THE HAG.

HE hag is astride,

This night, for to ride,
The devil and she together;

Through thick and through thin,
Now out, and then in,

Though ne'er so foul be the weather.

A thorn or a burr

She takes for a spur;

With a lash of a bramble she rides

now,

Through brakes and through briers,
O'er ditches and mires,

She follows the spirit that guides now.

No beast, for his food,

Dares now range the wood,
But hush'd in his lair he lies lurking;
While mischiefs, by these,

On land and on seas,

At noon of night are a working.

The storm will arise,

And trouble the skies,

This night; and, more for the wonder,
The ghost from the tomb

Affrighted shall come,

Call'd out by the clap of the thunder.

Robert Herrick.

TO THE KING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY. 1630.

HE joys of eager youth, of wine, and wealth,
Of faith untroubled, and unphysick'd health;
Of lovers when their nuptial 's nigh,

Of saints forgiven when they die;
Let this year bring

To Charles our king:

To Charles, who is th' example and the law,
By whom the good are taught, not kept in awe.

Long-proffer'd peace, and that not compass'd by Expensive treaties, but a victory;

And victories by fame obtain'd

Or prayer, and not by slaughter gain'd;
Let this year bring

To Charles our king:

To Charles, who is th' example and the law,
By whom the good are taught, not kept in awe.

A session, too, of such who can obey,
As they were gather'd to consult, not sway;
Who now rebel, in hope to get

Some office to reclaim their wit;

Let this year bring

To Charles our king:

To Charles who is th' example and the law,
By whom the good are taught, not kept in awe.

Prætors, who will the public cause defend,
With timely gifts, not speeches finely penn'd;
To make the northern victors' fame

No more our envy nor our shame;

Let this year bring

To Charles our king:

To Charles, who is th' example and the law,
By whom the good are taught, not kept in awe.
Sir W. Davenant.

TO THE QUEEN ON A NEW YEAR'S DAY.

|WAKE, great Queen! for as you hide or clear Your eyes, we shall distrust or like the year. Queens set their dials by your beauty's light, By your eyes learn to make their own move right; Yet know our expectation when you rise Is not entirely furnish'd from your eyes; But wisely we provide how to rejoice In the fruition of your breath and voice; Your breath which nature the example meant, From whence our early blossoms take their scent, Teaching our infant flowers how to excel, Ere strong upon their stalks, in fragrant smell; Your voice, which can allure and charm the best Most gaudy-feather'd chanter of the east To dwell about your palace all the spring, And still can make him silent whilst you sing. Rise, then! for I have heard Apollo swear, By that first lustre which did fill his sphere, He will not mount, but make eternal night, Unless relieved, and cherish'd by your sight; Your sight, which is his warmth, now he is old, His horses weary, and his chariot cold.

Sir W. Davenant.

BEN JONSON'S ODE TO HIMSELF UPON THE

CENSURE OF HIS "NEW INN."

JANUARY 1630.

OME, leave the loathed stage,

And the more loathsome age;

Where pride and impudence, in faction knit,
Usurp the chair of wit!
Indicting and arraigning every day
Something they call a play.

Yet their fastidious, vain

Commission of the brain

Run on and rage, sweat, censure and condemn ;
They were not made for thee, less thou for them.

Say that thou pour'st them wheat,

And they will acorns eat;

'Twere simple fury still thyself to waste
On such as have no taste!

To offer them a surfeit of pure bread,
Whose appetites are dead!

No, give them grains their fill,
Husks, draff to drink and swill:

If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine,
Envy them not, their palate 's with the swine.

No doubt some mouldy tale,

Like Pericles, and stale

As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fish-
Scraps, out of every dish

Thrown forth, and raked into the common tub,
May keep up the Play-club:

There, sweepings do as well

As the best-order'd meal;

For who the relish of these guests will fit,
Needs set them but the alms-basket of wit.

And much good do 't to you then :
Brave plush and velvet-men,

Can feed on orts; and, safe in your stage-clothes,
Dare quit, upon your oaths,

The stagers and the stage-wrights too, your peers,
Of larding your large ears

With their foul comic socks,
Wrought upon twenty blocks;

Which if they are torn, and turn'd, and patch'd enough, The gamesters share your gilt, and you their stuff.

Leave things so prostitute,
And take the Alcaic lute,

Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre;
Warm thee by Pindar's fire;

And though thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold
Ere years have made thee old,

Strike that disdainful heat
Throughout, to their defeat,

As curious fools, and envious of thy strain,
May, blushing, swear no palsy 's in thy brain.

But when they hear thee sing
The glories of thy king,

His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men,
They may, blood-shaken then,

Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers

As they shall

cry,

"Like ours,