Poets From England

"In a slombrynge slepe with slouth opprest As I in my naked bedde was leyd Thynkynge all nyght to take my rest Morpleus to me than made abreyd And in my dreme me thought he sayd Come walke with me in a medowe amerous Depeynted with floures that be delycyous."

"O mortall folke, you may beholde and see Howe I lye here, sometime a mighty knight; The ende of joye, and all prosperitie Is death at last, th[o]rough his course and myght: After the day there cometh the darke nyght, For thoughe the day be never so long, At last the belles ringeth to evensong"

"But, since of late, Elizabeth, And later James, came in, They never daunc’d on any heath As when the Time hath bin.By which wee note the Faries Were of the old Profession; Theyre Songs were Ave Maryes, Theyre Daunces were Procession."

"The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings."

"I adore war. ... It is like a big picnic but without the objectivelessness of a picnic. I have never been more well or more happy. ... It just suits my stolid health and stolid nerves and barbaric disposition. The fighting-excitement vitalizes everything, every sight and action. One loves one's fellow man so much more when one is bent on killing him."

"Went the day well? We died and never knew; But well or ill, England, we died for you."

"When you go home, tell them of us, and say ‘For your to-morrows these gave their to-day.’"

"There can be no question of Jones's genius; his infirmities were those of most young poets, especially the self-taught; his latest productions show that his faults had gradually cured themselves, and that he needed nothing but fortitude to have taken a distinguished place among English poets. Personally he was as amiable as enthusiastic, deficient only in steadiness of purpose and virtues of the self-regarding order."

"When the world is burning, Fired within, yet turning Round with face unscathed; Ere fierce flames, uprushing, O’er all lands leap, crushing, Till earth fall, fire-swathed; Up amidst the meadows, Gently through the shadows, Gentle flames will glide, Small, and blue, and golden. Though by bard beholden, When in calm dreams folden,— Calm his dreams will bide."

"I never wholly feel that summer is high, However green the trees, or loud the birds, However movelessly eye-winking herds Stand in field ponds, or under large trees lie, Till I do climb all cultured pastures by, That hedged by hedgerows studiously fretted trim, Smile like a lady’s face with lace laced prim, And on some moor or hill that seeks the sky Lonely and nakedly,—utterly lie down, And feel the sunshine throbbing on body and limb, My drowsy brain in pleasant drunkenness swim, Each rising thought sink back and dreamily drown, Smiles creep o’er my face, and smother my lips, and cloy, Each muscle sink to itself, and separately enjoy."

"Every decade has its standards, idols, aversions and neglects. The Preraphaelite has succeeded to the so-called Spasmodic, as the Spasmodic flashed for a season across the Tennysonian, as the Tennysonian superseded the Byronic school. This is not the place to attempt to estimate the import of these changes in the history of Art; but they testify to the shortness of our memories. Our wish is to be permitted briefly to direct attention to some of the attributes of a character which, more steadfast than fashions, stronger than suffering, and superior to the frustration of unselfish ambitions, has left to all within the range of its influence a noble example of an English life."

"Little in human schules have I beene; My colledge is all carpeted with greene, And archèd with a. roof of spangled blue, My Hippocrcrene is the early dewe, My seate turf-piled is dight with faery sheene, My table some old stone no handes did hewe, Or twisted roote of oake or classicke beech. My servitor, the sweetly spoken breeze, Strange unwritte books doth bringe me one by one. Well pleased I make and take my own degree, Master of many arts no schule can teach; My colledge hath no termes. Its doctors are Righte eloquent sweet flow'res and whisperinge trees, Whereof the winde takes counselle; everie star That discourseth all nighte with silent speeche; Greye leverende hilles with foreheads bare with age, Great stormes that argue sternlie each with each When woods chant anthems, and a streame or two For work-day musicke."

"There grew a lowly flower by Eden-gate Among the thorns and thistles. High the palm Branch’d o’er her, and imperial by her side Upstood the sunburnt lily of the East.The goodly gate swung oft, with many gods Going and coming, and the spice-winds blew Music and murmurings, and paradise Well’d over and enrich’d the outer wild.Then the palm trembled fast-bound by the feet, And the imperial Lily bow’d her down With yearning, but they could not enter in.The lowly flower she look’d up to the palm And lily, and at eve was full of dews, And hung her head and wept and said, 'Ah these Are tall and fair, and shall I enter in?'There came an angel to the gate at even, A weary angel, with dishevell'd hair; For he had wander'd far, and as he went, The blossoms of his crown fell one by one Thro' many nights, and seem'd a falling star.He saw the lovely flower by Eden-gate, And cried, 'Ah, pure and beautiful!' and turn'd And stoop'd to her and wound her in his hair, And in his golden hair she enter'd in.Husband! I was the weed at Eden-gate; I look'd up to the lily and the palm Above me, and I wept and said, 'Ah these Are tall and fair, and shall I enter in?'And one came by me to the gate at even, And stoop'd to me and wound me in his hair And in his golden hair I enter'd in."

"Ten heads and twenty hearts! so that this me, Having more room and verge, and striking less The cage that galls us into consciousness, Might drown the rings and ripples of to be In the smooth deep of being: plenary Round hours; great days, as if two days should press Together, and their wine-press’d night accresce The next night to so dead a parody Of death as cures such living: of these ordain My years; of those large years grant me not seven, Nor seventy, no, nor only seventy sevens! And then, perhaps, I might stand well in even This rain of things; down-rain, up-rain, side-rain; This rain from Earth and Ocean, air and heaven, And from the Heaven within the Heaven of Heavens."

"Now for the inward qualities of the minde; albeit some writers reduce them to twelve heads, which indeed whosoever enjoyeth, cannot chuse but be very compleat in much perfection, yet I must draw them into many more branches. The first, and most especial whereof is, that a skilful angler ought to be a general scoller, and seen in all the Liberal Sciences, as a Grammarian to know how either to write or discourse of his art in true and fitting terms, either without affectation or rudeness. He should have sweetness of speech, to perswade and entice others to delight in an exercise so much laudable. He should have strength of arguments to defend and maintain his profession, against envy or slander.He should have knowledge in the Sun, Moon, and Stars, that by their aspects he may guesse the seasonableness or unseasonableness of the weather, the breeding of storms, and from what coasts the winds are ever delivered. He should be a good knower of countries, and well used to High-wayes, that by taking the readiest paths to every Lake, Brook and River, his Journies may be more certain and less wearisome. He should have knowledge in proportions of all sorts, whether Circular, Square, or Diametrical, that when he shall be questioned of his diurnal progresses, he may give a Geographical description of the angles and channels of Rivers, how they fall from their heads, and what compasses they fetch in their several windings. He must also have the perfect art of numbring, that in the sounding of Lakes or Rivers, he may know how many foot or inches each severally containeth; and by adding, subtracting or multiplying the same, he may yield the reason of every River's swift or slow current. He should not be unskilful in Musick, that whensoever either melancholy, heaviness of his thoughts, or the perturbations of his own fancies, stirreth up sadness in him, he may remove the same with some godly Hymn or Anthem, of which David gives him ample examples."

"ALPHEUS: Bring water foorth, and bind with filets soft there altars round Burne vervine fat and full of juice, and frankincense the best, That I may try to turne away the right wits of my husband With sacrifices magical! of witchcraft and inchantment. Nothing is wanting now but charms which woonders great do worke O you my charms bring Daphnis from the town, bring Daphnis home. Charms able are from heaven high to fetch the moone adowne, With charms did Circe turne and change Ulisses fellowes shapes With charming is the snake so cold in medowes burst to peeces: O you my charms bring Daphnis from the town, bring Daphnis home. I twist for thee even first of all these threeds in number three, In colour threefold differing, and thrise about these altars I draw thy lively counterfet: God joies in number od: O you my charms bring Daphnis from the town, bring Daphnis home."

"Discharge thy dole, Thou subtile soule, It standes in little stéede To cursse the kisse That causer is Thy chirrie lip doth bléede. Thy bloud ascends To make amends For domage thou hast donne: For by the same I felt a flame More scorching than the Sunne. Thou reftst my harte By secret Arte, My sprites were quite subdude: My Senses fled And I was ded, Thy lippes were scarce imbrude. The kisse was thine, The hurt was mine, My hart felt all the paine: Twas it that bled And lookte so red, I tell thée once againe. But if you long To wreake your wrong Vpon your friendly fo: Come kisse againe And put to paine The man that hurt you so."

"Darke is the day, when Phœbus face is shrowded, And weaker sights may wander soone astray: But when they see his glorious raies unclowded, With steddy steps they keepe the perfect way: So while this Muse in forraine landes doth stay, Invention weepes, and pens are cast aside, The time, like night, depriv’d of chearefull day, And few do write, but ah! too soone may slide. Then, hie thee home, that art our perfect guide, And with thy wit illustrate Englands fame, Dawnting thereby our neighboures auncient pride, That do for poesie challendge cheefest name. So we that live, and ages that succeede, With great applause thy learned works shall reede.Ah! Colin, whether on the lowly plaine, Pyping to shepherds thy sweete roundelaies, Or whether singing, in some lofty vaine, Heroick deedes of past or present daies, Or whether in thy lovely mistris praise Thou list to exercise thy learned quill, Thy Muse hath got such grace, and power to please, With rare invention, bewtified by skill, As who therein can ever joy their fill? O therefore let that happy Muse proceede To clime the height of Vertues sacred hill, Where endles honor shall be made thy meede: Because no malice of succeeding daies Can rase those records of thy lasting praise."

"For many blessèd gifts, O happy, happy land! Where Mars and Pallas strive to make their glory most to stand! Yet, land, more is thy bliss that, in this cruel age, A Venus’ imp thou hast brought forth, so steadfast and so sage."

"What sweet relief the showers to thirsty plants we see, What dear delight the blooms to bees, my true love is to me! As fresh and lusty Ver foul Winter doth exceed— As morning bright, with scarlet sky, doth pass the evening’s weed— As mellow pears above the crabs esteemèd be— So doth my love surmount them all, whom yet I hap to see!"

"Among the Muses Nine a tenth if Jove would make, And to the Graces Three a fourth, her would Apollo take."

"Her mouth, which a smile, Devoid of all guile, Half opens to view, Is the bud of the rose In the morning that blows, Impearl’d with the dew.More fragrant her breath Than the flow’r-scented heath At the dawning of day; The hawthorn in bloom, The lily’s perfume, Or the blossoms of may."

"Queen of the silver bow! by thy pale beam, Alone and pensive, I delight to stray, And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way. And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast; And oft I think, fair planet of the night, That in thy orb the wretched may have rest; The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go, Released by death, to thy benignant sphere, And the sad children of despair and woe Forget in thee their cup of sorrow here, O that I soon may reach thy world serene, Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene!"

"What one art thou, thus in torn weed yclad? "Virtue, in price whom ancient sages had." Why poorly 'rayed? "For fading goods past care." Why double-faced? "I mark each fortune's fare." This bridle, what? "Mind's rages to restrain." Tools why bear you? "I love to take great pain." Why wings? "I teach above the stars to fly." Why tread you death? "I only cannot die.""

"Let some for honour hunt, and hoard the massy gold: With her so I may live and die, my weal cannot be told."

"The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower, which she had nurs’d in dew, Anemonies that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and hare-bell, mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain, Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with humid hands, her wreaths again. Ah! poor humanity! so frail, so fair, Are the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion, and corrosive care, Bid all thy fairy colours fade away! Another May new buds and flowers shall bring; Ah! why has happiness—no second spring?"

"My prime of youth is but a frost of cares, My feast of joy is but a dish of paine, My Crop of corne is but a field of tares, And al my good is but vaine hope of gaine. The day is past, and yet I saw no sunne, And now I live, and now my life is done.My tale was heard, and yet it was not told, My fruite is falne, & yet my leaves are greene: My youth is spent, and yet I am not old, I saw the world, and yet I was not seene. My thred is cut, and yet it is not spunne, And now I live, and now my life is done.I sought my death, and found it in my wombe, I lookt for life, and saw it was a shade: I trod the earth, and knew it was my Tombe, And now I die, and now I was but made. My glasse is full, and now my glasse is runne, And now I live, and now my life is done."

"Pressed by the moon, mute arbitress of tides, While the loud equinox its power combines, The sea no more its swelling surge confines, But o’er the shrinking land sublimely rides. The wild blast, rising from the western cave, Drives the huge billows from their heaving bed, Tears from their grassy tombs the village dead, And breaks the silent sabbath of the grave! With shells and sea-weed mingled, on the shore Lo! their bones whiten in the frequent wave; But vain to them the winds and waters rave; They hear the warring elements no more: While I am doomed—by life’s long storm oppressed, To gaze with envy on their gloomy rest."

"There lies a cold corpse upon the sands Down by the rolling sea; Close up the eyes and straighten the hands As a Christian man’s should be.Bury it deep, for the good of my soul, Six feet below the ground; Let the sexton come and the death-bell toll And good men stand around.Lay it among the churchyard stones, Where the priest hath bless’d the clay: I cannot leave the unburied bones, And I fain would go my way."

"They rear’d their lodges in the wilderness, Or built them cells beside the shadowy sea, And there they dwelt with angels, like a dream! So they unroll’d the Volume of the Book And fill’d the fields of the Evangelist With thoughts as sweet as flowers."

"Thus said the rushing raven, Unto his hungry mate: ‘Ho! gossip! for Bude Haven: There be corpses six or eight. Cawk! cawk! the crew and skipper Are wallowing in the sea: So there’s a savoury supper For my old dame and me.’"

"Oh! for imperial Polydamna’s art, Which to bright Helen was in Egypt taught, To mix with magic power the oblivious draught Of force to staunch the bleeding of the heart, And to Care’s wan and hollow cheek impart The smile of happy youth, uncursed with thought. Potent indeed the charm that could appease Affection’s ceaseless anguish, doomed to weep O’er the cold grave; or yield even transient ease By soothing busy Memory to sleep! —Around me those who surely must have tried Some charm of equal power, I daily see, But still to me Oblivion is denied, There’s no Nepenthe, now, on earth for me."

"A thousand doltish geese we might have spared, A thousand witless heads death might have found, A taken them for whom no man had cared, And laid them low in deep oblivious ground: But fortune favors fool, as old men say, And lets them live, and takes the wise away."

"A good sword and a trusty hand! A merry heart and true! King James’s men shall understand What Cornish lads can do.And have they fix’d the where and when? And shall Trelawny die? Here’s twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why!"

"My Girle, thou gazest much vpon the golden Skies: Would I were Heauen, I would behold thée then with all mine eies."

"Waes-hael for knight and dame! O merry be their dole! Drink-hael! in Jesu’s name We fill the tawny bowl; But cover down the curving crest, Mould of the Orient Lady’s breast."

"We see them not—we cannot hear The music of their wing— Yet know we that they sojourn near, The Angels of the spring!They glide along this lovely ground When the first violet grows; Their graceful hands have just unbound The zone of yonder rose.I gather it for thy dear breast, From stain and shadow free: That which an Angel’s touch hath blest Is meet, my love, for thee!"

"Fondling forbear, ’tis Heresy to think There is a Mistress equal to thy Drink; Or if in love with any, ’t must be rather With that plump Girl that does call Bacchus Father. Thou mayst out-look, arm’d with her warm embrace, Ten thousand Volleys shot from Woman’s Face, Who wou’d withstand without this Aid Divine Ten thousand times as many Tears of thine; As many Sighs and Prayers would be her sport, Exalted she so long maintains her Fort. But when Diviner Sack hath fir’d thy Blood, Creating Flames which cannot be withstood; To which is added Confidence as great As his, that aim’d at Jove’s Celestial Seat; Boldly march on, not granting her the leisure Of Parly; ’tis the Speed augments the Pleasure. If she cry out, with Kisses stop her Breath; She cannot wish to die a better Death. Tell her the pleasant passages between The God of War and Love’s more gentle Queen. When feeble Vulcan came, and in a fear Lest they wou’d not continue longer there, He chain’d ’em to the sport, with an intent To keep such Lovers for a Precedent; Glad to behold a tempting pleasure that His weak Endeavours never could create. Then stroke her Breasts those Mountains of Delight, Whose very Touch would fire an Anchorite. Next let thy wanton Palm a little stray, And dip thy Fingers in the Milky Way: Thus having raiz’d her, gently let her fall, Love’s Trumpets sound, Now Mortal have at all. A happy end thus made of all your sport, Lead her where every Lover shou’d resort, Where Madam Sack’s enthron’d, the tempting’st Lass That e’er was seated in a Venice Glass. Last, that this sense of Pleasure may remain, Cast away Thought and fall to Drink again. Drink off the Glasses, swallow every Bowl, And pity him that sighs away his Soul For that poor trifle Woman, who is mine With one small Gallon of Immortal Wine. To get a Mistress Drinking is the knack; Love’s grand existence is Almighty Sack."

"To what intent or purpose was Man made, Who is by birth to misery betrayed? Man in his tedious course of life runs through More plagues than all the Land of Egypt knew. Doctors, divines, grave disputations, puns, Ill-looking citizens and scurvy duns; Insipid squires, fat bishops, deans and chapters, Enthusiasts, prophecies, new rants and raptures; Pox, gout, catarrhs, old sores, cramps, rheums and aches; Half-witted lords, double-chinned bawds with patches; Illiterate courtiers, Chancery suits for life, A teazing whore, and a more tedious wife; Raw Inns of Court men, empty fops, buffoons, Bullies, robust round aldermen, and clowns; Gown-men which argue, and discuss, and prate, And vent dull notions of a future state; Sure of another world, yet do not know Whether they shall be saved, or damned, or how. ’Twere better then that Man had never been, Than thus to be perplexed: God save the Queen."

"In the days of Caesar Augustus There went forth this decree: Si quid rectus et justus Liveth in Galilee, Let him go up to Jerusalem And pay his scot to me.There are passed one after the other Christmases fifty-three, Since I sat here with my mother And heard the great decree: How they went up to Jerusalem Out of Galilee.They have passed one after the other; Father and mother died, Brother and sister and brother Taken and sanctified. I am left alone in the sitting, With none to sit beside.On the fly-leaves of these old prayer-books The childish writings fade, Which show that once they were their books In the days when prayer was made For other kings and princesses, William and Adelaide.The pillars are twisted with holly, And the font is wreathed with yew, Christ forgive me for folly, Youth’s lapses—not a few, For the hardness of my middle life, For age’s fretful view.Cotton-wool letters on scarlet, All the ancient lore, Tell how the chieftains starlit To Bethlehem came to adore; To hail Him King in the manger, Wonderful, Counsellor.The bells ring out in the steeple The gladness of erstwhile, And the children of other people Are walking up the aisle; They brush my elbow in passing, Some turn to give me a smile.Is the almond-blossom bitter? Is the grasshopper heavy to bear? Christ make me happier, fitter To go to my own over there: Jerusalem the Golden, What bliss beyond compare!My Lord, where I have offended Do Thou forgive it me. That so when, all being ended, I hear Thy last decree, I may go up to Jerusalem Out of Galilee."

"Who are these from the strange, ineffable places, From the Topaze Mountain and Desert of Doubt, With the glow of the Yemen full on their faces, And a breath from the spices of Hadramaut?Travel-apprentices, travel-indenturers, Young men, old men, black hair, white, Names to conjure with, wild adventurers, From the noonday furnace and purple night.Burckhardt, Halévy, Niebuhr, Slater, Seventeenth, eighteenth-century bays, Seetzen, Sadleir, Struys, and later Down to the long Victorian days.A thousand miles at the back of Aden, There they had time to think of things; In the outer silence and burnt air laden With the shadow of death and a vulture’s wings.There they remembered the last house in Samna, Last of the plane-trees, last shepherd and flock, Prayed for the heavens to rain down manna, Prayed for a Moses to strike the rock.Famine and fever flagged their forces Till they died in a dream of ice and fruit, In the long-forgotten watercourses By the edge of Queen Zobëide’s route.They have left the hope of the green oases, The fear of the bleaching bones and the pest, They have found the more ineffable places— Allah has given them rest."

"He might have spoken to a deaf man for all he moved his judge; and Elzevir's answer was to cock the pistol and prime the powder in the pan."

"Westray looked up and saw the great window at the end of the transept shimmering with a dull lustre; light only in comparison with the shadows that were falling inside the church. It was an insertion of Perpendicular date, reaching from wall to wall, and almost from floor to roof. Its vast breadth, parcelled out into eleven lights, and the infinite division of the stonework in the head, impressed the imagination; while mullions and tracery stood out in such inky contrast against the daylight yet lingering outside, that the architect read the scheme of subarcuation and the tracery as easily as if he had been studying a plan. Sundown had brought no gleam to lift the pall of the dying day, but the monotonous grey of the sky was still sufficiently light to enable a practised eye to make out that the head of the window was filled with a broken medley of ancient glass, where translucent blues and yellows and reds mingled like the harmony of an old patchwork quilt. Of the lower divisions of the window, those at the sides had no colour to clothe their nakedness, and remained in ghostly whiteness; but the three middle lights were filled with strong browns and purples of the seventeenth century. Here and there in the rich colour were introduced medallions, representing apparently scriptural scenes, and at the top of each light, under the cusping, was a coat of arms. The head of the middle division formed the centre of the whole scheme, and seemed to represent a shield of silver-white crossed by waving sea-green bars. Westray’s attention was attracted by the unusual colouring, and by the transparency of the glass, which shone as with some innate radiance where all was dim. He turned almost unconsciously to ask whose arms were thus represented, but the Rector had left him for a minute, and he heard an irritating “Ha, ha, ha!” at some distance down the nave, that convinced him that the story of Sir George Farquhar and the postponed fees was being retold in the dusk to a new victim.Someone, however, had evidently read the architect’s thoughts, for a sharp voice said:“That is the coat of the Blandamers—barry nebuly of six, argent and vert.” It was the organist who stood near him in the deepening shadows. “I forgot that such jargon probably conveys no meaning to you, and, indeed, I know no heraldry myself excepting only this one coat of arms, and sometimes wish,” he said with a sigh, “that I knew nothing of that either. There have been queer tales told of that shield, and maybe there are queerer yet to be told. It has been stamped for good or evil on this church, and on this town, for centuries, and every tavern loafer will talk to you about the ‘nebuly coat’ as if it was a thing he wore. You will be familiar enough with it before you have been a week at Cullerne.”There was in the voice something of melancholy, and an earnestness that the occasion scarcely warranted. It produced a curious effect on Westray, and led him to look closely at the organist; but it was too dark to read any emotion in his companion’s face, and at this moment the Rector rejoined them.“Eh, what? Ah, yes; the nebuly coat. Nebuly, you know, from the Latin nebulum, nebulus I should say, a cloud, referring to the wavy outline of the bars, which are supposed to represent cumulus clouds. Well, well, it is too dark to pursue our studies further this evening, but to-morrow I can accompany you the whole day, and shall be able to tell you much that will interest you.”"

"We have done with dogma and divinity, Easter and Whitsun past, The long, long Sundays after Trinity, Are with us at last; The passionless Sundays after Trinity, Neither feast-day nor fast.Christmas comes with plenty, Lent spreads out its pall, But these are five and twenty, The longest Sundays of all; The placid Sundays after Trinity, Wheat-harvest, fruit-harvest, Fall.Spring with its burst is over, Summer has had its day, The scented grasses and clover Are cut, and dried into hay; The singing-birds are silent, And the swallows flown away.Post pugnam pausa fiet; Lord, we have made our choice; In the stillness of autumn quiet, We have heard the still, small voice. We have sung Oh where shall Wisdom? Thick paper, folio, Boyce.Let it not all be sadness, Not omnia vanitas, Stir up a little gladness To lighten the Tibi cras; Send us that little summer, That comes with Martinmas.When still the cloudlet dapples The windless cobalt blue, And the scent of gathered apples Fills all the store-rooms through, The gossamer silvers the bramble, The lawns are gemmed with dew.An end of tombstone Latinity, Stir up sober mirth, Twenty-fifth after Trinity, Kneel with the listening earth, Behind the Advent trumpets They are singing Emmanuel’s birth."

"Ratsey raised his glass almost before it was filled. He sniffed the liquor and smacked his lips. 'O rare milk of Ararat!' he said, 'it is sweet and strong, and sets the heart at ease. And now get the backgammon-board, John, and set it for us on the table.' So they fell to the game, and I took a sly sip at the liquor, but nearly choked myself, not being used to strong waters, and finding it heady and burning in the throat. Neither man spoke, and there was no sound except the constant rattle of the dice, and the rubbing of the pieces being moved across the board. Now and then one of the players stopped to light his pipe, and at the end of a game they scored their totals on the table with a bit of chalk. So I watched them for an hour, knowing the game myself, and being interested at seeing Elzevir's backgammon-board, which I had heard talked of before.It had formed part of the furniture of the Why Not? for generations of landlords, and served perhaps to pass time for of the Civil Wars. All was of oak, black and polished, board, dice-boxes, and men, but round the edge ran a Latin inscription inlaid in light wood, which I read on that first evening, but did not understand till Mr. Glennie translated it to me. I had cause to remember it afterwards, so I shall set it down here in Latin for those who know that tongue, Ita in vita ut in lusu alae pessima jactura arte corrigenda est, and in English as Mr. Glennie translated it, As in life, so in a game of hazard, skill will make something of the worst of throws. At last Elzevir looked up and spoke to me, not unkindly, 'Lad, it is time for you to go home; men say that walks on the first nights of winter, and some have met him face to face betwixt this house and yours.' I saw he wanted to be rid of me, so bade them both good night, and was off home, running all the way thither, though not from any fear of Blackbeard, for Ratsey had often told me that there was no chance of meeting him unless one passed the churchyard by night."

"If Hercules tall stature might bee guest But by his thumbe, wherby to make the rest In due proportion; the best rule that I Would choose to measure Venus’ beauty by Should bee her legg and foot. If husbandmen Measure theyr timber by the foot, why then Not we our wives? Whether wee goe or stride Those native compasses are seldome wide Of telling true: the round and slender foot Is a sure index, and a secrett note Of hidden parts; and well this way may lead Unto the closett of a maydenheade: Here, Emblemes of our youth, we roses tye, And here the garter, love’s deare mystery: For want of beauty here the peacock’s pride Letts fall her trayne, and fearing to bee spide Shutts upp her paynted witnesses to lett Those eyes from view which are but counterfett. Who looks not if this part be good or evill May meet with cloven feet and match the divell, For this doth make the difference betweene The more unhallowed creatures and the cleane, Well may you judge her other stepps are lighte, Her thoughts awry that doth not tread aright: But then there’s true perfection when wee see Those parts more absolute that hidden bee: Nature nere layd a fayre foundation For an unworthy frame to rest upon. Lett others view the topp and limbes throughout, The deeper knowledge is to know the roote: And reading of the face the weakest know, What beauty is; the learned looke below; Who, looking there, doe all the rest, descrie As in a poole the moon we use to spie: Pardon (sweetehart) the pride of my desire If but to kisse your toe it should aspire."

"Weep not because this childe hath dyed so yong, But weepe because yourselves have livde so long: Age is not fild by growth of time, for then What old man lives to see th’ estate of men? Who sees the age of grande Methusalem? Ten years make us as old as hundreds him. Ripenesse is from ourselves: and then wee dye When nature hath obteynde maturity. Summer and winter fruits there bee, and all Not at one time, but being ripe, must fall. Death did not erre: your mourners are beguilde; She dyed more like a mother than a childe. Weigh the composure of her pretty partes: Her gravity in childhood; all her artes Of womanly behaviour; weigh her tongue So wisely measurde, not too short nor long; And to her youth adde some few riches more, She tooke upp now what due was at threescore. She livde seven years, our age’s first degree; Journeys at first time ended happy bee; Yet take her stature with the age of man, They well are fitted: both are but a span."

"Tread soft, for if you wake this Knight alone, You raise an Hoast: Religions Champion, His Cuntreys Staffe, Rights bold Distributer, His Neighbours Guard, the Poor mans Almoner, Who dyes with Works about him, as did He, Shall rise attended thus triumphantly."

"What thing is that, nor felt nor seene Till it bee given? a present for a Queene: A fine conceite to give and take the like: The giver yet is farther for to seeke; The taker doth possesse nothing the more, The giver hee hath nothing lesse in store: And given once that nature hath it still, You cannot keepe or leave it if you will: The workmanshippe is counted very small, The labour is esteemèd naught at all: But to conclude, this gift is such indeede, That, if some see’t twill make theyr hearts to bleede."

"My love and I for kisses play'd, Shee would keepe stake, I was content, But when I wonne shee would be paid; This made mee aske her what she meant. Pray, since I see (quoth she) your wrangling vayne, Take your owne kisses, give me myne againe.'"