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And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,

The company was seated.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick;
And, when 'twas nam'd another's health,
Perhaps he made it her's by stealth,
And who could help it, Dick?

O' th' sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance;
Then dance again, and kiss.
Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass,
Till every woman wish'd her place,
And every man wish'd his.

By this time all were stol'n aside
To counsel and undress the bride;
But that he must not know:

But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind

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DETRACTION EXECRATED.

Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds,
Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,
Canker of conversation! could'st thou find
Nought but our love whereon to show thy hate?
Thou never wert, when we two were alone;
What canst thou witness then? thou, base dull aid,
Wast useless in our conversation,

Where each meant more than could by both be said.
Whence hadst thou thy intelligence-from earth?

That part of us ne'er knew that we did love:

Or, from the air? our gentle sighs had birth

From such sweet raptures as to joy did move;

Our thoughts as pure as the chaste morning's breath,
When from the night's cold arms it creeps away,
Were clothed in words, and maiden's blush, that hath
More purity, more innocence than they.

Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale;
No briny tears has furrowed her smooth cheek;
And I was pleas'd: I pray what should he ail,
That had her love; for what else could he seek?
We shorten'd days to moments by love's art,
Whilst our two souls in amorous ecstasy
Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part
Our love had been of still eternity.

Much less could'st have it from the purer fire;
Our heat exhales no vapour from coarse sense,
Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond desire:
Our mutual love itself did recompense.

Thou hast no correspondence had in heaven,

And th' elemental world, thou see'st is free.

Whence hadst thou, then, this talking monster? even
From hell, a harbour fit for it and thee.

Curst be th' officious tongue that did address
Thee to her ears, to ruin my content:
May it one minute taste such happiness,
Deserving lost, unpitied it lament!

I must forbear her sight, and so repay

In grief, those hours' joy short'ned to a dream;
Each minute I will lengthen to a day,

And in one year outlive Methusalem.

Cartwright, Cleveland, Lovelace and Crashaw close the long list of English miscellaneous poets who have occupied our attention during the last four lectures.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT, one of Ben Jonson's sons of the muses, was born at Cirencester, Gloucestershire, in 1611. He received his early education at the free school of his native place, whence he removed to Westminster school, and in 1628 entered Christ College, Oxford. Having remained at Oxford until he had taken his master's degree, he entered into orders, and soon became a very popular preacher in the university. In 1643 he was chosen junior proctor of the university and reader in metaphysics; and was at that time in the habit of studying sixteen hours a day. Toward the close of the same year he unfortunately caught a malignant fever then prevalent at Oxford, and died on the twenty-third of December, 1643, in his thirty-third year. The king, who was at that time at Oxford, went into mourning for Cartwright's death; and when his works were published in 1651, no less than fifty copies of encomiastic verses were prefixed to them by the wits and scholars of that period.

It is difficult to conceive, from the perusal of Cartwright's poems, why he should have obtained such extensive applause and reputation. His pieces are generally short, occasional productions, addressed to ladies and noblemen, or to his brother poets, Fletcher and Jonson; or slight amatory effusions, not distinguished either for elegance or fancy. Admiration of his genius, his youthful virtues, his learning, and his devoted loyalty to the king, seemed to have mainly contributed to his popularity; and his premature death doubtless renewed and deepened the impression of his worth and talents. Cartwright must have cultivated poetry in his youth; for he was only twentysix years old when Ben Jonson died, and previous to that period the veteran poet paid him the compliment to remark, 'My son Cartwright writes all like a man.' The following effusions are both witty and pretty, but possess no higher merit :

THE DREAM.

I dream'd I saw myself lie dead,
And that my bed my coffin grew,

Silence and sleep this strange sight bred,

But, wak'd, I found I liv'd anew. Looking next morn on your bright face,

Mine eyes bequeath'd mine heart fresh pain; A dart rush'd in with every grace,

And so I kill'd myself again :

O eyes, what shall distressed lovers do,
If open you can kill, if shut you view!

TO CUPID.

Thou, who didst never see the light,
Nor know'st the pleasure of the sight,
But always blinded, canst not say,
Now it is night, or now 'tis day;

So captivate her sense, so blind her eye,
That still she love me, yet she ne'er know why.

Thou who dost wound us with such art,

We see no blood drop from the heart,

And, subt'ly cruel, leav'st no sign

To tell the blow or hand was thine;

O gently, gently wound my fair, that she

May thence believe the wound did come from thee!

TO A LADY VAILED.

So love appear'd, when, breaking out his way
From the dark chaos, he first shed the day;
Newly awak'd out of the bud, so shows

The half seen, half hid glory of the rose,

As you do through your vails; and I may swear,
Viewing you so, that beauty doth bide there.
So Truth lay under fables, that the eye
Might reverence the mystery, not descry;
Light being so proportion'd, that no more

Was seen, but what might cause men to adore:
Thus is your dress so order'd, so contrived,

As 'tis but only poetry revived.

Such doubtful light had sacred groves, where rods

And twigs at last did shoot up into gods;

Where, then, a shade darkeneth the beauteous face,

May I not pay a reverence to the place?

So, under water, glimmering stars appear,

As those (but nearer stars) your eyes do here;
So deities darkened sit, that we may find

A better way to see them in our mind.
No bold Ixion, then, be here allow'd,
Where Juno dares herself be in the cloud.
Methinks the first age comes again, and we
See a retrieval of simplicity.

Thus looks the country virgin, whose brown hue
Hoods her, and makes her show even veil'd as you.
Blest mean, that checks our hope, and spurs our fear
Whiles all doth not lie hid, nor all appear:

O fear ye no assaults from bolder men;

When they assail, be this your armour then.
A silken helmet may defend those parts,
Where softer kisses are the only darts!

JOHN CLEVELAND was born at Henkley, Leicestershire, in 1613. His father being rector of the parish, and also a man of sound learning, the future poet's early studies were carefully attended to at home, supervised by an able teacher connected with the grammar-school of the place. When well prepared, he was sent to Christ's College, Cambridge, where he soon became distinguished for both talents and learning. As an orator especially, he was unrivalled; and such was his general popularity, that as soon as he had taken his degrees he was elected to a fellowship in St. John's College. Cleveland continued at the university about nine years, the delight and ornament of the college to which he belonged, and during that time he became as eminent as a poet as he was as an orator. Upon the breaking out of the civil war, he espoused the royal cause with all the ardor of his nature, in consequence of which, as soon as the reins of power passed into the hands of the parliamentary party, he was ejected from his fellowship, and turned upon the world. He now repaired to Oxford, the head-quarters of the king, and there employed his talents in the composition of those severe and biting satires which rendered him, at the time, the delight of his party, and the terror of their foes.

From Oxford, Cleveland, on invitation of Sir Richard Willis, governor of Newark, removed to that city, and there was immediately elevated to the office of Judge-advocate-a situation which he continued to fill till Newark was, by the king's order, surrendered to the parliament. In 1655, he was seized at Norwich and cast into prison, being a person of great ability, and so able to do the greater disservice.' He remained in prison for some time, enduring all the wretchedness that poverty and destitution could inflict ; but at length becoming exhausted from his sufferings, he petitioned Cromwell for his release in terms so pathetic and moving, that the heart of the Protector was melted, and he set him at liberty. Cleveland now repaired to London to resume his literary pursuits, but he died soon after, on the fourteenth of April, 1658, and was buried in the church of St. Michael in that city.

Besides his strong and caustic satires, which were the chief source of his popularity while living, and which Butler afterward partially imitated in his 'Hudibras,' Cleveland wrote some love verses containing morsels of genuine poetry, amid a mass of affected metaphors and fancies. He carried gallantry to an extent bordering on the ridiculous, making all nature-sun and shade-do homage to his mistress. To illustrate this remark we need only present the following lines:

ON PHILLIS, WALKING BEFORE SUNRISE.

The sluggish morn as yet undress'd,
My Phillis brake from out her rest,
As if she'd made a match to run
With Venus, usher to the sun.
The trees, (like yeomen of her guard
Serving more for pomp than ward,
Rank'd on each side with loyal duty,)
Wave branches to inclose her beauty.
The plants, whose luxury was lopp'd,
Or age with crutches underpropp'd,
Whose wooden carcasses are grown
To be but coffins of their own,
Revive, and at her general dole,
Each receives his ancient soul.
The winged choiristers began

To chirp their matins; and the fan

Of whistling winds, like organs play'd

Unto their voluntaries, made

The waken'd earth in odours rise

To be her morning sacrifice;

The flowers, call'd out of their beds,
Start and raise up their drowsy heads;
And he that for their colour seeks,
May find it vaulting in her cheeks,
Where roses mix; no civil war
Between her York and Lancaster.
The marigold, whose courtier's face
Echoes the sun, and doth unlace
Her at his rise, at his full stop,
Packs and shuts up his gaudy shop,
Mistakes her cue, and doth display;
Thus Phillis antedates the day.

These miracles had cramp'd the sun,
Who, thinking that his kingdom's won,
Powders with light his frizzled locks,
To see what saint his lustre mocks.
The trembling leaves through which he play'd,
Dappling the walk with light and shade,

(Like lattice windows) give the spy
Room but to peep with half an eye,
Lest her full orb his sight should dim,
And bid us all good night in him:
Till she would spend a gentle ray,
To force us a new-fashion'd day.

But what new-fashion'd palsy 's this,
Which makes the boughs divest their bliss ?

And that they might her footsteps straw,
Drop their leaves with shivering awe;
Phillis perceives, and (lest her stay

Should wed October into May,
And as her beauty caus'd a spring,
Devotion might an autumn bring)

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