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Time's gentle admonition; Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, Making my mind to smell my fatal day,
Yet sugaring the suspicion. Farewell, dear flow’rs ! sweetly your time ye spent, Fit, while ye liv’d, for smell and ornament,
And after death, for cures. I follow straight, without complaints or grief, Since, if my scent be good, I care not if
It' be as short as yours.
This author was born in 1593, and died 1683. He is justly
celebrated for his biographical pieces, and has described the characters of Sir H. Wotton, Donne, Hooker, and Herbert, with a degree of minuteness, which he alone could render interesting. But he is principally known by his “ Com“plete Angler;" a truly original treatise on the theory of an art from which the invincible patience of some men is able to extract amusement.
THE ANGLER'S WISH.
I in these flowery meads would be:
Sit here, and see the turtle dove
Or on that bank, feel the west wind
There hear my Kenna sing a song, Here see a black-bird feed her young,
Or a leverock' build her nest;
Thus free from law-suits, and the noise
Or with my Bryan,” and a book, Loiter long days near Shawford-brook ; There sit by him and eat my meat, There see the sun both rise and set: There bid good morning to next day, There meditate my time away,
And angle on, and beg to have
A quiet passage to a welcome grave. • Laverock, lark. • Supposed to be the name of a favourite dog.
Was born in London, about 1594, educated at Merchant Tay
lors School, entered at St. John's College, Oxford, and afterwards removed to Cambridge. He successively became an English divine, a Popish schoolmaster, and a deservedly celebrated writer of plays (of which he published 39) from 1629 to 1660. He died in 1666 immediately after the great fire of London, and was interred in the same grave with his second wife, who died the same day, and was supposed, as well as Shirley, to have owed her death to the fright occasioned by that calamity. Besides his plays he published a volume of poems, 1646.
UPON HIS MISTRESS SAD.
MELANCHOLY hence! and get
Love! a thousand sweets distilling,
This garden does not take my eyes,
Though here you show how art of men Can purchase nature at a price,
Would stock old Paradise again.
These glories while you dote upon,
I envy not your spring, nor pride. Nay, boast the summer all your own :
My thoughts with less are satisfied.
Give me a little plot of ground,
Where, might I with the sun agree,