I'd give it him, and hope to be

As rich as Guise or Liviné,

Or else I had ill-luck.

16 Birds round about his chamber stand,

And he them feeds with his own hand,

"Tis his humility;

And if they do want anything,

They need but whistle for their king,
And he comes presently.

17 But now, then, for these parts he must Be enstyled Lewis the Just,

Great Henry's lawful heir;

When to his style to add more words,
They'd better call him King of Birds,
Than of the great Navarre.

18 He hath besides a pretty quirk,
Taught him by nature, how to work
In iron with much ease;
Sometimes to the forge he goes,
There he knocks and there he blows,
And makes both locks and keys;

19 Which puts a doubt in every one,
Whether he be Mars' or Vulcan's son,
Some few believe his mother;
But let them all say what they will,
I came resolved, and so think still,
As much the one as th' other.

20 The people too dislike the youth, Alleging reasons, for, in truth,

Mothers should honour'd be;

Yet others say, he loves her rather
As well as ere she loved her father,
And that's notoriously.

21 His queen,* a pretty little wench,
Was born in Spain, speaks little French,
She's ne'er like to be mother;
For her incestuous house could not
Have children which were not begot
By uncle or by brother.

22 Nor why should Lewis, being so just,
Content himself to take his lust
With his Lucina's mate,

And suffer his little pretty queen,
From all her race that yet hath been,
So to degenerate?

23 'Twere charity for to be known
To love others' children as his own,
And why? it is no shame,
Unless that he would greater be
Than was his father Henery,

Who, men thought, did the same.

FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES.

1 Farewell, rewards and fairies,

Good housewives now may say,

For now foul sluts in dairies

Do fare as well as they.

And though they sweep their hearths no less
Than maids were wont to do,

Yet who of late, for cleanliness,
Finds sixpence in her shoe?

* Anne of Austria.

2 Lament, lament, old Abbeys,

The fairies lost command;

They did but change priests' babies,
But some have changed your land;
And all your children sprung

from thence

Are now grown Puritans;
Who live as changelings ever since,
domains.

For love of your

3 At morning and at evening both,
You merry were and glad,

So little care of sleep or sloth
These pretty ladies had;

When Tom came home from labour,
Or Cis to milking rose,
Then merrily went their tabor,

And nimbly went their toes.

4 Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary's days
On many a grassy plain;
But since of late Elizabeth,

And later, James came in,
They never danced on any heath
As when the time hath been.

5 By which we note the fairies
Were of the old profession,
Their songs were Ave-Maries,
Their dances were procession:
But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas;
Or further for religion fled,
Or else they take their ease.

6 A tell-tale in their company

They never could endure,
And whoso kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punish'd sure;
It was a just and Christian deed,
To pinch such black and blue:
Oh, how the commonwealth doth need
Such justices as you!

BEN JONSON.

As 'rare Ben' chiefly shone as a dramatist, we need not recount at length the events of his life. He was born in 1574; his father, who had been a clergyman in Westminster, and was sprung from from a Scotch family in Annandale, having died before his birth. His mother marrying a bricklayer, Ben was brought up to the same employment. Disliking this, he enlisted in the army, and served with credit in the Low Countries. When he came home, he entered St John's College, Cambridge; but his stay there must have been short, since he is found in London at the age of twenty, married, and acting on the stage. He began at the same time to write dramas. He was unlucky enough to quarrel with and kill another performer, for which he was committed to prison, but released without a trial. He resumed his labours as a writer for the stage; but having failed in the acting department, he forsook it for ever. His first hit was, 'Every Man in his Humour,' a play enacted in 1598, Shakspeare being one of the actors. His course afterwards was chequered. He quarrelled with Marston and Dekker, he was imprisoned for some reflections on the Scottish nation in one of his comedies, -he was appointed in 1619 poet-laureate, with a pension of 100 marks, he made the same year a journey to Scotland on foot, where he visited Drummond at Hawthornden, and they seem to have mutually loathed each other,--he fell into habits of intemperance, and acquired, as he said himself,

'A mountain belly and a rocky face.'

His favourite haunts were the Mermaid, and the Falcon Tavern, Southwark. He was engaged in constant squabbles with his contemporaries, and died at last, in 1637, in miserably poor circumstances. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, under a square tablet, where one of his admirers afterwards inscribed the words, 'O rare Ben Jonson!'

Of his powers as a dramatist we need not speak, but present our readers with some rough and racy specimens of his poetry.

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

Underneath this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother;
Death ere thou hast slain another,
Learn'd and fair, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee!

THE PICTURE OF THE BODY.

Sitting, and ready to be drawn,
What make these velvets, silks, and lawn,
Embroideries, feathers, fringes, lace,
Where every limb takes like a face?

Send these suspected helps to aid
Some form defective, or decay'd;
This beauty, without falsehood fair,
Needs nought to clothe it but the air.

Yet something to the painter's view,
Were fitly interposed; so new,
He shall, if he can understand,
Work by my fancy, with his hand.