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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 versi


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), 6 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, 66 I know not what it means ! nor, as I trow, “ Under confession had I it e'er till now! “ Yet come next day, thou's hear what thou

66 shalt do."

Meanwhile, the friar would not reglect 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 upsefreese '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 foor;
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,

66 knave ! “ I think it fit this penance to receive. “ 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 sinfullst slave : “ For soon it would possess me of my grave !"

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[Extracted out of “ Alcilia. Philoparthen's loving Folly," &e.

By J. C. 1628, 4to. secund 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

of 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 combịne:

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.

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