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some degree confirmed by an allusion of his own to 'the time of his residence at Cambridge.'

The following curious notice of Heywood, in which an allusion is made to the poverty under which he suffered at one period of his life, if not throughout his whole career of labour and struggle, is extracted from a poem on the Times' Poets, published by Mr. Halliwell amongst the miscellaneous papers of the Shakespeare Society. It occurs in a very scarce volume, bearing the date of 1656, and entitled Choyce Drollery, Songs, and Sonnets, being a collection of divers excellent pieces of poetry of several eminent authors, never before printed:

The squibbling Middleton, and Heywood sage,

The apologetic Atlas of the stage;

Well of the Golden Age he could entreat,
But little of the metal he could get;

Threescore sweet babes he fashioned from the lump,

For he was christened in Parnassus' pump,

The Muses gossip to Aurora's bed,

And ever since that time his face was red.]

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

NOW

WHAT IS LOVE?

OW what is love I will thee tell,
It is the fountain and the well,

Where pleasure and repentance dwell:

It is perhaps the sansing bell,*

That rings all in to heaven or hell,

And this is love, and this is love, as I hear tell.

Now what is love I will you show:

A thing that creeps and cannot go;
A prize that passeth to and fro;
A thing for me, a thing for mo':
And he that proves shall find it so,

And this is love, and this is love, sweet friend, I trow.

* Sanctus bell, or Saint's bell, that called to prayers.

TAVERN SIGNS.

THE gentry to the King's Head,

The nobles to the Crown,

The knights unto the Golden Fleece,
And to the Plough the clown.
The churchman to the Mitre,
The shepherd to the Star,

The gardener hies him to the Rose,
To the Drum the man of war;

To the Feathers, ladies, you; the Globe
The sea-man doth not scorn:

The usurer to the Devil, and

The townsman to the Horn.

The huntsman to the White Hart,
To the Ship the merchants go,
But you that do the muses love,
The Sign called River Po.

The banquerout to the World's End,
The fool to the Fortune hie,
Unto the Mouth the oyster wife,

The fiddler to the Pie.

The punk unto the Cockatrice,
The drunkard to the Vine,

The beggar to the Bush, then meet,
And with Duke Humphrey dine.

THE DEATH BELL.

COME, list and hark, the bell doth toll

For some but now departing soul. And was not that some ominous fowl, The bat, the night-crow, or screech-owl? To these I hear the wild wolf howl, In this black night that seems to scowl. All these my black-book death enroll, For hark, still, still, the bell doth toll For some but now departing soul.

LOVE'S MISTRESS; OR, THE QUEEN'S MASQUE.

THE PRAISES OF PAN.

HOU that art called the bright Hyperion, Wert thou more strong than Spanish Geryon That had three heads upon one man,

Compare not with our great god Pan.

They call thee son of bright Latona,
But girt thee in thy torrid zona,
Sweat, baste and broil, as best thou can;
Thou art not like our dripping Pan.

What cares he for the great god Neptune,
With all the broth that he is kept in;
Vulcan or Jove he scorns to bow to,
Hermes, or the infernal Pluto.

Then thou that art the heavens' bright eye,

Or burn, or scorch, or broil, or fry,

Be thou a god, or be thou man,
Thou art not like our frying Pan.

They call thee Phoebus, god of day,

Years, months, weeks, hours, of March and May;

Bring up thy army in the van,

We'll meet thee with our pudding Pan.

Thyself in thy bright chariot settle,
With skillet armed, brass-pot or kettle,
With jug, black-pot, with glass or can,
No talking to our warming Pan.

Thou hast thy beams thy brows to deck,
Thou hast thy Daphne at thy beck:
Pan hath his horns, Syrinx, and Phillis,
And I, Pan's swain, my Amaryllis.

FIRST PART OF KING EDWARD

IV.

AGINCOURT.

AGINCOURT, Agincourt! know ye not Agincourt?

English slew and hurt

All the French foemen?

With our guns and bills brown,
Oh, the French were beat down,
Morris-pikes and bowmen.

W

THE SILVER AGE.

HARVEST-HOME.

ITH fair Ceres, Queen of Grain,

The reaped fields we roam, roam, roam:
Each country peasant, nymph, and swain,
Sing their harvest home, home, home;
Whilst the Queen of Plenty hallows
Growing fields, as well as fallows.

Echo, double all our lays,

Make the champaigns sound, sound, sound,

To the Queen of Harvest's praise,

That sows and reaps our ground, ground, ground.

Ceres, Queen of Plenty, hallows

Growing fields, as well as fallows.

THE FAIR MAID OF THE EXCHANGE.

YE

GO, PRETTY BIRDS.

E little birds that sit and sing
Amidst the shady valleys,

And see how Phillis sweetly walks,
Within her garden-alleys;

Go, pretty birds, about her bower;
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;
Ah, me! methinks I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go, tell her, through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden,

To her is only known my love,

Which from the world is hidden.
Go, pretty birds, and tell her so;
See that your notes strain not too low,
For still, methinks, I see her frown,
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go, tune your voices' harmony,
And sing, I am her lover;

Strain loud and sweet, that every note
With sweet content may move her.
And she that hath the sweetest voice,
Tell her I will not change my choice;
Yet still, methinks, I see her frown.
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Oh, fly! make haste! see, see, she falls
Into a pretty slumber.

Sing round about her rosy bed,

That waking, she may wonder.
Say to her, 'tis her lover true
That sendeth love to you, to you;
And when you hear her kind reply,
Return with pleasant warblings.

A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY.

THE

THE NATIONS.

HE Spaniard loves his ancient slop;
A Lombard the Venetian;

And some like breechless women go,
The Russe, Turk, Jew, and Grecian:

The thrifty Frenchman wears small waist,
The Dutch his belly boasteth;
The Englishman is for them all,

And for each fashion coasteth.

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