AN EPIGRAM TO MY JOVIAL good friend Mr. Robert
DOVER, ON HIS GREAT INSTAURATION OF HIS HUNT-
ING AND DANCING AT COTSWOLD.R

CANNOT bring my muse to drop vies
'Twixt Cotswold and the Olympic exercise,
But I can tell thee, Dover, how thy games
Renew the glories of our blessed James :

How they do keep alive his memory
With the glad country and posterity;

How they advance true love and neighbourhood,
And do both church and commonwealth the good
In spite of hypocrites, who are the worst

Of subjects. Let such envy till they burst.

BEN JONSON.

PREFIXED TO FARNABY'S JUVENAL.1

EMPORIBUS lux magna fuit Juvenalis avitis,

Moribus, ingeniis, divitiis, vitiis.

Tu lux es luci, Farnabi: operisque fugasti
Temporis et tenebras, ingenii radiis.

8 From the Annalia Dubrensia, "a collection of encomiastic verses," says Mr. Bolton Corney, "somewhat like those on Sidney, or Bodley, or Camden-composed and published in honour of Mr. Robert Dover, the founder of an annual meeting for rustic sports upon the Cotswold Hills, in the reign of James I. The volume, small 4to., is dated 1636, and contains the effusions of more than thirty poets." See Notes and Queries, 3rd S. ix. 100.

9 For the meaning of the word "vies," see note, vol. i. p. 101. 1 Jonson had a high opinion of Farnaby as an editor; see the inscription in a copy of his Martial, given in a note, vol. i. p. cxxi. ; and also the text at the same place for Farnaby's manly and eloquent recognition of Jonson's own merits. F. C.

Lux tua parva quidem mole est, sed magna rigore,
Sensibus et docti pondere judicii.
Macte: tuo scriptores, lectoresque labore
Per te alii vigeant, per te alii videant.

BEN JONSONIUS."

A FRAGMENT OF ONE OF THE LOST QUATERNIONS OF
EUPHEME.3

OU worms (my rivals), whiles she was alive,
How
many thousands were there that did
strive

To have your freedom? For their sakes for-
bear

Unseemly holes in her soft skin to wear;
But, if you must (as what worm can abstain ?)
Taste of her tender body, yet refrain,

With your disordered eatings, to deface her,
And feed yourselves so as you most may grace her.
First, through yon ear-tips see you work a pair
Of holes, which as the moist enclosed air
Turns into water, may the cold drops take
And in her ears a pair of jewels make.
That done, upon her bosom make your feast,
Where, on a cross, carve Jesus in her breast.
Have you not yet enough of that soft skin,
The touch of which in times past might have bin
Enough to ransom many a thousand soul
Captived to love? Then hence your bodies roll
A little higher; when I would you have
This epitaph upon her forehead grave;
Living, she was fair, young, and full of wit:
Dead, all her faults are in her forehead writ."

2 Notes and Queries, 3rd S. viii. 195.
3 From Notes and Queries, 1st S. iii. 367.

S

MASTER WITHER'S LINES.

Wither.

HALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair,

Or my cheeks make pale with care
'Cause another's rosie are?

Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads of May,
If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be blind,
'Cause I see a woman's kind,
Or a well disposèd nature
Joined in a comely feature?
Be she kind, or meeker than
Turtle dove, or pelican,

If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues make
Me to perish for her sake,
Or her merit's value known
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest,
That may merit name of best,
If she seem not so to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortunes seem too high
Should I play the fool and die?
He that bears a noble mind
If not outward help he find,

4 Dr. Bliss copied this playful and ingenious parody from a "volume of peculiar rarity." A Description of Love, with certain Epigrams, Elegies, and Sonnets, and also Master Johnson's answer to Master Withers. With the Boy of Ludgate, and the Song of

MASTER JONSON'S ANSWER.*

Jonson.

HALL I my affections slack
'Cause I see a woman's black,
Or myself with care cast down
'Cause I see a woman's brown?
Be she blacker than the night
Or the blackest jet in sight,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how black she be?

Shall my foolish heart be burst
'Cause I see a woman's curst,
Or a thwarting hoggish nature
Joined in as bad a feature?
Be she curst, or fiercer than
Brutish beast or savage man,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how curst she be?

Shall a woman's vices make
Me her vices quite forsake,

Or her faults to me made known
Make me think that I have none?
Be she of the most accurst,

And deserve the name of worst;

If she be not so to me,

What care I how bad she be?

'Cause her fortunes seem too low

Shall I therefore let her go?
He that bears an ample mind

And with riches can be kind,

the Beggar. London, 1625. Gifford did not believe this to be Jonson's composition, but his reasons appear to me to be altogether insufficient when weighed against the fact of its being published with his name in his life-time. See note 9, p. cxxiv. vol. i. F. C.

Think what with them he would do
That without them dares to woo?
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great, or proud, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair,
If she love me, then believe
I will die ere she shall grieve:
If she slight me when I woo,
I can slight and bid her go.

If she be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be?

MARTIALIS. EPIG. Lib. x. 47.

ITAM quæ faciunt beatiorem, Fucundissime Martialis, hæc sunt; Res non parta labore, sed relicta : Non ingratus ager; focus perennis; Lis nunquam; toga rara; mens quieta; Vires ingenua; salubre corpus; Prudens simplicitas; pares amici; Convictus facilis; sine arte mensa; Nox non ebria, sed soluta curis; Non tristis torus, et tamen pudicus; Somnus, qui faciat breves tenebras: Quod sis, esse velis, nihilque mali: Summum nec metuas diem, nec optes.