His religious writings are interspersed with flashes of exquisite wit.
“God gave thy soul brave wings; put not those feathers Into a bed to sleep out all ill weathers,”
is a most graceful bit of word play.
And so with scores, even hundreds of worthy writers, among whose pages brilliant shafts of wit are found.
Such excursions we have no room for, and must abide by the inexorable laws of limitation.
Nor can such a matter as the Ballads be touched upon.
The historical ballads of this time were narrative poems of exceeding great length and usually, of exceeding great dulness. Fun they show, here and there, but the bulk of them are destitute of mirth-provoking lines.
Not so the Ballad Literature intended for social diversion and lovers of ribaldry. These, in large numbers, were put forth, and were oftener than not, founded on the old Jest Books, the Merry Tales, and even the Gesta and Fabliaux of earlier days.
Collections of these include the effusions of the balladists from the short stanzas, mere epigrams, to the intolerably long tales based on political or religious matters.
Yet it is at this juncture we must mention the name of Thomas Hobbes, the Malmesbury Philosopher, and a most important figure of the seventeenth century.