For if their music please in earthly things,

How would it sound, if strung with heav'nly strings.

This appears to be a squib against the poets of the day, for wasting their talents on hateful rhyme, i. e. poetry upon trivial subjects, instead of stringing their lyres with heavenly strings; but alas! public approbation (more's the pity) is not meted out according to a graduated scale, rising progressively with the subjects treated of. The finest poetry in the world, unsupported by fashion, will scarce command a purchaser; but let an author season his book with a good sprinkling of vulgar slang, (alias modern fashionable conversation,) not forgetting the sauce piquante of a little quiet scandal and immorality, for the benefit of juvenile readers; and he is then qualified to take his place on the same shelf with the "Mighty Masters" of the olden time. A single sheet of Don Juan probably produced more to its author than the immortal Milton received for Paradise Lost.

CCXCIX.

I weigh* not fortune's frown nor smile,
I joy not much in earthly joys;

I seek not state, I seek not style,
I am not fond of fancy's toys:
I rest so pleased with what I have,
I wish no more, no more I crave.

Second Part.

I tremble not at noise of war,

I quake not at the thunder's crack;

I shrink not at the blazing star,

I sound+ not at the news of wrack;

* Weigh not, i. e. value not.

† Swoon.

I feign not friendship where I hate,
I fawn not on the great for grace;

I prize a happy, mean estate,

Ne yet too lofty, nor too base:
This is all my choice, my cheer,—

A mind content, and conscience clear.

Each of these stanzas is set to music by Gibbons, and forms a separate number in his table of contents. The author is one Mr. Joshua Sylvester, who died about 1618. In his earliest publication he styles himself a merchant adventurer. (vide Ellis's Specimens, vol. ii. p. 330.)

A very similar style of writing will be observed in the little poem, My mind to me a kingdom is, (vide Byrd's Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs of sadness and pietie.) But I am afraid that the authors of both describe a paragon of perfection, not to be met with in this sublunary world.

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CCC.

Dainty fine bird, that art encaged there,
Alas! how like thine and my fortunes are!
Both pris'ners be, and both still singing thus,
Strive to please her that hath imprison'd us:
Only in this we differ, thou and I,

Thou livest singing, but I singing die.

This very elegant apostrophe to "The bird in yonder cage confined," is also set to music by Thomas Vautor, 1620, from whose Madrigals I have made the alteration singing die, instead of sing and die as Gibbons has it. The first is a much stronger antithesis to livest singing.

CCCI.

What is our life? a play of passion;
Our mirth? the music of division :
Our mothers' wombs the tyring houses be,
Where we are drest for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,
That sits and marks whoe'er doth act amiss :
Our graves, that hide us from the searching sun,
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we playing to our latest rest,

Only we die in earnest,—that's no jest.

The allegory here is well kept up, from the commencement of the play to the final drawing of the curtain; and for quaintness of expression might pass for a versified passage out of old Baxter's Saint's Rest. One phrase requires a little explanation as connected with theatrical matters.

Music of division means airs with a number of variations (or divisions as they were called) upon a ground bass, much in vogue at that period, and probably played by way of interludes.

As witnesses to the truth of the picture, I appeal to such of my readers as have lived even half the time allotted to mankind. Will ye not be ready to exclaim with Shakspeare, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players ?"

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CCCII.

Ah! dear heart, why do you rise?

The light that shines comes from your eyes.
The day breaks not-it is my heart,

To think that you and I must part.

This pretty conceit, which reminds one of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet, was written by Dr. Donne, who lived from 1573 to 1631. Three stanzas more are in the original poem, but they are inferior to the above.

СССІІІ.

Fair is the rose, yet fades with heat or cold;
Sweet are the violets, yet soon grow old:
The lily's white, yet in one day 't is done,
White is the snow, yet melts against the sun.
So white, so sweet, was my fair mistress' face,
Yet alter'd quite within one short hour's space.
So short-lived beauty a vain gloss doth borrow,
Breathing delight to-day, but none to-morrow.

This and the following Madrigal ought to be constantly upon the toilet-table of every young lady who is too fond of her glass (mirror, I beg pardon) as an illustration of the advice given by the Latin poet, nimium ne crede colori.

CCCIV.

Trust not too much, fair youth, unto thy feature ;
Be not enamour'd of thy blushing hue:

Be gamesome, whiles thou art a goodly creature,
The flowers will fade that in thy garden grew.
Sweet violets are gather'd in the spring,

White primit falls withouten pitying.

Poets make a terrible fuss about beauty! In short, the dangers attending its possession, as well as the désagréments incident to its loss, are so great, that I begin to think she has the greatest chance of happiness who can say with Audrey, in As You Like It, "Thank the Gods, I am foul*."

JOHN WARD.

I know of no printed work by this composer, except his "First set of English Madrigals of three, four, five, and "six parts, apt both for viols and voices, with a mourning "song in memory of Prince Henry. Printed by Thos. Snodham, 1613." And thus dedicated,

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"To the Honourable Gentleman, and my very good "Maister, Sir Henry Fanshawe, Knight.

* Ugly.