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What soul can be so sick which by thy songs
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet artless songster! thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres-yes, and to angels' lays.

HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

BY PHINEAS Fletcher.-1584-1650.

[PHINEAS FLETCHER, the elder brother of Giles Fletcher, was born in 1584, and was educated at Cambridge. He took orders, and obtained the living of Hilgay, in Norfolk, where he died in 1650.

His "Purple Island"—the subject of which is very different from what might be expected from its name is an anatomical and physiological description of the human body. It has many beauties, but is marred by the tediousness inseparable from a protracted allegory.]

THRICE, oh thrice happy, shepherd's life and state!
When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns!

His cottage low and safely humble gate

Shut out proud Fortune with her scorns and fawns:
No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep;

Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep;
Himself as innocent as are the innocent sheep.

No Syrian worms he knows, that with their thread
Draw out their silken lives: nor silken pride:
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,

Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed:
No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright;
Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite;
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.
Instead of music and base flattering tongues,
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise,
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,
And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes:

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In country plays is all the strife he uses;
Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses;
And but in music's sports all difference refuses.

His certain life, that never can deceive him,

Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content :
The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him
With coolest shades, till noon-tide rage is spent:

His life is neither toss'd in boist'rous seas

Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease:

Pleased and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.

His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps,

While by his side his faithful spouse hath place ; His little son into his bosom creeps,

The lively picture of his father's face:

Never his humble house nor state torment him:

Less he could like, if less his God had sent him;

And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb, content him.

"WHY SO PALE AND WAN, FOND LOVER?"

BY SIR JOHN SUCKLING.-1609-41.

[SIR JOHN SUCKLING was born at Witham, in Middlesex, in 1609, and was educated under the superintendence of his father, who was Secretary of State to James I., and comptroller of the household to Charles I. When he had completed his studies, young Suckling went abroad, and travelled through various countries. He served in Germany, under Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden; and, when he returned to England, associated with the most celebrated wits of the time. Attempting, with others, to deliver Strafford from the Tower, he was ordered to appear at the bar of the House of Commons; but, instead of obeying, he set out for France. While stopping at an inn on the road, Suckling was robbed by his servant, who, to prevent pursuit, stuck the blade of a penknife inside his master's boot, and when Sir John, in haste, attempted to draw it on, he received a wound, of which he died. This was in 1641.]

HY so pale and wan, fond lover?

WHY

Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?

Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her :

The devil take her.

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[RICHARD CRASHAW was born in London, probably in 1615, and was educated at Cambridge, where, having taken orders, he was made Master of Peterhouse, whence he was expelled by the Parliament He then fell into great distress, and joined the Roman Catholics, but did not receive any advantage from the change until Cowley recommended him to the exiled Queen Henrietta Maria, by whose advice he went to Rome, where

he became secretary to a Cardinal, and Canon of Loretto. He died in 1650.

Crashaw was a good linguist; his mind was of a dreamy character, and many of his poems are merely religious raptures; his descriptive powers are, however, considerable, and his verse is very harmonious. He was very successful as a translator.]

OW westward Sol had spent the richest beams

Now

Of noon's high glory, when, hard by the streams

Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,

Under protection of an oak, there sat

A sweet lute's-master; in whose gentle airs
He lost the day's heat, and his own hot cares.
Close in the covert of the leaves there stood
A nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood
(The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree,
Their muse, their syren, harmless syren she):
There stood she list'ning, and did entertain
The music's soft report: and mould the same
In her own murmurs: that whatever mood
His curious fingers lent, her voice made good:
The man perceived his rival, and her art,
Disposed to give the light-foot lady sport,
Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to come
Informs it in a sweet præludium

Of closer strains, and e'er the war begin,

He lightly skirmishes on every string

Charged with a flying touch; and straightway she
Carves out her dainty voice as readily,
Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones,
And reckons up in soft divisions

Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him know,
By that shrill taste, she could do something too.
His nimble hand's instinct then taught each string

A cap'ring cheerfulness, and made them sing

To their own dance; now negligently rash
He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash
Blends all together; then distinctly trips
From this to that, then quick returning, skips
And snatches this again, and pauses there.
She measures every measure, everywhere

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