« AnteriorContinuar »
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or Vincent of the Crown.
5 But wot you what? the youth was going To make an end of all his wooing;
The parson for him staid:
(Perchance) as did the maid.
6 The maid—and thereby hangs a tale
Could ever yet produce:
Nor half so full of juice.
7 Her finger was so small, the ring
It was too wide a peck:
About our young colt's neck.
8 Her feet, beneath her petticoat,
As if they fear'd the light:
Is half so fine a sight.
9 He would have kiss'd her once or twice, But she would not, she was so nice,
She would not do't in sight;
And then she look'd as who should say
And you shall do't at night.
10 Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy makes comparison,
(Who sees them is undone,) For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Katherine pear,
The side that's next the sun.
11 Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Some bee had stung it newly.
Than on the sun in July.
12 Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou ’dst swear her teeth her words did break,
That they might passage get;
And are not spent a whit.
13 If wishing should be any sin,
She look'd that day so purely:
It would have spoild him, surely.
The business of the kitchen's great,
Nor was it there denied.
15 Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice,
His summons did obey;
Presented and away.
16 When all the meat was on the table,
To stay to be entreated?
The company were seated.
17 Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick; And when 'twas named another's health, Perhaps he made it hers by stealth,
And who could help it, Dick?
18 O’ the sudden up they rise and dance;
Then dance again and kiss.
And every man wish'd his.
19 By this time all were stol'n aside To counsel and undress the bride;
But that he must not know;
But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind,
Above an hour or so.
'Twas time, I trow, to part.
Good-bye, with all my heart.
21 But just as heavens would have to cross it, In came the bridemaids with the posset;
The bridegroom eat in spite;
Which were too much that night
22 At length the candle 's out, and now
. What that is, who can tell?
With Bridget and with Nell!
Since I can not have thine,
Why then shouldst thou have mine?
Yet now I think on 't, let it lie,
To find it were in vain;
Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?
If thus our breasts thou sever?
But love is such a mystery,
I cannot find it out;
I then am in most doubt.
Then farewell care, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine;
As much as she has mine.
CARTWRIGHT was born in 1611, and was the son of an innkeeper-once a gentleman-in Cirencester. He became a King's scholar at Westminster, and afterwards took orders at Oxford, where he distinguished himself, according to Wood, as a 'most florid and seraphic preacher.' One is reminded of the description given of Jeremy Taylor, who, when he first began to preach, by his young and florid beauty, and his sublime and raised discourses, made men take him for an angel newly descended from the climes of Paradise.' Cartwright was appointed, through his friend Bishop Duppa, Succentor of the Church of Salisbury in 1642. He was one of a council of war appointed by the University of Oxford, for providing troops in the King's cause, to protect, or some said to overawe, the Universities. He was imprisoned by the Parliamentary forces on account of his zeal in the Royal cause, but soon liberated on bail. In 1643, he was appointed Junior Proctor of his University, and also Reader in Metaphysics. At this time he is said to have studied sixteen hours a-day. This, however, seems