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No intercourse, or trade of sense or soul,

But what is Love! I was the laziest creature,
The most unprofitable sign of nothing,
The veriest drone, and slept away my life
Beyond the dormouse, till I was in love;
And now, I can out-wake the nightingale,
Out-watch an usurer, and out-work him too;
Stalk like a ghost that haunted 'bout a treasure;
And all that fancied treasure, it is Love!

Host. But is your name Love-ill, sir, or Love-well?
I would know that.

Lov. I do not know 't myself,

Whether it is. But it is love hath been
The hereditary passion of our house,
My gentle host, and, as I guess, my friend.
The truth is, I have loved this lady long,
And impotently, with desire enough,
But no success; for I have still forborne
To express it, in
my person, to her.

Host. How, then?

Lov. I have sent her toys, verses, and anagrams,
Trials of wit, mere trifles, she has commended,

But knew not whence they came, nor could she guess.
Host. This was a pretty riddling way of wooing!
Lov. I oft have been, too, in her company,

And looked upon her a whole day; admired her,

Loved her, and did not tell her so; loved still,

Looked still, and loved; and loved, and looked, and sighed;

But, as a man neglected, I came off,

And unregarded.

Host. Could you blame her, sir,

When you were silent, and not said a word?

Lov. O, but I loved her the more; and she might read it Best in my silence, had she been

Host. As melancholic

As you are. Pray you, why would you stand mute, sir? Lov. O thereon hangs a history, mine host.

Did you e'er know or hear of the Lord Beaufort,

Who served so bravely in France? I was his page,
And, ere he died, his friend. I followed him
First in the wars, and, in the times of peace,
I waited on his studies; which were right.
He had no Arthurs, nor no Rosicleers,

No knights of the Sun, nor Amadis de Gauls,
Primolions, and Pantagruels, public nothings,-
Abortives of the fabulous dark cloister,

Lent out to poison courts, and infest manners;
But great Achilles', Agamemnon's acts,
Sage Nestor's counsels, and Ulysses' sleights,
Tydides' fortitude, as Homer wrought them
In his immortal fancy, for examples

Of the heroic virtue. Or as Virgil


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That master of the epic poem — limned

Pious Æneas, his religious prince,

Bearing his aged parent on his shoulders,

Wrapt from the flames of Troy, with his young son.
And these he brought to practice and to use.
He gave me first my breeding, I acknowledge,
Then showered his bounties on me, like the hours,
That, open-handed, sit upon the clouds,

And press the liberality of heaven

Down to the lips of thankful men! But then,
The trust committed to me at his death

Was above all, and left so strong a tie

On all my powers, as time shall not dissolve,
Till it dissolve itself, and bury all;


The care of his brave heir and only son!

Who, being a virtuous, sweet, young, hopeful lord,
Hath cast his first affections on this lady.
And though I know, and may presume her such
As, out of humor, will return no love,
And therefore might indifferently be made,
The courting-stock for all to practise on,
As she doth practise on us all to scorn;
Yet, out of a religion to my charge,

And debt professed, I have made a self-decree,
Ne'er to express my person, though my passion
Burn me to cinders.

[From "Every Man in his Humor."]


Knowell. What would I have you do? I'll tell you, kinsman: Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive That would I have you do; and not to spend Your coin on every bauble that you fancy, Or every foolish brain that humors you. I would not have you to invade each place, Nor thrust yourself on all societies, Till men's affections, or your own desert, Should worthily invite you to your rank. He that is so respectless in his courses, Oft sells his reputation at cheap market; Nor would I you should melt away yourself In flashing bravery, lest, while you affect To make a blaze of gentry to the world, A little puff of scorn extinguish it, And you be left, like an unsavory snuff, Whose property is only to offend. I'd ha' you sober, and contain yourself; Not that your sail be bigger than your boat; But moderate in your expenses now, at first, As you may keep the same proportion still. Nor stand so much on your gentility, Which is an airy and mere borrowed thing, From dead men's dust and bones; and none of yours, Except you make, or hold it.

JOSEPH HALL. 1574-1656.

Joseph Hall, Bishop of Norwich, was the author of many controversial tracts, and published a variety of sermons, meditations, &c. "From the pithy and sententious quality of his style, he has been called the English Seneca; many parts of his prose writings have the

thought, feeling, and melody, of the finest poetry." He was also somewhat distinguished as a poet, and was "the first who wrote satirical verse with any degree of elegance.' The most popular of his works is that entitled Occasional Meditations.

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[From "Occasional Meditations."]


PRETTY bird, how cheerfully dost thou sit and sing; and yet knowest not where thou art, nor where thou shalt make thy next meal, and at night must shroud thyself in a bush for lodging! What a shame is it for me, that see before me so liberal provisions of my God, and find myself sit warm under my own roof, yet am ready to droop under a distrustful and unthankful dulness! Had I so little certainty of my harbor and purveyance, how heartless should I be, how careful—how little list should I have to make music to thee or myself! Surely, thou comest not hither without a providence. God sent thee, not so much to delight, as to shame me, but all in a conviction of my sullen unbelief, who, under more apparent means, am less cheerful and confident; reason and faith have not done so much in me, as in thee mere instinct of nature; want of foresight makes thee more merry, if not more happy, here, than the foresight of better things maketh me.

O God, thy providence is not impaired by those powers thou hast given me above these brute things; let not my greater helps hinder me from a holy security, and comfortable reliance on thee.

[From "Occasional Meditations."]


How sweetly doth this music sound, in this dead season! In the day-time, it would not, it could not, so much affect the ear. All harmonious sounds are advanced by a silent darkness. Thus it is with the glad tidings of salvation; the Gospel never sounds so sweet as in the night of preservation, or of our own private affliction;—it is ever the same- the difference is in our own disposition to receive it. O God, whose praise it is to give songs in the night, make my prosperity conscionable, and my crosses cheerful.

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Author of several poetical volumes, published between 1594 and 1598.


As it fell upon a day,

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made;
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan,

Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was a pity.

Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry

Teru, teru, by and by –

That, to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown,
Made me think upon my own.
Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain.

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee;
King Pondion, he is dead,

All thy friends are lapped in lead;
All thy fellow-birds do sing,

Careless of thy sorrowing!

Whilst, as fickle fortune smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled,

Every one that flatters thee
'Is no friend in misery.

Words are easy, like the wind;

Faithful friends are hard to find.

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