You friends and furies, (if yet any be
Worfe than ourselves) you that have quak'd to fee
Thefe knots united, and fhrunk, when we have
charm'd.

You, that (to arm us) have yourselves difarm'd,
And to our powers, refign'd your whips and brands
When we went forth, the fcourge of men and lands.
You that have feen me ride, when Hecate
Durft not take chariot; when the boisterous fea,
Without a breath of wind, hath knock'd the sky;
And that hath thunder'd, Jove not knowing why:
When we have fet the elements at wars,
Made midnight fee the fun, and day the stars;
When the wing'd lightning, in the course hath
ftaid;

And fwifteft rivers have run back, afraid,
To fee the corn remove, the
groves to range,
Whole places alter, and the seasons change;
When the pale moon, at the first voice down fell
Peifon'd, and durft not ftay the fecond spell.
You, that have oft been confcious of these fights;
And thou three formed ftar, that on these nights
Art only powerful, to whofe triple name
Thus we incline, once, twice, and thrice the
fame;

If now with rites profane, and foul enough,
We do invoke thee; darken all this roof,
With prefent fogs. Exhale earth's rott'neft vapours,
And frike a blindness through these blazing tapers.

Never a ftar yet fhot?

Where be the athes? Hag. Here i' the pot.
Dam. Cast them up; and the flint ftone
Over the left fhoulder bone,

Into the weft. Hag. It will be beft.
S CHARM.

The flicks are across, there can be no lofs,
The fage is rotten, the fulphur is gotten
Up to the fky, that was i' the ground.
Follow it then, with our rattles, round;
Under the bramble, over the brier,

A little more heat will fet it on fire:
Put it in mind, to do it kind,
Flow water and blow wind.
Rouncy is over, Robble is under,
A flash of light, and a clap of thunder,
A fterm of rain, another of hail.
We all muft home i' the egg-fhell fail;
The maft is made of a great pin,
The tackle of cobweb, the fail as thin,
And if we go through and not fall in-

DAME.

Stay, all our charms do nothing win Upon the night; our labour dies! Our magic-feature will not rife; Nor yet the ftorm! we must repeat More direful voices far, and beat The ground with vipers, till it fweat, 6 CHARM. Bark dogs, wolves howl, Seas roar, woods roll, Clouds crack, all be black,

But the light our charms do make.

DAME.

Not yet? my rage begins to fwell;
Darkness, devits, night, and hell,
Do not thus delay my fpell.

I call you once, and I cali you twice;
I beat you again, if you ftay my thrice :
Through thefe cran'es where I peep,
I'll let in the light to fee your sleep.
And all the fecrets of your fway
Shall lie as open to the day,
As unto me. Still are you deaf?
Reach me a bough that ne'er bare leaf,
To ftrike the air; and Aconite,
To hurl upon this glaring lights

is too.

o dry,

A rufty knife to wound mine arm; And as it drops, I'll speak a charm, Shall cleave the ground, as low as lies Old fhrunk-up Chaos, and let rife, Once more, his dark and reeking head, To ftrike the world, and nature dead, Until my magic birth be bred.

7 CHARM.

Black go in, and blacker come out; At thy going down, we give thee a shout.

Hoo!

At thy rifing again, thou shalt have two.
And if thou doft what we would have thee do,
Thou shalt have three, thou shalt have four,
Thou shalt have ten, thou shalt have a score.
Hoo. Har. Har. Hoo!
8 CHARM.

A cloud of pitch, a fpur and a switch,
To hafte him away, and a whirlwind play,
Before and after, with thunder for laughter,
And forms for joy, of the roaring boy;
His head of a drake, his tail of a snake.
9 CHARM.

About, about, and about,
Till the mift arife, and the lights fly out,
The images neither be feen, nor felt;
The woollen burn, and the waxen melt:
Sprinkle your liquors upon the ground,
And into the air: around, around.
Around, around,
Around, around,
Till a mufic found,

And the pace be found,
To which we may dance,
And our charms advance.

To my truly beloved Friend, William Browne, on bis Paftorals. SOME men, of books or friends not speaking right, May hurt them more with praise, then foes with fpight.

But I have feen thy work, and I know thee:

And, if thou lift thyfelf, what thou canft be.
For, though but early in these paths thou tread,
I find thee write moft worthy to be read.
It must be thine own judgment, yet, that fends
This thy work forth: that judgment mine com-
mends.

And, where the most read books on author's fames,
Or, like our money-brokers, take up names
On credit, and are coffen'd; fee, that thou

By off'ring not more fureties, then enow,
Hold thine own worth unbroke: which is fo good
Upon th' exchange of letters, as I wou'd
More of our writers would like thee, not fwell
With the how much they fet forth, but th' how

well.

And, though I now begin, 'tis not to rub Haunch against haunch, or raise a rhyming clas About the town. this reck'ning I will pay, Without conferring fymbols. This 's my day.

It was no dream! I was awake, and faw!
Lend me thy voice, O Fame! that I may draw
Wonder to truth and have my vision hurl'd
Hot from thy trumpet, round about the world.
I faw a beauty from the fea to rife,
That all earth look'd on; and that earth, all cya
It caft a beam as when the cheerful fun
Is fair got up, and day some hours begun!
And fill'd an orb as circular as heaven!
The orb was cut forth into regions seven.
And thofe fo fweet, and well proportion'd parts,
As it had been the circle of the arts!
When, by thy bright ideas standing by,
I found it pure, and perfect poefy

There read I, ftraight, thy learned legends three,
Heard the foft airs between our fwains and ther
Which made me think the old Theocritus,
Or rural Virgil come, to pipe to us!
But then, thy epiftolar heroic fongs,
Their loves, their quarrels, jealoufies, and wrong
Did all fo strike me, as I cry'd, Who can
With us be call'd the Naso, but this man?
And looking up, I faw Minerva's fowl,
Perch'd over head, the wife Athenian owl:
I thought thee then our Orpheus, that wouldf vy
Like him, to make the air one volary:
And I had flyl'd thee Orpheus, but before
My lips could form the voice, I heard that rear,
And rouze, the marching of a mighty force,
Drums against drums, the neighing of the horst,
The fights, the cries, and wond'ring at the jar
I faw, and read, it was thy Barons Wars!
O how in those, dost thou instruct these time,
That rebels actions are but valiant crimes!

And carried, though with fhout, and noife, could
A wild, and an authoriz'd wickedness!
Sayft thou fo, Lucan? but thou fcorn'it to fuy
Under one title. Thou haft made thy way
And flight about the ifle well-near by this,
In thy admired periégefis,

Or univerfal circumduction
Of all that read thy Poly-Olbion.
That read it? that are ravifh'd! fuch was!
With every fong, I fwear, and fo would die :
But that I hear, again, thy drum to beat
A better caufe, and strike the bravest heat
That ever yet did fire the English blood!
Our right in France: if rightly underflood.
There, thou art Homer! Pray thee, ufe the fyt
Thou haft deferv'd: and let me read the while
Thy catalogue of fhips, exceeding his,
Thy lift of aids, and force, for fo it is:
The poet's act! and for his country's fake
Brave are the mufters, that the mufe will make

M. Drayton.

jooteahath been queftion'd, Michael, if I be bith riend at all; or, if at all, to thee: man's dife, who make the queftion, have not feen they alle ambling vifits pafs in verfe, between of question, le, and mine, as they expect. 'Tis true: ot writ to me, nor I to you;

How do his trumpets breathe! what loud alarm?
Look! how we read the Spartans were inflam'd
With bold Tyrtæus' verse; when thou art nam'd,
So fhall our English youth urge on, and cry,
An Agincourt, an Agincourt, or die.
This book! it is a catechifm to fight,
And will be bought of every lord and knight,

And fuch spruce compofitions prefs the stage, When men transcribe themselves, and not the age.

Both forts of plays are thus like pictures shown,
Thine of the common life, theirs of their own.
Thy models yet are not fo fram'd, as we
May call them libels, and not imagery:
No name ou any bafis: 'tis thy skill

To ftrike the vice, but fpare the perfon fill:
As he, who when he faw the ferpent wreath'd
About his fleeping fon, and, as he breath'd,
Drink in his foul, did fo the fhout contrive,
To kill the beaft, but keep the child alive :
So doft thou aim thy darts, which, even when
They kill the poifons, do but wake the men.
Thy thunders thus but purge, and we endure
Thy lancings better than another's cure;
And jufly too; for th' age grows more unfound
From th' fool's balfam, than the wifeman's wound.
No rotren talk breaks for a laugh; no page
Commenc'd man by th' inflructions of thy ftage;
No bargaining line there; no provoc❜tive veric;
Nothing but what Lucretius might rehearse;
No need to make good countenance ill, and use
The plea of ftri& life for a loofer mufe:
No woman rul'd thy quill: we can deféry
No verfe born under any Cynthia's eye:
Thy ftar was judgment only and right sense,
Thyfelf being to thyfelf an influence.
Stout beauty is thy grace: ftern pleasures do
Prefent delights, but mingle horrors too:
Thy mufe doth thus like Jove's fierce girl appear,
With a fair hand, but grafping of a spear.

Where are they now that cry, thy lamp did
drink

More oil than th' author wine, while he did think?
We do embrace their flander: thou haft writ
Nor for dispatch, but fame; no market wit:
'Twas not thy care, that it might pafs and fell,
But that it might endure, and be done well:
Nor would't thou venture it unto the ear,
Until the file would not make fmooth, but wear:
Thy verie came feafon'd hence, and would not
give;

Born not to feed the author, but to live:
Whence 'mong the choicer judges rofe a ftrife,
To make thee read as claffic in thy life.
Those that do hence applause and suffrage beg,
'Caufe they can poems form upon one leg,
Write not to time, but to the poct's day:
There's difference between fame and fudden pay.
Thefe men fing kingdoms fall, as if that fate
Us'd the fame force t'a village and a state:
Thefe ferve Thyeftes' bloody fupper in,
As if it had only a fallad been:

Their Catalines are but fencers, whofe fights rife
Not to the fame of battle, but of prize.
But thou still putt'ft true paffions on; doft write
With the f: me courage that tried captains fight;
Giv'ft the r ght bluth and colour unto things:
Low without creeping, high without lofs of wings;
Smooth, yet not weak, and by a thorough care,
Big without fwelling, without painting fair :
They, wretches, while they cannot ftand to fit,
Are not wits, but materials of wit.

What though thy fearching wit did rake the duk
Of time, and purge old metals of their rust;
Is it no labour, no art, think they, to
Snatch fhipwrecks from the deep, as divers do?
And refcue jewels from the covetous fand,
Making the fea's hid wealth adorn the land?"
What though thy culing mufe did rob the store
Of Greek and Latin gardens, to bring o'er
Plants to thy native foil; their virtues were
Improv'd far more, by being planted here.
If thy fill to their effence doth refine
So many drugs, is not the water thine?
Thefts thus become juft works; they and their grace
Are wholly thine: thus doth the flamp and face
Make that the king's, that's ravifh'd from the mine:
In others then 'tis ore; in thee 'tis coin.

Bleft life of authors, unto whom we owe
Those that we have, and thole that we want too:
Thou'st all fo good, that reading makes thes
worse,

And to have writ fo well's thine only curfe.
Secure then of thy merit, thou didst hate
That fervile bafe dependence upon fate:
Succefs thou ne'er thought'it virtue, nor that fit
Which chance and th' age's fashion did make hit;
Excluding those from life in after time,
Who into poetry firft brought luck and rhyme:
Who thought the people's breath good air; ftyl'd

Doth count but clods, and refufe of the stage,
Will come up porcelain-wit fome hundreds hence,
When there will be more manners, and more fenit;
'Twas judgment yet to yield, and we afford
Thy filence as much fame, as once thy word:
Who, like an aged oak, the leaves being gone,
Waft food before, art now religion; [fter'd,
Thought fill more rich, though not fo richly
View'd and enjoy'd before, but now ador'd.

Great foul of numbers, whom we want and

On Ben Jonfon. By Henry King *.

EE that wretch, which doth the wearer arm
'Gainft the quick frekes of thunder, is no charm
To keep of Death's pale dart for Jonson, then
Thou hadft been number'd ftill with living men:
Times fcythe had fear'd thy laurel to invade,
Nor thee this fubject of our forrow made.
Amongst thofe many votaries that come
To offer up their garlands at thy tomb,
Whilst fome more lofty pens in their bright verse
(Like glorious tapers flaning on thy herie)
Shall light the dull and thankless world to fee
How great a maim it fuffers (wanting thee);
Let not thy learned shadow fcorn, that I
Pay meaner rites unto thy memory:
And fince I nought can add but in defire,
Restore fome sparks which leapt from thine own
What ends foever other quills invite,

I can proteft it was no itch to write,
Nor any vain ambition to be read,

But merely love and juftice to the dead,

[fire.

Which rais'd my fameless mufe: and caus'd her bring

Thefe drops, as tribute thrown into that spring,
To whofe moft rich and fruitful head we owe
The pureft ftreams of language which can flow.
For 'tis but truth; thou taught'ft the ruder age
To fpeak by grammar; and reform'dft the stage:
Thy comic fock induc'd fuch purged fenfe,
A Lucréce might have heard without offence.
Amongst thefe foaring wits that did dilate.
Our English, and advance it to the rate
And value it now holds, thyfelf was one
Help'd lift it up to fuch proportion,
That thus refin'd and rob'd it shall not spare
With the full Greek or Latin to compare
For what tongue ever durft, but ours, tranflate
Great Tully's eloquence, or Homer's ftare? ́
Both which in their unblemih's luftre fhine,
From Chapman's pen, and from thy Catiline.
All! would ask for thee, in recompence
Of thy fuccefsful toil, and time's expence,
1 only this poor boon: that those who can
Perhaps read French, or talk Italian,
Or do the lofty Spaniard affect,
(To fhow their skill in foreign diale&)
Prove not themfelves fo unnaturally wife
They therefore fhould their mother-tongue defpife,
(As if her poets had both ftyle and wit,
Not equall'd, or not pafs'd their beft that writ)
Until by ftudying Jonson they have known
The height, and ftrength, and plenty of their own.
Thas in what low earth, or neglected room,
to e'er thou fleep'ft, thy book fhall be thy tomb,
Thou wilt go down a happy corfe, beftrew'd
With thine own flowers, and feel thyfelf renew'd;
Whilft thy immortal, never withering bays
Shall yearly flourish in thy reader's praife.

Henry King, D. D. Biftop of Chichester, born Wornal, in Bucks, January 1591, died October 1669 He turned the Pfalms into verfe. 1651; and publifhed Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes, and Sonnets, 1657. The greater part of bis poetry merits republication. It is neat, and uncommonly elegant.

And when more fpreading ti les are forgot,
Or, fpite of all their lead and fear-cloth rot; [lie
Thou wrapt and fhrin'd in thine own fheets wilt
A relic fam'd by all posterity.

To the Memory of Ben. Jonson. Ty Jafper Mayne
As when the veftal hearth went out, no fire
Lefs holy than the flame that did expire
Could kind'e it again: fo at thy fall
Our wit, great Ben, is too apocryphal
To celebrate the lofs, fince 'tis too much
To write thy epitaph, and not be fuch.
What thou wert. like th' hard oracles of old,
Without an ecftafy cannot be told
We must be ravish'd first, thou must infuse
Thyfelf into us, both the theme and mufe:
Elfe (though we all conspir'd to make thy herse
Our works) fo that 't had been but one great verfe,
Though the priest had tranflated for that time
The Liturgy, and bury'd in thee thyme,
So that in metre we had heard it faid,
Poetic duft is to poetic laid:

And though, that duft being Shakspeare's, thou might'ft have

Not his room, but the poet for thy grave;
So that, as thou didst prince of numbers die,
And live, fo now thou might'ft in numbers lie,
'I'were frail folemnity; verfes on thee,
And not like thine, would but kind libels be;
And we (not speaking thy whole worth) should

raise

[fear

Worfe blots than they that envied thy praife.
Indeed, thou need'ft us not, fince, above all
Invention, thou wert thine own funeral.
Hereafter, when time hath fed on thy tomb,
Th' infcription worn out, and the marble dumb;
So that 't would pofe a critic to restore
Half words, and words expir'd fo long before;
When thy maim'd ftatue hath a fentenc'd face,
And looks that are the horror of the place,
That 't will be learning and antiquity,
And ask a Selden to fay, This was thee,
Thou'it have a whole name ftill, nor need'st thou
That will be ruin'd, or lofe nofe or hair.
Let others write fo thin, that they can't be
Authors till rotten, no pofterity
Can add to thy works; th' had their whole growth
When first born, and came aged from thy pen.
Whilft living thou enjoy'dit the fame and sense
Of all that time gives, but the reverence.
When thou'rt of Homer's years, no man will fay
Thy poems are lefs worthy, but more gray :

[then

• Fafper Mayne, D. D. Canon of Chrifl-Church, Oxford, and Arch-Deacon of Chichefier, born at Hatherleigh in Devonfbire, in 1604, died December 1672He was held in very bigb efleem, both for bis natural parts, and bis acquired accomplishments. He was a popular preacher, and a man of fevere virtue and exem→ plary behaviour; yet of a ready and facetious rit, and a very fingular tafte of humour. In his younger years be had an attachment to poetry, tranflated "Lucian's Dialogues." 1638, Donne's “Latin Epigrams,” 1652, and wrote two plays, printed in the ninth volume of Dorfley's collefion