The grafted stock doth bear best fruit!
There's music in the fingered lute!

The weight doth make the jack go ready!
The freight doth make the bark go steady!
The key, the lock doth open right!
The candle 's useful in the night!

Such is the Virgin, in my eyes,

That lives, loves, marries, ere She dies.

Like a call, without 'Anon, Sir!'
Or a question, and no answer;
Like a ship was never rigged,
Or a mine was never digged;
Like a wound, without a tent,
Or civet-box, without a scent:

Just such as these, may She be said,
That lives, ne'er loves; but dies a Maid!

Th' 'Anon, Sir!' doth obey the call!
The question answered, pleaseth all!
Who rigs a ship, sails with the wind!
Who digs a mine, doth treasure find!
The wound, by wholesome tent, hath ease!
The box perfumed, the senses please!

Such is the Virgin, in my eyes,

That lives, loves, marries, ere She dies.

Like marrow-bone was never broken,
Or commendations, and no token;
Like a fort, and none to win it;
Or like the Moon, and no Man in it;
Like a school, without a Teacher;
Or like a pulpit, and no Preacher :

Just such as these, may She be said,
That lives, ne'er loves; but dies a Maid!

The broken marrow-bone is sweet!
The token doth adorn the greet!
There's triumph in the fort being won!
The Man rides glorious in the Moon!
The school is, by the Teacher stilled!
The pulpit, by the Preacher filled!

Such is the Virgin, in my eyes,
That lives, loves, marries, ere She dies.

Like a cage, without a bird,
Or a thing too long deferred;
Like the gold was never tried,
Or the ground unoccupied;
Like a house, that 's not possessed,
Or the book was never pressed:

Just such as these, may She be said,
That lives, ne'er loves; but dies a Maid!

The bird in cage doth sweetly sing!
Due season prefers every thing!

The gold that 's tried, from dross is pured!
There's profit in the ground manured!
The house is by possession graced!

The book, when pressed, is then embraced!
Such is the Virgin, in my eyes,

That lives, loves, marries, ere She dies.

ON THE TOMBS IN

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

MORTALITY, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think, how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones!

Here they lie, had realms and lands;
Who now want strength to stir their hands:
Where, from their pulpits, sealed with dust,
They preach, 'In greatness is no trust!'
Here's an acre sown indeed

With the richest, royall'st, seed,
That the earth did e'er suck in;
Since the First Man died for sin.

Here the bones of birth have cried, 'Though Gods they were; as Men they died!' Here are sands, ignoble things,

Dropped from the ruined sides of Kings!

Here's a World of pomp and State

Buried in dust; once dead by Fate.

MASTER FRANCIS BEAUMONT'S

LETTER TO BEN JONSON,

Written before he and Master FLETCHER came to London, with two of the precedent Comedies, then not finished; which deferred their merry meetings at the Mermaid.

THE Sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring To absent friends; because the selfsame thing They know they see, however absent) is Here our best haymaker! Forgive me this! It is our country's style. In this warm shine, I lie; and dream of your full Mermaid Wine! O, we have Water mixed with Claret Lees! Drink apt to bring in drier heresies Than Beer! good only for the Sonnet's strain, With fustian metaphors to stuff the brain! So mixed, that, given to the thirstiest one, 'Twill not prove alms, unless he have the stone! I think, with one draught, man's invention fades! Two cups had quite spoiled HOMER'S Iliads! 'Tis liquor that will find out SUTCLIFF's wit, Lie where he will; and make him write worse yet! Filled with such moisture, in most grievous qualms, Did ROBERT WISDOM write his singing Psalms! And so must I do this! and yet I think

It is a potion sent us down to drink,

By special Providence. Keeps us from fights Makes us not laugh, when we make legs to Knights!

'Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our states; A medicine to obey our Magistrates!

For we do live more free than you! No hate, No envy at one another's happy state, Moves us! We are all equal every whit!

Of land that GOD gives men, here is their wit! If we consider fully, for our best,

And gravest man will, with his main house-jest
Scarce please you! We want subtlety to do
The City tricks; lie! hate! and flatter too!
Here, are none that can bear a painted show!
Strike, when you wince; and then lament the blow!
Who (like mills set the right way for to grind)
Can make their gains alike, with every wind!
Only some fellow, with the subtlest pate
Amongst us, may perchance equivocate
At selling of a horse; and that 's the most!

Methinks, the little wit I had, is lost Since I saw you! For wit is like a rest Held up at tennis! which men do the best

With the best gamesters. What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid1! heard words that have been

1 1. THOMAS FULLER, in his Worthies of England (p. 126, Warwickshire), London, 1662, fol., thus refers generally to the two great Dramatists:

6 Many were the Wit Combats betwixt SHAKESPEARE and BEN JONSON! which two I behold like

a Spanish great Galleon, and an English Man of War. Master JONSON, like the former, was built far higher in Learning; solid, but slow in his performances. SHAKESPEARE, with the English Man of War, lesser in bulk but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides,