Sonnet.

[By George Chapman, the Translator of Homer: 1595.] Muses, that sing Love's sensual empirie, And lovers kindling your enraged fires At Cupid's bonfires burning in the eye, Blown with the empty breath of vain desires; You, that prefer the painted cabinet Before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye, That all your joys in dying figures set, And stain the living substance of your glory; Abjure those joys, abhor their memory; And let my love the honour'd subject be Of love and honour's complete history! Your eyes were never yet let in to see The majesty and riches of the mind,

That dwell in darkness; for your god is blind.

The Woodman's Walk.

[From 'England's Helicon,' 1600, where it is signed, 'Shep. Tonie."]

Through a fair forest as I went,
Upon a summer's day,

I met a woodman, quaint and gent,
Yet in a strange array.

I marvell'd much at his disguise,
Whom I did know so well:

But thus, in terms both grave and wise,
His mind he 'gan to tell;

Friend! muse not at this fond array,

But list a while to me:
For it hath holpe me to survey
What I shall show to thee.

Long liv'd I in this forest fair,
Till, weary of my weal,
Abroad in walks I would repair,
As now I will reveal.

My first day's walk was to the court,
Where beauty fed mine eyes;
Yet found I that the courtly sport
Did mask in sly disguise:

For falsehood sat in fairest looks,

And friend to friend was coy :

Court favour fill'd but empty rooks,
And then I found no joy.

Desert went naked in the cold,

When crouching craft was fed:

Sweet words were cheaply bought and sold, But none that stood in stead.

Wit was employed for each man's own;
Plain meaning came too short;
All these devices, seen and known,
Made me forsake the court.

Unto the city next I went,

In hope of better hap;

Where liberally I launcht and spent,
As set on Fortune's lap.

The little stock I had in store,

Methought would ne'er be done; Friends flock'd about me more and more, As quickly lost as won.

For, when I spent, then they were kind;
But when my purse did fail,
The foremost man came last behind:
Thus love with wealth doth quail.

Once more for footing yet I strove,
Although the world did frown:
But they, before that held me up,
Together trod me down.

And, lest once more I should arise,
They sought my quite decay:
Then got I into this disguise,
And thence I stole away.

And in my mind (methought), I said,
Lord bless me from the city:
Where simpleness is thus betray'd
Without remorse or pity.

Yet would I not give over so,
But once more try my fate;
And to the country then I go,
To live in quiet state.

There did appear no subtle shows,

But yea and nay went smoothly ;
But, lord! how country folks can gloze,
When they speak most untruly!

More craft was in a buttoned cap,
And in an old wife's rail,
Than in my life it was my hap
To see on down or dale.

There was no open forgery

But underhanded gleaning, Which they call country policy,

But hath a worser meaning.

Some good bold face bears out the wrong, Because he gains thereby;

The poor man's back is crack'd ere long, Yet there he lets him lie.

And no degree, among them all,
But had such close intending,
That I upon my knees did fall,

And pray'd for their amending.

Back to the woods I got again,
In mind perplexed sore;
Where I found ease of all my pain,
And mean to stray no more.

There city, court, nor country too,
Can any way annoy me;
But as a woodman ought to do,
I freely may employ me ;

There live I quietly alone,

And none to trip my talk: Wherefore, when I am dead and gone, Think on the woodman's walk!

There is a Garden in her Face.

[From 'An Hour's Recreation in Music,' by Rich. Alison: 1606.] There is a garden in her face,

Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do inclose
Of orient pearl a double row,

Which when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow :
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Robin Goodfellow.

[Attributed, upon supposition only, to Ben Jonson.]

From Oberon, in fairy land,

The king of ghosts and shadows there,
Mad Robin I, at his command,

Am sent to view the night-sports here.
What revel rout

Is kept about,

In every corner where I go,

I will o'ersee,

And merry be,

And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho!

More swift than lightning can I fly
About this airy welkin soon,
And, in a minute's space, descry

Each thing that's done below the moon.
There's not a hag

Or ghost shall wag,

Or cry, 'ware goblins ! where I go;
But Robin I

Their feats will spy,

And send them home with ho, ho, ho!

Whene'er such wanderers I meet,

As from their night-sports they trudge home, With counterfeiting voice I greet,

And call them on with me to roam:

Through woods, through lakes;
Through bogs, through brakes;
Or else, unseen, with them I go,
All in the nick,

To play some trick,

And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho!

Sometimes I meet them like a man,

Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound;
And to a horse I turn me can,

To trip and trot about them round.
But if to ride

My back they stride,

More swift than wind away I go,
O'er hedge and lands,
Through pools and ponds,

I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho!

When lads and lasses merry be,

With possets and with junkets fine;
Unseen of all the company,

I eat their cakes and sip their wine!
And, to make sport,

I puff and snort:

And out the candles I do blow:
The maids I kiss,

They shriek-Who's this?

I answer nought but ho, ho, ho!

Yet now and then, the maids to please,
At midnight I card up their wool;
And, while they sleep and take their ease,
With wheel to threads their flax I pull.
I grind at mill

Their malt up still;

I dress their hemp; I spin their tow; If any wake,

And would me take,

I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho!

Away we fling;

And babes new born steal as we go;
And elf in bed

We leave in stead,

And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho!

From hag-bred Merlin's time, have I
Thus nightly revelled to and fro;
And for my pranks men call me by
The name of Robin Good-fellow.
Fiends, ghosts, and sprites,
Who haunt the nights,

The hags and goblins do me know;
And beldames old

My feats have told,

So vale, vale; ho, ho, ho!

With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks;

Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows,

With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows,

And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk hose,

And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose; Like an old courtier, &c.

With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum,

With good cheer enough to furnish every old room, And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb;

Like an old courtier, &c.

With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold,

And this is the course most of our new gallants hold,
For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold;
Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so
cold

Among the young courtiers of the king,
Or the king's young courtiers.

Time's Alteration.

When this old cap was new,
"Tis since two hundred year;
No malice then we knew,

But all things plenty were:
All friendship now decays

(Believe me this is true); Which was not in those days, When this old cap was new. The nobles of our land,

Were much delighted then, To have at their command A crew of lusty men, Which by their coats were known, Of tawny, red, or blue,

With crests on their sleeves shown,
When this old cap was new.

Now pride hath banish'd all,
Unto our land's reproach,
When he whose means is small,
Maintains both horse and coach:
Instead of a hundred men,

The coach allows but two;
This was not thought on then,
When this old cap was new.
Good hospitality

Was cherish'd then of many; Now poor men starve and die, And are not help'd by any: For charity waxeth cold,

And love is found in few; This was not in time of old,

When this old cap was new. Where'er you travelled then,

You might meet on the way Brave knights and gentlemen,

Clad in their country grey; That courteous would appear, And kindly welcome you; No puritans then were,

When this old cap was new. Our ladies in those days

In civil habit went ; Broad cloth was then worth praise, And gave the best content:

French fashions then were scorn'd;
Fond fangles then none knew;
Then modesty women adorn'd,
When this old cap was new.
A man might then behold,

At Christmas, in each hall,
Good fires to curb the cold,

And meat for great and small: The neighbours were friendly bidden,

And all had welcome true;

The poor from the gates were not chidden, When this old cap was new.

Black jacks to every man

Were fill'd with wine and beer;
No pewter pot nor can

In those days did appear:
Good cheer in a nobleman's house
Was counted a seemly show;
We wanted no brawn nor souse,
When this old cap was new.
We took not such delight
In cups of silver fine;
None under the degree of a knight
In plate drank beer or wine:

Now each mechanical man

Hath a cupboard of plate for a show;

Which was a rare thing then,

When this old cap was new.

Then bribery was unborn,
No simony men did use;
Christians did usury scorn,
Devis'd among the Jews.
The lawyers to be fee'd

At that time hardly knew ;
For man with man agreed,
When this old cap was new.
No captain then caroused,

Nor spent poor soldier's pay;
They were not so abused

As they are at this day:
Of seven days they make eight,
To keep from them their due;
Poor soldiers had their right,

When this old cap was new:
Which made them forward still
To go, although not prest;
And going with good will,

Their fortunes were the best.
Our English then in fight
Did foreign foes subdue,
And forced them all to flight,
When this old cap was new.
God save our gracious king,

And send him long to live:
Lord, mischief on them bring
That will not their alms give,
But seek to rob the poor

Of that which is their due: This was not in time of yore, When this old cap was new.

Loyalty Confined.

[Supposed to have been written by Sir Roger L'Estrange, while in confinement on account of his adherence to Charles I.]

Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow;
Swell, curl'd waves, high as Jove's roof;
Your incivility doth show

That innocence is tempest-proof;

Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm ; Then strike, affliction, for thy wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a jail,
A private closet is to me :
Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty:
Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.
I, whilst I wish'd to be retired,

Into this private room was turned;
As if their wisdoms had conspir'd

The salamander should be burned;
Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish,
I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish.

The cynic loves his poverty,

The pelican her wilderness,
And 'tis the Indian's pride to be
Naked on frozen Caucasus :
Contentment cannot smart, stoics we see
Make torments easy to their apathy.
These manacles upon my arm

I, as my mistress' favours, wear;
And for to keep my ankles warm,

I have some iron shackles there:
These walls are but my garrison; this cell,
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.
I'm in the cabinet lock'd up

Like some high-prized margarite;
Or like the great Mogul or Pope,

Am cloister'd up from public sight:
Retiredness is a piece of majesty,

And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee.
Here sin for want of food must starve,

Where tempting objects are not seen;
And these strong walls do only serve
To keep vice out, and keep me in:
Malice of late's grown charitable sure;
I'm not committed, but am kept secure.
So he that struck at Jason's life,
Thinking t' have made his purpose sure,
By a malicious friendly knife

Did only wound him to a cure:
Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant
Mischief, ofttimes proves favour by th' event.
When once my prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seem;
And to make smooth so rough a path,
I can learn patience from him:

Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart-
When kings want ease, subjects must bear a par

What though I cannot see my king,
Neither in person, or in coin;
Yet contemplation is a thing

That renders what I have not, mine.
My king from me what adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart.

Have you not seen the nightingale
A prisoner like, coop'd in a cage,
How doth she chant her wonted tale,
In that her narrow hermitage!
Even then her charming melody doth prove
That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.
I am that bird whom they combine
Thus to deprive of liberty;

But though they do my corpse confine,
Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free:
And, though immur'd, yet can I chirp and sing
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king.

My soul is free as ambient air,
Although my baser part's immew'd;
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair
T'accompany my solitude;

Although rebellion do my body bind,
My king alone can captivate my mind.