Part 18 (2/2)

O this would make a learned and liberal soul To rive his stained quill up to the back, And d.a.m.n his long-watched labours to the fire-- Things that were born when none, but the still night And his dumb candle, saw his pinching throes; Were not his own free merit a more crown, Unto his travails than their reeling claps.[115]

This 'tis that strikes me silent, seals my lips, And apts me rather to sleep out my time, Than I would waste it in contemned strifes With these vile Ibides,[116] these unclean birds That make their mouths their clysters, and still purge From their hot entrails. But I leave the monsters To their own fate. And, since the Comic Muse Hath proved so ominous to me, I will try If tragedy have a more kind aspect: Her favors in my next I will pursue, Where, if I prove the pleasure but of one, So he judicious be, he shall be alone A theater unto me. Once I'll 'say[117]

To strike the ear of time in those fresh strains, As shall, beside the cunning of their ground, Give cause to some of wonder, some despite, And more despair to imitate their sound.

I, that spend half my nights and all my days Here in a cell, to get a dark pale face, To come forth worth the ivy or the bays, And in this age can hope no other grace-- Leave me! There's something come into my thought That must and shall be sung high and aloof, Safe from the wolf's black jaw and the dull a.s.s's hoof.[118]

[Footnote 115: Applauses.]

[Footnote 116: Plural of ibis.]

[Footnote 117: That is, I will try once for all.]

[Footnote 118: That is, envy and stupidity.]

JOHN FLETCHER AND FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

A SONG OF TRUE LOVE DEAD.

[From _The Maid's Tragedy_.]

Lay a garland on my hea.r.s.e Of the dismal yew; Maidens willow branches bear; Say I died true: My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth: Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth.

A SONG OF CRUEL LOVE.[119]

[From _Rollo, Duke of Normandy_.]

Take, oh take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn, And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn; But my kisses bring again, Seals of love, though sealed in vain.

Hide, oh hide those hills of snow, Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow Are of those that April wears; But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those icy chains by thee.

SWEET MELANCHOLY.[120]

[From _The Nice Valor_.]

Hence, all your vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly!

There's naught in this life sweet, If man were wise to see't, But only melancholy: O sweetest melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fastened on the ground, A tongue chained up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves, Places which pale pa.s.sion loves, Moonlight walks when all the fowls Are warmly housed, save bats and owls, A midnight bell, a parting groan, These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley: Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

[Footnote 119: The first stanza of this song was probably Shakspere's.]

[Footnote 120: This should be compared with Milton's _Il Penserosa_.]

CaeSAR'S LAMENT OVER POMPEY.

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