To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, 1 Or a leverock build her nest; Here give my weary spirits rest, And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above Thus free from law-suits, and the noise Or with my Bryan2, and a book, 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, Or by fore-lock hold him fast, 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, 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 But I would see myself appear The discontented Morn hath shed. Within their buds let roses sleep, I' th' centre of my ground, compose 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; 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, 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. |