Upon the floor, as if he swam for life;

A third takes the bass-viol for the cock-boat,
Sits in the hollow on't, labors, and rows;

His oar, the stick with which the fiddler played;
A fourth bestrides his fellow, thinking to escape,
As did Arion, on the dolphin's back,

Still fumbling on a gittern. The rude multitude,
Watching without, and gaping for the spoil
Cast from the windows, went by the ears about it.
The constable is called to atone the broil;
Which done, and hearing such a noise within
Of imminent shipwreck, enters the house, and finds
them

In this confusion; they adore his staff,

And think it Neptune's trident; and that he
Comes with his Tritons (so they called his watch)
To calm the tempest, and appease the waves:
And at this point we left them.

SONG: PACK CLOUDS AWAY.
Pack clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow:
Sweet air, blow soft, mount, lark, aloft,
To give my love good-morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing!
To give my love good-morrow.

To give my love good-morrow,
Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast!
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each bill let music shrill

Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.

To give my love good-morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.

SEARCH AFTER GOD.

I sought thee round about, O thou, my God! In thine abode :

I said unto the earth, "Speak, art thou he?" She answered me,

"I am not." I inquired of creatures all,

In general,

Contained therein: they with one voice proclaim That none amongst them challenged such a name.

I asked the seas and all the deeps below,
My God to know;

I asked the reptiles and whatever is
In the abyss :-

Even from the shrimp to the leviathan
Inquiry ran;

But in those deserts which no line can sound,
The God I sought for was not to be found.

I asked the air if that were he; but lo!
It told me
"No."

I from the towering eagle to the wren
Demanded then,

If any feathered fowl 'mongst them were such;
But they all, much

Offended with my question, in full choir, Answered, "To find thy God thou must look higher."

I asked the heavens, sun, moon, and stars; but they Said, "We obey

The God thou seekest." I asked what eye or ear Could see or hear,

What in the world I might descry or know

Above, below;

With an unanimous voice, all these things said, "We are not God, but we by him were made."

I asked the world's great universal mass,
If that God was;

Which with a mighty and strong voice replied,
As stupefied,

"I am not he, O man! for know that I

By him on high

Was fashioned first of nothing; thus instated And swayed by him by whom I was created."

I sought the court; but smooth-tongued flattery there

Deceived each ear;

In the thronged city there was selling, buying,
Swearing and lying;

In the country, craft in simpleness arrayed;
And then I said,-

"Vain is my search, although my pains be great; Where my God is there can be no deceit."

A scrutiny within myself I then

Even thus began:

"O man, what art thou?" What more could I say Than dust and clay,

Frail mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast,

That cannot last;

Enthroned to-day, to-morrow in an urn,

Formed from that earth to which I must return?

I asked myself what this great God might be That fashioned me?

I answered: The all-potent, sole, immense,— Surpassing sense;

Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal,

Lord over all;

The only terrible, strong, just, and true, Who hath no end, and no beginning knew.

He is the well of life, for he doth give
To all that live

Both breath and being; he is the Creator
Both of the water,

Earth, air, and fire. Of all things that subsist
He hath the list,-

Of all the heavenly host, or what earth claims,
He keeps the scroll, and calls them by their

names.

And now, my God, by thine illumining grace, Thy glorious face

(So far forth as it may discovered be)

Methinks I see;

And though invisible and infinite

To human sight,

Thou, in thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest,
In which, to our weak sense, thou comest nearest.

Oh, make us apt to seek, and quick to find, Thou God, most kind!

Give us love, hope, and faith, in thee to trust, Thou God, most just!

Remit all our offences, we entreat,

Most good! most great!

Grant that our willing, though unworthy, quest May, through thy grace, admit us 'mongst the blest.

SONNET: TO PRINCE HENRY.

God gives not kings the style of gods in vain,
For on the throne his sceptre do they sway;
And as their subjects ought them to obey,
So kings should fear and serve their God again.
If, then, you would enjoy a happy reign,
Observe the statutes of our heavenly King,
And from his law make all your law to spring.
If his lieutenant here you would remain,
Reward the just; be steadfast, true, and plain;
Repress the proud, maintaining aye the right;
Walk always so as ever in His sight

Who guards the godly, plaguing the profane;
And so shall you in princely virtues shine,
Resembling right your mighty King divine.

Thomas Nash.

Nash (circa 1564-1600) wrote a comedy called "Summer's Last Will and Testament," which was acted before Queen Elizabeth in 1592. He was also concerned with Marlowe in writing the tragedy of "Dido." He was the Churchill of his day, and famed for his satires. He speaks of his life as "spent in fantastical satirism, in whose veins heretofore I misspent my spirit, and prodigally conspired against good hours."

SPRING.

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witt a-woo.

The palm and May make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witt a-woo.

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old-wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witt a-woo.
Spring, the sweet Spring!

King James J. of England.

James VI. of Scotland and I. of England (1566-1625), the only offspring of Mary, queen of Scots, by her second husband, Henry Stuart (Lord Darnley), was a prolific author, and wrote both prose and verse. The following sonnet from his pen will compare not unfavorably with the verses of some contemporary poets of fame. It is noteworthy that Mary, her son James, and her grandson, Charles I., all wrote poetry.

THE COMING OF WINTER.

Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure: Gone is our sport, fled is our Croydon's pleasure! Short days, sharp days, long nights, come on apace. Ah, who shall hide us from the winter's face?

Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease,
And here we lie, God knows, with little ease.
From winter, plague, and pestilence,
Good Lord, deliver us!

London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn!
Trades cry, woe worth that ever they were born!
The want of term is town and city's harm:
Close chambers we do want to keep us warm.
Long banished must we live now from our friends:
This low-built house will bring us to our ends.
From winter, plague, and pestilence,
Good Lord, deliver us!

THE DECAY OF SUMMER.

Fair Summer droops, droop men and beasts, therefore;

So fair a summer look for nevermore:

All good things vanish less than in a day;
Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay.

Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year; The earth is hell when thou leavest to appear.

What! shall those flowers that decked thy garland

erst

Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed?
(trees, consume your sap in sorrow's source!
Streams, turn to tears your tributary course!

Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year;
The earth is hell when thou leavest to appear.

Sir Henry Wotton.

Wotton (1568-1639), a gentleman of Kent, was ambassador at Venice, under James I., and afterward Provost of Eton. He wrote a short poem "in praise of angling," and was the friend of Izaak Walton. As an early discoverer of Milton's transcendent genius, he showed his superior literary culture. Of the famous little poem, "The Happy Life," Trench tells us there are at least half a dozen texts, with an infinite variety of readings, these being particularly numerous in the third stanza, which is, indeed, somewhat obscure as it now stands. The Reliquiæ Wottoniana, in which the poem was first published, appeared in 1651, some twelve years after Wotton's death; but much earlier MS. copies are in existence: thus one, In the handwriting of Edward Alleyn, apparently of date 1616. In some versions the word accusers is changed to oppressors in the last line of the fourth stanza. A little reflection will show that the former is the preferable word. Both Trench and Palgrave so regard it, and adopt it as the more authentic reading.

ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.
You meaner beauties of the night,
Which poorly satisfy our eyes,

More by your number than your light,-
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the Moon shall rise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own,— What are you when the Rose is blown?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents,-what's your praise, When Philomel her voice doth raise ?

So when my Mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
Tell me, if she were not designed
The eclipse and glory of her kind?

THE HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will! Whose armor is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death; Not tied unto the world with care

Of public fame or private breath:

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who hath his life from rumors freed;

Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make accusers great:

Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend ;—

This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.

John Lilly.

Lilly (circa 1554–1601) was a native of Kent. His principal work was a prose romance called "Euphues." The name of the book has passed, as an abstract term, into our language; but the book itself is no longer read, and the euphuistic method of expression is chiefly known to us in these days by caricatures. Lilly wrote nine plays, in which some songs occur. The following is from his play of "Campaspe," 1584.

CUPID AND CAMPASPE.

Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid.

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,

His mother's doves and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on his cheek, but none knows how;

With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:-
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas, become of me!

Henry Constable.

Born about 1560, and educated at Oxford, Constable published, in 1584, "Diana, or the excellent conceitful sonnets of H. C." The volume was reprinted for the Roxburghe Club in 1818. The following is from "England's Helicon," first published in 1600.

DIAPHENIA.

Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly,
White as the sun, fair as the lily,

Heigh-ho, how I do love thee!

I do love thee as my lambs

Are belovéd of their dams;

How blest were I if thou would'st prove me!

Diaphenia, like the spreading roses, That in thy sweets all sweets encloses,

Fair sweet, how I do love thee!

I do love thee as each flower Loves the sun's life-giving power; For dead, thy breath to life might move me.

Diaphenia, like to all things blessed, When all thy praises are expresséd, Dear joy, how I do love thee!

As the birds do love the spring,

Or the bees their careful king: Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!

Joseph Hall.

Hall (1574-1656), bishop successively of Exeter in 1627, and of Norwich in 1641, is remembered chiefly for his prose theological works, written in the reigns of James and Charles. His only poems were a collection of Satires, composed at Cambridge University before his twenty-third year. They were condemned to be burnt in 1599, by an order of Bishop Bancroft. Hall's satire on the amatory poets of his day, of which we give a specimen, is coarse, but apt and pithy.

ANTHEM FOR THE CATHEDRAL OF EXETER.
Lord, what am I? A worm, dust, vapor, nothing!
What is my life? A dream, a daily dying!
What is my flesh? My soul's uneasy clothing!
What is my time? A minute ever flying!

My time, my flesh, my life, and I-
What are we, Lord, but vanity?

Where am I, Lord? Down in a vale of death!
What is my trade? Sin, my dear God offending;
My sport, sin too! my stay a puff of breath!
What end of sin? Hell's horror never-ending!
My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place
Help to make up my doleful case.

Lord, what art thou? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss!
Where dwell'st thou? Up above in perfect light.
What is thy Time? Eternity it is.

What state? Attendance of each glorions spirit.
Thyself, thy place, thy days, thy state
Pass all the thoughts of powers create.

How shall I reach thee, Lord? Oh, soar above,
Ambitious soul! But which way should I fly?
Thou, Lord, art way and end. What wings have I
Aspiring thoughts, of faith, of hope, of love.

Oh, let these wings that way alone
Present me to thy blissful throne!

ON LOVE POETRY.

SATIRE III., Book II.

Great is the folly of a feeble brain

O'erruled with love and tyrannous disdain :
For love, however in the basest breast

It breeds high thoughts that feed the fancy best,
Yet is he blind, and leads poor fools awry,
While they hang gazing on their mistress' eye.
The love-sick poet, whose importune prayer
Repulséd is with resolute despair,
Hopeth to conquer his disdainful dame
With public plaints of his conceived flame.
Then pours he forth in patchéd sonnetings
His love, his lust, and loathsome flatterings;
As though the staring world hauged on his sleeve,
When once he smiles to laugh, and when he sighs
to grieve.

Careth the world thou love, thou live, or die?
Careth the world how fair thy fair one be?
Fond wit-wal, that wouldst load thy witless head
With timely horns before thy bridal bed!
Then can he term his dirty, ill-faced bride
Lady and queen and virgin deified:

Be she all sooty-black or berry-brown,

She's white as morrow's milk or flakes new-blown :
And though she be some dunghill drudge at home,
Yet can he her resign some refuse room
Amidst the well-known stars; or if not there,
Sare will he saint her in his Kalendere.

John Marston.

Marston, a rough but vigorous satirist and dramatic writer, produced his "Malcontent," a comedy, prior to 100. He was educated at Oxford, became lecturer at the Middle Temple, and died in 1633. He wrote eight plays, and three books of Satires, called "The Scourge of Villany."

THE SCHOLAR AND HIS SPANIEL.

I was a scholar: seven useful springs
Did I deflower in quotations

Of crossed opinions 'bout the soul of man;
The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt.
Delight, my spaniel, slept, while I turned leaves,
Tossed o'er the dunces, pored on the old print
Of titled words: and still my spaniel slept;
Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh,
Shrank up my veins and still my spaniel slept;
And still I held converse with Zabarell,
Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw

Of antick Donate: still my spaniel slept.
Still on went I; first, an sit anima;
Then, an it were mortal. Oh, hold, hold! at that
They're at brain buffets, fell by the ears amain
Pell-mell together: still my spaniel slept.
Then, whether 'twere corporeal, local, fixed,
Ex traduce; but whether 't had free-will
Or no; hot philosophers

Stood banding factions, all so strongly propped,
I staggered, knew not which was firmer part,
But thought, quoted, read, observed, and pried,
Stuffed noting-books: and still my spaniel slept.
At length he waked, and yawned; and by yon sky,
For aught I know, he knew as much as I.

TO DETRACTION I PRESENT MY POESIE. Foul canker of fair virtuous action, Vile blaster of the freshest blooms on earth, Envy's abhorréd child, Detraction,

I here expose to thy all-tainting breath

The issue of my brain: snarl, rail, bark, bite;
Know that my spirit scorns Detraction's spite.

Know that the Genius which attendeth on
And guides my powers intellectual,
Holds in all vile repute Detraction.
My soul-an essence metaphysical,

That in the basest sort scorns critic's rage,
Because he knows his sacred parentage,-

My spirit is not puffed up with fat fume
Of slimy ale, nor Bacchus' heating grape.
My mind disdains the dungy, muddy scum
Of abject thoughts and Envy's raging hate.
True judgment slight regards Opinion,
A sprightly wit disdains Detraction.

A partial praise shall never elevate
My settled censure of my own esteem:
A cankered verdict of malignant hate
Shall ne'er provoke me worse myself to deem.
Spite of despite and rancor's villany,
I am myself, so is my poesy.

Dr. John Donne.

Donne (1573-1631) was born in London, and as a child was a prodigy of learning. He became Chaplain in Ordinary to James I., and Dean of St. Paul's. Much against the wishes of his devoted wife, he accompanied Sir Robert Drury on an embassy to Paris. While there, Donne