Oft in a smile: oft in a silent tear: And if all fail, yet virtue's self he'll hire. Himself's a dart, when nothing else can move: Who then the captive soul can well reprove, When love and virtue's self become the darts of love. SIR JOHN BEAUMONT, Brother of Francis Beaumont, and author of "Bosworth "Field," and other poems, 1629. According to Wood, he was entered at Oxford, in 1596, at the age of 14, consequently born in 1582. DESCRIPTION OF LOVE. LOVE is a region full of fires, This meteor, striving high to rise, (The fuel spent) falls down and dies. Why then should lovers (most will say) Love is like youth: he thirsts for age, We know that Hope and Love are twins; Hope gone, fruition now begins: But what is this? unconstant, frail, In nothing sure, but sure to fail, Which, if we lose it, we bewail; And when we have it, still we bear The worst of passions, daily fear! When Love thus in his centre ends, Stand in his council as the chief. And now he to his period brought, From Love becomes some other thought. These lines I write not to remove United souls from serious love: The best attempts by mortals made Reflect on things which quickly fade; Yet never will I men persuade To leave affections, where may shine Impressions of the love divine. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. John Fletcher was born in 1576, and Francis Beaumont in 1585; but it is impossible to separate two names so closely united during their lives. It is generally supposed that Fletcher was superior in wit and imagination, Beaumont (though the younger man) in taste and judgment. Their carliest composition was the "Woman Hater," printed in 1607, 4to. SONG. [In the Knight of the Burning Pestle.] "Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood, No man dies of that disease. He that would his body keep But contented lives for aye. The more he laughs the more he may. SONG. [From the Tragedy of the Bloody Brother.] TAKE, oh take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; Hide, oh hide those hills of snow That thy frozen bosom bears; On whose tops the pinks that grow Are of those that April wears; heart first set free, But my poor Bound in those icy chains by thee, |