Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair.

At Charing-Cross, hard by the way,
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs;

And there did I see coming down
Such folk as are not in our town,
Forty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine
(His beard no bigger though than thine)
Walked on before the rest:

Our landlord looks like nothing to him:
The King (God bless him) 'twould undo him,
Should he go still so drest.

At Course-a-Park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i' th' town:
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the Green,
Or Vincent of the Crown.

But wot you what? the youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing:

The parson for him stayed:
Yet by his leave (for all his haste)
He did not so much wish all past
(Perchance), as did the maid.

The maid (and thereby hangs a tale),
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale

Could ever yet produce:

No grape, that's kindly ripe, could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring,
Would not stay on, which they did bring,
It was too wide a peck:

And to say truth (for out it must)

It looked like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice stole in and out,

As if they feared the light:

But O she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter day
Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,

No daisy makes comparison,

(Who sees them is undone,)

For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Catherine pear,

The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin
(Some bee had stung it newly);
But Dick, her eyes so guard her face;
I durst no more upon them gaze

Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,
That they might passage get;

But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.

Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;

Each serving man, with dish in hand,
Marched boldly up, like our trained band,
Presented, and away.

When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife or teeth was able
To stay to be intreated?

And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,
The company was seated.

The business of the kitchen's great,
For it is fit that men should eat;
Nor was it there denied:

Passion o' me, how I run on!

There's that that would be thought upon (I trow) besides the bride.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick:
And when 'twas named another's health,
Perhaps he made it hers by stealth;
And who could help it, Dick?

On the sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again and sigh, and glance:
Then dance again and kiss:
Thus several ways the time did pass,
Whilst ev'ry woman wished her place,
And every man wished his.

By this time all were stolen aside,
To counsel and undress the bride;
But that he must not know:

But yet 'twas thought he guessed her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind
Above an hour or so.

ORSAMES' SONG IN "AGLAURA."

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?

Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move:
This cannot take her.

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her.

The devil take her!

SONG.

I prithee send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine:

For if from yours you will not part,

Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain,

For th' hast a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie
And yet not lodge together?

O love, where is thy sympathy,

If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out:

For when I think I'm best resolved,

I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,

I will no longer pine:

For I'll believe I have her heart,

As much as she hath mine.

CONSTANCY.

Out upon it, I have loved

Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings,

Ere he shall discover

In the whole wide world again

Such a constant lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise

Is due at all to me:

Love with me had made no stays,

Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she,

And that very face,

There had been at least ere this

A dozen dozen in her place.

RELIGIO MEDICI.

BY SIR THOMAS BROWNE.

66

[SIR THOMAS BROWNE: English physician and antiquary; born in London, 1605; died at Norwich, 1682. He studied at Oxford, Montpellier, Padua, and Leyden (where he took M.D.), and in 1637 settled in practice at Norwich. Knighted, 1671. His masterpiece, Religio Medici" (1643), is one of the classics of English literature, and has been translated into the principal European languages. Other works are: "Inquiries into Vulgar and Common Errors "(1646); "Hydriotaphia, or Urn Burial," with "The Garden of Cyrus" (1658); "Christian Morals," a collection of aphorisms, posthumous.]

PERSECUTION is a bad and indirect way to plant religion; it hath been the unhappy method of angry devotions, not only to confirm honest religion, but wicked heresies and extravagant opinions. 'Tis not in the power of every honest faith to proceed thus far, or pass to heaven through the flames. Every one hath it not in that full measure, nor in so audacious and resolute a temper, as to endure those terrible tests and trials; who, notwithstanding, in a peaceable way, do truly adore their Saviour, and have (no doubt) a faith acceptable in the eyes of God.

Now, as all that die in the war are not termed soldiers, so neither can I properly term all those that suffer in matters of religion, martyrs. There are many (questionless) canonized on earth, that shall never be saints in heaven, and have their names in histories and martyrologies, who, in the eyes of God, are not so perfect martyrs as was that wise heathen Socrates, that suffered on a fundamental point of religion - the unity of God. I have often pitied the miserable bishop that suffered in the cause of antipodes, yet cannot choose but accuse him of as much madness, for exposing his living on such a trifle, as those of ignorance and folly, that condemned him. I think my conscience will not give me the lie, if I say there are not many extant, that, in a noble way, fear the face of death less than myself; yet, from the moral duty I owe to the commandment of God, and the natural respect that I tender unto the conservation of my essence and being, I would not perish upon a ceremony, politic points, or indifferency: nor is my belief of that untractable temper as not to bow at their obstacles, or connive at matters wherein there are not manifest impieties. The leaven, therefore, and ferment of all, not only civil, but