Thou art a day of mirth:

And where the week-days trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth:

O let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven,
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,
Fly hand in hand to heaven!

WEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dews shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;

Thy root is ever in its grave;

And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
Thy music shows ye have your closes;
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like season'd timber never gives;

But, though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

WHE

Having a glass of blessings standing by;

Let us (said he) pour on him all we can:

Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way;

Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure: When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,

Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should (said he)

Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts instead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them with repiñing restlessness:
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.

[RICHARD CORBET was born at Ewell, in Surrey, in 1582, and was educated at Oxford, where he obtained great celebrity as a wit. He took orders, and, after obtaining several preferments, was promoted successively to the sees of Oxford and Norwich.

Bishop Corbet was remarkable for his convivial habits, and some amusing traits of eccentricity and humour have been handed down regarding him; even the mitre does not seem to have made him graver, or averse to a practical jest.]

AREWELL rewards and fairies,

FAR

Good housewives now may say,

For now foul sluts in dairies

Do fare as well as they.

And though they sweep their hearths no less
Than maids were wont to do,
Yet who of late, for cleanliness,
Finds sixpence in her shoe?
Lament, lament, old Abbeys,

The fairies' lost command;

They did but change priests' babies,
But some have changed your land;
And all your children sprung from thence
Are now grown Puritans;

Who live as changelings ever since,

For love of your domains.

At morning and at evening both,
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleep or sloth
These pretty ladies had;

When Tom came home from labour,

Or Cis to milking rose,

Then merrily went their tabor,

And nimbly went their toes.

Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary's days
On many a grassy plain;
But since of late Elizabeth,
And later, James came in,
They never danc'd on any heath
As when the time hath been.

By which we 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 fled,
Or else they take their ease.

A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure,
And whoso kept not secretly

Their mirth, was punish'd sure;
It was a just and Christian deed

To pinch such black and blue :

O how the commonwealth doth need
Such justices as you!

BY BEN JONSON.-1574-1637.

[BEN JONSON was born in Westminster, in 1574, a month after his father's death. He passed his early days at Westminster School, and was then put to the trade of a bricklayer; but, disliking that business, he ran away, and joined the army. After his return from Flanders, where he served, he went to the University of Cambridge, but was soon compelled by poverty to leave it, and go on the stage. Unhappily he killed a brother actor in a duel, for which he narrowly escaped being hanged; while in prison he became a convert to the Roman Catholic religion, in which he remained for some years. For the rest of his life he continued to write plays, and having had a share in Eastward Ho,' which was supposed to reflect on the Scotch, he was again sent to prison in the reign of James I.; when he obtained his liberty, he flattered that weak prince, and became his favourite. Charles I. gave him a pension, but his extravagant habits always kept him poor. Ile died in 1637, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. A convivial associate induced a stone cutter who was erecting a monument in Poet's Corner to him, to inscribe on it the now memorable epitaph, "O rare Ben Jonson;" and he well deserved it.]

RINK to me only with thine eyes,

DRINK

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup

I would not change for thine.