Yet when I seek my God, I enquire For light than sun and moon much higher, More clear and splendrous, 'bove all light Which the eye receives not, 'tis so bright. I seek a voice beyond degree Of all melodious harmony: The ear conceives it not; a smell Which doth all other scents excel: No flower so sweet, no myrrh, no nard, Or aloës, with it compared; Of which the brain not sensible is. I seek a sweetness--such a bliss As hath all other sweets surpassed, And never palate yet could taste. I seek that to contain and hold No touch can feel, no embrace enfold. So far this light the rays extends, As that no place it comprehends. So deep this sound, that though it speak It cannot by a sense so weak Be entertained. A redolent grace The air blows not from place to place. A pleasant taste, of that delight It doth confound all appetite. A strict embrace, not felt, yet leaves That virtue, where it takes it cleaves. This light, this sound, this savouring grace, This tasteful sweet, this strict embrace, No place contains, no eye can see, My God is, and there's none but he. Very remarkable verses from a dramatist! They indicate substratum enough for any art if only the art be there. Even those who cannot enter into the philosophy of them, which ranks him among the mystics of whom I have yet to speak, will understand a good deal of it symbolically: for how could he be expected to keep his poetry and his philosophy distinct when of themselves they were so ready to run into one; or in verse to define carefully betwixt degree and kind, when kinds themselves may rise by degrees? To distinguish without separating; to be able to see that what in their effects upon us are quite different, may yet be a grand flight of ascending steps, "to stop--no record hath told where," belongs to the philosopher who is not born mutilated, but is a poet as well. John Fletcher, likewise a dramatist, the author of the following poem, was two years younger than Ben Jonson. It is, so far as I am aware, the sole non-dramatic voice he has left behind him. Its opening is an indignant apostrophe to certain men of pretended science, who in his time were much consulted--the Astrologers. UPON AN HONEST MAN'S FORTUNE.