Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves doth feed; And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat, Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land Then hath thy Orchard fruit, thy Garden flowers, Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come; Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach. And, though thy walls be of the country stone, They're reared with no man's ruin, no man's groan; There's none, that dwell about them, wish them down ; But all come in, the farmer and the clown, And no one empty-handed, to salute Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. Some bring a capon, some a rural cake, Some nuts, some apples; some, that think they make By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend But what can this (more than express their love) The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow MY PICTURE, LEFT IN SCOTLAND (1619). I now think Love is rather deaf than blind; That she, Whom I adore so much, should so slight me, I'm sure my language to her was as sweet, In sentence of as subtle feet, That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree. Read so much waist as she cannot embrace, And all these, through her eyes, have stopt her ears. INVITING A FRIEND TO SUPPER. To-night, grave sir, both my poor house and I Do equally desire your company: Not that we think us worthy such a guest, But that your worth will dignify our feast With those that come; whose grace may make that seem Something which else would hope for no esteem. It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates The entertainment perfect, not the cates. Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen, Lemons and wine for sauce; to these, a coney1 Is not to be despaired of for our money; And, though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks,2 I'll tell you of more (and lie, so you will come), Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some May yet be there, and god-wit if we can ; Livy, or of some better book, to us, Of which we'll speak our minds amidst our meat : To this if aught appear which I not know of, 1 A rabbit. Is a pure cup of rich canary wine, Which is the Mermaid's1 now, but shall be mine; AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD OF QUEEN Weep with me, all you that read This little story: And know, for whom a tear you shed 'Twas a child that so did thrive As heaven and nature seemed to strive Years he numbered scarce thirteen Yet three filled zodiacs had he been And did act, what now we moan, Old men so duly As, sooth, the Parcae thought him one, He played so truly! So, by error, to his fate They all consented; But, viewing him since, alas, too late They have repented; And have sought, to give new birth, In baths to steep him; But, being so much too good for earth, 1 The famous Mermaid Tavern. 2 Are no better than Luther's beer in comparison with this canary which I sing. 3 A little actor, otherwise than in these lines quite unremembered, who excelled in performing the parts of old men, and died at twelve years of age. AN EPIGRAM TO THE HOUSEHOLD OF CHARLES I., 1630. 'Twere better spare a butt than spill his muse! The King's fame lives. Go now, deny his tierce! GILES FLETCHER. -1623.) WHEN Spenser died in 1599, there were already growing to manhood a younger generation of Spenserians, pastoral poets, who would in course of years acknowledge for Spenser something of the docile reverence which he had expressed in his youth for Chaucer, his English Tityrus." Among these younger poets, youths in their teens at the date of Spenser's death, were the brothers Giles and Phineas Fletcher. They were first cousins of John Fletcher the dramatist, and sons of Dr. Giles Fletcher, who was at one time Ambassador at the court of Russia, and who had dedicated a book, entitled Of the Russe Common Wealth, to Queen Elizabeth in 1591, which she as quickly suppressed, "lest," says Anthony Wood, "it might give offence to a prince in amity with England." Phineas and his brother were educated at Cambridge. Giles graduated as B.D., and obtained the living of Alderton in Suffolk, while Phineas became rector at Hilgay in Norfolk; and each of them produced a very remarkable poem. The Christ's Victory of Giles Fletcher was published at Cambridge in 1610. Its 1 See p. 352. measure is a full flowing eight-lined stanza, which is, in fact, Spenser's own stanza with the seventh line omitted. It is written in a tone of exalted and rapturous piety. Giles Fletcher was emphatically a pastoral poet; but he cast away the oft-sung themes of Arcadian romance, and chose for the subject of his poem the most exquisite and sublime of all pastoral stories. FROM CHRIST'S VICTORY AND TRIUMPH. THE BIRTH OF CHRIST. Who can forget, never to be forgot, The time that all the world in slumber lies, On earth? Was never sight of pareil1 fame; A Child he was, and had not learnt to speak, And yet but newly he was infanted, Not able yet to go, and forced to fly ; But scarcely fled away, when, by and by, The tyrant's sword with blood is all defiled, Cries, "O, thou cruel king!" and "O, my sweetest child!" |