Hymen's Eclogue between Admetus and Menalchas.

(From "A new Spring, shadowed in sundry pithie Poems,"

printed by G. Eld, for Thomas Bailie, 1619. 4to. By Musophilus.]

Menalchas. What makes Admetus sad :- Whate'er it be, Some cause there is that thus hath alter'd thee! Is it the loss of substance ? or of friends ? Or, thy content in discontentment ends ? Is it some scruple in thy conscience, Which, unresolved, doth leave thee in suspence? Is it, that thou thy long wish'd love shouldst leese! Admet. No, no Menalchas, it is none of these ! Men. Thou art not sick ? Admet. Nor sick, nor greatly well. Men. Where lies thy grief? Admet. My countenance can tell ! Men. Smooth is thy brow! thy countnance fresh

enough! Admet. But cares have made my wreakful mind

as rough, Men. Of cares, Admetus? Admet. Yes! I have


share ! Men. Yet, hope of cure ! Admet. No hope of cure to care !

Men. Nay, then I see, 'tis love that thee doth

wring. Admet. Thou err’st Menalchas, there is no such

thing. Men. If neither loss of friends, nor loss of wealth, Want to enjoy thy love, nor want of health, If neither discontent, nor grief, do show Care in thy face, nor sorrow in thy brow, If thou be free, as we all know thee free, Engaged to none,—what is it grieveth thee? Admet. Wouldst know Menalchas ? Men. Yes ! Admet. I'll tell thee then : The case is alter'd !--I'm a married man !


[From the same.) [This is inserted on account of the singularity of its versi


A TIME there was, and divers there be yet
Whose riper years can well remember it,
When folks were shriven for sins they did commit,
And had their absolution, as was fit:
’Mongst which, as one crime doth another get,
Where hope of pardon doth authorize it,

(For virtues, turtle-like, do single sit, . But, troops of vices still in squadrons meet,)

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A boon companion, to his liquor given, Came thither, with his neighbours, to be shriven. “Stephen” (quoth friar), for's Christian name was

Stephen, “What sins hast done to grieve the Lord of heaven?

Speak freely, man! and it is ten to seven “ But by due penance I will make all even. “ Confession is the way, when man is driven “ Into despair, that guides him into heaven.”

« I have been drunk last day, and this day too, And may be next day too for aught I know; " Tell me then, holy friar, directly, how 6. Or in what sort I may my penance do ?” “Drunk ?" (quoth the friar) “now by the faith I owe,

I know not what it means ! nor, as I trow, “ Under confession had I it e'er till now! “ Yet, come next day, thou'lt hear what thou

“ shalt do.”

Meanwhile, the friar would not neglect his time
To know the secret of this drunken crime,
Therefore betime, ere four o'clock did chime
This profane practice grew to be divine;

For upsefreese' he drank from four to nine,
So as each sense was steeped well in wine;
Yet still he kept his rouse, till he in fine
Grew extreme sick with hugging Bacchus' shrine.

Upward and downward it did work so sore,
As if his vital spirits could work no more,
Or, that he were arriving at the shore
Where mortals must arrive: but, rid of store
That did oppress his stomach o'er and o'er,
At last he got a nap upon the floor;
Which having tempered his brains, he swore
To try conclusions with the pot no more.

Stephen kept his steaven, and, to the time he gave, Came to demand what penance he should have? “ What penance?” (quoth the friar) “ I'll tell thee

" knave;

" I think it fit this penance to receive. “Go and be drunk again! for if it have « Th' effect with thee it had with me, I'd crave No sharper penance for the sinfull'st slave: “ For soon it would possess me of my grave !"



· Quære, Upsefreese ?

Appointment. Sax.


[Extracted out of “ Alcilia. Philoparthen's loving Folly," &c.

By J. C. (quære if J. Cook?) London, second impression, 4to. 1628.]

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What thing is beauty, nature's dearest minion?

The snare of youth ; like the inconstant moon, Waxing and waning : error of opinion;

A morning's flower that withereth ere noon; A swelling fruit, no sooner ripe than rotten; Which sickness makes forlorn, and time forgotten.

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In looking back unto my follies past,

While I the present with times past compare, And think how many hours I then did waste,

Painting on clouds, and building in the air, I sigh within myself, and say in sadness, “ This thing, which fools call love, is nought but

" madness."


How vain is youth, that, cross'd in his desire,

Doth fret and fume, and inwardly repine, As though 'gainst heav'n itself he would conspire,

And with his frailty 'gainst his fate combine :

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