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Grows on a sudden tall, and in the fields
Frolics so much, he makes his father yield.
A little twig left budding on an elm,
Ungratefully bars his mother's sight from heaven-
I love not future Aladins.

Alad. wife. *
Alas, these infants !-these weak-sinew'd hands
Can be no terror to these Hector's arms.
Beg, infants-beg, and teach these tender joints
To ask for mercy-learn your lisping tongues
To give due accent to each syllable;
Nothing that fortune urgeth to is base.
Put from your thoughts all memory of descent;
Forget the princely titles of your father.
If your own misery you can feel,
Thus learn of me to weep-of me to kneel.


1st Child. Good grandsire, see-see how my

father cries ! Wife. Good father, hear-hear how thy daughter

prays. Thou that know'st how to use stern warrior's arms, Learn how to use mild warrior's pity too.



Amur. Rise, my dear child! as marble against

So I at these obedient showers melt.
Thus I do raise thy husband-thus thy babes,
Freely admitting you to former state.



Be thou our son and friend.


Who ordered this inscription for his own grave : “ Servant to Queen Elizabeth, counsellor to King James, and friend to Sir Philip Sydney;" was created knight of the bath at James's coronation, afterwards appointed sub-treasurer, chancellor of the exchequer, and made a peer, by the title of Baron Brook, in 1621. He died by the stab of a revengeful servant, in 1628.



A CLIMBING height it is, without a head,
Depth without bottom, way without an end;
A circle with no line environed,
Not comprehended, all it comprehends ;
Worth infinite, yet satisfies no mind
Till it that infinite of the God-head find.

For our defects in nature who sees not?
We enter first, things present not conceiving,
Not knowing future, what is past forgot;
All other creatures instant power receiving
To help themselves : man only bringeth sense
To feel and wail his native impotence.



* Knowledge's next organ is imagination, A glass wherein the object of our sense Ought to respect true height or declination, For understanding's clear intelligence; But this power also hath her variation Fixed in some, in some with differenceIn all so shadow'd with self-application, As makes her pictures still too foul or fair, Not like the life in lineament or air.


REASON. The last chief oracle of what man knows Is understanding, which, though it contain Some ruinous notions which our nature shews Of general truths, yet they have such a stain From our corruption, as all light they lose; Save to convince of ignorance or sin, Which, where they reign, let no perfection in.


Nor in a right line can her eyes ascend,
To view the things that immaterial are;
For as the sun doth, while his beams descend,
Lighten the earth but shadow every star,
So reason, stooping to attend the sense,
Darkens the spirit's clear intelligence.

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Then what is our high-prais'd philosophy,
But books of poesy in prose compild,
Far more delightful than they fruitful be,
Witty appearance, guile that is beguil'd;
Corrupting minds much rather than directing,
Th' allay of duty, and our pride's erecting.

For, as among physicians, what they call
Word magic, never helpeth the disease
Which drugs and diet ought to deal withal,
And by their real working give us ease;
So these word-sellers have no power to cure
The passions which corrupted lives endure.


MERLIN, they say, an English prophet born, When he was young, and govern'd by his mother, Took great delight to laugh such fools to scorn, As thought by nature we might know a brother.

His mother chid him oft, till on a day
They stood and saw a corpse to burial carried :
The father tears his beard, doth weep and pray,
The mother was the woman he had married.

Merlin laughs out aloud, instead of crying;
His mother chides him for that childish fashion,

Says men must mourn the dead, themselves are

dying; Good manners doth make answer unto passion.

The child (for children see what should be hidden)
Replies unto his mother by and by :
Mother, if you did know, and were forbidden,
Yet you would laugh as heartily as I.

This man no part hath in the child he sorrows,
His father was the monk, that sings before him:
See then how nature of adoption borrows,
Truth covets in me that I should restore him.


BORN 1582.-DIED 1628.

Sir John BEAUMONT, brother of the celebrated dramatic poet, was born at Grace Dieu, the seat of the family in Leicestershire. He studied at Oxford, and at the inns of court; but, forsaking the law, married and retired to his native seat. Two years before his death he was knighted by Charles the First.

He wrote the Crown of Thorns, a poem, of which no copy is known to be extant; Bosworth Field;

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