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Fond painters, love is not a lad

With bow, and shafts, and feathers clad,
As he is fancied in the brain

Of some loose loving idle swain.
Much sooner is he felt than seen;
Substance subtle, slight and thin,
Oft leaps he from the glancing eyes;
Oft in some smooth mount he lies;
Soonest he wins, the fastest flies;
Oft lurks he 'twixt the ruddy lips,
Thence, while the heart his nectar sips,
Down to the soul the poison slips;
Oft in a voice creeps down the ear;
Oft hides his darts in golden hair;
Oft blushing cheeks do light his fires;
Oft in a smooth soft skin retires;
Often in smiles, often in tears,
His flaming heat in water bears;
When nothing else kindles desire,
Even virtue's self shall blow the fire.
Love with a thousand darts abounds,
Surest and deepest virtue wounds,
Oft himself becomes a dart,

And love with love doth love impart.
Thou painful pleasure, pleasing pain,
Thou gainful life, thou losing gain,
Thou bitter sweet, easing disease,
How dost thou by displeasing please?
How dost thou thus bewitch the heart,
To love in hate, to joy in smart,
To think itself most bound when free,
And freest in its slavery?

Every creature is thy debtor;

None but loves, some worse, some better.

Only in love they happy prove

Who love what most deserves their love.

WILLIAM HABINGTON.

1605-1654.

[WILLIAM HABINGTON is not generally known as a dramatist. His poetical reputation rests on a volume of verses called Castara, divided into three parts, the first and second addressed to his wife before and after marriage, and the third to religious subjects. The play from which this song is taken is his only dramatic work, and the song itself, which has something of the nonchalance and freedom of Suckling, without his airiness, is the happiest passage it contains.]

THE QUEEN OF ARRAGON.

INDIFFERENCE.

FINE young folly, though you were

That fair beauty I did swear,

Yet you ne'er could reach my heart:
For we courtiers learn at school,
Only with your sex to fool;

You are not worth the serious part.

When I sigh and kiss your hand,
Cross my arms, and wondering stand,
Holding parley with your eye,

Then dilate on my desires,

Swear the sun ne'er shot such fires-
All is but a handsome lie.

When I eye your curl or lace,

Gentle soul, you think your face

Straight some murder doth commit;

And your virtue doth begin

To grow scrupulous of my sin,

When I talk to shew

my wit.

Therefore, madam, wear no cloud,
Nor to check my love grow proud;
In sooth I much do doubt,
'Tis the powder in your hair,
Not your breath, perfumes the air,
And your clothes that set you out.

Yet though truth has this confessed,
And I vow I love in jest,

When I next begin to court,
And protest an amorous flame,
You will swear I in earnest am:
Bedlam! this is pretty sport.

BARTEN HOLIDAY.

1661.

[BARTEN HOLIDAY was born in the latter end of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, became at an early age a student of Christ Church College, Oxford, entered orders in 1615, and was appointed archdeacon of the diocese of Oxford. He died in 1661. Langbaine says that he was 'a general scholar, a good preacher, a skilful philosopher, and an excellent poet.' He translated Juvenal and Persius, and published numerous sermons. The singular drama which supplies the following lively song is allegorical, the characters forming a sort of commonwealth of the arts and sciences. In order to give the true relish to this vagrant ditty it should be observed that it is sung by a humorous serving-man, dressed, according to the stage directions, 'in a pale russet suit, on the back whereof is expressed one filling a pipe of tobacco, his hat set round with tobacco-pipes, with a can of drink hanging at his girdle."]

TEXNOTAMIA; OR, THE MARRIAGE OF THE ARTS.

TOBACCO.

TOBACCO

OBACCO'S a Musician,

And in a pipe delighteth;

It descends in a close,

Through the organs of the nose,
With a relish that inviteth.

This makes me sing So ho, ho; So ho, ho, boys,
Ho boys, sound I loudly;

Earth ne'er did breed
Such a jovial weed,

Whereof to boast so proudly.

Tobacco is a Lawyer,

His pipes do love long cases,

When our brains it enters,
Our feet do make indentures,

While we seal with stamping paces.

This makes me sing, &c.

Tobacco's a Physician,

Good both for sound and sickly;

"Tis a hot perfume

That expels cold rheum,

And makes it flow down quickly.

This makes me sing, &c.

Tobacco is a Traveller,

Come from the Indies hither;

It passed sea and land,

Ere it came to my hand,

And 'scaped the wind and weather.

This makes me sing, &c.

Tobacco is a Critic,

That still old paper turneth,

Whose labour and care
Is as smoke in the air

That ascends from a rag when it burneth.

This makes me sing, &c.

1630.

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[WITH Shirley terminates the roll of the great writers whose works form a distinct era in our dramatic literature. He was the last of a race of giants. Born in the reign of Elizabeth, he lived to witness the Restoration, and carried down to the time of Charles I. the moral and poetical elements of the age of Shakespeare. New modes and a new language set in with the Restoration; and the line that separates Shirley from his immediate successors is as clearly defined and as broadly marked as if a century had elapsed between them.

Shirley was educated at Merchant-Tailors' School, and from thence removed to St. John's College, Oxford, which he afterwards left to complete his collegiate course at Cambridge. Having entered holy orders, he was appointed to a living at or near St. Albans, in Hertfordshire; but subsequently renounced his ministry, in consequence of having embraced the doctrines of the Church of Rome. For a short time he found occupation as a teacher in a grammar-school, a life of drudgery which he soon relinquished to become a writer for the stage. He produced altogether thirty-three plays; and not the least

THE DRAMATISTS.

15

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