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'For when you breathe, the air in order moves,
Now in, now out, in time and measure true;
And when you speak, so well she dancing loves,
That doubling oft, and oft redoubling new,
With thousand forms she doth herself endue,
For all the words that from our lips repair
Are nought but tricks and turnings of the air.

'Hence is her prattling daughter Echo born,
That dances to all voices she can hear;
There is no sound so harsh that she doth scorn,
Nor any time wherein she will forbear

The airy pavement with her feet to wear;
And yet her hearing sense is nothing quick,
For after time she endeth every trick.

'And thou sweet Music, Dancing's only life,
The ear's sole happiness, the air's best speech;
Loadstone of fellowship, charming-rod of strife,
The soft mind's Paradise, the sick mind's leech;
With thine own tongue, thou trees and stones canst teach,
That when the Air doth dance her finest measure,
Then art thou born, the gods' and men's sweet pleasure.

Lastly, where keep the Winds their revelry,

Their violent turnings, and wild whirling hays',
But in the Air's translucent gallery?
Where she herself is turn'd a hundred ways,
While with those Maskers wantonly she plays;
Yet in this misrule, they such rule embrace,
As two at once encumber not the place.

'If then fire, air, wand'ring and fixed lights
In every province of the imperial sky,
Yield perfect forms of dancing to your sights,
In vain I teach the ear, that which the eye
With certain view already doth descry.

But for your eyes perceive not all they see,
In this I will your Senses master be.

1 country-dances.

'For lo the Sea that fleets about the Land,
And like a girdle clips her solid waist,
Music and measure both doth understand;
For his great crystal eye is always cast
Up to the Moon, and on her fixèd fast;
And as she danceth in her pallid sphere,
So danceth he about his Centre here.

'Sometimes his proud green waves in order set,
One after other flow unto the shore;

Which, when they have with many kisses wet,
They ebb away in order as before;

And to make known his courtly love the more,
He oft doth lay aside his three-forked mace,
And with his arms the timorous Earth embrace.

'Only the Earth doth stand for ever still,

Her rocks remove not, nor her mountains meet,
(Although some wits enriched with Learning's skill
Say heav'n stands firm, and that the Earth doth fleet,
And swiftly turneth underneath their feet ;)

Yet though the Earth is ever steadfast seen,
On her broad breast hath Dancing ever been.

'For those blue veins that through her body spread,
Those sapphire streams which from great hills do spring
(The Earth's great dugs; for every wight is fed
With sweet fresh moisture from them issuing ;)
Observe a dance in their wild wandering;

And still their dance begets a murmur sweet,
And still the murmur with the dance doth meet.'

[From Hymnes of Astraea, in Acrosticke Verse.]
TO THE SPRING.

Earth now is green, and heaven is blue,
Lively Spring which makes all new,

I olly Spring, doth enter;

Sweet young sun-beams do subdue
A ngry, agèd Winter.

B lasts are mild, and seas are calm,
E very meadow flows with balm,
The Earth wears all her riches;
Harmonious birds sing such a psalm,
A s ear and heart bewitches.

Reserve (sweet Spring) this Nymph of ours,
E ternal garlands of thy flowers,

Green garlands never wasting :

In her shall last our state's fair Spring,
Now and for ever flourishing,

As long as Heaven is lasting.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

E very night from even to morn,
Love's Chorister amid the thorn
I s now so sweet a singer;
So sweet, as for her song I scorn
A pollo's voice, and finger.
But Nightingale, sith you delight
E ver to watch the starry night;
Tell all the stars of heaven,
Heaven never had a star so bright,
As now to Earth is given.

Royal Astraea makes our day
E ternal with her beams, nor may
Gross darkness overcome her;
I now perceive why some do write,
No country hath so short a night,
As England hath in Summer.

TO THE MONTH OF SEPTEMBER.

Each month hath praise in some degrec;
Let May to others seem to be
In sense the sweetest Season;
September thou art best to me,
A nd best doth please my reason.

But neither for thy corn nor wine
Extol I those mild days of thine,
Though corn and wine might praise thee;
Heaven gives thee honour more divine,
A nd higher fortunes raise thee.

Renown'd art thou (sweet month) for this,
E mong thy days her birth-day is;
Grace, plenty, peace and honour

In one fair hour with her were born;
Now since they still her crown adorn,
And still attend upon her.

JOHN DONNE.

[BORN 1573, in London; his mother being a descendant of Sir Thomas More. He studied both at Oxford and Cambridge, and also at Lincoln's Inn; travelled in Italy and Spain, 'and returned perfect in their languages.' He was afterwards in the service of Lord Chancellor Ellesmere and others, and in 1610 was persuaded by James I to enter into sacred orders.' In 1621 the king made him Dean of St. Paul's, and he held other benefices. He died in 1631. Izaak Walton's celebrated Life was prefixed to his Eighty Sermons, fol,, 1640; and this Life asserts that 'most of his poems were written before the twentieth year of his age.' The Poems were collected and first published posthumously in 1633: but Harl. MS. 5110 (British Museum), is entitled, 'Jhon Dunne his Satyres anno domini 1593.']

Donne's contemporary reputation as a poet, and still more as a preacher, was immense; and a glance at his works would suffice to show that he did not deserve the contempt with which he was subsequently treated. But yet his chief interest is that he was the principal founder of a school which especially expressed and represented a certain bad taste of his day. Of his genius there can be no question; but it was perversely directed. One may almost invert Jonson's famous panegyric on Shakespeare, and say that Donne was not for all time but for an age.

To this school Dr. Johnson has given the title of the Metaphysical; and for this title there is something to be said. 'Donne,' says Dryden, 'affects the metaphysics not only in his Satires, but in his amorous verses where Nature only should reign, and perplexes the minds of the fair sex with nice speculations of philosophy when he should engage their hearts and entertain them with the softnesses of love.' Thus he often ponders over the mystery of love, and is exercised by subtle questions as to its nature, origin, endurance. But a yet more notable distinction of this school than its philosophising, shallow or deep, is what may be called its fantasticality, its quaint wit, elaborate ingenuity, far-fetched allusiveness; and it might better be called the Ingenious, or

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