Hack.-Well, thou shalt pay sweetly for spoiling him ; it was as lusty a nag as any in Rochester, and one that would stand upon no ground.

Dro. Then he is as good as ever he was; I'll warrant he'll do nothing but lie down.

Hack. I lent him thee gently.

Dro. And I restored him so gently that he neither would cry wyhie, nor wag his tail.

Hack. But why did'st thou bore him through the ears? Ris. It may be he was set in the pillory, because he had not a true pace.

Half-No, it was for tiring.

Hack. He would never tire; it may be he would be weary, he would go no further, or so.

Dro.-Yes, he was a notable horse for service, he would tire and retire.

Hack. Do you think I'll be jested out of my horse? Sergeant wreak thy office on him.

Ris.-Nay, let him be bailed.

--

Hack. So he shall be when I make him a bargain. Dro.—It was a very good horse I must needs confess :

and now hearken of his qualities, and have patience to hear them since I must pay for him.He would stumble one mile in three hours. I had thought I had rode upon addices between this and Canterbury. If I gave him water, why he would lie down and bathe himself like a hawk. If one ran him, he would simper and mump, as though he had gone a wooing to a malt-mare at Rochester. He trotted before and ambled behind, and was so obedient, that he would do duty every minute on his knees, as though every stone had been his father.

Hack. I am sure he had no diseases.

Dro.-A little rheum or pose, he lacked nothing but a hand-keecher.

Serj.-Come, what a tale of a horse have we here; I cannot stay, thou must with me to prison."

"And was not this a dainty dish to set before a Queen !”

It remains now to notice what Mr. Campbell is pleased to call our author's "sweet lyric songs," and these are reserved to the last that the reader and honest John Lilly may part good friends. They constitute much the better portion of his dramatic labours. It is however most necessary, in selecting these "musical notes which fell so admirably into the ears of our ever famous Queen," to proceed with caution. Much of this poet's music is married to words so gross, that it is better suited to the tap-room than the court; indeed it must be a matter of wonder to all who explore it, how the Queen and her ladies could ever sit it out. The following are unobjectionable.

From Alexander and Campaspe.

Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses: Cupid paid.-
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,

His mother's doves, and team of

sparrows: Loses them too: then down he throws

The coral of his lips, the rose

Growing on his cheek-but none knows how,

With these the chrystal of his brow,

And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love! has she done this to thee?
What then alas! becomes of me!

i

From the same.

What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
Oh! 'tis the ravished nightingale,
Jug, jug,—jug, jug,—terue,—she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.

Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The morn not waking 'till she sings.

Hark, hark! with what a pretty note
Poor Robin red-breast tunes his throat!
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
"Cuckoo,”—to welcome in the spring?
From Sappho and Phaon.

O cruel love! on thee I lay

My curse, which shall strike blind thy day.
Never may sleep with velvet hand

Charm thine eyes with sacred wand!
Thy jailors shall be hopes and fears,
Thy prison-mates groans, sighs, and tears:
Thy play, to wear out weary times,
Fantastic passions, vows, and rhymes.
Thy bed thou liest on be despair,

Thy sleep fond dreams, thy dreams long care.
Hope, like a fool, at thy bed's head

Mock thee, 'till madness strike thee dead.

As Phaon, thou dost me with thy proud eyes: In thee poor Sappho lives, for thee she dies! From Galathea.

O yes! O yes! if any maid

Whom jeering Cupid has betrayed
To frowns of spite, to eyes of scorn,
And would in madness now see torn

The boy in pieces; let her come
Hither, and lay on him her doom!

O yes! O yes! has any lost

A heart which many a sigh has cost? cozened of a tear

Is

any

Which as a pearl, disdain doth wear?

Here stands the thief; let her but come
Hither, and lay on him her doom?

Is any one undone by fire,

And turn'd to ashes through desire?
Did ever any lady weep,

Being cheated of her golden sleep,
Stolen by sick thoughts; the pirate's found,
And in her tears he shall be drowned.

Read his indictment; let him hear

What he's to trust to boy, give ear!
From Midas.

Sing to Apollo, god of day,

Whose golden beams with morning play,
And make her eyes so brightly shine,
Aurora's face is called divine.

Sing to Phoebus and that throne

Of diamonds which he sits upon. lô pœans let us sing,

To physic's and to poesy's king!

Crown all his altars with bright fire,
Laurels bind about his lyre,
A Daphnean coronet for his head;
The muses dance about his bed,
When on his ravishing lute he plays,
Strew his temple round with bays.
Iâ pœans let us sing,

To the glittering Delian king!

MICHAEL DRAYTON,

BORN 1563.-DIED 1631.

From the Poly-olbion-Song the eighteenth..

The praise of Kent.

A

When now the Kentish nymphs do interrupt her song, By letting Medway know she tarried had too long Upon this warlike troop, and all upon them laid, Yet for their nobler Kent she nought or little said. When as the pliant muse, straight turning her about,. And coming to the land as Medway goeth out,

Saluting the dear soil, "O famous Kent, quoth she, "What country hath this isle that can compare with thee, Which hast within thyself as much as thou canst wish? Thy conies, venson, fruit, thy sorts of fowl and fish: And what with strength comports, thy hay, thy corn, thy wood:

Nor any thing doth want, that any where is good. Where Thames-ward to the shore, which shoots upon the rise,

Rich Tenham undertakes thy closets to suffice

With cherries, which we say, the summer in doth bring, Where with Pomona crowns the plump and lustful spring;

From whose deep ruddy cheek, sweet zephyr kisses steals,

With their delicious touch his love-sick heart that heals.