Part 29 (1/2)
9 Tell Physic of her boldness, Tell Skill it is pretension, Tell Charity of coldness, Tell Law it is contention; And as they do reply, So give them still the lie.
10 Tell Fortune of her blindness, Tell Nature of decay, Tell Friends.h.i.+p of unkindness, Tell Justice of delay; And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie.
11 Tell Arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming, Tell Schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming; If Arts and Schools reply, Give Arts and Schools the lie.
12 Tell Faith it's fled the city, Tell how the country erreth, Tell Manhood shakes off pity, Tell Virtue least preferreth; And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie.
13 And when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing, Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing; Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the Soul can kill.
SECOND PERIOD.
FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN.
FRANCIS BEAUMONT.
This remarkable man, from his intimate connexion with Fletcher, is better known as a dramatist than as a poet. He was the son of Judge Beaumont, and descended from an ancient family, which was settled at Grace Dieu in Leicesters.h.i.+re. He was born in 1585-86, and educated at Cambridge. Thence he pa.s.sed to study in the Inner Temple, but seems to have preferred poetry and the drama to law. He was married to the daughter of Sir Henry Isley of Kent, who bore him two daughters. He died in his 30th year, and was buried March 9, 1615-16, in St Benedict's Chapel, Westminster Abbey. More of his connexion with Fletcher afterwards.
After his death, his brother published a collection of his miscellaneous pieces. We extract a few, of no little merit. His verses to Ben Jonson, written before their author came to London, and first appended to a play ent.i.tled 'Nice Valour,' are picturesque and interesting, as ill.u.s.trating the period.
TO BEN JONSON.
The sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring To absent friends, because the selfsame thing They know, they see, however absent) is Here, our best haymaker (forgive me this, It is our country's style) in this warm s.h.i.+ne I lie, and dream of your full Mermaid wine.
Oh, we have water mix'd with claret lees, Brink apt to bring in drier heresies Than beer, good only for the sonnet's strain, With fustian metaphors to stuff the brain, So mix'd, that, given to the thirstiest one, 'Twill not prove alms, unless he have the stone.
I think, with one draught man's invention fades: Two cups had quite spoil'd Homer's Iliades.
'Tis liquor that will find out Sutcliff's wit, Lie where he will, and make him write worse yet; Fill'd with such moisture in most grievous qualms, Did Robert Wisdom write his singing psalms; And so must I do this: And yet I think It is a potion sent us down to drink, By special Providence, keeps us from fights, Makes us not laugh when we make legs to knights.
'Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our states, A medicine to obey our magistrates: For we do live more free than you; no hate, No envy at one another's happy state, Moves us; we are all equal: every whit Of land that G.o.d gives men here is their wit, If we consider fully, for our best And gravest men will with his main house-jest Scarce please you; we want subtilty to do The city tricks, lie, hate, and flatter too: Here are none that can bear a painted show, Strike when you wink, and then lament the blow; Who, like mills, set the right way for to grind, Can make their gains alike with every wind; Only some fellows with the subtlest pate, Amongst us, may perchance equivocate At selling of a horse, and that's the most.
Methinks the little wit I had is lost Since I saw you; for wit is like a rest Held up at tennis, which men do the best, With the best gamesters: what things have we seen Done at the Mermaid; heard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, As if that every one from whence they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life: then when there had been thrown 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 cancell'd; and when that was gone, We left an air behind us, which alone Was able to make the two next companies Eight witty; though but downright fools were wise.
When I remember this, * * * I needs must cry I see my days of ballading grow nigh; 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 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 garden, have growing souls.
Only strong Destiny, which all controls, I hope hath left a better fate in store For me, thy friend, than to live ever poor.
Banish'd 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.
ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER.
Mortality, behold and fear, What a charge of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heap of stones: Here they lie, had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands; Where, from their pulpits seal'd with dust, They preach--in greatness is no trust.
Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royal'st seed, That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried, Though G.o.ds they were, as men they died: Here are wands, ign.o.ble things, Dropp'd from the ruin'd sides of kings.
Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
AN EPITAPH.
Here she lies, whose spotless fame Invites a stone to learn her name: The rigid Spartan that denied An epitaph to all that died, Unless for war, in charity Would here vouchsafe an elegy.