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No intercourse, or trade of sense or soul,
But what is Love! I was the laziest creature,
The veriest drone, and slept away my life
Host. But is your name Love-ill, sir, or Love-well?
Lov. I do not know 't myself,
Whether it is. But it is love hath been
To express it, in my person, to her.
Host. How, then ?
Lov. I have sent her toys, verses, and
Trials of wit, mere trifles, she has commended,
But knew not whence they came, nor could she guess.
Lov. I oft have been, too, in her company,
And looked upon her a whole day; admired her,
Loved her, and did not tell her so; loved still,
Looked still, and loved; and loved, and looked, and sighed;
But, as a man neglected, I came off,
Host. Could you blame her, sir,
When you were silent, and not said a word?
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. O thereon hangs a history, mine host.
Did you e'er know or hear of the Lord Beaufort,
Who served so bravely in France? I was his page,
No knights of the Sun, nor Amadis de Gauls,
Lent out to poison courts, and infest manners;
Pious Æneas, his religious prince,
And press the liberality of heaven
Down to the lips of thankful men! But then,
Was above all, and left so strong a tie
On all my powers, as time shall not dissolve,
The care of his brave heir and only son!
Who, being a virtuous, sweet, young, hopeful lord,
And debt professed, I have made a self-decree,
[From "Every Man in his Humor."]
ADVICE TO A RECKLESS YOUTH.
Knowell. What would I have you do? I'll tell you, kinsman:
Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive -
Which is an airy and mere borrowed thing,
From dead men's dust and bones; and none of yours,
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 dulness! 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,
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made;
Trees did grow, and plants did spring;
Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry
Teru, teru, by and by —
That, to hear her so complain,
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
All thy friends are lapped in lead;
Whilst, as fickle fortune smiled,
Every one that flatters thee
Words are easy, like the wind;
Faithful friends are hard to find.