I visit, talk, do business, play,
And for a need laugh out a day:
Who does not thus in Cupid's school,

He makes not love, but plays the fool:
She's fair, &c.

Sir John Suckling.

SONG OF THE FAIRIES.

AT NIGHT IN AN APPLE ORCHARD.

OS beata fauni proles,

Quibus non est magna moles,
Quamvis lunam incolamus,

Hortos sæpe frequentamus.

Furto cuncta magis bella,
Furto dulcior puella,
Furto omnia decora,

Furto poma dulciora.

Cum mortales lecto jacent

Nobis

poma noctu placent. Illa tamen sunt ingrata

Nisi furto sint parata.

Thomas Randolph.

TOBACCO.

OBACCO's a Musician,
And in a pipe delighteth;
It descends in a close,

Through the organ of the nose,
With a relish that inviteth.

F

This makes me sing So ho, ho; So ho, ho, boys,

Ho boys, sound I loudly;

Earth ne'er did breed Such a jovial weed, Whereof to boast so proudly.

Tobacco is a Lawyer,

His pipes do love long cases,
When our brains it enters
Our feet do make indentures,

Which we seal with stamping paces.

This makes me sing, &c.

Tobacco's a Physician,

Good both for sound and sickly;

'Tis a hot perfume

That expels cold rheum,

And makes it flow down quickly.

This makes me sing, &c.

Tobacco is a Traveller,

Come from the Indies hither;

It passed sea and land

Ere it came to my hand,

And 'scaped the wind and weather.

Tobacco is a Critic,

This makes me sing, &c.

That still old paper turneth,
Whose labour and care
Is as smoke in the air,

That ascends from a rag when it burneth.

This makes me sing, &c.

Tobacco's an ignis fatuus

A fat and fiery vapour,
That leads men about
Till the fire be out,
Consuming like a taper.

Tobacco is a Whiffler,

This makes me sing, &c.

And cries Huff Snuff with fury;
His pipe's his club and link ;
He's the visor that does drink;
Thus arm'd I fear not a Jury.

This makes me sing, &c.
Barten Holiday.

SADNESS.

HILES I this standing lake,

Swathed up with yew and cypress boughs,
Do move by sighs and vows,

Let Sadness only wake;

That whiles thick darkness blots the light

My thoughts may cast another night;

In which double shade,

By Heaven and me made,

O let me weep
And fall asleep
And forgotten fade.

Hark! from yond' hollow tree

Sadly sing two anchoret owls
Whiles the hermit wolf howls;

And all bewailing me,

The raven hovers o'er

my bier,

The bittern on a reed I hear

Pipes my elegy,

And warns me to die.
Whiles from yond' graves

My wrong'd love craves
My sad company.

Cease Hylas, cease thy call!
Such, O such, was thy parting groan,
Breathed out to me alone

When thou, disdain'd, didst fall.
Lo thus unto thy silent tomb,
In my sad winding-sheet, I come,
Creeping o'er dead bones

And cold marble stones,

That I

may mourn

Over thy urn

And appease thy groans.

William Cartwright.

SORROW.

H, Sorrow, Sorrow, say where dost thou dwell?

In the lowest room of hell.

Art thou born of human race?

No, no, I have a furier face.

Art thou in city, town, or court?

I to every place resort.

Oh, why into the world is Sorrow sent?

Men afflicted best repent.

What dost thou feed on?

Broken sleep.

What takest thou pleasure in?

To weep,

To sigh, to sob, to pine, to groan,
To wring my hands, to sit alone.

Oh when? oh when shall Sorrow quiet have?
Never, never, never, never.

Never till she finds a grave.

Samuel Rowley.

STRAFFORD'S TRIAL AND DEATH.

REAT Strafford! worthy of that name, though all
Of thee could be forgotten, but thy fall,
Crush'd by imaginary treason's weight,

Which too much merit did accumulate :
As chemists gold from brass by fire would draw,
Pretexts are into treason forged by law.

His wisdom such, at once it did appear

Three kingdoms' wonder, and three kingdoms' fear;
Whilst single he stood forth, and seem'd, although
Each had an army, as an equal foe.

Such was his force of eloquence, to make

The hearers more concern'd than he that spake;
Each seem'd to act that part he came to see,
And none was more a looker-on than he;
So did he move our passions, some were known
To wish, for the defence, the crime their own.
Now private pity strove with public hate,
Reason with rage, and eloquence with fate:
Now they could him, if he could them forgive;
He's not too guilty, but too wise to live;

Less seem those facts which treason's nick-name bore,
Than such a fear'd ability for more.