The glory of the kitchen,

In sewing whose fate,
At so lofty a rate,

No tailor e'er had stitch in;
For, though he made the man,
The cook yet makes the dishes,
The which no tailor can,

Wherein I have my wishes,
That I, who at so many a feast
Have pleased so many tasters,
Should now myself come to be dressed,
A dish for you, my masters.
Chorus.-Three merry boys, &c.

Pantler.

Oh, man or beast,

Or you, at least,

That wears or brow or antler,

Prick up your ears

Unto the tears

Of me, poor Paul the Pantler,
That thus am clipped
Because I chipped

The cursed crust of treason

With loyal knife:

Oh, doleful strife,

To hang thus without reason!

Chorus.-Three merry boys, &c.

TAKE, OH! TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY.

AKE, oh! take those lips away,

TA

That so sweetly were forsworn,
And those eyes, like break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn!
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, though sealed in vain.
Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears,

On whose tops the pinks that

grow
Are yet of those that April wears!
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.*

A WIFE FOR A MONTH.†

TO THE BLEST EVANTHE.

ET those complain that feel Love's cruelty,
And in sad legends write their woes;
With roses gently h' has corrected me,
My war is without rage or blows:
My mistress' eyes shine fair on my desires,
And hope springs up inflamed with her new fires.
No more an exile will I dwell,

With folded arms, and sighs all day,
Reckoning the torments of my hell,
And flinging my sweet joys away:
I am called home again to quiet peace;
My mistress smiles, and all my sorrows cease.

* The first stanza of this song is found in Measure for Measure.— See ante, p. 95. The origin of both verses may be traced to the fragment Ad Lydiam, ascribed to Cornelius Gallus. The following are the corresponding passages, which discover a resemblance too close to have been merely accidental:

'Pande, Puella, geneas roseas,

Perfusas rubro purpureæ tyriæ.
Porrige labra, labra corallina;
Da columbatim mitia basia:
Sugis amentis partem animi.—
Sinus expansa profert cinnama;
Undique surgunt ex te delicia.
Conde papillas, quæ me sauciant
Candore, et luxu nivei pectoris.'

The English version of the second of these passages, by the translator of Secundus, is still nearer to Fletcher's song.

'Again, above its envious rest,
See, thy bosom heaves confest!
Hide the rapturous, dear delight!
Hide it from my ravished sight!
Hide it for through all my soul
Tides of maddening rapture roll.'
By Fletcher.

Yet, what is living in her eye,

Or being blessed with her sweet tongue,
If these no other joys imply?

A golden gyve, a pleasing wrong:

To be your own but one poor month, I'd give
My youth, my fortune, and then leave to live.

THE LOVERS' PROGRESS.*

THE SONG OF THE DEAD HOST.

IS late and cold; stir up the fire;

'TIS

Sit close, and draw the table nigher;
Be merry, and drink wine that's old,
A hearty medicine 'gainst a cold:
Your beds of wanton down the best,
Where you shall tumble to your rest;
I could wish you wenches too,
But I am dead, and cannot do.
Call for the best the house may ring,
Sack, white, and claret, let them bring,
And drink apace, while breath you have;
You'll find but cold drink in the

Plover, partridge, for your dinner,
And a capon for the sinner,

grave:

You shall find ready when you're up,
And your horse shall have his sup:
Welcome, welcome, shall fly round,
And I shall smile, though under ground.

THE PILGRIM.†

NEPTUNE COMMANDING STILLNESS ON THE SEA.

DOWN, ye angry waters all!

Ye loud whistling whirlwinds, fall!
Down, ye proud waves! ye storms, cease!
I command ye, be at peace!

* One of the pieces left unfinished by Fletcher, and completed by another writer-supposed to be Shirley, or Massinger.

Ascribed to Fletcher.

Fright not with your churlish notes,
Nor bruise the keel of bark that floats;
No devouring fish come nigh,
Nor monster in my empery

Once show his head, or terror bring;
But let the weary sailor sing:
Amphitrite with white arms
Strike my lute, I'll sing thy charms.

THE CAPTAIN.*

THE CATECHISM OF LOVE.

TELL me, dearest, what is love?
'Tis a lightning from above;
'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire,

'Tis a boy they call Desire.
'Tis a grave,

Gapes to have

Those poor

fools that long to prove.

Tell me more, are women true?

Yes, some are, and some as you.

Some are willing, some are strange,
Since you men first taught to change.
And till troth

Be in both,

All shall love, to love anew.

Tell me more yet, can they grieve?

Yes, and sicken sore, but live,

And be wise, and delay,

When

you men are as wise as they. Then I see,

Faith will be,

Never till they both believe.†

* The Prologue speaks of only one author,-one writer of commendatory verses ascribes it to both Beaumont and Fletcher, the rest to Fletcher alone.

The music of this song was composed by Robert Jones.

The first

THE INVITATION.

COME hither, you that love, and hear me sing

Of joys still growing,

Green, fresh, and lusty as the pride of spring,
And ever blowing.

Come hither, youths that blush, and dare not know
What is desire;

And old men, worse than you, that cannot blow

One spark of fire;

And with the power

of my

enchanting song,

Boys shall be able men, and old men young.

Come hither, you that hope, and you that cry;
Leave off complaining;

Youth, strength, and beauty, that shall never die,
Are here remaining.

Come hither, fools, and blush you stay so long

From being blessed;

that suffer wrong,

And in an hour, with my enchanting song,
You shall be ever pleased, and young

maids long.

two verses are repeated in The Knight of the Burning Pestle, with some variations.

'Tell me, dearest, what is love?

'Tis a lightning from above;

'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire;
'Tis a boy they call Desire.
'Tis a smile

Doth beguile

The poor hearts of men that prove.

Tell me more, are women true?
Some love change, and so do you.

Are they fair, and never kind?
Yes, when men turn with the wind.
Are they froward?

Ever toward

Those that love, to love anew.'