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not feeling any cold. But when by Ceres huswifery and pain, Men learnd to bury the reviving grain, And father Janus taught the newfound vineRise on the elm, with many a friendly te:And base desire bade men to delven low, For needless metals, then gan mischief grow. Then farewell, fairest age, the worlds best days, Thriving in all as it in age decays. Then crept in pride, and peevish covetise, And men grew greedy, discordous, and nice. Now man, that erst hailfellow was with beast, Wox on to ween himself a god at least. Nor aery fowl can take so high a flight, Though she her daring gs in clouds have dight;Nor fish can dive so deep in yielding sea, Though Thetis self should swear her safty;Nor fearful beast can dig his cave so low, As could he further than earths centre go;As that the air, the earth, or ocean, Should shield them from the gorge of greedy man. Hath utmost Ind ought better than his ownThen utmost Ind is near, and rife to gone, O nature! was the world ordaind for noughtBut fill mans maw, and feed mans idle thoughtThy grandsires words savourd of thrifty leeks, Or manly garlic; but thy furnace reeksHot steams of e; and can aloof descryThe drunken draughts of sweet autumnitie. They naked went; or clad in ruder hide, Or homespun russet, void of foreign pride:But thou canst mask in garish gauderieTo suit a fools farfetched livery. A French head joind to neck Italian:Thy thighs from Germany, and breast from Spain:An Englishman in none, a fool in all:Many in one, and one in several. Then men were men; but now the greater partBeasts are in life, and women are in heart. Good Saturn self, that homely emperor, In proudest pomp was not so clad of yore, As is the undergroom of the ostlery, Husbanding it in workday yeomanry. Lo! the long date of those expired days, Which the inspired Merlins word foresays;When dunghill peasants shall be dight as kings, Then one confusion another brings:Then farewell, fairest age, the worlds best days, Thriving in ill, as it in age decays. SATIRE VII. Seest thou how gaily my young master goes, Vaunting himself upon his rising toes;And pranks his hand upon his daggers side, And picks his glutted teeth since late noontideTis Ruffio: Trowst thou where he dined todayIn sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humphray. Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheer, Keeps he for every straggling cavalier, And open house, haunted with great resort;Long service mixd with musical disport. Many fair younker with a featherd crest, Chooses much rather be his shotfree guest, To fare so freely with so little cost, Than stake his twelvepence to a meaner host. Hadst thou not told me, I should surely sayHe touchd no meat of all this livelong day. For sure methought, yet that was but a guess, His eyes seemd sunk for very hollowness;But could he have (as I did it mistake)So little in his purse, so much upon his backSo nothing in his maw yet seemeth by his belt, That his gaunt gut no too much stuffing felt. Seest thou how side it hangs beneath his hipHunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip;Yet for all that, how stiffly struts he by, All trapped in the newfound bravery. The nuns of new Calais his bonnet lent, In lieu of their so kind a conquerment. What needed he fetch that from furthest Spain. His grandam could have lent with lesser painThough he perhaps neer passd the English shore, Yet fain would counted be a conqueror. His hair, Frenchlike, stares on his frighted head, One lock, Amazonlike, dishevelled, As if he meant to wear a native cord, If chance his fates should him that bane afford. All British bare upon the bristled skin, Close notched is his beard both lip and chin;His linen collar labyrinthian set, Whose thousand double turnings never met:His sleeves half hid with elbow pinionings, As if he meant to fly with linen gs. But when I look, and cast mine eyes below, What monster meets mine eyes in human showSo slender waist with such an abbots loin, Did never sober nature sure conjoin, Likst a strawn scarecrow in the newsown field, Reard on some stick, the tender corn to shield;Or if that semblance suit not every deal, Like a broad shakefork with a slender steel. Despised nature, suit them once aright, Their body to their coat, both now misdight. Their body to their cloths might shapen be, That nill their cloths shape to their body. Meanwhile I der at so proud a back, Whiles the empty guts loud rumblen for long lack:The belly envieth the backs bright glee, And murmurs at such inequality. The back appears unto the partial eyne, The plaintive belly pleads they bribed been:And he, for want of better advocate, Doth to the ear his injury relate. The back, insulting oer the bellys need, Says, Thou thyself, I others eyes must feed. The maw, the guts, all inward parts complainThe backs great pride, and their own secret pain. Ye witless gallants, I beshrew your hearts, That sets such discord twixt agreeing parts, Which never can be set at onement more, Until the maws wide mouth be stopt with store. RICHARD LOVELACE. This unlucky cavalier and bard was born in 1618. He was the son of SirWilliam Lovelace, of Woolwich, in Kent. He was educated some say atOxford, and others at Cambridgetook a masters degree, and wasafterwards presented at Court. Anthony Wood thus describes his personalappearance at the age of sixteen:He was the most amiable andbeautiful person that eye ever beheld, a person also of innate modesty, virtue, and courtly deportment, which made him then, but especiallyafter when he retired to the great city, much admired and adored by thefair . Soon after this, he was chosen by the county of Kent todeliver a petition from the inhabitants to the House of Commons, prayingthem to restore the King to his rights, and to settle the government. Such offence was given by this to the Long Parliament, that Lovelace wasthrown into prison, and only liberated on heavy bail. His paternalestate, which amounted to 500 ayear, was soon exhausted in his effortsto promote the royal cause. In 1646, he formed a regiment for theservice of the King of France, became its colonel, and was wounded atDunkirk. Ere leaving England, he had formed a strong attachment to aMiss Lucy Sacheverell, and had written much poetry in her praise, designating her as LuxCasta. Unfortunately, hearing a report thatLovelace had died at Dunkirk of his wounds, she married another, sothat, on his return home in 1648, he met a deep disappointment; and tocomplete his misery, the ruling powers cast him again into prison, wherehe lay till the death of Charles. Like some other men of genius, hebeguiled his confinement by literary employment; and in 1649, hepublished a book under the title of Lucasta, consisting of odes, sonnets, songs, and miscellaneous poems, most of which had beenpreviously composed. After the execution of the King, he was liberated;but his funds were exhausted, his heart broken, and his constitutionprobably injured. He gradually sunk; and Wood says that he became verypoor in body and purse, was the object of charity, went in raggedclothes, and mostly lodged in obscure and dirty places. Alas for theAdonis of sixteen, the beloved of Lucasta, and the envied of all! Somehave doubted these stories about his extreme poverty; and one of hisbiographers asserts, that his daughter and sole heir (but who, pray, washis wife and her mother) married the son of Lord ChiefJustice Coke, and brought to her husband the estates of her father at Kingsdown, inKent. Aubrey however, corroborates the statements of Wood; and, at allevents, Lovelace seems to have died, in 1658, in a wretched alley nearShoe Lane. There is not much to be said about his poetry. It may be compared to hispersonbeautiful, but dressed in a stiff mode. We do not, in everypoint, homologate the opinions of Prynne, as to the unloveliness oflovelocks; but we do certainly look with a mixture of contempt andpity on the selfimposed trammels of affectation in style and mannerwhich bound many of the poets of that period. The wits of Charles II. Were more disgustingly licentious; but their very carelessness savedthem from the conceits of their predecessors; and, while lowering thetone of morality, they raised unwittingly the standard of taste. Some ofthe songs of Lovelace, however, such as To Althea, from Prison, areexquisitely simple, as well as pure. Sir Egerton Brydges has found outthat Byron, in one of his bepraised paradoxical beauties, eithercopied, or coincided with, our poet. In the Bride of Abydos he says ofZuleika

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