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Wit able enough to justify the town For three days past! Wit, that might warrant be

For the whole city to talk foolishly

Till that were cancelled! And, when we were gone,

We left an air behind us, which alone
Was able to make the two next companies
Right witty! though but downright fools,
more wise!

When I remember this, and see that now
The country gentlemen begin to allow
My wit for dry bobs; 3 then I needs must cry,
"I see my days of ballading grow nigh!" 60
I can already riddle; and can sing
Catches, sell bargains; and I fear shall bring
Myself to speak the hardest words I find
Over as oft as any, with one wind,

That takes no medicines! But one thought of thee

Makes me remember all these things to be The wit of our young men, fellows that show No part of good, yet utter all they know! Who, like trees of the guard, have growing souls.

1 rally 2 kept 3 smart quips or hits

Only strong Destiny, which all controls, 70 I hope hath left a better fate in store For me, thy friend, than to live ever poor, Banished unto this home! Fate, once again, 'Bring me to thee, who canst make smooth and plain

The way of knowledge for me; and then I,
Who have no good but in thy company,
Protest it will my greatest comfort be
To acknowledge all I have to flow from thee!
Ben, when these scenes are perfect, we'll
taste wine!

I'll drink thy Muse's health! thou shalt quaff mine!

WILLIAM DRUMMOND

(1585-1649)

SONNET

80

A passing glance, a lightning 'long the skies, That, ush'ring thunder, dies straight to our sight;

A spark, of contraries which doth arise,
Then drowns in the huge depths of day and

night:

Is this small Small call'd life, held in such price
Of blinded wights, who nothing judge aright.
Of Parthian shaft so swift is not the flight
As life, that wastes itself, and living dies.
O! what is human greatness, valour, wit?
What fading beauty, riches, honour, praise? 10
To what doth serve in golden thrones to sit,
Thrall earth's vast round, triumphal arches
raise?

All is a dream, learn in this prince's fall, In whom, save death, nought mortal was at all.

JOHN FORD (fl. 1639)

SONG

FROM THE BROKEN HEART

Can you paint a thought? or number
Every fancy in a slumber?

Can you count soft minutes roving
From a dial's point by moving?
Can you grasp a sigh? or, lastly,
Rob, a virgin's honour chastely?

No, O, no! yet you may
Sooner do both that and this,
This and that, and never miss,
Than by any praise display
Beauty's beauty; such a glory,
As beyond all fate, all story,
All arms, all arts,

All loves, all hearts,
Greater than those or they,
Do, shall, and must obey.

5

ΙΟ

15

Glories, pleasures, pomps, delights, and ease,

Can but please

The outward senses, when the mind

Is or untroubled or by peace refined.

IST VOICE. Crowns may flourish and decay, 5 Beauties shine, but fade away.

2ND VOICE. Youth may revel, yet it must Lie down in a bed of dust.

3RD VOICE. Earthly honours flow and waste, Time alone doth change and last.

CHOR.

ΙΟ

Sorrows mingled with contents prepare

Rest for care;

Love only reigns in death; though art

Can find no comfort for a broken heart.

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Must in his harvest or lose all again. Now must he pluck the rose lest other hands,

Or tempests, blemish what so fairly stands: And therefore, as they had before decreed, Our shepherd gets a boat, and with all speed, In night, that doth on lovers' actions smile, Arrived safe on Mona's fruitful isle.2

152 Between two rocks (immortal, without mother.)

That stand as if out-facing one another,
There ran a creek up, intricate and blind, 155
As if the waters hid them from the wind;
Which never wash'd but at a higher tide
The frizzled coats which do the mountains
hide;

Where never gale was longer known to stay 159 Than from the smooth wave it had swept. away

The new divorced leaves, that from each side

Left the thick boughs to dance out with the tide.

At further end the creek a stately wood
Gave a kind shadow to the brackish flood
Made up of trees, not less kenn'd by each
skiff

Than that sky-scaling Peak of Teneriffe, 166 Upon whose tops the hernshaw bred her young,

And hoary moss upon their branches hung; Whose rugged rinds sufficient were to show, Without their height, what time they 'gan to

How each field turns a street, each street a park

Made green and trimm'd with trees; see how

Devotion gives each house a bough

Or branch: each porch, each door ere this
An ark, a tabernacle is,

Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street
And open fields and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey
The proclamation made for May:
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

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