And none to other find the way at all. Raym. Pursue the project, scholar; what we can do To help endeavour, join our lives thereto.* The PRIORESS OF CHESTON'S charge to fair MILLISENT. Jesus' daughter, Mary's child, Holy matron, woman mild, For thee a Mass shall still be said, Every sister drop a bead; And those again, succeeding them, For you shall sing a Requiem. To her Father. May your happy soul be blithe, 10 That so truly pay your tithe; He, that many children gave, 'Tis fit that he one child should have. To Millisent. Then, fair virgin, hear my spell, For I must your duty tell. First a-mornings take your book, The glass wherein yourself must look ; Your young thoughts, so proud and jolly, You must do penance, pray and fast. Keep your hours, and toll your knell, 20 20 * This scene has much of Shakspeare's manner in the sweetness and goodnaturedness of it. It seems written to make the reader happy. Few of our dramatists or novelists have attended enough to this. They torture and wound us abundantly. They are economists only in delight. Nothing can be finer, more gentlemanlike, and noble, than the conversation and compliments of these young men. How delicious is Raymond Mounchensey's forgetting, in his fears, that Jerningham has a "Saint in Essex;" and how sweetly his friend reminds him!-I wish it could be ascertained that Michael Drayton was the author of this piece: it would add a worthy appendage to the renown of that Panegyrist of my native Earth; who has gone over her soil (in his Polyolbion) with the fidelity of a herald, and the painful love of a son; who has not left a rivulet (so narrow that it may be stept over) without honourable mention; and has animated Hills and Streams with life and passion above the dreams of old mythology. Rise at midnight to your matins, Read your psalter, sing your Latins; And when your blood shall kindle pleasure, Scourge yourself in plenteous measure. You must read the morning mass, You must creep unto the cross, XXX. (G.) RAM ALLEY: A COMEDY. BY LODOWICK BARRY. 10 In the Prologue the Poet protests the innocence of his Play and gives a promise of better things. Home-bred mirth our Muse doth sing; But if conceit, with quick-turn'd scenes, Which from the Horse-foot fount do flow As time, place, person-and to show 20 Things never done with that true life, That thoughts and wits shall stand at strife, Or whether we ourselves now do The things we but present: if these, 30 And never cease his brain to toil, As he a friend to Muses is, XXXI. (G.) TETHYS' FESTIVAL. BY SAMUEL DANIEL. Song at a Court Masque. Are they shadows that we see? 10 20 Tho' you take it not to hold: When your eyes have done their part, 30 Thought must length it in the heart. |