Rich as a pearl
Comes every girl.

This is mine, this is mine, this is mine;
Let us die ere away they be borne.

Bow to the sun, to our queen, and that fair one
Come to behold our sports:

Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one,
As those in a prince's courts.
These and we

With country glee

Will teach the woods to resound,
And the hills with echoes hollow:
Skipping lambs

Their bleating dams

'Mongst kids shall trip it round;
For joy thus our wenches we follow.

Wind, jolly huntsmen, your neat bugles shrilly;
Hounds, make a lusty cry;

Spring up, you falconers, the partridges freely;
Then let your brave hawks fly.
Horses, amain

Over ridge, over plain,

The dogs have the stag in chase:
'Tis a sport to content a king.

So, ho, ho! through the skies
How the proud bird flies,

And, sousing, kills with a grace

!

Now the deer falls; hark, how they ring!

GEORGE WITHER.

(1588-1667.)

GEORGE WITHER was a native of Hampshire, and one of the most abundant writers of verse in James's reign. His first essay was a poem on Prince Henry's death in 1612; in the following year he was imprisoned in the Marshalsea for having written a satire called Abuses Stript and Whipt. Whilst in prison he wrote a pastoral poem entitled The Shepherd's Hunting. Wither's Motto, Nec habeo, nec careo, nec curo, was published in 1618; a collection of his poems,

with the title Juvenilia, was printed in 1622; and in the same year he produced Faire Virtue, the Mistress of Philarete, written by Himselfe. Wither's most pleasant verses were produced during the first half of his life. He sided strongly with the Parliament against Charles, fought under Cromwell, and was owner of some land in Surrey during the Protectorate. At the Restoration in 1660 he lost all he had won, and was again for some time in prison. His literary activity appears to have been, from first to last, incessant; and he is remembered now-a-days as pre-eminently the Puritan poet, whose irrepressible Muse made herself heard even amid the din of civil war.

CHRISTMAS.

So now is come our joyfullest part;
Let every man be jolly;

Each room with ivy-leaves is dressed,
And every post with holly.

Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine,
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,

And let us all be merry!

Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas-blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with baked meat choke,
And all their spits are turning.

Without the door let Sorrow lie;
And, if for cold it hap to die,
We'll bury it in a Christmas pie
And evermore be merry!

Rank misers now do sparing shun;
Their hall of music soundeth ;

And dogs thence with whole shoulders run;
So all things there aboundeth.

The country folks themselves advance

With crowdy-muttons out of France;

And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,
And all the town be merry!

Good farmers in the country nurse
The poor that else were undone ;
Some landlords spend their money worse,
On lust and pride in London.

There the roysters they do play,
Drab and dice their lands away,
Which may be ours another day,
And therefore let's be merry!

The client now his suit forbears;
The prisoner's heart is eased;
The debtor drinks away his cares,
And for the time is pleased.
Though others' purses be more fat,
Why should we pine or grieve at that?
Hang sorrow!" care will kill a cat,"
And therefore let's be merry!

Hark! now the wags abroad do call
Each other forth to rambling;
Anon you'll see them in the hall,

For nuts and apples scrambling.

Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound;
Anon they'll think the house goes round,
For they the cellar's depth have found,
And there they will be merry!

The wenches with their wassail bowls
About the streets are singing;
The boys are come to catch the owls;
The wild mare in is bringing;

Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box;
And to the dealing of the ox1

Our honest neighbours come by flocks,

And here they will be merry!

Now kings and queens poor sheep-cots have, And mate with everybody;

The honest now may play the knave,

And wise men play the noddy.

Some youths will now a-mumming go,

Some others play at Rowland-bo,
And twenty other game, boys, mo,2
Because they will be merry!

Then wherefore, in these merry days,
Should we, I pray, be duller?
No, let us sing some roundelays
To make our mirth the fuller:

1 The cutting up of the roasted ox.

& More.

And, while we thus inspired sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring;
Woods, and hills, and everything,
Bear witness we are merry!

OF POESY.

In my former days of bliss,
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from everything I saw,
I could some invention draw,
And raise pleasure to her height,
Through the meanest object's sight:
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustleing,
By a daisy whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.

By her help I also, now,
Make this churlish place allow

Some things that may sweeten gladness
In the busy gall of sadness.

The dull loneness, the black shade

That these hanging vaults have made,

The strange music of the waves

Beating on these hollow caves,

This black den which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss,
The rude portals that give light
More to terror than delight,
This my chamber of neglect
Walled about with disrespect,
From all these and this dull air,—
A fit object for despair,—
She hath taught me, by her might,
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this.

Poesy! thou sweet'st content
That e'er heaven to mortals lent,
Though they as a trifle leave thee

Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,

Though thou be to them a scorn

That to nought but earth are born,
Let my life no longer be

Than I am in love with thee:

Though our wise ones call thee madness,
Let me never taste of gladness
If I love not thy maddest fits
Above all their greatest wits:
And though some, too seeming holy,
Do account thy raptures folly,

Thou dost teach me to contemn

What makes knaves and fools of them.

SONG.

Shall I, wasting in despair,

Die because a woman's fair?
Or my cheeks make pale with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery weeds in May,
If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined, 'Cause I see a woman kind, Or a well disposèd nature

Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me,

What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her merit's value known

Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best,
If she seem not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,