With loins in canvass bow-case tied, Where arrows stick with mickle pride; With hats pinn'd up, and bow in hand, All day most fiercely there they stand, Like ghosts of Adam Bell, and Clymme: Sol sets for fear they 'll shoot at him.
Now Spynie, Ralph, and Gregory small, And short hair'd Stephen, whey-faced Paul, Whose times are out, indentures torn, Who seven long years did never scorn To fetch up coals for maid to use, Wipe mistresses and children's shoes, Do jump for joy they are made free, Hire meagre steeds, to ride and see Their parents old, who dwell as near As place call'd Peak in Derbyshire. There they alight, old crones are mild, Each weeps on crag of pretty child: They portions give, trades up to set, That babes may live, serve God and cheat.
Near house of law by Temple-Bar,
Now man of mace cares not how far In stockings blue he marcheth on, With velvet cape his cloak upon; In girdle scrolls, where names of some Are written down, whom touch of thumb On shoulder left must safe convoy, Annoying wights with name of Roy. Poor pris'ner's friend that sees the touch Cries out aloud, "I thought as much!"
Now vaulter good, and dancing lass On rope, and man that cries "Ay pass!"
And tumbler young that needs but stoop, Lay head to heel, to creep through hoop; And man in chimney hid to dress Puppet that acts our old Queen Bess; And man that, whilst the puppets play, Through nose expoundeth what they say: And man that does in chest include Old Sodom and Gomorrah lewd; And white oat-eater, that does dwell In stable small at sign of Bell, That lifts up hoof to show the pranks Taught by magician styled Banks; And ape led captive still in chain, Till he renounce the Pope and Spain. All these on hoof now trudge from town To cheat poor turnip-eating clown.
Now man of war with visage red Grows choleric and swears for bread. He sendeth note to man of kin,
But man leaves word, "I'm not within." He meets in street with friend call'd Will, And cries, "Old rogue! what, living still?" But ere that street they quite are past, He softly asks, "What money hast?" Quoth friend, "A crown." He cries, "Dear heart! O base no more; sweet, lend me part!"
But stay, my frighten'd pen is fled; Myself through fear creep under bed; For just as muse would scribble more- Fierce city dun did rap at door.
Sir William Davenant.
Upon His Majesty's Proclamation (A.D. 1630) commanding the gentry to reside upon their estates in the country.
OW war is all the world about, And everywhere Erinnys reigns Or else the torch so late put out, The stench remains.
Holland for many years hath been Of Christian tragedies the stage, Yet seldom hath she play'd a scene Of bloodier rage.
And France that was not long composed, With civil drums again resounds,
And ere the old are fully closed
Receives new wounds.
The great Gustavus in the west Plucks the imperial eagle's wing,
Than whom the earth did ne'er invest A fiercer king.
What should I tell of Polish bands
And the bloods boiling in the north 'Gainst whom the furied Russians
Their troops bring forth.
Only the island which we sow (A world without the world) so far From present wounds it cannot show
White Peace (the beautifull'st of things) Seems here her everlasting rest
To fix, and spreads her downy wings Over the nest.
Yet we, as if some foe were here, Leave the despised fields to clowns, And come to save ourselves, as 'twere In walled towns.
Hither we bring wives, babes, rich clothes And gems, till now my sovereign The growing evil doth oppose, Counting in vain
His care preserves us from annoy Of enemies his realms t' invade, Unless he force us to enjoy
The peace he made.
To roll themselves in envied leisure He therefore sends the landed heirs, Whilst he proclaims not his own pleasure So much as theirs.
The sap and blood o' th' land, which fled Into the root and choked the heart, Are bid their quick'ning power to spread Through every part.
Oh, 'twas an act not for my muse To celebrate, nor the dull age,
Until the country air infuse
And if the fields as thankful prove For benefits received as seed, They will, to 'quite so great a love, A Virgil breed.
A hymn that shall not cease
Th' Augustus of our world to praise In equal verse, author of peace And halcyon days.
Sir Richard Fanshawe.
F I were dead, and in my place Some fresher youth design'd,
To warm thee with new fires, and grace Those arms I left behind;
Were he as faithful as the sun
That's wedded to the sphere,
His blood as chaste and temp'rate run As April's mildest tear;
Or were he rich, and with his heaps And spacious share of earth Could make divine affection cheap And court his golden birth;
For all these arts I'd not believe (No, though he should be thine) The mighty Amorist could give So rich a heart as mine.
« ElőzőTovább » |