[301] Giraldus here alludes to his quarrel with Thomas à Becket.
[302] Extracted (from lord Mountmorris’s History of the Irish Parliament, vol. i. page 33, et infra) by “The Veiled Spirit.”
AMSTERDAM—WITHOUT WATER.
An amusing and lively account of this capital, its public institutions, society, painters, &c. may be found in a small volume, entitled “Voyage par la Hollande,” published by a French visitant in 1806. This is probably the most recent sketch of Amsterdam. With the exception of the conversion of the stadt-house into a king’s palace, and the establishment of certain societies, its general aspect and character have undergone little change for a century past; insomuch that “Le Guide d’Amsterdam,” published by Paul Blad in 1720, may be regarded as forming a correct and useful pocket-companion at the present day. The descriptions given of the Dutch towns by Mr. Ray in 1663, Dr. Brown in 1668, Mr. Misson in 1687, and Dr. Northleigh in 1702, are applicable in almost every particular to the same towns at the present day; so comparatively stationary has Holland been, or so averse are the people to changes.
That fuel should be scarce and dear in Amsterdam, the capital of a country destitute of coal-mines, and growing very little wood, might be expected; but, surrounded and intersected by canals as the city is, it is surprising that another of the necessaries of life, pure water, should be a still scarcer commodity: yet such is the case. There is no water fit for culinary purposes in Amsterdam but what is brought by boats from the Vecht, a distance of fifteen miles; and limpid water is brought from Utrecht, more than twice that distance, and sold in the streets by gallon measures, for table use, and for making of tea and coffee.[303]
[303] Horticultural Tour.
For the Table Book.
REASON,
If not Rhyme.
’Till you have pence enough to pay
For chattels, and to keep a cot,
And leave a mite for quarter-day.
Those need, who cannot live on air,
Two plates, a basket for the bread,
And knives and forks at least two pair.
Drear is the bed that wants a rug,
And hapless he whose purse is dry
When sickness calls for pill and drug.
For parson C—— to tie us fast—
Who knows but luck, so long away,
May come and bide with us at last?
We’ll mingle hearts, our lips shall join
I’ll only claim thy sweetest smile,
Only thy softest tress be mine.
Verite.
For the Table Book.
SONG,
Imitated from the German of Hölty.
In hours of youth and blooming spring,
When bright cerulean skies are o’er us,
And sun-lit paths before us—
Who—who would suffer shade to steal
Over the forehead’s vernal light,
Whilst young Hope in her heav’n-ward flight
Oft turns her face round to reveal
Her bright eye to the raptur’d sight—
Whilst Joy, with many smiles and becks,
Bids us pursue the road he takes.
The arbour’s green and cool,
And the fair queen of night doth gaze
On earth, as chastely beautiful
As when she op’d her wond’ring eyes
First—on the flowers of Paradise.
The heart in fortune’s wayward hour—
And still do kindred hearts delight in
Affection’s kiss in evening-bower.
Still Philomela’s passionate strain
Bids long-fled feelings come again.
So fair, that should I cease to hold
Communion with its scenes so dear,
I’d think my days were nearly told.
R. W. D.
SWEETHEART SEEING.
St. Mark’s Eve.—In Chancery, August 2, 1827. In a cause, “Barker v. Ray,” a deponent swore, that a woman, named Ann Johnson, and also called “Nanny Nunks,” went to the deponent, and said to her, “I’ll tell you what I did to know if I could have Mr. Barker. On St. Mark’s night I ran round a haystack nine times, with a ring in my hand, calling out, ‘Here’s the sheath, but where’s the knife?’ and, when I was running round the ninth time, I thought I saw Mr. Barker coming home; but he did not come home that night, but was brought from the Blue Bell, at Beverley, the next day.”
THINGS WORTH REMEMBERING.
Controversy.
A man who is fond of disputing, will, in time, have few friends to dispute with.
Speech.
Truth is clothed in white. But a lie comes forth with all the colours of the rainbow.
Adversity, a good Teacher.
Those bear disappointments the best, who have been the most used to them.
Example.
When a misfortune happens to a friend, look forward and endeavour to prevent the same thing from happening to yourself.
Standard of Value.
The worth of every thing is determined by the demand for it. In the deserts of Arabia, a pitcher of cold water is of more value than a mountain of gold.
Luck and Labour.
A guinea found in the street, will not do a poor man so much good as half a guinea earned by industry.
Earning the best getting.
Give a man work, and he will find money.
Early Hours.
Since the introduction of candles, luxury has increased. Our forefathers rose with the lark, and went to bed with the sun.
Indications of the State-pulse.
A jolly farmer returning home in his own waggon, after delivering a load of corn, is a more certain sign of national prosperity, than a nobleman riding in his chariot to the opera or the playhouse.
Overwise and otherwise.
A man of bright parts has generally more indiscretions to answer for than a blockhead.
Vol. II.—33.
Robert Millhouse
Calls for the song.—the call shall be obey’d;
For ’tis that silent monitor, I ween,
Which led my youth, to many a green-wood shade;
Show’d me the spring, in thousand blooms array’d,
And bade me look towards Heaven’s immensity:
This is a power that schoolmen never made,
That comes all unsolicited and free,
To fire the youthful bard—lo! this is Poesy!
The Song of the Patriot.
Robert Millhouse
——The talented author of the poem from whence the motto is extracted is scarcely known to fame, and not at all to fortune. His unostentatious little volume, entitled “The Song of the Patriot, Sonnets, and Songs,” was thrown accidentally in my way; and its perusal occasions me to acquaint the readers of the Table Book with its uncommon merit. I do not know any thing concerning the poet beyond what I have derived from printed particulars, which I now endeavour to diffuse. That he is highly esteemed by a discriminating brother bard in his native county, is apparent by the following beautiful address to him in the Nottingham Mercury:—
Stanzas.
Where twilight dwells, where sunbeams rarely fall;
And there a wild-rose hangs in pensive grace,
Reflected in a fountain clear and small;
Above them rise dark shadowy trees and tall,
Whilst round them grow rank night-shades in the gloom,
Which seem with noxious influence to pall
The fountain’s light, and taint the flower’s perfume;
As fainly they would mar what they might not out-bloom.
That twilight makes in life so dark as thine!
And though I do not fear the rose may blight,
Or that the fountain’s flow may soon decline;
Hope, is there none, the boughs which frown malign,
High over-head, should let in heaven’s sweet face;
Yet shall not these their life unknown resign,
For nature’s votaries, wandering in each place,
Shall find their secret shade, and marvel at their grace.
It appears from a small volume, published in 1823, entitled “Blossoms—by Robert Millhouse—being a Selection of Sonnets from his various Manuscripts,” that the Rev. Luke Booker, LL. D. vicar of Dudley, deemed its author “a man whose genius and character seemed to merit the patronage of his country, while his pressing wants, in an equal degree, claimed its compassion.” The doctor “presumed to advocate his case and his cause” before the “Literary Fund,” and a donation honourable to the society afforded the poet temporary relief. This, says Millhouse, was “at a time when darkness surrounded me on every side.” In a letter to Dr. Booker, lamenting the failure of a subscription to indemnify him for publishing his poems, when sickness had reduced a wife and infant child to the borders of the grave, he says, “I am now labouring under indisposition both of body and mind; which, with the united evils of poverty and a bad trade, have brought on me a species of melancholy that requires the utmost exertions of my philosophy to encounter.” About this period he wrote the following:—
To a Leafless Hawthorn.
Has thrown thy verdant mantle to the ground:
Yet Nature, to thy vocal inmates kind,
With berries red thy matron-boughs has crown’d
Thee do I envy: for, bright April show’rs
Will bid again thy fresh green leaves expand;
And May, light floating in a cloud of flow’rs,
Will cause thee to re-bloom with magic hand.
But, on my spring, when genial dew drops fell,
Soon did life’s north-wind curdle them with frost;
And, when my summer-blossom op’d its bell,
In blight and mildew was its beauty lost.
Before adducing other specimens of his talents, it seems proper to give some account of the poet; and it can scarcely be better related than in the following
Memoir of Robert Millhouse, by his elder Brother, John Millhouse.
Robert Millhouse was born at Nottingham the 14th of October, 1783, and was the second of ten children. The poverty of his parents compelled them to put him to work at the age of six years, and when ten he was sent to work in a stocking-loom. He had been constantly sent to a Sunday school, (the one which was under the particular patronage of that truly philanthropic ornament of human nature, the late Mr. Francis Wakefield,) till about the last-mentioned age, when a requisition having been sent by the rector of St. Peter’s parish, Dr. Staunton, to the master of the school, for six of his boys to become singers at the church, Robert was one that was selected; and thus terminated his education, which merely consisted of reading, and the first rudiments of writing.
When sixteen years old he first evinced an inclination for the study of poetry, which originated in the following manner.—Being one day at the house of an acquaintance, he observed on the chimney-piece two small statues of Shakspeare and Milton, which attracting his curiosity, he read on a tablet in front of the former, that celebrated inscription—
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And like the baseless fabric of a vision,
Leave not a wreck behind!”
Its beauty and solemnity excited in his mind the highest degree of admiration At the first opportunity he related the occurrence to me with apparent astonishment, and concluded by saying, “Is it not Scripture?” In reply, I told him it was a passage from Shakspeare’s play of the “Tempest,” a copy of which I had in my possession, and that he had better read it. For, although he had from his infancy been accustomed to survey with delight the beautiful scenery which surrounds Nottingham, had heard with rapture the singing of birds, and been charmed with the varied beauties of the changing seasons; and though his feelings were not unfrequently awakened by hearing read pathetic narratives, or accounts of the actions and sufferings of great and virtuous men, yet he was totally ignorant that such things were in any wise connected with poetry.
He now began to read with eagerness such books as I had previously collected, the principal of which were some of the plays of Shakspeare, Paradise Lost, Pope’s Essay on Man, the select poems of Gray, Collins, Goldsmith, Prior, and Parnell, two volumes of the Tatler, and Goldsmith’s Essays, all of the cheapest editions. But, ere long, by uniting our exertions, we were enabled to purchase Suttaby’s miniature edition of Pope’s Homer, Dryden’s Virgil, Hawkesworth’s translation of Telemachus, Mickle’s version of the Lusiad, Thomson’s Seasons, Beattie’s Minstrel, &c. These were considered as being a most valuable acquisition; and the more so, because we had feared we should never be able to obtain a sight of some of them, through their being too voluminous and expensive.
In 1810 he became a soldier in the Nottinghamshire militia, joined the regiment at Plymouth, and shortly afterwards made an attempt at composition.
It will readily be expected that now, being separated, we should begin to correspond with each other; and one day, on opening a letter which I had just received from him, I was agreeably surprised at the sight of his first poetical attempt, the “Stanzas addressed to a Swallow;” which was soon after followed by the small piece written “On finding a Nest of Robins.” Shortly after this the regiment embarked at Plymouth, and proceeded to Dublin; from which place, in the spring of 1812, I received in succession several other efforts of his muse.
Being now desirous of knowing for certain whether any thing he had hitherto produced was worthy to appear in print, he requested me to transmit some of them to the editor of the Nottingham Review, with a desire that, if they met with his approbation, he would insert them in his paper; with which request that gentleman very promptly complied. Having now a greater confidence in himself, he attempted something of a larger kind, and produced, in the summer of 1812, the poem of “Nottingham Park.”
In 1814 the regiment was disembodied, when he again returned to the stocking-loom, and for several years entirely neglected composition. In 1817 he was placed on the staff of his old regiment, now the Royal Sherwood Foresters; and in the following year became a married man. The cares of providing for a family now increased his necessities; he began seriously to reflect on his future prospects in life; and perceiving he had no other chance of bettering his condition than by a publication, and not having sufficient already written to form a volume, he resolved to attempt something of greater magnitude and importance than he had hitherto done; and in February, 1819, began the poem of “Vicissitude.” The reader will easily conceive that such a theme required some knowledge of natural and moral philosophy, of history, and of the vital principles of religion. How far he has succeeded in this poem is not for me to say; but certain it is, as may be expected from the narrowness of his education, and his confined access to books, his knowledge is very superficial: however, with unceasing exertions, sometimes composing while at work under the pressure of poverty and ill-health, and at other times, when released from his daily labour, encroaching upon the hours which ought to have been allotted to sleep, by the end of October, 1820, the work was brought to a conclusion.
To his brother’s narrative should be added, that Robert Millhouse’s “Vicissitude,” and other poems, struggled into the world with great difficulty, and were succeeded by the volume of “Blossoms.” The impression of both was small, their sale slow, and their price low; and nearly as soon as each work was disposed of, the produce was exhausted by the wants of the author and his family.
Fresh and urgent necessities have required fresh exertions, and the result is “The Song of the Patriot, Sonnets, and Songs,” a four-shilling volume, “printed for the Author and sold by R. Hunter, St. Paul’s Church-yard, and J. Dunn, Nottingham.” The book appeared in the autumn of last year, after poor Millhouse had suffered much privation from the bad state of the times. It was published with a slender list of subscribers—only seventy-seven!—and, though intended to improve his situation, has scarcely defrayed the bills of the stationer and printer.
The author of “The Song of the Patriot” anticipated the blight of his efforts. In the commencement of that poem, he says:—
To raise their feeble pigmy heads so high,
As to attract the glance of passing ken
Where giant shoulders intercept the sky;
And ah! ’tis difficult for such as I,
To wake fit strains where mighty minstrels sing;
Perhaps, even this, shall but be born and die:
Not fated to enjoy a second spring,
But like some hawk-struck bird, expire on new-fledg’d wing.
In this poem there are stanzas expressed with all a poet’s fire, and all a patriot’s heartfelt devotion to his country.
Long be the bulwark of thy free-born race;
Long may thy patriots have just cause to boast
That mighty Albion is their native place;
Still be thy sons unequall’d in the chase
Of glory, be it science, arts, or arms;
And first o’erweening conquerors to disgrace;
Yet happier far, when Peace in all her charms,
Drives out from every land the din of war’s alarms.
Is one thing which the bard hath seldom scann’d;
That national, exalting local thrill,
Which makes our home a consecrated land:
’Tis not enough to stretch the Muses’ wand
O’er states, where thy best blood has purchas’d fame;
Nor that thy fertile genius should expand
To cast o’er foreign themes the witching flame:
This hath thy lyre perform’d, and won a glorious name.
And every grove and nook, the lover knows,
And every stream, and runlet that meanders,
And every plain that covers freedom’s foes
The dwelling-place of Song,—and where repose
The great immortal worthies of our isle
Be hallow’d ground—and when the pilgrim goes
To hail the sacred dust, and muse awhile,
Be heard the free-born strain to blanch the tyrant’s smile.
The patriotism of that people, traces of whose victories are observable in many of our customs, has been well discriminated. “In the most virtuous times of the Roman republic their country was the idol, at whose shrine her greatest patriots were at all times prepared to offer whole hecatombs of human victims: the interests of other nations were no further regarded, than as they could be rendered subservient to the gratification of her ambition; and mankind at large were considered as possessing no rights, but such as might with the utmost propriety be merged in that devouring vortex. With all their talents and their grandeur, they were unprincipled oppressors, leagued in a determined conspiracy against the liberty and independence of mankind.”[304] Every English patriot disclaims, on behalf of his country, the exclusive selfishness of Roman policy; and Millhouse is a patriot in the true sense of the word. His “Song of the Patriot” is a series of energetic stanzas, that would illustrate the remark. At the hazard of exceeding prescribed limits, two more are added to the specimens already quoted.
A sea-girt watch-tower to each neighbouring state;
A barrier, to control the despot’s will;
An instrument of all-directing fate
Is Britain; for whate’er in man is great,
Full to that greatness have her sons attain’d;
Dreadful in war to hurl the battle’s weight;
Supreme in arts, in commerce unrestrain’d;
Peerless in magic song, to hold the soul enchain’d.
Obtain’d by Labour’s persevering hand:
And heaven-born Liberty extends her smile
To the remotest corners of our land:
The meanest subject feels her potent wand;
Peasant and peer are by one law controll’d;
And this it is, that keeps us great and grand:
This is the impulse makes our warriors bold,
And knits more close the bond our fathers seal’d of old.
The prevailing feature in Robert Millhouse’s effusions is of a domestic nature. He loves his country, and deems his birthplace and the hearth of his family its brightest spots. One of his sonnets combines these feelings:—
Home.
Ye smiling hills, and spacious fertile vales!
Where oft I wander’d, plucking vernal flowers,
And revell’d in the odour-breathing gales;
Should fickle Fate, with talismanic wand,
Bear me afar where either India glows,
Or fix my dwelling on the Polar land,
Where Nature wears her ever-during snows;
Still shall your charms my fondest themes adorn,
When placid evening paints the western sky,
And when Hyperion wakes the blushing Morn,
To rear his gorgeous sapphire throne on high.
For, to the guileless heart, where’er we roam,
No scenes delight us like our much-lov’d Home.
A man so humble, with such acquirements as have been here exemplified, and so unfortunate as to have derived little from their exercise but pain and disappointment, may be imagined to have penned the following address in distress and despondency:—
To Genius.
What pangs, what cutting hardships wait on thee,
When thou art doom’d to cramping Poverty;
The pois’nous shafts from Defamation’s tongue,—
The jeers and tauntings of the blockhead throng,
Who joy to see thy bold exertions fail;
While Hunger, pinching as December’s gale,
Brings moody dark Despondency along.
And, should’st thou strive Fame’s lofty mount to scale,
The steps of its ascent are cut in sand;
And half-way up,—a snake-scourge in her hand,
Lurks pallid Envy, ready to assail:
And last, if thou the top, expiring, gain,
When Fame applauds, thou hearest not the strain.
In this sheet there is not room to further make known, or plead at greater length, the claims of Robert Millhouse to notice and protection. I should blush for any reader of poetical taste, with four shillings to spare, who, after perusing the preceding extracts, would hesitate to purchase the poet’s last little volume. I should more than blush for the more wealthy, who are reputed patrons of talent, if they decline to seek out and effectually succour him. I am, and am likely to remain, wholly unacquainted with him: my only wish is to induce attention to a talented and estimable individual, who is obscure and neglected, because he is unobtrusive and modest.
August 8, 1827. *
[304] Robert Hall.
AN INFERNAL PALINDROME.
[Palindrome. A word or sentence which is the same read backward as forwards: as, madam; or this sentence Subi dura a rudibus. Johnson.]
Whence did Geoffry Crayon derive “The Poor Devil Author,” the title to one of his “Tales of a Traveller,” but from a legendary story, according to which the devil is acquainted with versification, although his lines are constructed in a very remarkable manner; for they can be read forward and backward, and preserve the same sense. There is a specimen of this “literary ingenuity” in the present volume of the Table Book, (col. 28.) The “Lives of the Saints” afford another, viz:—
St. Martin (of whom there is an account in the Every-Day Book, vol. i. p. 1469) having given up the profession of a soldier, and being elected bishop of Tours, when prelates neither kept carriages, horses, nor servants, had occasion to go to Rome, in order to consult his holiness upon some important ecclesiastical matter. As he was walking gently along the road, he met the devil, who politely accosted him, and ventured to observe how fatiguing and indecorous it was for him to perform so long a journey on foot, like the commonest of cockle-shell-chaperoned pilgrims. The saint knew well the drift of Old Nick’s address, and commanded him immediately to become a beast of burthen, or jumentum; which the devil did in a twinkling, by assuming the shape of a mule. The saint jumped upon the fiend’s back, who, at first, trotted cheerfully along, but soon slackened his pace. The bishop, of course, had neither whip nor spurs, but was possessed of a much more powerful stimulus, for, says the legend, he made the sign of the cross, and the smarting devil instantly galloped away. Soon, however, and naturally enough, the father of sin returned to sloth and obstinacy, and Martin hurried him again with repeated signs of the cross, till twitched and stung to the quick by those crossings so hateful to him, the vexed and tired reprobate uttered the following distich in a rage:—
Roma tibi subito motibus ibit amor.
That is—“Cross, cross thyself—thou plaguest and vexest me without necessity; for, owing to my exertions, Rome, the object of thy wishes, will soon be near.” The singularity of this distich, consists, as hinted above, in its being palindromical; or it reads backwards as well as in the common way—Angis, the last word of the first line, makes signa—et makes te—and so on to the beginning. Amor, the last of the last line, read backwards, makes Roma—ibit makes tibi—and so forth.
These lines have been quoted imperfectly and separately in “Encyclopedies” and other books, under the words “Palindromical verses;” but the reader will not easily meet with the legendary tale, which gives them historical consistence and meaning.
Garrick Plays.
No. XXIX.
[From the “Gentleman Usher,” a Comedy, by G. Chapman, 1606.]
Vincentio, a Prince (to gain him over to his interest in a love-affair) gulls Bassiolo, a formal Gentleman Usher to a Great Lord, with commendations of his wise house-ordering at a great Entertainment.
Bass. Did it indeed, my Lord?
Vinc. O Sir, believe it,
’Twas the best fashion’d and well-order’d thing,
That ever eye beheld: and therewithal,
The fit attendance by the servants used,
The gentle guise in serving every guest,
In other entertainments; every thing
About your house so sortfully disposed,
That ev’n as in a turn-spit (call’d a Jack)
One vice[305] assists another; the great wheels,
Turning but softly, make the less to whirr
About their business; every different part
Concurring to one commendable end:
So, and in such conformance, with rare grace
Were all things order’d in your good Lord’s house.
Bass. The most fit Simile that ever was.
Vinc. But shall I tell you plainly my conceit,
Touching the man that (I think) caused this order?
Bass. Aye, good my Lord.
Vinc. You note my Simile?
Bass. Drawn from the turn-spit——
Vinc. I see, you have me.
Even as in that quaint engine you have seen
A little man in shreds stand at the winder,
And seems to put in act all things about him,
Lifting and pulling with a mighty stir,—
Yet adds no force to it, nor nothing does:
So, though your Lord be a brave gentleman,
And seems to do this business, he does nothing.
Some man about him was the festival robe
That made him shew so glorious and divine.
Bass. I cannot tell, my Lord; but I should know,
If any such there were.
Vinc. Should know, quoth you?
I warrant, you know well. Well, some there be,
Shall have the fortune to have such rare men
(Like brave Beasts to their arms) support their state;
When others, of as high a worth and breed,
Are made the wasteful food of them they feed.—
What state hath your Lord made you for your service?
The same Bassiolo described.
My father’s Usher, but the world’s beside,
Because he goes before it all in folly.
[From the “Bastard,” a Tragedy, Author Unknown, 1652.]
Lover’s Frown.
On all my actions; and I am advised,
That his suspicious ears
Are still behind the hangings; that the servants
Have from him in command to watch who visits.
’Tis safest, in my judgment, in his presence
That thou forbear to cast a smile upon me;
And that, like old December, I should look
With an unpleasant and contracted brow.
Varina. What, can’st thou change thy heart, my dear, that heart
Of flesh thou gav’st me, into adamant,
Or rigid marble? can’st thou frown on me?
Rod. You do mistake me, sweet, I mean not so
To change my heart; I’ll change my countenance,
But keep my heart as loyal as before.
Var. In truth I cannot credit it, that thou
Can’st cast a frown on me; I prithee, try.
Rod. Then thus:
(he tries, and cannot; they smile on each other.)
This lesson thou must learn; in faith thou art out.
Rod. Well, I must learn, and practice it, or we
Shall blast our budding hopes.
Var. Come, try again.
Rod. But if I try, and prove a good proficient;
If I do act my part discretely, you
Must take it as a play, not as a truth;
Think it a formal, not a real frown.
Var. I shall——
Rod. Then thus: i’faith, minion, I’ll look to thee.
(she swoons.)
Now I have learn’d my part, you are to seek.
Var. ’Faith, ’twas my weakness; when I did perceive
A cloud of rage condensed on thy brow,
My heart began to melt.——
[From “Love Tricks,” a Comedy, by James Shirley.]
Passionate Courtship.
Selina. Must! but I don’t see any necessity that
I must love you. I do confess you are
A proper man.
Inf. O do not mock, Selina; let not excellence,
Which you are full of, make you proud and scornful.
I am a Gentleman; though my outward part
Cannot attract affection, yet some have told me,
Nature hath made me what she need not shame.
Yet look into my heart; there you shall see
What you cannot despise, for there you are
With all your graces waiting on you; there
Love hath made you a throne to sit, and rule
O’er Infortunio; all my thoughts obeying,
And honouring you as queen. Pass by my outside,
My breast I dare compare with any man.
Sel. But who can see this breast you boast of so?
Inf. O ’tis an easy work; for though it be
Not to be pierced by the dull eye, whose beam
Is spent on outward shapes, there is a way
To make a search into its hidden’st passage.
I know you would not love, to please your sense.
A tree, that bears a ragged unleav’d top
In depth of winter, may when summer comes
Speak by his fruit he is not dead but youthful,
Though once he shew’d no sap: my heart’s a plant
Kept down by colder thoughts and doubtful fears.
Your frowns like winter storms make it seem dead,
But yet it is not so; make it but yours,
And you shall see it spring, and shoot forth leaves
Worthy your eye, and the oppressed sap
Ascend to every part to make it green,
And pay your love with fruit when harvest comes.
Sel. Then you confess your love is cold as yet,
And winter’s in your heart.
Inf. Mistake me not, Selina, for I say
My heart is cold, not love.
Sel. And yet your love is from your heart, I’ll warrant.
Inf. O you are nimble to mistake.
My heart is cold in your displeasures only,
And yet my love is fervent; for your eye,
Casting out beams, maintains the flame it burns in.
Again, sweet Love,
My heart is not mine own, ’tis yours, you have it;
And while it naked lies, not deign’d your bosom
To keep it warm, how can it be but cold,
In danger to be frozen? blame not it,
You only are in fault it hath no heat.
Sel. Well, Sir; I know you have rhetoric, but I
Can without art give you a final answer.
Inf. O stay, and think awhile; I cannot relish
You should say final: sweet, deliberate;
It doth concern all the estate I have;
I mean not dunghill treasure, but my life
Doth stand or fall to it; if your answer be
That you can love me, be as swift as light’ning;
But if you mean to kill me, and reject
My so long love-devotions, which I’ve paid
As to an altar, stay a little longer,
And let me count the riches I shall lose
By one poor airy word; first give me back
That part of Infortunio that is lost
Within your love; play not the tyrant with me.
C. L.