ELLIS’s SPECIMENS OF THE PARLY ENGLISH POETS. 541 
She rocked it, and rated it, until on her it 
smil'd ; 
Then did she say, « Now have I found the 
proverb true to prove, 
© The falling out of faithful friends renewing 
is of love.’ . 
«« Then took I paper,-pen, and ink, this pro- 
verb for to write, 
In register for to remain of such a worthy 
wight. z 
As she proceeded thus in song unto her little 
brat, 
Much matter utter'd she of weight in place 
whereas she sat; “ 
And proved plain, there was no beast, nor 
creature bearing life 
Could well be known to live in love without 
discord and strife: 
Then kissed she her little babe, and sware by 
God above, 
* The falling out of faithful friends renewing 
is of love.’ 
* %** * *&€© %€  * 
«© J marvel much, pardie,’ quoth she, ¢ for 
- to behold the rout, 
To see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss 
\ the world about; 
Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some 
check, and some can smoothly smile, 
And some embrace others inarms, and there 
think many a wile. 
Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some hum- 
ble and some stout, 
Yet are they never friends indeed untill they 
: Once fall out.’ 
Pt Thus ended she her song, and ‘said, before 
she did remove, ‘ 
_ £ The falling out of faithful friends renewing 
+ - -s of love.” 
We quote Lord Herbert of Chirbury’s 
epitaph. on himself, in respect to the ta- 
dents of that extraordinary man. 
«« The monument which thou beholdest her 
_ Presents Enwarp Lorp Herserr to thy 
” sight ; 
» -z ixenvho was so free from either hope or fear 
" To have or lose this ordinary light, 
That, when toelements his bedy turned were, 
He knew, that as those elements would 
- fight, 
So his immortal soul should find above, 
love.” 
This was an extraordinary family. 
His brother George, the poet, is treated 
‘too poiitésdbtucnsly by Mr. Ellis. No- 
thing can be viler than his conceits; but 
nothing can be more exquisite than the 
language in which those very conceits 
are expressed. Perhaps, of all our poets, 
he best deserves to be called the Well of 
English undefiled. A neat edition of 
his temple was printed in 1796, at 
Bristol, in honour of its piety, not its 
merit. 
With his Creator, peace, joy, truth, and: 
© On his Muse, ty George Withers, 
(Written in prison.) 
«¢ And though for her sake Pm crost, 
Though my best hopes f have lost, 
And knew she would make my trouble 
Tentimes more than tén times double, 
1 should love and keep her too, 
Spite of all the werld could do. 
For though banish’d from my flocks, 
And confin’d within these rocks, 
Here I waste away the light, 
And consume the sullen night, 
She doth for my comfort stay 
And keeps many cares away. 
Though I miss the flowery fields, 
With thase sweets the spring-tide yields, 
Though I may not see those groves 
Where the shepherds chant their loves, 
And the lasses more excel 
Than the sweet-voiced Philomel ; 
Though of all those pleastres past 
Nothing now remains at last 
But remembrance, poor relief, 
That more makes than mends my grief; 
She’s my mind’s companion still, 
Maugre Envy’s evil will. 
Whence she should be driven too, 
Were’t in mortals power todo. 
She doth tell me where to borrow 
Comfort in the midst of sorrow, 
Makes the desolatest place 
To her preserice be a grace, 
And the blackest discontents 
To be pleasing ornaments. 
In my former days of bliss 
Her divine skill taught me this, 
That from every thing I saw 
I could some inyention draw, 
And raise pleasure to her height 
Through the meanest object’s sight. 
By the murmur of a spring, 
Or the least bough’s rusteling ; 
By a daisy whose leaves spread, 
Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
Or a shady bush or tree 
She conld more infuse in me, 
Than all nature’s beauties can 
In some cther wiser man. 
By her help Lalso now 
Make this churlish place allow 
Some things 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, 
Wall'd 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. 
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, 
I will cherish thee for this,— 
