Is it some scruple in thy conscience,

Which unresolv'd, doth leave thee in suspense?

Is it, that thou thy long wish'd love should leese? Admet. No, no, Menalchas, it is none of these! Men. Thou art not sick?

Admet. Nor sick, nor greatly well.

Men. Where lies thy grief?

Admet. My countenance can tell.

Men. Smooth is thy brow! thy count'nance fresh enough!

Admet. But cares have made my wreakful mind as

rough.

Men. Of cares, Admetus?

Admet. Yes, I have my share.

Men. Yet hope of cure!

Admet. No hope of cure to care.

Men. Nay, then I see, 'tis love that thee doth wring. Admet. Thou err'st, Menalchas, there is no such

thing.

Men. If neither loss of friends, nor loss of wealth,
Want to enjoy thy love, nor want of health,
If neither discontent, nor grief, do show
Care in thy face, nor sorrow in thy brow,
If thou be free, as we all know thee free,
Engag'd to none,-what is it grieveth thee?
Admet. Wouldst know, Menalchas?

Men. Yes.

Admet. I'll tell thee than :

The case is alter'd!-I'M A MARRIED MAN!

The Shrift.

[From the same.]

[This is inserted on account of the singularity of its versification.]

A TIME there was, and divers there be yet

Whose riper years can well remember it,

When folks were shriven for sins they did commit,
And had their absolution, as was fit;

'Mongst which, as one crime doth another get,
Where hope of pardon doth authorize it,
(For Virtues, turtle-like, do single sit,

But th' troops of Vices still in squadrons meet,)

A boon companion, to his liquor given,

Came thither with his neighbours to be shriven.
"Stephen," quoth friar, (for's Christian name was
Stephen,)

"What sins hast done to grieve the Lord of heaven?
Speak freely, man! and it is ten to seven
But by due penance I will make all even.
Confession is the way, when man is driven
Into despair, that guides him unto heaven."

"I have been drunk last day, and this day too, And may-be next day too for ought I know: Tell me then, holy friar, directly, how Or in what sort I may my penance do ?" "Drunk?" quoth the friar; "now by the faith I owe, I know not what it means! nor, as I trow,

Under confession had it e'er till now!

Yet come next day, thou's hear what thou shalt do."

Meanwhile, the friar would not neglect his time
To know the secret of this drunken crime:
Therefore betime, ere four o'clock did chime,
This profane practice grew to be divine;
For upsefreese1 he drank from four to nine,
So as each sense was steeped well in wine;
Yet still he kept his 'rouse, till he in fine
Grew extreme sick with hugging Bacchus' shrine.

Upward and downward it did work so sore,
As if his vital spirits could work no more,
Or that he were arriving on the shore

Where mortals must arrive; but, rid of store
That did oppress his stomach o'er and o'er,
At last he got a nap upon the floor;
Which having tempered his brains, he swore
To try conclusions with the pot no more.

Stephen kept his steaven 2, and, to the time he gave, Came to demand, what penance he should have? "What penance?" quoth the friar; "I'll tell thee,

knave!

I think it fit this penance to receive.

1 Quære.

2 Appointment. Sax.

Go and be drunk again! for if it have
Th' effect with thee it had with me, I'd crave
No sharper penance for the sinfull'st slave :
For soon it would possess me of my grave!"

[STANZAS.]

[Extracted out of " Alcilia, Philoparthen's loving Folly," &c. By J. C. 1628, 4to, second edition.]

WHAT thing is Beauty, Nature's dearest minion? The snare of Youth; like the inconstant moon, Waxing and waning; error of opinion;

A morning's flower that withereth ere noon; A swelling fruit, no sooner ripe than rotten, Which sickness makes forlorn, and time forgotten.

In looking back unto my

follies past,

While I the present with times past compare, And think how many hours I then did waste,

Painting on clouds, and building in the air,

I sigh within myself, and say in sadness,

"This thing, which fools call love, is nought but madness."

How vain is youth, that, cross'd in his desire,
Doth fret and fume, and inwardly repine,
As though 'gainst heaven itself he would conspire,

And with his frailty 'gainst his fate combine :
Who of itself continues constant still,

And doth us good oft-times against our will.

Thy large smooth forehead wrinkled shall appear; Vermilion hue to pale and wan shall turn;

Time shall deface what Youth hath held most dear; Yea, those clear eyes, which once my heart did

burn,

Shall in their hollow circles lodge the night,

And yield more cause of terror than delight.

Lo, here the record of my follies past,

The fruits of wit unstaid, and hours mis-spent! Full wise is he that perils can forecast,

And so by others' harms his own prevent. All worldly pleasure that delights the sense Is but a short sleep, and time's vain expence.