Oldalképek
PDF
ePub

Widow or wife, without the jealousy
Of either suitor or a servant by.

Such, if her manners like you, I do send ;
And can for other graces her commend,-
To make you merry on the dressing-stool
A' mornings, and at afternoons to fool
Away ill company, and help in rhyme
Your Joan to pass her melancholy time.
By this, although you fancy not the man,
Accept his Muse; and tell, I know you can,
How many verses, madam, are your due.
I can lose none in tendering these to you.
I gain in having leave to keep my day,-
And should grow rich, had I much more to pay.

BISHOP (JOSEPH) HALL.

[Born in 1574 died in 1656. He became Bishop of Exeter in 1627, and of Norwich in 1641; soon after which, the troubles of the time, in church and state, ousted him from his see, and he expired unrestored, but much esteemed for character and piety. His Satires are the first compositions of that kind, in a regular form, in the English language. So at least they are generally accounted; though I hardly know why the claims of Wyatt in this respect should be ignored. Even as regards Hall himself, some of his Satires are of a very curt and casual sort, as our specimen shows].

A TRENCHER CHAPLAIN.

A GENTLE Squire would gladly entertain
Into his house some trencher-chapelain;

Some willing man that might instruct his sons,
And that would stand to good conditions.

First, that he lie upon the truckle-bed,

Whiles his young master lieth o'er his head.
Second, that he do, on no default,
Ever presume to sit above the salt.

Third, that he never change his trencher twice.
Fourth, that he use all common courtesies;
Sit bare at meals, and one half rise and wait.
Last, that he never his young master beat,
But he must ask his mother to define

How many jerks she would his breech should line.
All these observed, he could contented be

To give five marks and winter livery.

JOHN FLETCHER.

[Born in Northamptonshire, 1576, son of a Bishop of London; died of the plague, 1625. The constant colleague of Francis Beaumont as a dramatist, and in daily life as well: it is said "that they lived together on the Bank-side, and not only pursued their studies in close companionship, but carried their community of habits so far that they had only one bench between them, and used the same clothes and cloaks in common. Fletcher is believed to have composed the larger portion of the plays, and the great majority of the interspersed songs. The following comes from a drama, The Nice Valour, which is ascribed to Fletcher singly).

LAUGHING SONG.

[For several voices.]

OH how my lungs do tickle! ha ha ha!
Oh how my lungs do tickle! ho ho ho ho!
Set a sharp jest
Against my breast,

Then how my lungs do tickle!
As nightingales,

And things in cambric rails,

Sing best against a prickle.

Ha ha ha ha!

Ho ho ho ho ho !

Laugh! Laugh! Laugh! Laugh!
Wide! Loud! And vary!

A smile is for a simpering novice,-
One that ne'er tasted caviarë,

Nor knows the smack of dear anchovies.
Ha ha ha ha ha!

Ho ho ho ho ho !

A giggling waiting-wench for me,

That shows her teeth how white they be,-
A thing not fit for gravity,

For theirs are foul and hardly three.

Ha ha ha!

Ho ho ho !

"Democritus, thou ancient fleerer,

How I miss thy laugh, and ha' since!"1
There thou named the famous[est] jeerer
That e'er jeered in Rome or Athens.
Ha ha ha!

Ho ho ho!

"How brave lives he that keeps a fool,
Although the rate be deeper!"

But he that is his own fool, sir,

[ocr errors]

Does live a great deal cheaper.
Sure I shall burst, burst, quite break,
Thou art so witty."

1 Changed by Seward to

"How I miss thy laugh, and ha-sense.'

Neither reading is very convincing.

"'Tis rare to break at court,
For that belongs to the city."

Ha ha! my spleen is almost worn
To the last laughter.

"Oh keep a corner for a friend!
A jest may come hereafter."

BISHOP (RICHARD) CORBET.

[Born in 1582, died in 1635. Bishop of Oxford and of Norwich. The humorous turn of his verses was the reflex of the like quality in himself. Indeed, his deportment appears to have often been eminently unepiscopal: he had, however, substantial merits of kindliness and sound sense to set off against this].

DR. CORBET'S JOURNEY INTO FRANCE.

I WENT from England into France,
Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance,
Nor yet to ride nor fence;
Nor did I go like one of those
That do return with half a nose
They carried from hence.

But I to Paris rode along,
Much like John Dory in the song,
Upon a holy-tide;

I on an ambling nag did jet
(I trust he is not paid for yet),
And spurred him on each side.

And to St. Denis fast we came,
To see the sights of Notre Dame,
(The man that shows them snuffles);
Where who is apt for to believe
May see our Lady's right-arm sleeve,
And eke her old pantofles;

Her breast, her milk, her very gown
That she did wear in Bethlehem town
When in the inn she lay;

Yet all the world knows that's a fable,
For so good clothes ne'er lay in stable
Upon a lock of hay.

No carpenter could by his trade

Gain so much coin as to have made

A gown of so rich stuff;

Yet they, poor souls, think, for their credit,
That they believe old Joseph did it,

'Cause he deserved enough.

There is one of the cross's nails,
Which whoso sees his bonnet vails,
And, if he will, may kneel.

Some say 'twas false, 'twas never so ;
Yet, feeling it, thus much I know,
It is as true as steel.

There is a lanthorn which the Jews,
When Judas led them forth, did use,
It weighs my weight downright;
But, to believe it, you must think
The Jews did put a candle in't.
And then 'twas very light.

There's one saint there hath lost his nose,
Another's head, but not his toes,

His elbow and his thumb.

But, when that we had seen the rags,
We went to the inn, and took our nags,
And so away did come.

We came to Paris, on the Seine;
'Tis wondrous fair, 'tis nothing clean,
'Tis Europe's greatest town;
How strong it is I need not tell it,
For all the world may easily smell it,
That walk it up and down.

There many strange things are to see ;-
The palace and great gallery,

The Place Royal doth excel,

The New Bridge, and the statues there,-
At Notre Dame St. Q. Pater
The steeple bears the bell;

For learning the University,
And for old clothes the Frippery ;
The house the queen did build;
St. Innocence, whose earth devours
Dead corps in four-and-twenty hours,
And there the king was killed.

The Bastille and St. Denis Street,
The Shafflenist like London Fleet,
The Arsenal no toy;

But, if you'll see the prettiest thing,
Go to the court and see the king-
Oh 'tis a hopeful boy!

He is, of all his dukes and peers,
Reverenced for much wit at's years,
Nor must you think it much;

For he with little switch doth play,
And make fine dirty pies of clay,-
Oh never king made such!

A bird that can but kill a fly,
Or prate, doth please his majesty,
'Tis known to every one;

The Duke of Guise gave him a parrot,
And he had twenty cannons for it,
For his new galleon.

Oh that I e'er might have the hap
To get the bird which in the map
Is called the Indian ruck!
I'd give it him, and hope to be
As rich as Guise or Liviné,

Or else I had ill-luck.

Birds round about his chamber stand,

And he them feeds with his own hand, 'Tis his humility;

And, if they do want anything,

They need but whistle for their king,

And he comes presently.

But now, then, for these parts he must Be enstyled Lewis the Just,

Great Henry's lawful heir;

When, to his style to add more words,
They'd better call him King of Birds
Than of the great Navarre.

He hath besides a pretty quirk,
Taught him by nature, how to work
In iron with much ease.
Sometimes to the forge he goes,
There he knocks and there he blows,
And makes both locks and keys;

Which puts a doubt in every one
Whether he be Mars' or Vulcan's son,-
Some few believe his mother;
But, let them all say what they will,
I came resolved, and so think still,
As much the one as th' other.

The people too dislike the youth,]
Alleging reasons, for, in truth,

Mothers should honoured be;
Yet others say he loves her rather
As well as e'er she loved her father,
And that's notoriously.

« ElőzőTovább »