SONG. DRINK to me only with thine eyes, The thirst that from the soul doth rise, But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Since when it grows and smells, I swear, THE SWEET NEGLECT. STILL to be neat, still to be drest, Tho' art's hid causes are not found, Give me a look, give me a face, That strike mine eye, but not mine heart. HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID. BEAUTIES, have 'ye seen a toy, If he be among ye, say; He is Venus' run-away. She that will but now discover Where the winged wag doth hover, How and where herself would wish : Marks he hath about him plenty, You may know him among twenty: All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire: Which, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin. Wings he hath, which though ye clip, He doth bear a golden bow, Still the fairest are his fuel, When his days are to be cruel; And his baths their warmest blood: Nought but wounds his hand doth season, And he hates none like to reason. Trust him not; his words, though sweet, Every gift is but a bait: Not a kiss but poison bears, And most treason's in his tears. Idle minutes are his reign, Then the straggler makes his gain, By presenting maids with toys, To have all childish as himself. If by these ye please to know him, JOSEPH HALL, Bishop of Exeter, was born in 1574, and died in retirement, in 1656. The various literary labours of his long life, and the persecutions to which he was exposed in his old age, are recited in every dictionary of Biography. His only poetical compositions, entitled "Virgidemiarum, Satires in "six books, 1597," are, from their subject, by no means suited to the present publication; but it is hoped that the reader will excuse the insertion of one specimen from a work which must, even now, be considered as a model of elegance. The following satire is a ridicule on the fashion of attempting to subject our language to the rules of Greek and Latin prosody, a fashion encouraged by Sir Philip Sidney and others, and not discouraged by Spenser. SATIRE VI, B. I. ANOTHER SCorns the home-spun thread of rhymes, feet, And headstrong dactyls making musick meet. |