extravagance had been so great that in spite of his pension and the many costly gifts from friends at court, he was always in want, and his drinking habits brought with them their inevitable punishment-disease and suffering.

Charles I. had been five years on the throne before he paid much attention to his father's favourite poet. But when Jonson appealed to him for help, he quickly responded with a large gift. Then, desirous of paying some tribute to literature, and to confer distinction upon his own reign, he made the Laureateship permanent-an office founded upon lette's patent, with an annual salary of a hundred pounds; and in deference to Jonson's well-known tastes, he added to this salary a butt of Canary wine. The laureate was so fond of this particular wine that his boon companions often called him the canary bird. Suckling, in his famous burlesque, "The Session of the Poets," where he represents the foremost wits of the day as having a contest for the laurel, says:

"The first that broke silence was good old Ben,
Prepared with Canary wine,

And he told them plainly he deserved the bays."

This preparation with Canary wine, not to mention stronger potations, had altered Jonson's personal appearance greatly. Thin and pale in youth, he soon became stout, his face flushed and unattractive. A lady of the court described him once to someone who had likened him to the poet Horace: "That same Horace of yours has a most ungodly face, by my fan! It looks for all the world like a russet apple when 'tis bruised." And, though we must take with a liberal dose of salt all that Drummond said of his guest, Drummond said that drink was the element in which Ben Jonson lived.

Jonson's last days were sad and lonely. His wife and all his children had long since died; palsy had attacked him; he was poor and weak, and in great suffering. And yet all his finest poetic qualities united in the production of his pastoral play, The Sad Shepherd, or The Tale of Robin Hood." We can trace echoes of this exquisite poem in many of the lyrics of our own time. But death came to Ben Jonson before he could finish this beautiful swan song.

In the Poet's Corner of the great Abbey he was laid, and to the kind act of a stranger we owe that unique and wonderful epitaph: “O rare Ben Jonson!"

46

SELECTIONS FROM JONSON.

TO CELIA.

(From The Forest.")

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss within the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.

But thou thereon did'st only breathe,
And send'st it back to me:

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

ON TRUTH.

TRUTH is the trial of itself,
And needs no other touch,
And purer than the purest gold
Refine it ne'er so much.

It is the life and light of love,
The sun that ever shineth,
And spirit of that special grace,
That faith and love defineth.

It is the warrant of the word,

That yields a scent so sweet,
As gives a power to faith to tread
All falsehood under feet.

HAPPINESS.

TRUE happiness consists not in the multitude of friends, But in their worth and choice.

LINES.

(From "The Sad Shepherd.")

HERE she was wont to go! and here! and here!
Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow;
The world may find the spring in following her,
For other print her airy steps ne'er left.
Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,
Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk!
But like the soft west wind she shot along,
And where she went the flowers took thickest root,
As she had sowed them with her odorous foot.

LIFE AND DEATH.

THE ports of death are sins; of life, good deeds;
Through which our merit leads us to our meeds.
How wilful blind is he, then, that would stray,
And hath it in his powers to make his way.
This world death's region is, the other, life's;
And here, it should be one of our first strifes
So to front death as men might judge us past it;
For good men see but death, the wicked taste it.

THE PLEASURE OF HEAVEN.

THERE all the happy souls that ever were,
Shall meet with gladness in one theatre;
And each shall know there one another's face,
By beatific virtue of the place.

There shall the brother with the sister walk,
And sons and daughters with their parents talk;
But all of God; they still shall have to say,
But make him all in all their theme that day;
That happy day that never shall see night!
Where he will be all beauty to the sight;
Wine or delicious fruits unto the taste;
A music in the ears will ever last;

Unto the scent, a spicery or balm;
And to the touch, a flower, like soft as palm.
He will all glory, all perfection be,
God in the Union and the Trinity!
That holy, great, and glorious mystery,
Will there revealed be in majesty,
By light and comfort of spiritual grace;
The vision of our Saviour, face to face,
In his humanity! to hear him preach
The price of our redemption, and to teach,
Through his inherent righteousness in death,—
The safety of our souls and forfeit breath!

BREAK, Fantasy, from thy cave of cloud,
And spread thy purple wings,
Now all thy figures are allowed,
And various shapes of things;
Create of airy forms a stream,

It must have blood, and naught of phlegm; And though it be a waking dream,

Yet let it like an odour rise

To all the senses here,

And fall like sleep upon their eyes,

Or music in their ear.

A VISION OF BEAUTY.

IT was a beauty that I saw,—
So pure, so perfect, as the frame
Of all the universe were lame
To that one figure, could I draw,
Or give least line of it a law:
A skein of silk without a knot!
A fair march made without a halt!
A curious form without a fault!
A printed book without a blot!
All beauty!-and without a spot.