To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,
And then wash'd off by April-showers;
Here hear my Kenna sing a song,
There see a blackbird feed her young,

1

Or a leverock build her nest;

Here give my weary spirits rest,

And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above
Earth, or what poor mortals love:

Thus free from law-suits, and the noise
Of princes' courts, I would rejoice.

Or with my Bryan2, and a book,
Loiter long days near Shawford-brook :
There sit by him and eat my meat,
There see the sun both rise and set;
There bid good morning to next day,
There meditate my time away,
And angle on, and beg to have

A quiet passage to a welcome grave.

1 Laverock, lark.

2 Supposed to be the name of a favourite dog.

JAMES SHIRLEY

Was born in London, about 1594, educated at Merchant Tailors' school, entered at St. John's College, Oxford, and afterwards, having taken no degree, removed to Catharine-Hall, Cambridge (Vid. Bancroft's Epigrams, 4to, 1639, b. i. ep. 13). He successively became an English divine, a Popish schoolmaster, and a deservedly celebrated writer of plays (of which he published thirtynine), from 1629 to 1660. He was patronized by William Duke of Newcastle (whom he assisted, according to Wood, in the composition of his plays, as well as Ogilby by notes for his translations), and followed this his patron's fortunes in the wars, till the decline of the royal cause, when he retired obscurely to London. Here he was countenanced by his learned friend T. Stanley, Esq., and during the suppression of the theatres, followed his old trade of school-teaching, in which he educated many eminent men. He died in 1666, immediately after the great fire of London, and was interred in the same grave with his second wife, who died the same day, and was supposed, as well as Shirley, to have owed her death to the fright occasioned by that calamity. Besides his plays he published a volume of poems, 1646, 12mo.

Upon his Mistress sad.

MELANCHOLY, hence! and get

Some piece of earth to be thy seat.

Here, the air and nimble fire

Would shoot up to meet desire.

Sullen humour leave her blood,
Mix not with the purer flood,
But let pleasures swelling here
Make a spring-tide all the year.
Love, a thousand sweets distilling,
And with pleasure bosoms filling,
Charm all eyes, that none may find us,
Be above, before, behind us!
And, while we thy raptures taste,
Compel Time himself to stay ;

Or by fore-lock hold him fast,
Lest occasion slip away.

The Garden.

THIS garden does not take my eyes, Though here you show how art of men

Can purchase nature at a price

Would stock old Paradise again.

These glories while you dote upon,
I envy not your spring, nor pride.
Nay, boast the summer all your own!
My thoughts with less are satisfied.

Give me a little plot of ground,

Where, might I with the Sun agree, Though every day he walk the round, My garden he should seldom see.

Those tulips, that such wealth display
To court my eye, shall lose their name;
Though now they listen, as if they
Expected I should praise their flame.

But I would see myself appear
Within the violet's drooping head,
On which a melancholy tear

The discontented Morn hath shed.

Within their buds let roses sleep,
And virgin lilies on their stem,
Till sighs from lovers glide, and creep
Into their leaves to open them.

I' th' centre of my ground, compose
Of bays and yew my summer room,
Which may, so oft as I repose,

Present my arbour, and my tomb.

*

No birds shall live within my pale

To charm me with their shames of art, Unless some wandering nightingale

Come here to sing and break her heart ;

Upon whose death I'll try to write

An epitaph in some funeral stone, So sad and true, it may invite

Myself to die, and prove mine own.

[From "The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses for the Armour of Achilles."]

THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still.

Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds! Upon death's purple altar now

See where the victor-victim bleeds!

Your heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.