So, when my mistress shall be seen In sweetness of her looks and mind, By virtue first, then choice a queen, Tell me if she were not designed Th' eclipse and glory of her kind? In such lines we can perceive _not one_ of those higher attributes of the Muse which belong to her under all circumstances and throughout all time. Here everything is art—naked or but awkwardly concealed. No prepossession for the mere antique (for in this case we can imagine no other prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of Poesy, a series such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments, (threadbare even at the time of their composition) stitched apparently together, without fancy, without {586} plausibility, without adaptation of parts—and it is needless to add, without a jot of imagination. We have been much delighted with the _Shepherd's Hunting_, by Wither—a poem partaking, in a strange degree, of the peculiarities of the Penseroso. Speaking of Poesy he says— By the murmur of a spring Or the least boughs rusteling, By a daisy whose leaves spread Shut when Tytan goes to bed, Or a shady bush or tree She could more infuse in me Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Something that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness— The dull loneness, the black shade That these hanging vaults have made, The strange music of the waves Beating on these hollow caves, This black den which rocks emboss Overgrown with eldest moss, The rude portals that give light More to terror than delight, This my chamber of neglect Walled about with disrespect— From all these and this dull air A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight. But these verses, however good, do not bear with them much of the general character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found in the following lines by Corbet—besides a rich vein of humor and sarcasm. Farewell rewards and fairies! Good housewives now you may say, For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they: And though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do, Yet who of late for cleanliness Finds sixpence in her shoe? Lament, lament, old Abbies, The fairies' lost command, They did but change priests' babies, But some have changed your land; And all your children stolen from thence Are now grown Puritanes, Who live as changelings ever since For love of your demaines. At morning and at evening both You merry were and glad, So little care of sleep and sloth These pretty ladies had: When Tom came home from labor Or Ciss to milking rose, Then merrily went their tabor And nimbly went their toes.