No More Learning

Then stately Virgil, witty Ovid, by
Whom fair Corinna sits, and doth comply
With ivory wrists his laureate head, and steeps
His eye in dew of kisses while he sleeps;
Then soft Catullus, sharp-fang'd Martial,
And towering Lucan, Horace, Juvenal,
And snaky Persius, these, and those, whom rage
(Dropt for the jars of heaven) fill'd t' engage
All times unto their frenzies,--thou shalt there
Behold them in a spacious theatre.
Among which glories, crowned with sacred bays
And flatt'ring ivy, two recite their plays--
Beaumont and Fletcher, swans to whom all ears
Listen, while they, like syrens in their spheres,
Sing their Evadne; and still more for thee
There yet remains to know than thou can'st see
By glim'ring of a fancy. Do but come,
And there I'll show thee that capacious room
In which thy father Jonson now is plac'd,
As in a globe of radiant fire, and grac'd
To be in that orb crown'd, that doth include
Those prophets of the former magnitude,
And he one chief; but hark, I hear the cock
(The bellman of the night) proclaim the clock
Of late struck one, and now I see the prime
Of day break from the pregnant east: 'tis time
I vanish; more I had to say,
But night determines here, away.

_Purfling_, trimming, embroidering.
_Round_, rustic dance.
_Comply_, encircle.
_Their Evadne_, the sister of Melantius in their play "The Maid's
Tragedy".


576. LIFE IS THE BODY'S LIGHT.

Life is the body's light, which once declining,
Those crimson clouds i' th' cheek and lips leave shining.
Those counter-changed tabbies in the air
(The sun once set) all of one colour are.
So, when Death comes, fresh tinctures lose their place,
And dismal darkness then doth smutch the face.

_Tabbies_, shot silks.


579. LOVE LIGHTLY PLEASED.
Let fair or foul my mistress be,
Or low, or tall, she pleaseth me;
Or let her walk, or stand, or sit,
The posture hers, I'm pleas'd with it;
Or let her tongue be still, or stir,
Graceful is every thing from her;
Or let her grant, or else deny,
_My love will fit each history_.


580. THE PRIMROSE.

Ask me why I send you here
This sweet Infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you
This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew?
I will whisper to your ears:
The sweets of love are mix'd with tears.

Ask me why this flower does show
So yellow-green, and sickly too?
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending (yet it doth not break)?
I will answer: These discover
What fainting hopes are in a lover.


581. THE TITHE. TO THE BRIDE.

If nine times you your bridegroom kiss,
The tenth you know the parson's is.
Pay then your tithe, and doing thus,
Prove in your bride-bed numerous.
If children you have ten, Sir John
Won't for his tenth part ask you one.

_Sir John_, the parson.