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But no sound proof who did it. For my part, 'Twas interest for his lust.
I do not think she hath a soul so black

Vit. Who says so but yourself? if you be my To act a deed so bloody: if she have,

accuser, As in cold countries husband-men plant vines, Pray cease to be my judge; come from the And with warm blood manure them, even so

bench, One summer she will bear unsavory fruit, Give in your evidence against me, and let these And e'er next spring wither both branch and Be moderators. My Lord Cardinal,

root.

Were your intelligencing ears as loving, The act of blood let pass, only descend As to my thoughts, had you an honest tongue, To matter of incontinence.

I would not care though you proclaim'd them all. Vit. I discern poison

Mon. Go to, go to. Under your gilded pills.

After your goodly and vain-glorious banquet Mon. Now the Duke's gone I will produce I'll give you a choak-pear. a letter,

Vit. Of your own grafting? Wherein 'twas plotted, he and you shall meet, Mon. You were born in Venice, honorably At an apothecary's summer-house,

descended Down by the river Tiber. View't, my Lords : From the Vittelli; 'twas my cousin's fate, Where after wanton bathing and the heat Ill may I name the hour, to marry you; Of a lascivious banquet

I pray read it.

He bought you of your father. I shame to speak the rest.

Vit. Ha! Vit. Grant I was tempted;

Mon. He spent there in six months Temptation proves not the act:

Twelve thousand ducats, and (to my knewledge) Casta est quam nemo rogavit.

Receiv'd in dowry with you not one julio. You read his hot love to me, but you want 'Twas a hard penny-worth, the ware being so My frosty answer.

light. Mon. Frost i’ th’ dog-days! strange. I yet but draw the curtain, now to your picture: Vit. Condemn you me for that the Duke You came from thence a most notorious strumpet,

did love me? And so you have continued. So may you blame some fair and chrystal river Vit. My Lord ! For that some melancholic distracted man

Mon. Nay hear me Hath drown'd himself in't.

You shall have time to prate. My Lord Brachiano Mon. Truly drown'd, indeed.

Alas! I make but repetition,
Vit. Sum up my faults. I pray, and you Of what is ordinary and Ryalto talk,

shall find,

And ballated, and would be plaid o' th' stage That beauty and gay clothes, a merry heart, But that vice many times finds such loud friends, And a good stomach to feast, are all,

That preachers are charm'd silent.
All the poor crimes that you can charge me with. Your public fault,
In faith, my Lord, you might go pistol flies, Joyn'd to th' condition of the present time,
The sport would be more noble.

Takes from you all the fruits of noble pity,
Mon. Very good.

Such a corrupted trial have you made Vit. But take you your course, it seems Both of your life and beauty, and been styl'd

you've begged me first, No less an ominous fate, than blazing stars And now would fain undo me. I have houses, To Princes. Hear your sentence; you are confin'd Jewels, and a poor remnant of crusadoes; Unto a house of converts. Would these would make you charitable.

Vit. A house of converts! what's that? Mon. If the devil

Mon. A house of penitent whores. Did ever take good shape, behold his picture.

Vit. Do the Noblemen in Rome Vit. You have one virtue left,

Erect it for their wives, that I am sent You will not flatter me.

To lodge there? Fra. Who brought this letter?

Fra. You must have patience. Vit. I am not compellid to tell you.

Vit. I must first have vengeance. Mon. My Lord Duke sent to you a thousand I fain would know if you have your salvation

ducats,

By patent, that you proceed thus. The twelfth of August.

Mon. Away with her, Vit. 'Twas to keep your cousin

Take her hence. From prison, I paid use for't.

Vit. A rape! a rape! Mon. I rather think,

Mon. How?

Vit. Yes, you have ravish'd justice ; For since you cannot take my life for deeds, Forc'd her to do your pleasure.

Take it for words: 0 woman's poor revenge! Mon. Fie, she's mad!

Which dwells but in the tongue. I will not weep. Vit. Die with those pills in your most cursed No; I do scorn to call up one poor tear

maw,

To fawn on your injustice: bear me hence Should bring you health! or while you sit o' th' Unto this house of what's your mitigating title ?

bench,

Mon. Of converts. Let your own spittle choak you!

Vit. It shall not be a house of converts; Mon. She's turn'd fury.

My mind shall make it honester to me Vit. That the last day of judgment may so Than the Pope's palace, and more peaceable

Than thy soul, though thou art a Cardinal; And leave you the same Devil you were before! Know this, and let it somewhat raise your spight, Instruct me some good horse-leach to speak Through darkness diamonds spread their richest treason,

light.

find you,

C or be t.

Richard Corbet ward 1582 in dem Dorfe Ewell in Surrey geboren, erhielt eine wissenschaftliche Bildung in Westminster und Oxford und trat dann in den geistlichen Stand. Durch seine Rednergabe erwarb er sich die Gunst Jakobs I., in Folge deren er 1629 Bischof von Oxford und 1632 von Norwich ward. Er starb im Juli 1635.

Corbet war ein lustiger Mann, der sein Amt oft über seiner Lustigkeit vergass und daher allgemein der witzige Bischof genannt wurde (wittee Bishop Corbet), seinen Witz aber nie missbrauchte, um Jemanden wehe zu thun.

Seine poetischen Werke erschienen zuerst gesammelt im Jahre 1647 und wurden dann 1672 wieder neu aufgelegt; später sind sie aber grösstentheils in Vergessenheit gerathen; sie enthalten vorzüglich Elegieen, Satyren und Lieder und athmen eine frische, lebendige Lustigkeit und gesunden Verstand, der über die Thorheiten der Menschen mit gutmüthigem Humor und herzlichem Mitleide spottet, in fiessender beseelter Ausdrucksweise. Viele derselben waren von dem Verfasser allerdings nicht für die Oeffentlichkeit bestimmt, sondern fanden erst später allgemeine Verbreitung; allerdings stimmen sie nicht immer recht zu seinem ernsten Berufe, doch findet sich auch Nichts darin, wodurch das Gefühl und die gute Sitte verletzt würden.

And all your children stoln from thence

Are now growne Puritanes,
Who live as changelings ever since,

For love of your demaines.

The Fairies Farewell. Farewell rewards and Fairies!

Good housewives now you may say;
For now foule sluts in dairies,

Doe fare as well as they:
And though they sweepe their hearths no less

Than mayds were wont to doe,
Yet who of late for cleaneliness

Finds sixe-pence in her shoe?
Lament, lament old Abbies,

The fairies lost command;
They did but change priests babies,

But some have chang'd your land;

At morning and at evening both

You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleepe and sloth,

These prettie ladies had.
When Tom came home from labour,

Or Ciss to milking rose,
Then merrily went their toes.

And nimbly went their toes.

Witness those rings and rounddelayes

Of theirs, which yet remaine; Were footed in queene Maries dayes

On many a grassy playne.
But since of late Elizabeth

And later James came in;
They never danc'd on any heath,

As when the time hath bin.

To William Churne of Staffordshire

Give laud and praises due,
Who every meale can mend your cheare

With tales both old and true:
To William all give audience,

And pray yee for noddle:
For all the fairies evidence

Were lost, if it were addle.

By which wee note the fairies

Were of the old profession: Their songs were Ave Maries,

Their dances were procession. But now, alas! they all are dead,

Or gone beyond the seas, Or farther for religion filed,

Or else they take their ease.

To his Son, Vincent Corbet.

A tell-tale in their company

They never could endure; And whoso kept not secretly

Their mirth, was punished sure:
It was a just and christian deed

To pinch such blacke and blue:
O how the common-welth doth need

Such justices as you!

What I shall leave thee none can tell,
But all shall say I wish thee well:
I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth,
Both bodily and ghostly health;
Nor too much wealth, nor wit come to thee,
So much of either may undo thee.
I wish thee learning, not for show,
Enough for to instruct, and know;
Not such as gentlemen require
To prate at table, or at fire.
I wish thee all thy mother's graces,
Thy father's fortunes, and his places.
I wish thee friends, and one at court
Not to build on, but support;
To keep thee, not in doing many
Oppressions, but from suffering any.
I wish thee peace in all thy ways,
Nor lazy nor contentious days;
And when thy soul and body part,
As innocent as now thou art.

Now they have left our quarters;

A Register they have,
Who can preserve their charters;

A man both wise and grave.
An hundred of their merry pranks

By one that I could name
Are kept in store; con twenty thanks

To William for the same.

Phineas Fletcher.

Dieser zu seiner Zeit gefeierteste Nachahmer Spenser's, ward 1584 geboren, zu Eton und Cambridge wissenschaftlich gebildet und trat dann in den geistlichen Stand. 1621 erhielt er ein geistliches Amt zu Hilgay in Norfolk, das er neun und zwanzig Jahre hindurch bekleidete und in dem er wahrscheinlich 1650 starb. Seine Gedichte, the Purple Island, Piscatory Eglogues und Miscellaneous poems enthaltend, erschienen zuerst gesammelt 1633 und sind seitdem öfter wieder aufgelegt worden; sie finden sich auch im 4. Bande von Anderson's British Poets. Unter ihnen ist das beschreibende Gedicht die Purpurinsel, das eigenthümlichste; es soll nämlich das ganze Leben umfassen und ist eine - poetische Anthropologie; zuerst schildert nämlich der Dichter bald wirk

lich, bald allegorisch den Körper des Menschen, dann die Seele bis in das Kleinste. Trotz der Geschmacklosigkeit der Idee und der Ausführung der ersten Gesänge namentlich, finden sich doch viele sehr schöne und erhabene Stellen in diesem Werke, so dass man lebhaft die Verirrung eines so begabten Dichters beklagen muss, der so reiche Phantasie, einen solchen Schwung des Geistes und eine so energische Ausdrucksweise besitzt; glänzende Eigenschaften, die sich auch in seinen übrigen Gedichten offenbaren.

The Shepherd's Home.

The world's great Light his lowly state hath (From the Purple-Island.)

bless'd,

And left his Heav'n to be a shepherd base: Thrice, oh, thrice happie shepherd's life and state Thousand sweet songs he to his pipe addrest: When courts are happinesse, unhappie pawns !

Swift rivers stood, beasts, trees, stones, ranne His cottage low, and safely humble gate,

apace, Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns, and

And serpents flew, to heare his softest fawns:

strains: No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep: IIe fed his flock where rolling Jordan reignes;

Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep; There took our rags, gave us his robes, and bore Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

our pains.

No Serian worms he knows, that with their threed

Draw out their silken lives : nor silken pride: Fond man, that looks on Earth for happinesse, His lambes' warm fleece well fits his little need,

And here long seeks what here is never found! Not in that proud Sidonian tincture di'd:

For all our good we hold from Heav'n by lease, No emptie hopes, no courtly fears him fright;

With many forfeits and conditions bound; No begging wants his middle fortune bite:

Nor can we pay the fine and rentage due: But sweet content exiles both miserie and spite.

Tho' now but writ, and seal’d, and giv'n

anew, Instead of music and base flattering tongues,

Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew. Which wait to first-salute my lord's uprise; The cheerfull lark wakes him with early songs, Why should'st thou here look for perpetuall good, And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his

At ev'ry losse against Heav'ns face repining? eyes.

Do but behold where glorious cities stood, In countrey playes is all the strife he uses;

With gilded tops and silver turrets shining; Or sing, or dance, unto the rurall Muses;

There now the hart, fearlesse of greyhound, And but in music's sports, all difference refuses.

feeds,

And loving pelican in safety breeds; His certain life, that never can deceive him,

There shrieking satyres fill the people's emptie Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content:

steads. The smooth-leav'd beeches in the field receive him With coolest shades, till noon-tide's rage is Where is th’ Assyrian lion's golden hide,

spent:

That all the east once graspt in lordly paw? llis life is neither tost in boist'rous seas

Where that great Persian beare, whose swelling Of troublous world, nor lost in slothfull ease;

pride Pleas'd and full blest he lives, when he his God The lion's self tore out with ravenous jaw?

can please.

Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard,

Thro' all the world with nimble pineons His bed of wool yeelds safe and quiet sleeps,

far'd, While by his side his faithfull spouse hath

place:
And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd king-

domes shar'd?
His little sonne into his bosome creeps,
The lively picture of his father's face: Hardly the place of such antiquitie,
Never his humble house or state torment Or note of these great monarchies we finde:

him;

Onely a fading verball memorie,
Lesse he could like, if lesse his God had And empty name in writ, is left behinde:

sent him;

But when this second life and glory fades, And when he dies, green turfs, with grassie tombe, And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades,

content him. A second fall succeeds, and double death invades.

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That monstrous beast, which, nurst in Tiber's And that black vulture, which with deathfull wing

fenne,

Oreshadows half the Earth, whose dismall sight Did all the world with hideous shape affray; Frighted the Muses from their native spring, That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping denne, Already stoops, and flagges with weary flight: And trode down all the rest to dust and clay: Who then shall look for happiness beneath? His batt'ring horns pullid out by civil Where each new day proclaims chance, hands,

change, and death, And iron teeth, lie scatter'd on the sands; And life itselt's as flit as is the aire we breathe. Backt, bridled by a monk, with sev'n heads

yoked stands.

Giles Fletcher.

Er war des Vorigen Bruder; Beide dürfen nicht mit dem dramatischen Dichter John Fletcher verwechselt werden. Der hier Genannte ward einige Jahre nach seinem Bruder geboren, studirte ebenfalls Theologie, erhielt eine Pfründe zu Alderton in Suffolk und starb daselbst um 1623. Ausserzwei Elegieen hinterliess er ein grösseres Gedicht, episch-descriptiver Art, das zuerst 1610 in Cambridge erschien und seitdem nur selten wieder aufgelegt worden ist. Es findet sich auch in Anderson's British Poets Bd. IV. wieder abgedruckt, führt den Titel Christ's Victory and Triumph, und besteht aus vier Gesängen, von denen der erste sich auf die Menschwerdung Christi, der zweite auf dessen Versuchung, der dritte auf die Kreuzigung und der vierte auf die Auferstehung bezieht; doch hat der Dichter so viel Profanes, namentlich aus der klassischen Mythologie eingemischt, dass das Ganze sehr buntscheckig geworden ist und den beabsichtigten Eindruck natürlich verfehlt.

Trotz dem sind aber sehr schöne Stellen darin, die des Verfassers poetischen Beruf lebendig beurkunden, wie z. B. die hier mitgetheilten, in welchen der Erlöser geschildert wird, wie er in der Wildniss weilt, dann einen alten Einsiedler begleitet und nun vergeblich auf verschiedene Weise vom Satan versucht wird.

hore.

From Christ's Triumph on Earth.

And all the waie he went, he ever blest (Christ's Victory and Triumph C. II.)

| With benedicities, and prayers store, Twice had Diana bent her golden bowe,

But the bud ground was blessed ne'r the more, And shot from Heav'n her silver shafts, to rouse And all his head with snowe of age was waxen The sluggish salvages, that den belowe, And all the day in lazie covert drouse Since him the silent wildernesse did house: The Heav'n his roofe, and arbour harbour was,

A good old hermit he might seeme to be,

: That for devotion had the world forsaken, The ground his bed, and his moist pillowe

And now was travelling some saint to see,

Since to his beads he had himselfe betaken, But fruit thear none did growe, nor rivers non

Whear all his former sinnes he might awaken, did passe. And them might wash away with dropping

brine, At length an aged syre farre off he sawe

And almes, and fasts, and churche's discipline : Come slowely footing, every step he guest One of his feete he from the grave did drawe.

And dead, might rest his bones under the holy

shrine. Three legges he had, the woodden was the best,

grasse:

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