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punished with loss of that which lawfully is their own. That religion, too fiercely urged, is to stretch a string, till it not only jars but cracks, and in the breaking, whips (perhaps) the strainer's eye out.
"That an extreme taxation is to take away the honey while the bees keep the hive; whereas, he that would take that, should first either burn them or drive them out. That tyrants in their government are the greatest traitors to their own estates. That a desire of being too absolute, is to walk upon pinnacles and the tops of pyramids, where not only the footing is full of hazard, but even the sharpness of that they tread on, may run into their foot and wound them. That too much to regrate on the patience of but tickle subjects, is to press a thorn till it pricks your finger. That nothing makes a more desperate rebel, than a prerogative inforced too far. That liberty in man is as the skin to the body, not to be put off, but together with life. That they which will command more than they ought, shall not at last command so much as is fit.
"That moderate princes sit faster in their regalities, than such as being but men, would yet have their power over their subjects, as the gods, unlimited. That oppression is an iron heat till it burns the hand. That to debar some states of ancient privileges, is for a falcon to undertake to beat a flock of wild geese out of the fens. That to go about to compel a sullen reason to submit to a wilful peremptoriness, is so long to beat a chained mastiff into his kennel, till at last, he turns and flies at your throat. That unjust policy, is to shoot as they did at Ostend, into the mouth of a charged cannon, to have two bullets returned for one.
That admonitions from a dying man, are too serious to be neglected. That there is nothing certain, that is not impossible. That a cobler of Vlushing was one of the greatest enemies that the King of Spain ever had."
Owen Felltham was a poet too; but we cannot, generally speaking, say much in favor of his Lusoria. His lines" On a Gentlewoman whose nose was pitted with the small pox," are any thing but attractive. His "Epitaph on Charles the First" is very prosaic, and, which is seldom the case with Owen Felltham's writings, very irreverent. But, we like his notion of "The Sympathy" of souls:
"Two lutes are strung,
And on a table tun'd alike for song;
Strike one, and that which none did touch
As that which touch'd you see.
Think then this world, which heaven inroules,
Is but a table round, and souls
More apprehensive be."
And we think that the following copy of verses might have
found a place in some of the collections, specimens, &c. which contain much worn poetry:
"When, dearest, I but think on thee,
Are present, and my soul delighted;
Still present with us, though unsighted.
Thus while I sit and sigh the day,
So they by their bright rays awake me.
To see each other by reflection.
The waving sea can with such flood,
Far from the main up in the river:
Oh, think not then but love can do
That flows not every day, but ever."
One piece deserves a more particular notice, since it relates to that much abused and now neglected poet-" Rare Ben Jonson." Our readers may have it in remembrance, that, after the condemnation of his "New Inn," Jonson wrote a peevish ode, beginning thus :
"Come, leave the loathed stage,
And the more loathsome age,
Where pride and impudence, in faction knit,
Usurp the place of wit."
Randolph and Carew wrote friendly parodies upon this ode, and others (among the rest Felltham) published replies to it. Felltham's reply commences with,
"Come, leave this saucy way
Of baiting those that pay
Dear for the sight of your declining wit, &c."
Mr. Gifford, the able and zealous defender of Jonson, remarks with great candour of this reply: "it appears to me to have a considerable degree of merit, and its good sense and pertinacity cannot be denied." Randolph, Jonson's adopted son, whom we meet with on another occasion, as the encomiast of the author of the "Resolves," was in this instance one of those injudicious advocates that old Ben himself disclaims. "I will have no man addict himself to me; but if I have any thing right, defend it as Truth's, not mine. It profits not me to have any man fence or fight for me, to flourish or take my stand for truth and 'tis enough." Felltham, as it appears, wrote what he thought, but without the slightest tincture of illwill towards Jonson, of whose great talents he appears to have been a sincere admirer, since he is to be found among the warmest of his eulogists, in the collection of poems on his death, entitled "Jonsonus Verbius."
We lay aside the Resolves, as we part from our dearest friends, in the hope of frequently returning to them. We recommend the whole of them to our readers' perusal. They will find therein more solid maxims, as much piety, and far better writing, than in most of the pulpit lectures now current among us.
We can also recommend the edition by Mr. Cumming, who has well performed his duty as an editor. It is but right, however, to mention, that he has given a selection only (though a very extensive one) of the chapters,-that he has curtailed, as he says in his preface, "a few impurities;" and, which we like least of all, "for such obsolete words and quaint phrases as might not be intelligible, except to those conversant with the writers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, or might not carry with them a ready signification to the minds of readers at large, he has substituted others which appeared to him better adapted to convey the author's meaning; and he (has) ventured, occasionally, somewhat to modernize the dress in which the writer had clothed his thoughts; a freedom which he (has) sparingly, and, he trusts, cautiously exercised." All this may, perhaps, be necessary, in order to render the book generally useful. For our parts, however, we confess, that we cannot so easily consent to part with the little quaintnesses of style, which, to our minds, convey a greater charm than more polished diction; and believing, as we do, in the soundness of Hume's celebrated distinction between ancient liberty and modern licentiousness, we are content to pardon all the pruriencies we have yet discovered in Owen Felltham's Resolves.
END OF VOL. X.