JOHN FORD.
(1586-1640.)

THE following songs are taken from a play called The Sun's Darling, 1633, written conjointly by Ford and Dekker. Ford was one of the most remarkable of the minor Elizabethan dramatists. By profession he was a barrister of Gray's Inn ; and this portrait of him has come down to us in a contemporary satire :—

"Deep in a dump John Ford was got,

With folded arms and melancholy hat."

Of Dekker we know still less; but our songs, which may have been written by either of them, represent their authors as writers of grace and vivacity, with moods of rollicking mirth.

THE DEATH OF SPRING.

Here lies the blithe Spring,
Who first taught birds to sing,
Yet, in April, herself fell a-crying;
Then, May growing hot,

A sweating sickness she got,
And, the first of June, lay a-dying.

Yet no month can say

But her merry daughter May
Stuck her coffin with flowers great plenty.
The cuckoos sang in verse

An epitaph o'er her hearse;

But, assure you, the lines were not dainty.

A SONG OF SPRING.

Haymakers, rakers, reapers, and mowers,
Wait on your Summer-queen;

Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers;
Daffodils, strew the green.

Sing, dance, and play;

'Tis holiday;

The Sun does bravely shine

On our ears of corn

Rich as a pearl
Comes every girl.

This is mine, this is mine, this is mine;
Let us die ere away they be borne.

Bow to the sun, to our queen, and that fair one
Come to behold our sports:

Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one,
As those in a prince's courts.
These and we

With country glee

Will teach the woods to resound,
And the hills with echoes hollow:

Skipping lambs

Their bleating dams

'Mongst kids shall trip it round;
For joy thus our wenches we follow.

Wind, jolly huntsmen, your neat bugles shrilly;
Hounds, make a lusty cry;

Spring up, you falconers, the partridges freely;
Then let your brave hawks fly.
Horses, amain

Over ridge, over plain,

The dogs have the stag in chase:
'Tis a sport to content a king.

So, ho, ho! through the skies
How the proud bird flies,

And, sousing, kills with a grace!

Now the deer falls; hark, how they ring!

GEORGE WITHER.

(1588-1667.)

GEORGE WITHER was a native of Hampshire, and one of the most abundant writers of verse in James's reign. His first essay was a poem on Prince Henry's death in 1612; in the following year he was imprisoned in the Marshalsea for having written a satire called Abuses Stript and Whipt. Whilst in prison he wrote a pastoral poem entitled The Shepherd's Hunting. Wither's Motto, Nec habeo, nec careo, nec curo, was published in 1618; a collection of his poems,

with the title Juvenilia, was printed in 1622; and in the same year he produced Faire Virtue, the Mistress of Philarete, written by Himselfe. Wither's most pleasant verses were produced during the first half of his life. He sided strongly with the Parliament against Charles, fought under Cromwell, and was owner of some land in Surrey during the Protectorate. At the Restoration in 1660 he lost all he had won, and was again for some time in prison. His literary activity appears to have been, from first to last, incessant; and he is remembered now-a-days as pre-eminently the Puritan poet, whose irrepressible Muse made herself heard even amid the din of civil war.

CHRISTMAS.

So now is come our joyfullest part;
Let every man be jolly;

Each room with ivy-leaves is dressed,
And every post with holly.

Though some churls at our mirth repine,

Round your foreheads garlands twine,
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry!

Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas-blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with baked meat choke,
And all their spits are turning.

Without the door let Sorrow lie;
And, if for cold it hap to die,
We'll bury it in a Christmas pie
And evermore be merry!

Rank misers now do sparing shun;
Their hall of music soundeth ;

And dogs thence with whole shoulders run;
So all things there aboundeth.

The country folks themselves advance

With crowdy-muttons out of France;

And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,
And all the town be merry!

Good farmers in the country nurse
The poor that else were undone ;
Some landlords spend their money worse,
On lust and pride in London.

There the roysters they do play,
Drab and dice their lands away,
Which may be ours another day,
And therefore let's be merry!

The client now his suit forbears;
The prisoner's heart is easèd;
The debtor drinks away his cares,
And for the time is pleased.
Though others' purses be more fat,
Why should we pine or grieve at that?
Hang sorrow! care will kill a cat,"
And therefore let's be merry!

Hark! now the wags abroad do call
Each other forth to rambling ;
Anon you'll see them in the hall,

For nuts and apples scrambling.

Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound;
Anon they'll think the house goes round,
For they the cellar's depth have found,
And there they will be merry!

The wenches with their wassail bowls
About the streets are singing;
The boys are come to catch the owls;
The wild mare in is bringing;

Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box;
And to the dealing of the ox1

Our honest neighbours come by flocks,

And here they will be merry!

Now kings and queens poor sheep-cots have, And mate with everybody;

The honest now may play the knave,

And wise men play the noddy.

Some youths will now a-mumming go,

Some others play at Rowland-bo,
And twenty other game, boys, mo,2
Because they will be merry!

Then wherefore, in these merry days,
Should we, I pray, be duller?
No, let us sing some roundelays
To make our mirth the fuller:

1 The cutting up of the roasted ox.

• More.

And, while we thus inspired sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring;
Woods, and hills, and everything,
Bear witness we are merry!

OF POESY.

In my former days of bliss,
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from everything I saw,
I could some invention draw,
And raise pleasure to her height,
Through the meanest object's sight:
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustleing,
By a daisy whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.

By her help I also, now,
Make this churlish place allow

Some things that may sweeten gladness
In the busy gall of sadness.

The dull loneness, the black shade

That these hanging vaults have made,
The strange music of the waves

Beating on these hollow caves,

This black den which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss,
The rude portals that give light
More to terror than delight,
This my chamber of neglect
Walled about with disrespect,
From all these and this dull air,-
A fit object for despair,-
She hath taught me, by her might,
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this.

Poesy! thou sweet'st content
That e'er heaven to mortals lent,
Though they as a trifle leave thee
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,