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The Every-day Book and Table Book. v. 3 (of 3): Everlasting Calerdar of Popular Amusements, Sports, Pastimes, Ceremonies, Manners, Customs and Events, Incident to Each of the Three Hundred and Sixty-five Days, in past and Present Times; Forming a Complete History of the Year, Month, and Seasons, and a Perpetual Key to the AlmanacHone, William

History

The Every-day Book and Table Book. v. 3 (of 3): Everlasting Calerdar of Popular Amusements, Sports, Pastimes, Ceremonies, Manners, Customs and Events, Incident to Each of the Three Hundred and Sixty-five Days, in past and Present Times; Forming a Complete History of the Year, Month, and Seasons, and a Perpetual Key to the Almanac

Name: The Every-day Book and Table Book. v. 3 (of 3): Everlasting Calerdar of Popular Amusements, Sports, Pastimes, Ceremonies, Manners, Customs and Events, Incident to Each of the Three Hundred and Sixty-five Days, in past and Present Times; Forming a Complete History of the Year, Month, and Seasons, and a Perpetual Key to the Almanac
Author: Hone, William

Hone, William

Days; Great Britain -- Social life and customs

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~Garrick Plays.~

No. VIII.

  [From the “Game at Chess,” a Comedy, by Thomas Middleton, 1624.]

_Popish Priest to a great Court Lady, whom he hopes to make a Convert
of._

    Let me contemplate;
    With holy wonder season my access,
    And by degrees approach the sanctuary
    Of unmatch’d beauty, set in grace and goodness.
    Amongst the daughters of men I have not found
    A more Catholical aspect. That eye
    Doth promise single life, and meek obedience.
    Upon those lips (the sweet fresh buds of youth)
    The holy dew of prayer lies, like pearl
    Dropt from the opening eyelids of the morn
    Upon the bashful rose. How beauteously
    A gentle fast (not rigorously imposed)
    Would look upon that cheek; and how delightful
    The courteous physic of a tender penance,
    (Whose utmost cruelty should not exceed
    The first fear of a bride), to beat down frailty!

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  [From the “Virgin Widow,” a Comedy, 1649; the only production, in that
  kind, of Francis Quarles, Author of the Emblems.]

_Song._

    How blest are they that waste their weary hours
    In solemn groves and solitary bowers,
    Where neither eye nor ear
    Can see or hear
    The frantic mirth
    And false delights of frolic earth;
    Where they may sit, and pant,
    And breathe their pursy souls;
    Where neither grief consumes, nor griping want
    Afflicts, nor sullen care controuls.
    Away, false joys; ye murther where ye kiss!
    There is no heaven to that, no life to this.

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  [From “Adrasta,” a Tragi-comedy, by John Jones, 1635.]

_Dirge._

    Die, die, ah die!
    We all must die:
    ’Tis Fate’s decree;
    Then ask not why.
    When we were framed, the Fates consultedly
    Did make this law, that all things born should die.
    Yet Nature strove,
    And did deny
    We should be slaves
    To Destiny.
    At which, they heapt
    Such misery;
    That Nature’s self
    Did wish to die:
    And thank their goodness, that they would foresee
    To end our cares with such a mild decree.

_Another._

    Come, Lovers, bring your cares,
    Bring sigh-perfumed sweets;
    Bedew the grave with tears,
    Where Death with Virtue meets.
    Sigh for the hapless hour,
    That knit two hearts in one;
    And only gave Love power
    To die, when ’twas begun.

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  [From “Tancred and Gismund,” acted before the Court by the Gentlemen
  of the Inner Temple, 1591.]

_A Messenger brings to Gismund a cup from the King her Father, enclosing
the heart of her Lord, whom she had espoused without his sanction._

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.