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No intercourse, or trade of sense or soul,
Host. But is your name Love-ill, sir, or Love-well ?
Loo. I do not know 't myself,
Host. How, then?
Lov. I have sent her toys, verses, and anagrams,
Host. This was a pretty riddling way of wooing !
Lov. I oft have been, too, in her company,
Host. Could you blame her, sir,
Lov. O, but I loved her the more; and she might read it Best in my silence, had she been —
Host. As melancholic As you are. Pray you, why would you stand mute, sir ?
Lov. Othereon hangs a history, mine host. Did you e'er know or hear of the Lord Beaufort,
Who served so bravely in France ? I
page, And, ere he died, his friend. I followed him First in the wars, and, in the times of peace, I waited on his studies; which were right. He had no Arthurs, nor no Rosicleers, No knights of the Sun, nor Amadis de Gauls, Primolions, and Pantagruels, public nothings, – Abortives of the fabulous dark cloister, Lent out to poison courts, and infest manners; But great Achilles', Agamemnon's acts, Sage Nestor's counsels, and Ulysses' sleights, Tydides' fortitude, as Homer wrought them In his immortal fancy, for examples Of the heroic virtue. Or as Virgil That master of the epic poem — limned Pious Æneas, his religious prince, Bearing his aged parent on his shoulders, Wrapt from the flames of Troy, with his young son. And these he brought to practice and to use. He gave me first my breeding, I acknowledge, Then showered his bounties on me, like the hours, That, open-handed, sit upon the clouds, And press the liberality of heaven Down to the lips of thankful men ! But then, The trust committed to me at his death Was above all, and left so strong a tie On all my powers, as time shall not dissolve, Till it dissolve itself, and bury all ; — The care of his brave heir and only son! Who, being a virtuous, sweet, young, hopeful lord, Hath cast his first affections on this lady. And though I know, and may presume her such As, out of humor, will return no love, And therefore might indifferently be made, The courting-stock for all to practise on, As she doth practise on us all to scorn; Yet, out of a religion to my charge,
And debt professed, I have made a self-decree,
(From " Every Man in his Humor.”]
foolish brain that humors you. ,
JOSEPH HALL. 1574—1656. Joseph Hall, Bishop of Norwich, was the author of many controversial tracts, and published a variety of sermons, meditations, &c. “ From the pithy and sententious quality of his style, he has been called the English Seneca ; many parts of his prose writings have the thought, feeling, and melody, of the finest poetry.” He was also somewhat distinguished as a poet, and was “the first who wrote satirical verse with any degree of elegance.” The most popular of his works is that entitled Occasional Meditations.
[From " Occasional Meditations.") UPON OCCASION OF A RED-BREAST COMING INTO HIS
CHAMBER. Pretty bird, how cheerfully dost thou sit and sing; and yet knowest not where thou art, nor where thou shalt make thy next meal, and at night must shroud thyself in a bush for lodging ! What a shame is it for me, that see before me so liberal provisions of my God, and find myself sit warm under my own roof, yet am ready to droop under a distrustful and unthankful dul. ness! Had I so little certainty of my harbor and purveyance, how heartless should I be, how careful — how little list should I have to make music to thee or myself! Surely, thou comest not hither without a providence. God sent thee, not so much to delight, as to shame me, but all in a conviction of my sullen unbelief, who, under more apparent means, am less cheerful and confident; reason and faith have not done so much in me, as in thee mere instinct of nature ; want of foresight makes thee more merry, if not more happy, here, than the foresight of better things maketh me.
O God, thy providence is not impaired by those powers thou hast given me above these brute things; let not my greater helps hinder me from a holy security, and comfortable reliance on thee.
(From “ Occasional Meditations.") UPON HEARING OF MUSIC BY NIGHT. How sweetly doth this music sound, in this dead season! In the day-time, it would not, it could not, so much affect the ear. All harmonious sounds are advanced by a silent darkness. Thus it is with the glad tidings of salvation; the Gospel never sounds so sweet as in the night of preservation, or of our own private affliction;— It is ever the same - the difference is in our own disposition to receive it.
O God, whose praise it is to give songs in the night, make my prosperity conscionable, and my crosses cheerful.
Author of several poetical volumes, published between 1594 and 1598.
ADDRESS TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
As it fell upon a day,