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forth;

Therefore I'll give rio inore, but I'll undoe

Love's Deitie. The world by dying; because Love dies too.

I long to talke with some old lover's ghost, Then all your beauties will bee no moore worth

Who dyed before the god of love was borne: Then gold in mines, where none doth draw it

I cannot thinke that hee, who then lov'd most,

Sunke so low, as to love one which did scorne: And all your graces no more use shall have

But since this god produc'd a destinie,
Then a sun dyal in a grave.
Thou, Love, taught'st mee, by making mee

And that vice-nature, custome, lets it be,

I must love her, that loves not mee:
Love her, who doth neglect both mee and thee,
To invent, and practise this one way, to annihi-

late all three.
Sure, they which made him god, meant not so

much,
Nor he, in his young godhead practis'd it,
But when an even flame two heart's did touch,
His office was indulgently to fit
Actives to passives; correspondencie

Only his subject was; it cannot bee
The Bait.

Love, till I love her that lovės mee.
Come, live with mee and bee my love,
And wee will some new pleasures prove

But every moderne god will now extend
Of golden sands and christall brookes,

His vast prerogative as far as Jove,
With silken lines and silver hookes.

To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,
All is the purlewe of the god of love.

Oh! were wee wakned by this tyrannie
There will the river whispering runne,

To ungod this child againe, it could not bee. Warm'd by thy eyes more than the sunne;

I should love her, who loves not mee.
And there the inamor'd fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.

Rebell and Atheist too, why murmure I,

As though I felt the worst that love could doe? When thou wilt swimme in that livé bath,

Love may make me leave loving, or might trie Each fish, which every channell hath,

A deeper plague, to make her love mee too, Will amorously to theë swimme,

Which, since she loves before, I am loth to see Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must bee,

If shee whom I love, should love mee.
If thou, to be so seene, art loath
By sunne or moone, thou dark'nest both;
And if myselfe have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.

Breake of Day.
Let others freeze with angling reeds,

'Tis true, 't is day, what though it be? And cut their legges, with shells and weeds, O! wilt thou therefore rise from me ? Or treacherously poore fish beset

Why should we rise, because 't is light? With strangling snare or windowie net. Did we lie down, because 't was night?

Love which, in spight of darkness, brought us Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest

hither, The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,

Should, in despight of light keepe us together.
Or curious traitors, sleave-silke flies,
Bewitch poore fishes' wand'ring eyes : Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;

If it could speake as well as spie,
For thee, thou need'st no such deceit, This were the worst, that it could say,
For thou thyselfe art thine owne Bait; That being well, I faine would stay,
That fish that is not catch'd thereby,

And that I lov'd my heart and honor so,
Alas, is wiser farre then I.

That I would not from him, that had them, go.

Must businesse thee from hence remove?
Oh that 's the worst disease of love,
The poore, the foule, the false, love can

Admit, but not the busied man.

| It kill'd mee again, that I who still was true He which hath businesse, and makes love, doth In life, in my last will should cozen you.

doe
Such wrong, as when a maryed man doth wooe. Yet I found something like a heart,

But colours it and corners had,
It was not good, it was not bad,
It was intire to none, and few had part.

As good as could be made by art
The Message.

It seem'd, and therefore for our losses sad,

I meant to send this heart in stead of mine; Send home my long strayd eyes to mee Which, (oh) too long have dwelt on thee,

But oh, no man could hold it, for't was thine. Yet since there they have learn'd such ill, Such forc'd fashions And false passions, That they be Made by thee

Song Fit for nd good sight, keep them still.

Sweetest Love, I do not goe

For wearinesse of thee
Send home my harmlesse heart againe,

Nor in hope the world can show
Which no unworthy thought could staine, A fitter love for mee;
Which if it be taught by thine

But since that I
To make jestings

Must dye at last, 't is best,
Of protestings

To use myselfe in jest
And breake both

Thus by fain'd death to dye.
Word and oath
Keepe it, for then 't is none of mine.

Yesternight the sunne went hence,

And yet is here to-day,
Yet send me back my heart and eyes,

He hath no desire nor sense,
That I may know, and see thy lyes,

Nor halfe so short a way:
And may laugh and joy, when thou

Then feare not mee, Art in anguish

But beleeve that I shall make And dost languish

Speedier journeyes, since I take
For some one

More wings and spurres then hee.
That will none,
@r prove as false as thou art now.

how feeble is man's power,
That if good fortune fall,
Cannot adde another houre,
Nor a lost houre recall?

But come bad chance,
The Legacy.

And wee joine to it our strength,
When I dyed last, and, Deare, I dye

And wee teach it art and length,
As often as from thee I goe,

Itselfe or us t' advance.
Though it be but an houre agoe,
And lovers houres be full eternity,

When thou "sigh'st, thou sigh'st not winde, I can remember yet, that I,

But sigh'st my soule away,
Something did say, and something did bestow; When thou weep'st, unkindly kinde,
Though I be dead, which sent mee, I might be My life's blood doth decay.
Mine owne executor and legacie.

It cannot bee

That thou lov'st mee, as thou say'st : I heard mee say, Tell her anon

If in thine my life thou waste,
That my selfe, that's you, not I,

That art the best of mee.
Did kill me, and when I felt mee dye,
I bid mee send my heart, when I was gone,

Let not thy divining heart
But I alas could there finde none.

Forethinke me any ill, When I had ripp'd me and search'd where hearts Destiny may take thy part,

should lye,

And may thy feares fulfill;

But thinke that wee
Are but turn'd aside to sleepe;
They who one another keepe
Alive, ne'er parted bee.

If thou beest borne to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Rede ten thousand daies and nights,
Till age snow white haires on thee,
Thou, when thou retorn'st, wilt tell mee
All strange wonders that befell thee,

And sweare no where
Lives a woman true, and faire.

Song.
Goe, and catche a falling starre,
Get with child a mandrake roote,
Tell mee, where all past yeares are,
Or who cleft the divels foot,
Teach me to heare mermaides singing,
Or to keep off envies stinging,

And finde wbat winde
Serves to advance an honest minde.

If thou Andst one, let mee know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet,
Yet doe not, I would not goe,
Though at next doore wee might meet,
Though shee were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,

Yet shee will bee
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

Jonson.

Benjamin Jonson, gewöhnlicher Ben Jonson genannt, ein Zeitgenosse und nicht unwürdiger Nebenbuhler Shakspeare's, ward nach dem Tode seines Vaters, eines Predigers, 1574 in Westminster geboren. Ein Freund machte es ihm möglich die Schule zu besuchen, aber sein Stiefvater, ein Maurer, zwang ihn, sein Handwerk zu ergreifen. Höchst wahrscheinlich entlief er aus der Lehre und diente als gemeiner Soldat in den Niederlanden, wenigstens deutet eins seiner Epigramme entschieden auf das Letztere hin. In das Vaterland zurückgekehrt, gelang es ihm nun doch in Cambridge zu studiren; da aber seine Mittel nicht ausreichten ward er Schauspieler, hatte jedoch das Unglück, einen Gegner im Duell zu tödten und musste in Folge dessen in das Gefängniss, worauf er sich überreden liess zum Katholicismus überzutreten und endlich seine Freiheit wieder erhielt. Dies Alles erlebte er vor seinem fünf und zwanzigsten Lebensjahre. Von nun an widmete er sich der dramatischen Poesie und erwarb sich durch seine Leistungen grosses Ansehen, doch auch durch seine kühnen Angriffe viele Feinde, so dass er nochmals in den Kerker geworfen wurde. Im Jahre 1616 gab er selbst seine gesammelten Werke in einem Bande in Folio heraus. Die Universität Oxford ertheilte ihm darauf 1619 das Magisterdiplom und er ward fast gleichzeitig Hofdichter mit Besoldung. Er starb am 6. August 1637 und ward in der Westminsterabtei begraben. Drei Tage später kam einer seiner Freunde gelegentlich dazu als ein Steinhauer das Pflaster über seiner Gruft wieder festlegte. Dieser gab dem Manne achtzehn Pence dafür die Worte einzuhauen "O rare Ben Jonson!" und diese eigenthümliche naive Grabschrift bezeichnet noch jetzt die Stätte, wo seine Gebeine ruhen.

Ausser seinen zahlreichen Tragödien, Komödien und Maskenspielen schrieb er noch Episteln, Epigramme, Elegien und Oden, bearbeitete Horaz Poetik und verfasste eine englische Grammatik. Seine dramatischen Werke sind wiederholt aufgelegt worden. Die vollständigste Ausgabe derselben ist die von P. Whalley, London 1756, 7 Bde in 8. Er ist am glücklichsten als Lustspieldichter durch Charakterzeichnung und Streben nach Regelmässigkeit, aber zu gesucht und ermüdend, selbst da wo er natürlich sein will, und sehr oft hart, trocken und eintönig; auch seinen übrigen Gedichten kleben diese Fehler an; er schätzte gelehrtes Wissen höher als natürliche Wahrheit, und ange

borene Fähigkeit und seine Leistungen bieten daher mehr Interesse als Hilfsmittel zum Verständniss der bedeutenden Zeit, in der er lebte, denn wirklichen und tieferen poetischen Genuss dar, obwohl sich auch manches Ausgezeichnete in ihnen findet.

To Penshurst.

They're rear'd with no mans ruine, no mans

grone, Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show, There's none that dwell about them, wish them Of touch, or marble; nor canst boast a row

downe; Of polish'd pillars or a roofe of gold:

But all come in, the farmer and the clowne, Thou hast no lantherne, whereof tales are told; And no one empty-handed, to salute Or stayre, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile, Thy lord and lady, though they have no sute.

And these grudg'd at, are reverenc'd the while. Some bring a capon, some a rurall cake Thou joy'st in better markes, of soyle, of ayre, Some nuts, some apples; some that thinke Of wood, of water: therein thou art faire.

they make Thou hast thy walkes for health, as well as sport: The better cheeses, bring 'hem; or else send

Thy Mount, to which the Dryads doe resort, By their ripe daughters, whom they would Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have

commend made,

This way to husbands; and whose baskets beare Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade; An embleme of themselves, in plum or peare. That taller tree, which of a nut was set, But what can this (more then expresse their love)

At his great birth, where all the Muses met. Adde to thy free provisions, farre abore There, in the writhed barke, are cut the names The neede of such? whose liberall boord doth flow,

Of many a Sylvane, taken with his flames. With all that hospitalitie doth know! And thence, the ruddy Satyres oft provoke Where comes no guest, but is allow'd to eate,

The lighter Faunes, to reach thy Ladies oke. Without his feare, and of thy lords owne meate: Thy copps, too, nam'd of Gamage, thou hast there, Where the same beere, and bread, and selfe-same That never failes to serve thee season'd deere,

wine, When thou would'st feast or exercise thy friends. That is his Lordships, shall be also mine.

The lower land, that to the river bends, And I not faine to sit (as some, this day, Thy sheepe, thy bullocks, kine, and calves doe At great mens tables) and yet dine away.

feed :

Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by, The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed. A waiter doth my gluttony envy: Each banke doth yeeld thee coneyes; and the topps But gives me what I call, and lets me eate,

Fertile of wood , Ashore, and Sydney's copps, He knowes, below he shall finde plentie of To crowne thy open table, doth provide

meate, The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side: Thy tables hoord not åp for the next day, The painted partrich lyes in every field,

Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray And, for thy messe, is willing to be kill'd. For fire, or lights, or livorie: all is there; And if the high swolne Medway faile thy dish, As if thou, then, wert mine, or I raign'd here:

Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish, There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay. Fat, aged carps, that runne into thy net,

That found King James, when, 'hunting late And pikes, now weary their owne kinde to eat, As loth, the second draught, or cast to stay, With his brave sonne, the prince, they saw thy Officiously, at first, themselves betray.

fires Bright eeles, that emulate them, and leape on Shine bright on every harth as the desires

land,

Of thy Penates had beene set on flame, Before the fisher, or into his hand.

To entertayne them; or_the countrey came, Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, With all their zeale, to warme their welcome here.

Fresh as the ayre, and new as are the houres. What (great, I will not say, but) soday ne cheare The carely cherry, with the later plum, Didst thou, then, make 'hem! and what praise Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth

was heap'd come:

On thy good lady, then! who, therein , reap'd The blushing apricot, and woolly peach The just reward of her high huswifery;

Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach. To have her linnen, plate, and all things nigh, And though thy walls be of the contrey stone, When shee was farre: and not a roome, but drest

this way,

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To Celia.

As if it had expected such a guest! These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all.

Thy lady's noble, fruitsull, chaste withall. His children thy great lord may call his owne:

A fortune, in this age, but rarely knowne. They are, and have been taught religion: thence

Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence. Each morne and even they are taught to pray,

With the whole household, and may, every day, Reade, in their vertuous parents noble parts,

The mysteries of manners, armes, and arts. Now Penshurst, they that will proportion thee

With other edifices, when they see Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else, May say, their lords have built, but thy lord

dwells.

Drinke to me, onely with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kisse but in the cup,

And Ile not looke for wine.
The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,

Doth aske a drinke divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late, a rosie wreath,

Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered bec.
But thou thereon did'st onely breath,

And sent'st it backe to mee:
Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,

Not of it selte, but thee.

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