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Where I may sit and rightly spell

Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more Of every star that Heav'n doth shew,

bent And every herb that sips the dew;

To serve therewith my Maker, and present Till old Experience do attain

My true account, least he returning chide; To something like prophetic strain.

Doth God exact day labour , light denied, These pleasures, Melancholy, give

I fondly ask? but patience to prevent And I with thee will choose to live.

That murmur, soon replies; God doth not

need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best

Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best: On his Blindness.

his state When I consider how my light is spent Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And post o’re land and ocean without rest; And that one talent which is death to hide, They also serve who only stand and waite.

Suckling.

Sir John Suckling ward 1609 zu Witham in der Grafschaft Middlesex geboren, zeichnete sich schon früh durch die glänzendsten Fähigkeiten aus und hatte bereits noch ehe er sein zwanzigstes Jahr vollendet, einen grossen Theil Europa's bereist und unter Gustav Adolph mit Rubm gefochten. Bei seiner Rückkehr nach England führte er ein lustiges, verschwenderisches Leben und zog später Karl I. mit einer Schaar von hundert Reitern zu Hülfe, die sich aber nicht eben durch Tapferkeit auszeichneten. Dadurch aus seinem Taumel erwacht, ward Suckling einer der eifrigsten Vertheidiger seines unglücklichen Königs und musste nach Frankreich fliehen. Die Hinterlist eines treulosen Dieners, der ihn bestahl und die Verfolgung zu verhindern suchte, zog ihm eine gefährliche Wunde zu, an der er am 7. Mai 1641 starb.

Sucklings Muse ist die Muthwilligkeit, er hat ein grosses Talent leichter heiterer Darstellung, Witz, anmuthige Nachlässigkeit und Grazie und bildet den Uebergang von den Dichtern aus Elisabeths Zeit zu denen unter Karl II. von England. Seine Poesieen sind meist lyrischen Inhalts, doch hat er auch Dramen hinterlassen, welche zu ihrer Zeit gern gesehen wurden.

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When I had done what man could do,

And thought the place mine owne, The enemy lay quiet too,

And smil'd at all was done.

This heat of hope, or cold of fear,
My foolish heart cou'd never bear :
One sigh imprison'd ruins more
Than earthquakes have done heretofore.

I sent to know from whence and where

These hopes, and this relief?
A spie inform'd, honour was there,

And did command in chief.

When I am hungry I do eat,
And cut no fingers 'stead of meat;
Nor with much gazing on her face,
Do e'er rise hungry from the place.

March, march, (quoth I) the world straight give,
Let's lose no time, but leave her;

A gentle round fill'd to the the brink,

To this and t'other friend I drink;
That giant upon ayre will live,
And hold it out for ever.

And if 'tis nam'd another's health,

I never make it her's by stealth.
To such a place our camp remove
As will no siege abide;

Black fryars to me, and old Whitehall, I hate a fool that starves her love

Is even as much as is the fall
Onely to feed her pride.

Of fountains on a pathless grove,
And nourishes as much my love.

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Love turn’d to Hatred. That part of us ne'er knew that we did love;

Or from the air? Our gentle sighs had birth I will not love one minute more, I swear, From such sweet raptures as to joy did move; No not a minute; not a sigh or tear

Our thoughts, as pure as the chaste morning's Thou gett'st from me, or one kind look again,

breath, Though thou should’st court me to 't, and when from the night's cold arms it creeps away,

would'st begin;

Were cloath'd in words; and maiden's blush I will not think of thee, but as men do

that hath Of debts and sins, and then I'll curse thee too:

More purity, more innocence than they. For thy sake, woman shall be now to me

Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale, Less welcome, than at midnight ghosts shall be. No briny tear has furrow'd her smooth cheek; I'll hate so perfectly, that it shall be

And I was pleas'd, I pray what should he ail Treason to love that man that loves a she;

That had her love, for what else could he seek? Nay, I will hate the very good, I swear,

We short'ned days to moments by Love's art, That's in thy sex, because it does lie there;

Whilst our two souls in am'rous ecstasy Their very virtue, grace, discourse, and wit,

Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part
And all for thee; what, wilt thou love me yet?

Our love had been of still eternity.
Much less couldst have it from the purer fire,
Our heat exhales no vapour from coarse sense,
Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond desire;
Our mutual love itself did recompense:

Thou hast no correspondence had in heav'n,
Detraction execrated.

And th' elemental world, thou see'st, is free:

Whence hadst thou then, this talking monster? Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds, Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate, From hell, a harbour fit for it and thee. Canker of conversation! could'st thou find Curst be th' officious tongue that did address Nought but our love, whereon to shew thy hate? Thee to her

ears,

to ruin my content:
Thou never wert, when we two were alone; May it one minute taste such happiness,
What canst thou witness then? thy base dull aid Deserving loos’d unpitied it lament!
Was useless in our conversation,

I must forbear the sight, and so repay
Where each meant more than could by both be In grief, those hours joy short'ned to a dream:

said.

Each minute I will lengthen to a day, Whence hadst thou thy intelligence, from earth? | And in one year outlive Methusalem.

even

Butler.

Samuel Butler, der Sohn eines Pächters, ward 1612 zu Stresham in Worcestershire geboren und erhielt eine wissenschaftliche Bildung, die er in Cambridge vollendete, ohne jedoch dort Mitglied eines Collegiums zu sein. Er ward darauf Schreiber bei einem Friedensrichter, trat dann in die Dienste der Gräfin von Kent und nachher in die des Sir Samuel Luke, eines hohen Beamten unter Cromwell, in dessen Hause er sich die genaue Kenntniss des Wesens der Puritaner angeeignet, den Plan zu seinem berühmten Epos gefasst und Sir Luke selbst zum Vorbild für seinen Hudibras gewählt haben soll. Während der Restauration zog Butler nach London und liess hier 1663 den ersten, 1664 den zweiten und 1678 den dritten Theil seines komischen Heldengedichtes erscheinen, das grosses Aufsehen machte und am Hofe Karls II. mit lebhaftestem Interesse gelesen wurde, da es die feindliche Partei auf das Bitterste verspottete. Dem Dichter aber trug es keine andere Frucht als den wohlverdienten Ruhm; er lebte und starb in Armuth 1680; ein treuer Freund musste ihn

auf seine Kosten begraben lassen und erst sechszig Jahre später liess ihm der reiche Buchdrucker Barber, damals Mayor von London ein Denkmal in der Westminsterabtei errichten.

Die beste Ausgabe des Hudibras ist die von Zach. Grey besorgte, London 1744, 2 Bde in 8, ihr zunächst kommt die von N. E. Nash. London 1793, 3 Bde in 4. Seine übrigen Schriften sammelte R. Thyer, London 1759, 2 Bde in 8. Die sämmtlichen Werke sind seitdem öfter wieder aufgelegt worden.

Das komische Epos Hudibras blieb unvollendet. Es schildert die Kreuz und Querzüge eines fanatischen presbyterianischen Richters und seines Begleiters des Squire Ralph, so wie der Abenteuer, die sie erleben und ist offenbar eine Nachahmung des Don Quijote , jedoch mit weit geringerer Erfindungsgabe ausgestattet, und zu gedehnt in den poetischen Beschreibungen. Dagegen sprudelt es aber von schlagendem energischem Witz, der der bitteren und scharfen Satyre Kraft und Nachdruck verleiht, welche die originelle Form und der eigenthümliche Styl noch erhöhen. Dieselben Eigenschaften herrschen auch in Butlers vermischten Poesieen, die sämmtlich satyrisch sind, vor. Vom Hudibras hat D. W. Soltau eine treffliche deutsche Uebersetzung (Königsberg 1798) geliefert. Wir haben, da der mehr als kecke Ton dieses Gedichtes die Sitte nur zu oft verletzt uns mit dem folgenden Auszuge begnügen müssen und uns selbst nicht gestatten dürfen, diesen ohne Unterbrechung mitzutheilen.

From Hudibras.

For none are like to do it sooner
An heroical epistle of Hu dibras to his Than those who're nicest of their honour:
lady.

The other, for base gain and pay,
Selected passages.

Forswear and perjure by the day,

And make th' exposing and retailing I who was once as great as Caesar,

Their souls, and consciences, a calling. Am now reduc'd to Nebuchadnezzar;

It is no scandal nor aspersion, And from as fam'd a conqueror

Upon a great and noble person, As ever took degree in war,

To say he nat’rally abhorr'd
Or did his exercise in battle,

Th' old-fashion'd trick, to keep his word,
By you turn’d out to graze with cattle. Though 'tis perfidiousness and shame,
For since I am deny'd access

In meaner men, to do the same:
To all my earthly happiness,

For to be able to forget, Am fall’n from the paradise

Is found more useful, to the great, Of your good graces, and fair eyes;

Than gout, or deafness, or bad eyes, Lost to the world, and you, I'm sent

To make 'em pass for wondrous wise. To everlasting banishment,

But though the law, on perjurers, Where all the hopes I had to have won

Inflicts the forfeiture of ears, Your heart, being dash'd, will break my own. It is not just, that does exempt Yet if you were not so severe

The guilty, and punish the innocent; To pass your doom before you hear,

To make the ears repair the wrong, You'd find, upon my just defence,

Committed by th’ungoverned tongue;
How much y' have wrong'd my innocence. And, when one member is forsworn,
That once I made a vow to you,

Another to be cropt or torn.
Which yet is unperform'd 'tis true;
But not, because it is unpaid,
'Tis violated, though delay'd:
Or, if it were, it is no fault,
So heinous as you'd have it thought;
To undergo the loss of ears,

Love, that's the world's preservative,
Like vulgar hackney perjurers:

That keeps all souls of things alive; For there's a difference in the case,

Controls the mighty pow'r of Fate, Between the noble and the base;

And gives mankind a longer date; Who always are observ'd t'have done 't The life of nature, that restores, Upon as different an account;

As fast as Time and Death devours, The one for great and weighty cause,

To whose free gift the world does owe To salve, in honour, ugly flaws;

Not only earth, but heaven too:

Retire the more, the more we press, To draw us into ambushes.

For love's the only trade that's driven,
The interest of state in heaven,
Which nothing but the soul of man
Is capable to entertain;
For what can earth produce, but love,
To represent the joys above?
Or who but lovers can converse,
Like angels, by the eye-discourse?
Address, and compliment by vision,
Make love, and court by intuition?
And burn in am'rous flames as fierce
As those celestial ministers?
Then how can any thing offend,
In order to so great an end?
Or Heav'n itself, a sin resent,
That for its own supply was meant?
That merits, in a kind mistake,
A pardon for the offence's sake?
Or if it did not, but the cause
Were left to th' injury of laws,
What tyranny can disapprove
There should be equity in love?
For laws that are inanimate,
And feel no sense of love, or hate,
That have no passion of their own,
Nor pity to be wrought upon,
Are only proper to inflict
Revenge, on criminals, as strict;
But to have power to forgive,
Is empire and prerogative;
And 'tis in crowns a nobler gem,
To grant a pardon, than condemn.
Then, since so few do what they ought,
'Tis great t indulge a well-meant fault;
For why shou'd he who made address
All humble ways, without success,
And met with nothing in return
But insolence, affronts and scorn,
Not strive by wit to countermine,
And bravely carry his design?

For women first were made for men, Not men for them. It follows, then, That men have right to every one, And they no freedom of their own; And therefore men have pow'r to choose, But they no charter to refuse. Hence 'tis apparent that, what course Soe'er we take to your amours, Though by the indirectest way, 'Tis no injustice, nor foul play; And that you ought to take that course, As we take you, for better or worse, And gratefully submit to those Who you, before another, chose, For why shou'd every sarage beast Exceed his great Lord's interest? Have freer pow'r than he, in Grace And Nature, o'er the creature has? Because the laws he since has made Have cut off all the pow'r he had; Retrench'd the absolute dominion That Nature gave him over women; When all his power will not extend, One law of Nature to suspend; And but to offer to repeal The smallest clause, is to rebel. This, if men rightly understood Their privilege, they wou'd make good; And not, like sots, permit their wives

T'encroach on their prerogatives; For which sin they are, in slavery.

Or why should you, whose mother-wits Are furnish'd with all perquisites; That with your breeding teeth begin, And nursing babies that lie in, B' allow'd to put all tricks upon Our cully sex, and we use none? We, who have nothing but frail vows, Against your stratagems t'oppose, Or oaths more feeble than your own, By which we are no less put down? You wound, like Parthians, while you fly, And kill with a retreating eye;

The Knight, perusing this Epistle, Believ'd he'd brought her to his whistle; And read it, like a jocund lover, With great applause, t' himself, twice over; Subscrib'd his name, but at a fit And humble distance, to his wit, And dated it with wond'rous art, Giv'n from the bottom of his heart; Then seal'd it with his coat of love, A smoking faggot and above, Upon a scroll I bur 1, and weep, And near it - For her Ladyship; Of all her sex most excllent, These to her gentle hands present; Then gave it to his faithful Squire, With lessons how t'observe and eye her.

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