variety, suddenness, and completeness. In their airiness and sweetness, their spontaneity and full-throated ease, they resemble the songs of birds. The contrast with Ben Jonson is striking. Here we have a great command of resources, and a visible air of preparation. The lines are thoughtful, and occasionally rugged, and must be read, even in the singing, with a certain degree of emphasis and deliberation. They do not spring at once to the heart and the fancy. Without a particle of pedantry, of which Jonson was unjustly accused by his detractors, the spirit of the Greek anthology is in them, and is felt either in the allusions, the phrase, the subject, or the diction. Yet, in a different way, they are as charming as Shakespeare's, and worthy to stand beside them. If they do not recall the ravishing music of the lark or the nightingale, they hold us in the spell of some fine instrument whose rich notes are delivered with the skill of a master. It is the difference between impulse and premeditation, and, in a general sense, between nature and art, although we are compelled to acknowledge in Shakespeare the presence of the highest art also. Ben Jonson is generally supposed to be distinguished chiefly, if not exclusively, by his learning and his humour. But his songs, his masques, and pastoral scenes are strewn with beauties of another order, and exhibit, over and above his more special qualities, singular elegance of thought and a luxuriant fancy.

The dates attached to the titles of the plays from which the following lyrics are extracted, are the dates of their production upon the stage.]

CYNTHIA'S REVELS. 1600.

ECHO MOURNING THE DEATH OF NARCISSUS.

SLOW, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears; Yet slower, yet, O faintly gentle springs:

List to the heavy part the music bears,

Woe weeps out her division when she sings.

Droop herbs and flowers;
Fall grief in showers,

Our beauties are not ours;
O, I could still,

Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
Drop, drop, drop, drop,

Since nature's pride is, now, a withered daffodil.

THE KISS.

THAT joy so soon should waste!
Or so sweet a bliss

As a kiss

Might not for ever last!

So sugared, so melting, so soft, so delicious, The dew that lies on roses,

When the morn herself discloses,

Is not so precious.

O rather than I would it smother,
Were I to taste such another;

It should be my wishing

That I might die kissing.

THE GLOVE OF THE DEAD LADY.

THOU

more than most sweet glove,
Unto my more sweet love,

Suffer me to store with kisses
This empty lodging that now misses
The pure rosy hand that wore thee,
Whiter than the kid that bore thee.

Thou art soft, but that was softer;
Cupid's self hath kissed it ofter
Than e'er he did his mother's doves,
Supposing her the queen of loves,
That was thy mistress,
Best of gloves.

HYMN TO DIANA.

QUEEN, and huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,

State in wonted manner keep :*
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close:
Bless us then with wishèd sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal shining quiver;

Give unto thy flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that makest a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.

THE POETASTER.

THE LOVER'S IDEAL.

IF I freely may discover

1601.

What would please me in my lover,
I would have her fair and witty,
Savouring more of court than city;
A little proud, but full of pity;
Light and humorous in her toying;
Oft building hopes, and soon destroying;
Long, but sweet in the enjoying;
Neither too easy nor too hard,
All extremes I would have barred.

* Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and mincing gait.

MILTON.-Il Penseroso.

She should be allowed her passions,
So they were but used as fashions;
Sometimes froward, and then frowning,
Sometimes sickish, and then swooning,
Every fit with change still crowning.
Purely jealous I would have her,
Then only constant when I crave her;
"Tis a virtue should not save her.
Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,
Nor her peevishness annoy me.

WANTON CUPID.

*

LOVE is blind, and a wanton;

In the whole world, there is scant [one]
One such another:

No, not his mother.

He hath plucked her doves and sparrows,
To feather his sharp arrows,
And alone prevaileth,

While sick Venus waileth.
But if Cypris once recover
The wag; it shall behove her
To look better to him,
Or she will undo him.

W

WAKE! MUSIC AND WINE.

AKE, our mirth begins to die,

Quicken it with tunes and wines

Raise your notes; you're out: fy, fy!

This drowsiness is an ill sign.

The germ of this song may be traced to the following epigram of Martial:

Qualem, Flacce, velim quæris, nolimve puellam,

Nolo nimis facilem, difficilemve nimis :

Illud quod medium est, atque inter utrumque probamus,
Nec volo quod cruciat, nec volo quod satiat.'

Thus rendered by Elphinston:

What a fair, my dear Flaccus, I like or dislike?

I approve not the dame, or too kind, or too coy;
The sweet medium be mine: no extremities strike:
I'll have her who knows nor to torture nor cloy.'

We banish him the quire of gods,
That droops again:

Then all are men,

For here's not one, but nods.

THE FEAST OF THE SENSES.

THEN, in a free and lofty strain,
Our broken tunes we thus repair;
And we answer them again,

Running division on the panting air;
To celebrate this feast of sense,

As free from scandal as offence.
Here is beauty for the eye;
For the ear sweet melody;
Ambrosial odours for the smell;
Delicious nectar for the taste;
For the touch a lady's waist;
Which doth all the rest excel!

VOLPONE; OR, THE FOX. 1605.

FOOLS.

FOOLS, they are the only nation
Worth men's envy or admiration;
Free from care or sorrow-taking,
Selves and others merry making:
All they speak or do is sterling.
Your fool he is your great man's darling,
And your ladies' sport and pleasure;

Tongue and babble are his treasure.

Even his face begetteth laughter,

And he speaks truth free from slaughter;*
He's the grace of every feast,

And sometimes the chiefest guest;

* Reason here, observes one of Jonson's commentators, has been made to suffer for the rhyme, slander being the word apparently designed.