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The heifer, cow, and ox, draw near,
Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool;
And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,
A shepherd piping on the hill.
For sports, for pageantry, and plays,
Thou hast thy eves and holy-days,
On which the young men and maids meet To exercise their dancing feet;
Tripping the comely country round,
With daffodils and daisies crowned.
A COUNTRY LIFE.
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast,
Thy shearing feast, which never fail ;
To these thou hast thy time to go,
And trace the hare in the treacherous snow:
Thy witty wiles to draw, and get
The lark into the trammel net;
Thou hast thy cock-rood, and thy glade,
To take the precious pheasant made!
O happy life, if that their good
And younglings, with such sports as these ;
Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.
"WHY SO PALE AND WAN, FOND LOVER?"
BY SIR JOHN SUCKLING.
[SIR JOHN SUCKLING was born at Witham, in Middlesex, in 1609, and was educated under the superintendence of his father, who was Secretary of State to James I. and comptroller of the household to Charles I. When he had completed his studies, young Suckling went abroad, and travelled through various countries. He served in Germany, under Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden; and, when he returned to England, associated with the most celebrated wits of the time. Attempting, with others, to deliver Strafford from the Tower, he was ordered to appear at the bar of the House of Commons; but, instead of obeying, he set out for France. While stopping at an inn on the road, Suckling was robbed by his servant, who, to prevent pursuit, stuck the blade of a penknife inside his master's boot, and when Sir John, in haste, attempted to draw it on, he received a wound, of which he died. This was in 1641.]
WHY SO pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?
Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her.
"I LOVE (AND HAVE SOME CAUSE TO LOVE) THE EARTH."
BY FRANCIS QUARLES.
[FRANCIS QUARLES was born near Romford in Essex, in 1592: was educated at Cambridge, and afterwards became a student of Lincoln's Inn. He was cupbearer to Elizabeth, daughter of James I. until her husband became King of Bohemia; he was then made Secretary to Archbishop Usher in Ireland; and afterwards Chronologer to the City of London. He died in 1644; his death being accelerated, it is supposed, by the ill treatment he received from the Republicans.
Quarles' "Divine Emblems" were, and continue to be, the most popular of his works. His tendency to Puritanical sentiments, though a Royalist, was probably the cause of his writings being entirely neglected after the Restoration. His epigrammatic productions exhibit the rare union of wit and devotion; but he disobeyed the advice he gave to others:-"Clothe not thy language either with obscurity or affectation."]
I LOVE (and have some cause to love) the earth :
She is my Maker's creature; therefore good:
She is my mother, for she gave me birth;
She is my tender nurse-she gives me food;
But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee?
Or what's my mother, or my nurse to me?
TO CORINNA, TO GO A-MAYING.
BY ROBERT HERRICK.
[ROBERT HERRICK, the son of a goldsmith, was born in London, in the year 1591. He studied at Cambridge, took holy orders, and obtained a living from Charles I. This he lost during the Civil Wars, and received again at the Restoration. He is believed to have lived
to a good old age, though the time of his death is unknown.
Herrick associated with Ben Jonson and the other social spirits of the time. His poems exhibit, in some instances, a licentiousness which he deeply regretted in his after life. His language is picturesque and beautiful, and his verses, though very irregular, are, at times, extremely melodious.]
GET up, get up for shame, the blooming morn
See how Aurora throws her fair
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew bespangling herb and tree.
Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
Nay, not so much as out of bed;
When all the birds have matins said,
And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in,
When as a thousand virgins on this day
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.