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books, but they accumulated vast storehouses, whence thousands of volumes might be, and have been compiled. There is nothing in Burton so low as in many of the Essays' of Montaigne, but there is nothing so lofty as in passages of Browne's

Religio Medici' and · Urn-Burial.' Burton has been a favourite quarry to literary thieves, among whom Sterne, in his “Tristram Shandy,' stands pre-eminent. To his · Anatomy' he prefixes a poem, a few stanzas of which we extract.

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ON MELANCHOLY.

1 When I go musing all alone,

Thinking of divers things foreknown,
When I build castles in the air,
Void of sorrow, void of fear,
Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet
Methinks the time runs very fleet.

All my joys to this are folly;

Nought so sweet as melancholy.
2 When I go walking all alone,

Recounting what I have ill-done,
My thoughts on me then tyrannise,
Fear and sorrow me surprise ;
Whether I tarry still, or go,
Methinks the time moves very slow.

All my griefs to this are jolly ;

Nought so sad as melancholy.
3 When to myself I act and smile,

With pleasing thoughts the time beguile,
By a brook-side or wood so green,
Unheard, unsought for, or unseen,
A thousand pleasures do me bless,
And crown my soul with happiness.

All my joys besides are folly;

None so sweet as melancholy.

4 When I lie, sit, or walk alone,

I sigh, I grieve, making great moan;
In a dark grove or irksome den,
With discontents and furies then,
A thousand miseries at once
Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce.

All my griefs to this are jolly;
None so sour as melancholy.

5 Methinks I hear, methinks I see

Sweet music, wondrous melody,
Towns, palaces, and cities, fine;
Here now, then there, the world is mine,
Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine,
Whate'er is lovely is divine.

All other joys to this are folly;
None so sweet as melancholy,

6 Methinks I hear, methinks I see

Ghosts, goblins, fiends : my fantasy
Presents a thousand ugly shapes ;
Headless bears, black men, and apes;
Doleful outcries and fearful sights
My sad and dismal soul affrights.

All my griefs to this are jolly ;
None so damn'd as melancholy.

THOMAS CAREW.

This delectable versifier was born in 1589, in Gloucestershire, from an old family in which he sprung. He was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, but neither matriculated nor took a degree. After finishing his travels, he returned to England, and became soon highly distinguished, in the Court of Charles I., for his manners, accomplishments, and wit. He was appointed Gentleman of the Privy Chamber and Sewer in Ordinary to the King. He spent the rest of his life as a gay and gallant courtier ; and in the intervals of pleasure produced some light but exquisite poetry. He is said, ere his death, which took place in 1639, to have become very devout, and bitterly to have deplored the licentiousness of some of his verses.

Indelicate choice of subject is often, in Carew, combined with great delicacy of execution. No one touches dangerous themes with so light and glove-guarded a hand. His pieces are all fugitive, but they suggest great possibilities, which his mode of life and his premature removal did not permit to be realised. Had he, at an earlier period, renounced, like George Herbert,

the painted pleasures of a court,' and, like Prospero, dedicated himself to closeness,' with his marvellous facility of verse, his laboured levity of style, and his nice exuberance of fancy, he might have produced some work of Horatian merit and classic permanence.

PERSUASIONS TO LOVE.

Think not, 'cause men flattering say,
Y' are fresh as April, sweet as May,
Bright as is the morning-star,
That you are so ;-or though you are,
Be not therefore proud, and deem
All men unworthy your esteem:

Starve not yourself, because you may
Thereby make me pine away;
Nor let brittle beauty make
You your wiser thoughts forsake:
For that lovely face will fail;
Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail;
'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done,
Than summer's rain, or winter's sun:

Most fleeting, when it is most dear; "Tis

gone, while we but say 'tis here. These curious locks so aptly twined, Whose every hair a soul doth bind, Will change their auburn hue, and grow White and cold as winter's snow. That eye which now is Cupid's nest

his

grave, and all the rest Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose, Nor lily shall be found, nor rose; And what will then become of all Those, whom now you servants call? Like swallows, when your summer 's done They'll fly, and seek some warmer sun.

Will prove

The snake each year fresh skin resumes,
And eagles change their aged plumes;
The faded rose each spring receives
A fresh red tincture on her leaves:
But if your beauties once decay,
You never know a second May.
Oh, then be wise, and whilst your season
Affords you days for sport, do reason;
Spend not in vain your life's short hour,
But

crop in time your beauty's flower: Which will away, and doth together Both bud and fade, both blow and wither.

SONG.

Give me more love, or more disdain,

The torrid, or the frozen zone
Bring equal ease unto my pain;

The temperate affords me none;

Either extreme, of love or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love,

Like Danaë in a golden shower,
I swim in pleasure; if it prove

Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture-hopes; and he's possess'd
Of heaven that's but from hell released:
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain;
Give me more love, or more disdain.

TO MY MISTRESS SITTING BY A RIVER'S SIDE.

Mark how yon eddy steals away
From the rude stream into the bay;
There lock'd up safe, she doth divorce
Her waters from the channel's course,
And scorns the torrent that did bring
Her headlong from her native spring.
Now doth she with her new love play,
Whilst he runs murmuring away.
Mark how she courts the banks, whilst they
As amorously their arms display,
To embrace and clip her silver waves:
See how she strokes their sides, and craves
An entrance there, which they deny;
Whereat she frowns, threatening to fly
Home to her stream, and 'gins to swim
Backward, but from the channel's brim
Smiling returns into the creek,
With thousand dimples on her cheek.

Be thou this eddy, and I'll make

My breast thy shore, where thou shalt take

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