Page:The Age of Shakespeare - Swinburne (1908).djvu/67

 On a day (alack the day!) Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air. (Love's Labour's Lost, Act iv., Sc. iii.)

And now let us hear Webster.

Hearke, now every thing is still, The Scritch-Owle, and the whistler shrill, Call upon our Dame, aloud, And bid her quickly don her shrowd: Much you had of Land and rent, Your length in clay 's now competent. A long war disturb'd your minde, Here your perfect peace is sign'd. Of what is 't, fooles make such vaine keeping? Sin their conception, their birth, weeping: Their life, a generall mist of error, Their death, a hideous storme of terror. Strew your haire with powders sweete: Don cleane linnen, bath[e] your feete, And (the foule feend more to checke) A crucifixe let blesse your necke: 'Tis now full tide 'tweene night and day, End your groane, and come away.

The toll of the funereal rhythm, the heavy chime of the solemn and simple verse, the mournful menace and the brooding presage of its note, are but the covering, as it were, or the outer expression, of the tragic significance which deepens