To be chaste, is to be old, And that foolish girl that's cold, Is fourscore at fifteen ; Desires do write us green, And looser flames our youth unfold. See, the first taper's almost gone! Unable to hold fire: She loseth time that lies alone. O let us cherish then these powers, When no dull zealous chime, But sprightful kisses strike the hours. THOMAS NABBES. LANGBAINE, without giving us any particulars of his life, only tells us that he was pretty much esteemed by his contemporaries. The first of the following specimens, extracted from his poems (subjoined to "The Spring's Glory," a masque, Lond. 4to, 1639), has some originality: the second would not have been disowned by his patron, Suckling. See Biographia Dramatica. Upon excellent Strong Beer, which he drank at the town of Wich, in Worcestershire, where salt is made. THOU ever youthful god of wine, Whose burnish'd cheeks with rubies shine, We dare thee here to pledge a round! Thy wanton grapes we do detest; Let not the Muses vainly tell, What Virtue's in the horse-hoof well, Oh let them come and taste this beer, And water henceforth they'll forswear. If that the Paracelsian crew The virtues of this liquor knew, Their endless toils they would give o'er, 'Tis medicine; meat for young and old; It is sublim'd; it's calcinate; It is the quintessence of malt; It heals, it hurts; it cures, it kills; On a Mistress of whose affection he was doubtful. WHAT though with figures I should raise Calling her cheek a blushing rose, The fairest June did e'er disclose ; Her forehead, lilies; and her eyes, The luminaries of the skies; That on her lips ambrosia grows, She loves me, she is none of these. HENRY GLAPTHORNE. A POET Who, like many of his contemporaries, seems to have mistaken extravagance and exaggeration for tenderness and fancy. His best composition is entitled "to my Friend, Advice" it contains much good sense, and some good poetry, but it is too long for insertion here. Of his lighter pieces the following is perhaps the least unfavourable specimen. His poems were printed in a small 4to, 1639. He wrote, besides, nine plays, five of which were printed singly in 1639 and 1640. Phillips pronounces him "not altogether ill-deserving of the English stage." UNCLOSE those eye-lids, and outshine Why should it fade so soon away? The sun's so drown'd i' th' morning's tears. Oh! let not sadness cloud this beauty, It is not love's, but sorrow's duty, To die so soon for a dead lover. Banish, oh! banish grief, and then Our joys will bring our hopes again. |