[175-1] In a letter to Velserus, 1612, Wotton says, "This merry definition of an ambassador I had chanced to set down at my friend's, Mr. Christopher Fleckamore, in his Album."
[175-2] He directed the stone over his grave to be inscribed:--
Hic jacet hujus sententiæ primus author: DISPUTANDI PRURITUS ECCLESIARUM SCABIES. Nomen alias quære
(Here lies the author of this phrase: "The itch for disputing is the sore of churches." Seek his name elsewhere).
WALTON: _Life of Wotton._
RICHARD BARNFIELD. ---- -1570.
As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made.
_Address to the Nightingale._[175-3]
FOOTNOTES:
[175-3] This song, often attributed to Shakespeare, is now confidently assigned to Barnfield; it is found in his collection of "Poems in Divers Humours," published in 1598.--ELLIS: _Specimens, vol. ii. p. 316._
SIR JOHN DAVIES. 1570-1626.
Much like a subtle spider which doth sit In middle of her web, which spreadeth wide; If aught do touch the utmost thread of it, She feels it instantly on every side.[176-1]
_The Immortality of the Soul._
Wedlock, indeed, hath oft compared been To public feasts, where meet a public rout,-- Where they that are without would fain go in, And they that are within would fain go out.[176-2]
_Contention betwixt a Wife, etc._
FOOTNOTES:
[176-1] Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own webs from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.
DRYDEN: _Mariage à la Mode, act ii. sc. 1._
The spider's touch--how exquisitely fine!-- Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.
POPE: _Epistle i. line 217._
[176-2] 'T is just like a summer bird-cage in a garden: the birds that are without despair to get in, and the birds that are within despair and are in a consumption for fear they shall never get out.--WEBSTER: _The White Devil, act i. sc. 2._
Le mariage est comme une forteresse assiégée: ceux qui sont dehors veulent y entrer, et ceux qui sont dedans veulent en sortir (Marriage is like a beleaguered fortress: those who are outside want to get in, and those inside want to get out).--QUITARD: _Études sur les Proverbes Français, p. 102._
It happens as with cages: the birds without despair to get in, and those within despair of getting out.--MONTAIGNE: _Upon some Verses of Virgil, chap. v._
Is not marriage an open question, when it is alleged, from the beginning of the world, that such as are in the institution wish to get out, and such as are out wish to get in?--EMERSON: _Representative Men: Montaigne._
MARTYN PARKER. ---- -1630.
Ye gentlemen of England That live at home at ease, Ah! little do you think upon The dangers of the seas.
_Song._
When the stormy winds do blow.[176-3]
_Song._
FOOTNOTES:
[176-3] When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.
CAMPBELL: _Ye Mariners of England._
DR. JOHN DONNE. 1573-1631.
He was the Word, that spake it: He took the bread and brake it; And what that Word did make it, I do believe and take it.[177-1]
_Divine Poems. On the Sacrament._
We understood Her by her sight; her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought That one might almost say her body thought.
_Funeral Elegies. On the Death of Mistress Drury._
She and comparisons are odious.[177-2]
_Elegy 8. The Comparison._
Who are a little wise the best fools be.[177-3]
_The Triple Fool._
FOOTNOTES:
[177-1] Attributed by many writers to the Princess Elizabeth. It is not in the original edition of Donne, but first appears in the edition of 1654, p. 352.
[177-2] See Fortescue, page 7.
[177-3] See Bacon, page 166.
BEN JONSON.[177-4] 1573-1637.
It was a mighty while ago.
_Every Man in his Humour. Act i. Sc. 3._
Hang sorrow! care 'll kill a cat.[177-5]
_Every Man in his Humour. Act i. Sc. 3._
As he brews, so shall he drink.
_Every Man in his Humour. Act ii. Sc. 1._
Get money; still get money, boy, No matter by what means.[177-6]
_Every Man in his Humour. Act ii. Sc. 3._
Have paid scot and lot there any time this eighteen years.
_Every Man in his Humour. Act iii. Sc. 3._
It must be done like lightning.
_Every Man in his Humour. Act iv. Sc. v._
There shall be no love lost.[178-1]
_Every Man out of his Humour. Act ii. Sc. 1._
Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast.[178-2]
_Epicoene; Or, the Silent Woman. Act i. Sc. 1._
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 the adulteries of art: They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
_Epicoene; Or, the Silent Woman. Act i. Sc. 1._
That old bald cheater, Time.
_The Poetaster. Act i. Sc. 1._
The world knows only two,--that 's Rome and I.
_Sejanus. Act v. Sc. 1._
Preserving the sweetness of proportion and expressing itself beyond expression.
_The Masque of Hymen._
Courses even with the sun Doth her mighty brother run.
_The Gipsies Metamorphosed._
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, L. H._
Whilst that for which all virtue now is sold, And almost every vice,--almighty gold.[178-3]
_Epistle to Elizabeth, Countess of Rutland._
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.[179-1]
_The Forest. To Celia._
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.[179-2]
_To the Memory of Shakespeare._
Marlowe's mighty line.
_To the Memory of Shakespeare._
Small Latin, and less Greek.
_To the Memory of Shakespeare._
He was not of an age, but for all time.
_To the Memory of Shakespeare._
For a good poet 's made as well as born.
_To the Memory of Shakespeare._
Sweet swan of Avon!
_To the Memory of Shakespeare._
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._[179-3]
Let those that merely talk and never think, That live in the wild anarchy of drink.[180-1]
_Underwoods. An Epistle, answering to One that asked to be sealed of the Tribe of Ben._
Still may syllabes jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!
_Underwoods. Fit of Rhyme against Rhyme._
In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be.
_Underwoods. To the immortal Memory of Sir Lucius Cary and Sir Henry Morison. III._
What gentle ghost, besprent with April dew, Hails me so solemnly to yonder yew?[180-2]
_Elegy on the Lady Jane Pawlet._
FOOTNOTES:
[177-4] O rare Ben Jonson!--SIR JOHN YOUNG: _Epitaph._
[177-5] Hang sorrow! care will kill a cat.--WITHER: _Poem on Christmas._
[177-6] Get place and wealth,--if possible, with grace; If not, by any means get wealth and place.
POPE: _Horace, book i . epistle i. line 103._
[178-1] There is no love lost between us.--CERVANTES: _Don Quixote,