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And young and old com forth to play
Hence, vain deluding Joyes,
The brood of Folly without father bred, How little you bested
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toyes ? Dwell in some idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou Goddess, sage and holy, Hail divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'relaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, Or that starr'd Ethiope queen that strove To set her beautie's praise above The sea-nymphs, and their pow'rs offended : Yet thou art higher far descended. Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore To solitary Saturn bore; His daughter she (in Saturn's reign, Such mixture was not held a stain) Oft in glimmering bowres and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove. Come pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, stedfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Following with majestick train, And sable stole of Ciprus lawn, Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step, and musing gate, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: There held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast: And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring, Aye round about Jove's altar sing: And add to these retired Leasure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; But first, and chiefest, with thee bring, Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation; And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
That own'd the vertuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride; And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of turneys and of trophies hung, Of forests and inchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus Night oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited morn appeer, Not trickt and flounct as she was wont With the Attick boy to hunt, But cherchef'd in a comely cloud, While rocking winds are piping loud, Or usher'd with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves, With minute drops from off the eaves. And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me Goddess bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown that Sylvan loves Of pine, or monumental oake, Where the rude ax with heaved stroke Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. There in close covert by some brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from Day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowry work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep: And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in airy stream Of lively portraiture display'd, Softly on my eyelids laid. And as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Or th' unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloysters pale, And love the high embowed roof,
With antick pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dimm religious light. There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voic'd quire below
In service high, and anth cleer, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into exstasies, And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peacefull hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more Of every star that Heav'n doth shew,
bent And every herb that sips the dew;
To serve therewith my Maker, and present Till old Experience do attain
My true account, least he returning chide; To something like prophetic strain.
Doth God exact day labour, light denied, These pleasures, Melancholy, give
I fondly ask? but patience to prevent And I with thee will choose to live.
That murmur, soon replies: God doth not
need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best: On his Blindness.
his state When I consider how my light is spent Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And post o’re land and ocean without rest; And that one talent which is death to hide, They also serve who only stand and waite.
Sir John Suckling ward 1609 zu Witham in der Grafschaft Middlesex geboren, zeichnete sich schon früh durch die glänzendsten Fähigkeiten aus und hatte bereits noch ehe er sein zwanzigstes Jahr vollendet, einen grossen Theil Europa’s bereist und unter Gustav Adolph mit Ruhm gefochten. Bei seiner Rückkehr nach England führte er ein lustiges, verschwenderisches Leben und zog später Karl I. mit einer Schaar von hundert Reitern zu Hülfe, die sich aber nicht eben durch Tapferkeit auszeichneten. Dadurch aus seinem Taumel erwacht, ward Suckling einer der eifrigsten Vertheidiger seines unglücklichen Königs und musste nach Frankreich fliehen. Die Hinterlist eines treulosen Dieners, der ihn bestahl und die Verfolgung zu verhindern suchte, zog ihm eine gefährliche Wunde zu, an der er am 7. Mai 1641 starb.
Sucklings Muse ist die Muth willigkeit, er hat ein grosses Talent leichter heiterer Darstellung, Witz, anmuthige Nachlässigkeit und Grazie und bildet den Uebergang von den Dichtern aus Elisabeths Zeit zu denen unter Karl II. von England. Seine Poesieen sind meist lyrischen Inhalts, doch hat er auch Dramen hinterlassen, welche zu ihrer Zeit gern gesehen wurden.
When I had done what man could do,
And thought the place mine owne, The enemy lay quiet too,
And smil'd at all was done.
| This heat of hope, or cold of fear,
I sent to know from whence and where
When I am hungry I do eat, These hopes, and this relief?
And cut no fingers 'stead of meat; A spie informd, honour was there,
Nor with much gazing on her face, And did command in chief.
Do e'er rise hungry from the place. March, march, (quoth I) the world straight give, a gentle round fill’d to the the brink, Let's lose no time, but leave her;
To this and t'other friend I drink; That giant upon ayre will live,
And if 'tis nam'd another's health,
I never make it her's by stealth.
Black fryars to me, and old Whitehall, I hate a fool that starves her love
Is even as much as is the fall
Of fountains on a pathless grove,
Love turn'd to Hatred. That part of us ne'er knew that we did love;
Or from the air ? Our gentle sighs had birth I will not love one minute more, I swear, From such sweet raptures as to joy did move; No not a minute; not a sigh or tear
Our thoughts, as pure as the chaste morning's Thou gett'st from me, or one kind look again,
breath, Though thou should’st court me to 't, and when from the night's cold arms it creeps away,
Were cloath'd in words; and maiden's blush I will not think of thee, but as men do
that hath Of debts and sins, and then I'll curse thee too:
More purity, more innocence than they. For thy sake, woman shall be now to me
Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale, Less welcome, than at midnight ghosts shall be. No briny tear has furrow'd her smooth cheek; I'll hate so perfectly, that it shall be
And I was pleas'd, I pray what should he ail Treason to love that man that loves a she;
That had her love, for what else could he seek? Nay, I will hate the very good, I swear,
We short'ned days to moments by Love's art, That's in thy sex, because it does lie there;
Whilst our two souls in am'rous ecstasy
Our love had been of still eternity.
Thou hast no correspondence had in heav'n,
And th' elemental world, thou see'st, is free:
Whence hadst thou then, this talking monster? Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds, Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate, From hell, a harbour fit for it and thee. Canker of conversation! could'st thou find Curst be th' officious tongue that did address Nought but our love, whereon to shew thy hate? Thee to her ears, to ruin my content: Thou never wert, when we two were alone; May it one minute taste such happiness, What canst thou witness then? thy base dull aid Deserving loos'd unpitied it lament! Was useless in our conversation,
I must forbear the sight, and so repay Where each meant more than could by both be In grief, those hours joy short'ned to a dream:
Each minute I will lengthen to a day, Whence hadst thou thy intelligence, from earth? | And in one year outlive Methusalem.
Samuel Butler, der Sohn eines Pächters, ward 1612 zu Stresham in Worcestershire geboren und erhielt eine wissenschaftliche Bildung, die er in Cambridge vollendete, ohne jedoch dort Mitglied eines Collegiums zu sein. Er ward darauf Schreiber bei einem Friedensrichter, trat dann in die Dienste der Gräfin von Kent und nachher in die des Sir Samuel Luke, eines hohen Beamten unter Cromwell, in dessen Hause er sich die genaue Kenntniss des Wesens der Puritaner angeeignet, den Plan zu seinem berühmten Epos gefasst und Sir Luke selbst zum Vorbild für seinen Hudibras gewählt haben soll. Während der Restauration zog Butler nach London und liess hier 1663 den ersten, 1664 den zweiten und 1678 den dritten Theil seines komischen Heldengedichtes erscheinen, das grosses Aufsehen machte und am Hofe Karls II. mit lebhaftestem Interesse gelesen wurde, da es die feindliche Partei auf das Bitterste verspottete. Dem Dichter aber trug es keine andere Frucht als den wohlverdienten Ruhm; er lebte und starb in Armuth 1680; ein treuer Freund musste ihn