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Il Penseroso.

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And young and old com forth to play
On a sunshine holyday,
Till the live-long daylight fail;
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How faery Mab the junkets eat,
She was pincht and pull'd, she said,
And by the friar's lantern led;
Tells how the drudging goblin swet,
To ern his cream-bowle duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy Hale hath thresh'd the corn
That ten day-labourers could not end;
Then lies him down the lubbar fiend,
And stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength
And crop-full out of dores he things,
Ere the first cock his mattin rings.
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
By whisp'ring winds soon lulld asleep.
Towred cities please us then,
And the busie humm of men,
Where throngs of knights and barons bold,
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of wit, or arms, while both contend.
To win her grace, whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear
In saffron robe, with taper clear,
And Pomp, and Feast, and Revelry,
With Mask and antique Pageantry,
Such sights as youthful poets dream,
On summer eves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespear, Fancy's childe,
Warble his native wood-notes wilde.
And ever against eating cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian aires,
Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting soul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of lincked sweetness long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running,
Untwisting all the chains, that tye
The hidden soul of harmony;
That Orpheus' self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
Of heap'd Elysian How'rs, and hear
Such strains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half-regain'd Eurydice.
These delights, if thou canst give
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

Hence, vain deluding Joyes,

The brood of Folly without father bred, How little you bested

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toyes ? Dwell in some idle brain,

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless

As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams

The tickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou Goddess, sage and holy, Hail divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'relaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, Or that starr'd Ethiope queen that strove To set her beautie's praise above The sea-nymphs, and their pow'rs offended : Yet thou art higher far descended. Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore To solitary Saturn bore; His daughter she (in Saturn's reign, Such mixture was not held a stain) Oft in glimmering bowres and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove. Come pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, stedfast, and demure,

All in a robe of darkest grain,
Following with majestick train,
And sable stole of Ciprus lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,

With even step, and musing gate,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast
Thou fix them on the earth as fast:

And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring,
Aye round about Jove's altar sing:
And add to these retired Leasure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hist along,

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'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er th' accustom'd oke;
Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee chauntress oft the woods among,
I woo to hear thy even-song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green.
To behold the wand'ring moon
Riding neer her highest noon,
Like one that had bin led astray
Through the Heav'ns wide pathles way;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some wide-water'd shoar,
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
Or if the ayre will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsie charm,
To bless the dores from nightly harm.
Or let my lamp at midnight hour,
Be seen in some high lonely towre,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear
The spirit of Plato to unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions hold
The inmortal mind that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
And of those daemons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent,
With planet, or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In scepter'd pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes' or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes, as warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what Love did seek.
Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsite,
And who haud Canace to wife,

That own'd the vertuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forests and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus Night oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited morn appeer,
Not trickt and flounct as she was wont
With the Attick boy to hunt,
But cherchef'd in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me Goddess bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of pine, or monumental oake,
Where the rude ax with heaved stroke
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from Day's garish eye,
While the bee with honied thigh,
That at her flowry work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,

With such consort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep:
And let some strange mysterious dream

Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid.
And as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,

Or th' unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail

To walk the studious cloysters pale, And love the high embowed roof,

With antick pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dimm religious light. There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voic'd quire below

In service high, and anthems cleer, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into exstasies, And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peacefull hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell,

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


Either man's work or his own gifts; who best On his Blindness.

Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best:

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.


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 Ruhm 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 geführliche Wunde zu, an der er am 7. Mai 1641 starb.

Sucklings Muse ist die Muth willigkeit, 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,

Aud 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, That giant upon ayre will live,

To this and t'other friend I drink; 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:


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



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 lieldengedichtes 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

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