she to think of the indecorous Bacchanalian catches of Lyly and Middleton, or of the uncompromising vulgarity of that famous song from "Gammer Gurton's Needle," or of the unseemly jollity of Cleveland's tavern-bred, tavern-sung verse?
"Come hither, Apollo's bouncing girl,
And in a whole Hippocrene of Sherry,
Let 's drink a round till our brains do whirl,
Tuning our pipes to make ourselves merry;
A Cambridge lass, Venus-like, born of the froth
Of an old half-filled jug of barley-broth,
She, she is my mistress, her suitors are many,
But she'll have a square-cap if e'er she have any."
Yet after discarding these ribald songs, with which refined femininity is not presumed to sympathize, there still remain such charming verses as Ben Jonson's
"Swell me a bowl with lusty wine,
Till I may see the plump Lyæus swim
Above the brim.
I drink as I would write,
In flowing measure, filled with flame and sprite."
Or, if this be too scholarly and artificial, there are the far more beautiful lines of Beaumont and Fletcher:—
