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Thou art the same which still thou wert before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair;

But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air
Is gone; nor gold, nor gems can her restore.
Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,
When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

A GOOD that never satisfies the mind,
A beauty fading like the Aprill flow'rs,

A sweet with flouds of gall, that runs combin'd,
A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
A honour that more fickle is than wind,
A glory at opinion's frown that low'rs,
A treasury which bankrupt time devoures,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind;
A vaine delight our equalls to command,
A stile of greatnesse, in effect a dreame,
A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, deck't with a pompous name;
Are the strange ends we toyle for here below,
Till wisest death make us our errours know.

Look how the flow'r, which ling'ringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoyl'd of that juyce which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so the pleasures of my life being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,

With swifter speed declines than erst it spred,
And, (blasted,) scarce now shows what it hath been.
Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,

Thinke on thy home, (my soule,) and thinke aright
Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day:
Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morne,
And twice it is not given thee to be borne.

GEORGE WITHER was born in 1588, at Bentworth, Hampshire. In 1604, he was sent to Magdalen College, Oxford; but soon afterwards having, it would appear, become intimate with the Muses, his father, a plain country gentleman, apprehensive of their proving dangerous acquaintances, recalled his son with the intention of teaching him" to hold the plough." The boy, however, rebelled against the authority of the parent, made his way to London, and entered at Lincoln's Inn. In 1613, having previously obtained some celebrity, he published a series of Satires, "Abuses stript and whipt"- and though the poems contain no personal allusions-nor a single immoral thought or indecent expression,-the satire being general-he was committed to the Marshalsea for the "offence." During his long incarceration, he composed the most beautiful of his productions-the "Shepheards Hunting." On his release, his unsettled condition caused him to lead a most perturbed life. But though "in prisons oft," he continued to pursue the Muse he had wooed in boyhood, acknowledging her influence in every shape and character to which rhyme could be applied - worshipping her through evil report and good report—sometimes as an unworthy votary, but far more often under the influence of true inspiration; always maintaining a bold and manly bearing and an intrepid and independent port, singing his song,

"I'll make my owne feathers reare me
Whither others cannot beare me."

If he complained, he did it as a man-if he protested against the booksellers as "cruel bee-masters, who burn the poor Athenian bees for their honey," he showed that his words were not mere sounds, by printing the longest of all his writingsBritain's Remembrancer—with his own hands.

When the rupture took place between Charles the First and the Commons, Wither sold his paternal estate, and raised a troop of horse for the Parliament. He was taken prisoner and in danger of being hanged; but Denham interceded for his life, on the ground that, while he lived, the author of " Cooper's Hill" could not be accounted the worst Poet in England. Wither, however, was subsequently Cromwell's Major-General for Surrey, and shared in the harvest of sequestration; which he was compelled to relinquish at the Restoration. Evil fortune then again pursued him; his eager and angry protests were deemed libellous, and George Wither was once more doomed to woo his Muse within stone walls. He was first an inmate of Newgate, and afterwards of the Tower. It is uncertain whether he died in prison; but it is known that he perished in indigence and obscurity, somewhere about the year 1667 :-a sad example of genius unaccompanied by prudence.

It is to the earlier poems of Wither that we are to look for proofs of his power. The playful fancy, pure taste, and rich yet simple thoughts, which so abound in them, were lost when party zeal changed the character of the man. Instead of being admired by those who could love and estimate Nature, he was "cried up by the Puritanical party for his profuse pouring forth of English rhyme, and more, afterwards, by the vulgar sort of people, for his prophetical poetry." His style degenerated; the natural, and artless tone of his Muse grew boisterous; her garb became unseemlyshe laid aside the light and graceful drapery so beautifully in keeping with the woods and fields, and put on the sullied and coarse attire of a town termagant.

It is obvious, however, even from the brief specimens we have given, that the spirit of true poetry was active within him. His works abound in parts which amply redeem the barrenness of the plain that surrounds them. Such are evidently the outpourings of his soul-the sudden and unmatured promptings of a fine, energetic, and strongly toned mind. They are, to use his own words, "such as flowed forth without study;" he could not, or would not, " spend time to put his meanings into other words."

Our principal extract is from the Shepherds Hunting-a passage which, although well known, it is impossible to omit from any collection of the beauties of English Poetry. The Poem is a dialogue between Roget and Willy-which is held in the Marshalsea Prison. The caged Poet, after a lengthened description of the Pleasures that live with Freedom, describes the only consolation left to him-the companionship of the Muse.

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A SONNET UPON A STOLEN KISS.

Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes,
Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe;
And free access, unto that sweet lip, lies,
From whence I long the rosie breath to draw.
Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal
From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss;
None sees the theft that would the thief reveal,
Nor rob I her of ought which she can miss:
Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,
There would be little sign I had done so;
Why then should I this robbery delay?
Oh she may wake, and therewith angry grow!
Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,
And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.

FROM THE SHEPHEARDS HUNTING.

As the sunne doth oft exhale
Vapours from each rotten vale;
Poesie so sometimes draines,
Grosse conceits from muddy braines;
Mists of envie, fogs of spight,

Twixt mens judgements and her light:
But so much her power may doe,
That she can dissolve them too.
If thy verse do bravely tower,
As she makes wing, she gets power:
Yet the higher she doth sore,
She's affronted still the more:
Till she to the high'st hath past,
Then she restes with Fame at last,
Let nought therefore thee affright,
But make forward in thy flight:
For if I could match thy rime,
To the very starres I'de clime.
There begin againe, and flye,
Till I reach'd æternity.
But (alas) my Muse is slow:
For thy page she flagges too low:
Yes, the more's her haplesse fate,
Her short wings were clipt of late.
And poore I, her fortune ruing,
Am my selfe put up a muing.
But if I my cage can rid,
I'le flye where I never did.
And though for her sake I'me crost,
Though my best hopes I have lost,

And knew she would make my trouble

Ten times more then ten times double:
I would love and keepe her too,
Spight of all the world could doe.
For though banisht from my flockes,
And confin'd within these rockes,
Here I waste away the light,
And consume the sullen night,
She doth for my comfort stay,
And keepes many cares away.
Though I misse the flowry fields,

With those sweets the spring-tyde yeelds,

Though I may not see those groves, Where the shepheards chaunt their loves, And the lasses more excell,

Then the sweet voyc'd Philomel,

Though of all those pleasures past,
Nothing now remaines at last,

But Remembrance (poore reliefe)
That more makes, then mends my griefe:
She's my mind's companion still,
Maugre Envies evil will.

She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow;
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace;
And the blackest discontents
To be pleasing ornaments.
In my former dayes of blisse,
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw,
I could some invention draw:
And raise pleasure to her height,
Through the meanest objects sight;
By the murmure of a spring,
Or the least boughs rusteling;
By a dazie whose leaves spred,
Shut when Tytan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me,
Then all natures beauties can,
In some other wiser man.
By her helpe I also now,
Make this churlish place allow
Somthings that may sweeten gladnes
In the very gall of sadnes;

The dull loaneness, the blacke shade,
That those hanging vaults have made,
The strange musicke of the waves,
Beating on these hollow caves,

This blacke den which rocks embosse,
Over-growne with eldest mosse,
The rude portals that give light,

More to terrour then delight.
This my chamber of neglect,
Wal'd about with disrespect,

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