i>V 
 
 jy 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 KENTISH POETS.
 
 m 
 
 ^
 
 KENTISH POETS. 
 
 A Series of Writers in Ewjllsh Poetry, Natives, of 
 cr Residents in the County of Kent ; icith Specimens 
 of their. Compositions, and some Account of their 
 Lives and Writings. 
 
 BY R. FREEjJL^JS\ 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL 1. 
 
 In Kent and Christendom 
 
 Among the Muses." 
 
 (Sir Thos. Wyatt.) 
 
 CANTERBURY : 
 
 PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY G. WOOD, AND MAY BE HAL Oi 
 
 MESSRS. LONGMAN, HURST, AND CO. PATEIJNOSTEU ROW, 
 
 XONDON ; AND OF ALL OTHER BOOKSblLLEKS. 
 
 1821,
 
 'x
 
 ^360 ■ 
 
 OF 
 
 Scorn not the wreath, all humble (hough it be, 
 
 A wild-Jtoivr garlajid frsm thy native plains, 
 Gleaned in the Muses path, wherfi blossom free 
 Flowers of all hues, and n-oodland melody 
 
 Blends its rude music with the solemn strains 
 Of airy harps and antique minstrelsy : — 
 
 Whether I search amid the hoar remains 
 Of Medwa,y-waterd Allington, or rove 
 Beneath the *' sacred shade'' of Penshurst-^rroue ; 
 
 Or Cranbrook's vale, and Rotlier's banks invite 
 My wandering feet ; or, with increased delight, 
 Thine own fair St our, which all the Muses love : — 
 Tli€c for my guide, each hallow d scene I trace. 
 And taught by thee revere the Genius of the place. 
 
 R,F. 
 
 Feb, 25, 1821. 
 
 817976
 
 intrcT to tbt Namcsi* ^ 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Born. Died. Page. 
 Introduction with an account of two 
 
 Kentish Tragedies. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt 1503 1542 1 
 
 Elegy on Sir Thomas Wyatt hy the Earl 
 
 of Surrej' < ^^ 
 
 Thomas Sackville Earl OF Dorset.. 1527 160S 43 
 
 Queen Elizabeth 1533 1603 66 
 
 Alexander Neville 1541 1614 75 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney 1554 1586 79 
 
 Mary Sidney Countess ofPembroke. .1550 1621 139 
 
 Astrophel, a Poem by Edmund Spenser 152 
 
 John Lilly FI. 1580 160 
 
 The praise of Kent by Michael Drayton 187 
 
 Extracts from Shakspear relating to Kent • 191 
 
 Sir Henry WoTfON .....1567 1639 194 
 
 Phineas Fletcher 1584 1650 259 
 
 GlI^S FlETCMEB,.jc 15S8 1623 335 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 Leonard DiGGEs »...I590 1635 1 
 
 Sir Thomas Hawkins 1590 1640 14 
 
 Sir John Mennes... 1598 1670 28 
 
 John Boys Fl. 1650 34 
 
 Richard Lovelace 1618 1654 4G 
 
 Sir Charles Sedlky 1639 1701 63 
 
 AphkaBehn 1640 1689 90 
 
 Charles Sackville Earl of Dorset. . .1637 1705 110 
 
 Thomas Curteis 1690 1747 113 
 
 Nicholas Amhurst 1700 1742 147 
 
 Moses Brown 1703 1787 104 
 
 John Hawkesworth 1715 1773 176 
 
 Elizabeth Carter 1717 1806 23« 
 
 James Cauthorn 1721 I76I 257 
 
 Christopher Smart 1722 I77I 273 
 
 Elijah Flnton 1680 1730 301 
 
 Francis Fawkes I72I 1777 324 
 
 John DuNCOMBF 1729 1786 338 
 
 William Jackson 1757 1789 387 
 
 JamesSix 1757 1786 424
 
 ^t^^iii*i^^iiii^i**^iiiiiifei^>i^i^i^i^>^^ 
 
 INTRODUCTIOiN. 
 
 The following little work is a humble attempt ta 
 supply a deficiency in the histories of Kent, by bringing 
 into one point of view sonae account of individuals 
 born, or resident, within its limits, who have distin- 
 guished themselves in one department of literature ; 
 and to cxl\ibit their claims to such distinction, by pro- 
 ducing specimens of their compositions. 
 
 During the golden age of our poetry, the county of 
 Kent produced a succession of writers, votaries of the 
 Muse, exceeding in numerical amount, if not ia 
 character and reputation, that exhibited in the same 
 period by any other province in the kingdom. It had 
 also the honour, if such it be, of atfording the scene 
 of two of the earliest tragedies in our language. They 
 were the works of unknown authors, but have, for the 
 time in which they appeared, no inconsiderable share 
 of merit. As we were prevented by circumstances 
 which it would be useless to explain, from inserting an 
 account of these early efforts of the dramatic muse in 
 the regular order of our series, we may perhaps be ex- 
 cused if we venture to supply the deficiency in this 
 place.
 
 II INTRODUCTION. 
 
 7^ 
 
 In the year 1502 was published iif"qiiai to a tragedy 
 ^vith the foilovving title — "The lamentable and true 
 tragedy of M. Arden of Feversham, in Kent, who was 
 most wickedly murdered by the means of his disloyal 
 and wanton wife, who for the love she bare to one 
 Mosbie, hired two desperate ruffiaiis, Black \Vill and 
 Shagbag, to kill him. Wherein is shewed the great 
 malice and dissimulation of a wicked woman, the 
 insatiable desire of filthy lust, and the shameful end of 
 all murderers." This woik, whicli had become extremely 
 scarce, was republished by Mr. Edward Jacob, of 
 reversham, in the form of an octavo volume, in the 
 year 1770, and in a short preface, in which he gives 
 an account of the play and the history on which it 
 was founded, he ventures upon slight grounds, to 
 attribute it to Shakspear. Theie are certainly a fc.v 
 good passages in this old play, and some stroii;j 
 coincidences betwee;i certain expressions and phrases 
 it contains, and others in the acknowledged works of 
 our great dramatist; but they are not sufficiently nu- 
 meious or important to warrant the opinion formed by 
 Mr. Jacob. It is unnecessary to give any analysis of 
 this tragfdy, which has become well known to oil f.e- 
 ijuenters of the theatre by the modern play of Lillo» 
 lounded upon the same incidents, and containing many 
 passages borrowed directly fiom it, which still keeps 
 possession of the provincial stage, and is occasionally 
 acted for the edification, if not the amusement of the 
 populace, alternately with its counterpart George 
 Barnwell. The old play is, as may be expected, 
 deficient in plan, and there is but little variety oi merit 
 ia the cbaracteis ; that of the hired ruffiau Black Will
 
 INTRODUCTION. Ifl 
 
 being by far the best ; but there is no ofiensive ribaldry, 
 the common attendant of most contemporary efforts of 
 that nature, and the language is in general correct. 
 That it has some pretensions to poetry the following 
 extiaets will prove ; such passages however are of rare 
 occurrence, and the dialogue is most commonly tamo 
 and insipid. 
 
 Ales. Husband, what mean you to get up so early ? 
 Summer nights are short, and yet you rise ere day; 
 Had I been waking, you had not risen so soon. 
 
 Arden. Sweet love thou know'st that we two, Ovid like. 
 Have often chid the morn when't 'gan to peep, 
 And ofien wishM that dark night's purblind steeds 
 Would pull her by tlie purple mantle back, 
 And cast her in the ocean to her love : 
 But this niglit sweet Ales tbou hast kill'd my heait, 
 1 heard thee call on Mosbie in thy sleep. 
 
 Ales. 'Tis like I Mas asleep when I named him. 
 
 For being awake he comes not in my thouj^iits. 
 
 Arden. Ay, but you started up, and suddenly 
 Instead of him, caught me about the neck. 
 
 Ales, Instead of him ! why who was there but you. 
 And where but one is, how can I mistake? 
 
 Arden. Nay love there is no ci edit in a dream ; — 
 Let it sufiSce ; — I know thou lovest me. 
 
 Black Will. I tell thee, Green, the forlorn taveller. 
 Whose lips are glevv'd with summer's parching heat. 
 Ne'er long'd so much to see a running brook, 
 As I to finish Ard^a's tragedy.
 
 IV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Seest thou this gore that cleaveth to my face ? 
 Prom thence ne'er will I wash the bloody stain 
 'Till Artien's heart be panting in my hand. 
 
 Green. Why that's well said, but what says Shakbag? 
 
 Sliakhag. I cannot paint ray valour out in words ; — 
 But give me place and opportunity, 
 Such mercy a-! the starving lioness, 
 When she is dry-suck'd of her eager youngs 
 Shews to the prey that next encounters her; 
 On Arden so much pity would I take. 
 
 Franklin. Ah what a hell is fretful jealousy ! 
 
 What pity-moving words, what deep-fetch'd sighs, 
 
 Accompany this gentle gentleman ! 
 
 Now will he shake his care-oppressed head, 
 
 Then fix his sad eyes on the sullen earth, 
 
 Asham'd to gaze upon the open world: — 
 
 Now will he cast his eyes up towards the heavens^ 
 
 Looking that way for a redress of wrong : — 
 
 Sometimes he seeketh to beguile his giief, 
 
 And tells a story with his careful tongue. 
 
 Then comes his wife's dishonour in his thoughts, 
 
 And in the middle cutteth off his tale. 
 
 Shakbag, Black night hath hid the pleasure of the day, 
 , j And sheeting darkness overhangs the earth, 
 
 // ! And with the black folds of her cloudy robe 
 
 ' Obscures us from the eyesight of the world. 
 In which sweet silence such as we triumph. 
 The lazy miuutes linger on the time
 
 INXnODrCTlON. 
 
 As loath to give due audit to the hour ; 
 'Till on the watch our purpose be complete. 
 And Arden sent to everlasting night. 
 
 Mosbie. A woman's love is like the lightning's flame. 
 Which even in bursting forth consumes itself. 
 
 Arden. This night I dream'd, that being in a park, 
 A toil was pitch'd to overthrow the deer. 
 And I upon a little rising hill 
 Stood whistly watchiug for the herd's approach ; 
 Ev'n then methought a geatle slumber took me, 
 And summon'd all my parts to sweet repose; 
 But in the pleasure of this golden rest. 
 And ill-thew'd for'ster had remov'd the toil. 
 And rounded me with that beguiling twine 
 Which late methought was pitch'd to cast the deer ; 
 With that he blew an evil-sounding horn. 
 And, at the noise another herdsman came, 
 With faulchion drawn, and bent it at my breast. 
 Crying aloud, ** thou art the game we seek," 
 With that I wak'd and trembl'd every joint. 
 Like one obscured in a little bush. 
 That sees a lion foraging about. 
 And when the dreadful forest>kiug is gone. 
 He pries about with timorous suspect, 
 Through out the thorny casements of the brake. 
 And will not think his person dangerless. 
 But quakes and quivers though the cause be gone : 
 So trust me, Franklin, when I did awake, 
 1 stood in doubt whether I vfak'd or no.
 
 VI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Mosbie. Disturbed thoughts drive me from company. 
 And dry my marrow with their watchfulness ; 
 Continual trouble of my moody brain 
 [Feebles my body like excess of drink, 
 And nips mc, as the bitter north-east wind 
 Doth check the tender blossoms of the spring. 
 Well fares tlie man,, howe'er his cates do taste. 
 That tables not with foul suspicion : 
 And he but pines among his delicates, 
 Whose troubled mind is stuff'd with disconient. 
 My golden time was when I had no gold ; 
 Though then I wanted, yet I slept secure, 
 My daily toil begat me night's lepose, 
 My night's repose made day-light fresh to me : 
 But since I climb'd the top bough of the tree. 
 And sought to build my nest among the clouds, 
 
 ; Each gentle stirring gale doth shake my bed^ 
 And make me dread ray downfal to the earth. 
 But whither doth contemplation carry me? 
 The way I seek to tind, where pleasure dwells, 
 Is hedg'd behind me, that I cannot back, 
 But needs must on, although to danger's gate. 
 
 3Iosbie. Why what is love without true constancy ? 
 Like to a pillar built of many stones, 
 Yet neither with good mortar well compact, 
 IS^or close cement to fasten in the joints, 
 But that it shakes with every blast of wind, 
 And being touch'd, straight falls unto the earth, 
 And buries all its haughty pride in dust.
 
 INTRODUCTION. VII 
 
 The Other ancient drama connected with the county 
 of Kent, is also founded upon a domestic tragedy, 
 very much resembling the former in its character and 
 incidents. It was first printed in quarto, and in the 
 black letter, in 1599, 'with the following title :— "The 
 most tragical and lamentable murder of Master George 
 Sanders, of London, Merchant, near Shooter's Hill, 
 consented unto by his own wife, and acted by M. Brown, 
 Mistress Drury, and Trusty lloger, agents therein; 
 with their several ends." 
 
 As this old play has not attracted the attention of 
 any modern writer, we may be excused if we preface 
 the extracts we propose to make from it, with the 
 narrative on which it is constructed ; and it will perhaps 
 be more in keeping if this be done in the words of a 
 contemporary historian, Nvho excelled in his day iii 
 narrating such events. 
 
 "The 25th of March," says old John Stow under 
 the year 1573, "being Wednesday in Easter week, 
 and the feast of the annunciation of our lady, George 
 Brown cruelly murdered two honest men near unto 
 Shooter's Hill in Kent, the one of them was a wealthy 
 merchant of London, named George Sanders, the 
 other John Beaue of Woolwich : which murder was 
 committed in manner as foUoweth. 
 
 " On Tuesday the said George Brown receiving 
 secret intelligence by letter from Mistress Ann Drewry, 
 that Master Sanders should lodge that same night in 
 the house of one Master Barnes of Woolwich, and 
 from thence go on foot to Saint Mary Cray the next 
 morning, lay in wait for him by the way, a little from 
 Shooter's Hill, and there slew both him and John Beane 
 
 1 1
 
 VIII INTRODUCTION. 
 
 servant to Master Barnes : but John Beane having tea 
 or eleven wounds, and being left for dead, by God's 
 providence revived again, and creeping away upon all 
 four, was found by an old man and his maiden, and 
 conveyed to Woolwich, where he gave evident marks 
 of the murderer. 
 
 " Immediately on the deed doing, Brown sent 
 Mistress Drewry word thereof byRoger Clement (among 
 them called Trusty Roger) he himself repairing forth- 
 with to the court at Greenwich, and anon after him 
 came thither the report of the murder also. Then 
 departed he thence to London, and came to the house 
 of Mistress Drewry, where, though he spake not per- 
 sonally with her, after conference had with her servant 
 Trusty Roger, she provided him twenty pounds that 
 same day, for the whicli she laid certain plate of her 
 own and of Mistress Sanders's in gage. On the next 
 morrow, being Thursday, having intelligence that 
 Brown was sought for, they sent him six pounds more 
 by the same Roger, warning him to shift for himself, 
 which thing he foreslowed not to do. Nevertheless 
 the lords of the Queen's Majesty's council, caused 
 speedy and narrow search to be made for him, and 
 upon the eight and twentieth day of the same month, he 
 was apprehended in a man's house of the same name at 
 Rochester, and being brought back again to the court, 
 was examined by the council, to whom he confessed 
 the deed, as you have heard, and that he had oftentimes 
 before intended and sought to do the same, by the 
 instigation of the said Mistress Drury, who had pro- 
 mised to make a marriage between him and Mistress 
 Sanders, whom he seemed to love excessively, never-
 
 INTRODUCTION. IX 
 
 theless he protested (though untruly) tliat IVFistress 
 Sanders was not privy nor consenting thereto. Upon 
 bis confession he was arraigned at tlie King's Bencli in 
 Westminster Hall, on the eighteenth of April, and 
 was condemned as principal of the murder, according 
 to which sentence he was executed at Smithtield on 
 Monday the 20th of April, at which time, also untruly, 
 as she herself confessed afterwards, he laboured by 
 all means to clear Mistress Sanders of committing evil 
 with him, and then flung himself beside the ladder. 
 He was after hanged up in chains near unto the place 
 where he had done the fact. 
 
 " In the mean time Mistress Drewry and her man 
 being cxamiiicd, as well by their own confession, as 
 by falling out of the matter, and also by Brown s 
 appeachment thought culpable, were committed to ward. 
 And after Mistress Sanders being delivered of a child, 
 and churched, for at the time of her husband's death 
 she looked presently to lie down, was upon Mistress 
 Drewry 's man's confession, and other great likelihood, 
 hkewise committed to the Tower, and on Wednesday 
 the 6th of IMay arraigned, with Mistress Drewry, at 
 the Guildhall, the efi'ect of whose inditement was, 
 that they by a letter written had been procurers of the 
 said murder, and knowing the murder done, had by 
 money and otherwise relieved the murderer: whereunto 
 they pleaded not guilty, howbeit, they were both con- 
 demned as accessaries to Master Sanders's death, and 
 executed at Smithtield the thirteenth day of May, at 
 which time both confessed themselves guilty of the fact. 
 Trusty Roger being also condemned as an accessary, 
 was executed with his mistress at the time and place 
 aforesaid."
 
 X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 In this old play the Muse of Tragedy fills the part 
 of the ancient Chorus, and the subjects of the following 
 scenes are, at intervals, acted in the manner of masks, 
 ■with allegorical personages intermixed with the real 
 actors. This kind of exhibition does not occur at any 
 regular periods, for the play is not divided into acts. 
 Our modern managers appear to have recurred to 
 practices something similar, und have in their late 
 revivals of the neglected plays of Shakspear, introduced 
 to suit the taste of the present age, all these lumbering 
 appendages of former times : a certain proof, we fear, of 
 the declining taste of the public for the purify of 
 dramatic exhibition. Perhaps the following specimen 
 of the ancient practice may not be unworthy of their 
 notice. 
 
 Enter Tragedy with a hoivl of blood in her hand. 
 
 Tragedy. Till now you have but sitten to behold. 
 The fatal entrance to our bloody scene. 
 And by gradations seen how we have grown 
 Into the main stream of our (ragedy : 
 All we have done hath only been in words. 
 But now we come unto the dismal act, 
 And in these sable curtains sliut we up. 
 The comic entrance to our direful play. 
 The deadly banquet is prepared at hand, 
 Where ebon tapers are brought up from hell, 
 To lead black murder to iliis damned deed. 
 The ugly screechowl, and the niglit raven. 
 With flaggy wings, and hideous croaking noise, 
 Do beat the casemeists of this fatal house;
 
 INTAOBUCTION. ^t 
 
 Whilst I do bring my dreadful furies forth, 
 To spread the table to this bloody feast. 
 
 (They come to cover.) 
 
 (The while they cover.) 
 Come forth and cover, for the time draws on ; 
 Dispatch, 1 say, for now I must employ ye, 
 To be the ushers to this damned train. 
 Bring forth the banquet and that lustful wiue. 
 Which in pale mazors made of dead men's sculls, 
 They shall carouse to their destruction : 
 By this they're enter'd to this fatal door ; 
 Hark how the ghastly fearful chimes of night 
 Do ring them in : and with a doleful peal 
 
 (Here some strange solemn music like bells is iiearil 
 within.) 
 Do fill the roof with sounds of tragedy : 
 Dispatch I say and be their ushers in. 
 
 (The Furies go to the door and meet lliem : first the 
 Furies enter before, leading them dancing a so(t 
 dance to the solemn music; next comes Lust 
 before Brown leading Mistress Sanders in a black 
 veil: Chastity all in white, pulling her bacJt 
 softly by the arm : then Dniry thrusting away 
 Chastity, Roger following; they march about 
 and then sit to the table. The Furies till wine ; 
 Lust drinks to Brown, he to Mistress Sanders; 
 she pledges him. Liist embraces her, she thrust- 
 eth Chastity from her. Chastity wrings her hands 
 and departs. Drury and Roger embrace one 
 another. The Furies leap and embrace one 
 another, &o.) 
 
 The following scene, which takes place immediately 
 after Brown has committed the murder, and when he 
 is eager to enjoy the advantages he sought to obtain by 
 it, contains one of those admirable touches of nature in 
 which the old dramatic writers excelled, and is rqual 
 to any thing in the compass of our stage poetry.
 
 XII INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Scene he/ore Sandeks's house. Enter Sanders's 
 Young Son, and another boy from school, 
 
 JBoy. Go to, where shall we play? 
 Youny San, Here at our door. 
 Boy. What, if your father find us ? 
 Young San. No, he's at Woolwich, and will not come 
 home to night. 
 
 Enter to them Brown and Roger: 
 
 Broini. Is she so out of patience as thou say'st ? 
 
 Roger. W'onderful Sir, I have not seen the like. 
 
 Brotcn. What does she mean by that? nay what mean I 
 
 To ask the question ? Has she not good cause ? 
 
 Oh yes ! and we have every one just cause 
 
 To hale and be at variance with ourselves. 
 
 But come, I long to see her. 
 
 (He spies the boys.) 
 Roger. How now Captain ? 
 
 Why stop you on the sudden? W^hy go you not? 
 
 "W hat makes you look so ghastly towards the house? 
 
 Brown. Is not the foremost of those pretty boys 
 One of George Sanders' sons ? 
 
 Roger. Yea, 'tis his youngest. 
 
 Brown. Bolh youngest and eldest are now fatherless 
 By ray unlucky hand : — I prithee go 
 And take him from the door, the sight of him 
 Strikes such a terror in my guilty conscience. 
 As I have not the heart to look that way, 
 Nor stir my foot until he be removed, 
 Methinks in him I see his father's wounds 
 Fresh bleeding in my sight ; nay he doth stand 
 Like to an angel with a fiery sword.
 
 INTRODUCTION. XIII 
 
 To bar my entrance at that fatal door : — 
 I prithee step, and take him quickly theace. 
 
 Present Master Barnes, blaster James, and others, 
 icith John Beane, wounded in a chair :— enter to 
 them the Mayor of Rochester, tvith Brown a 
 prisoner. 
 
 Barnes. As I take it, IMaster Mayor of Rochester. 
 
 Mayor. The same, good Master Barnes. 
 
 Barnes. Whathappy fortune sent you here to ^yVooIwich: 
 That yet your company may give us comfort, 
 In this sad time? 
 
 Mayor. Believe me, sad indeed, and very sad : — 
 Sir, the council's warrant lately came to me. 
 About the search for one Captain George Brown, 
 As it should seem suspected of this murder, 
 Whom in my search I hapt to apprehend. 
 And hearing that the bodies of the murdered 
 Remained here, I thought it requisite, 
 To make this in ray way unto the court, 
 Now going thither with the prisoner. 
 
 Barnes. Believe me Sir, ye have done right good service^ 
 And shewn yourself a painful gentleman. 
 And shall no doubt deserve well of the states 
 
 James. No doubt you shall, and I durst assure you so. 
 The council will accept w ell of the same. 
 
 Barnes. Good master Mayor, this wretched man of mine 
 Is not yet dead ; look you where now he sits. 
 But past all sense, and labouring to his end.
 
 XIV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Mayor. Alas, poor wretch ! 
 
 Barnes. Is this that Brown that is suspected to have done 
 
 the murder? — a goodly man, believe roe : — 
 
 Too fair a creature for so foul an act. 
 Brown. My name is Brown, Sir. 
 James. I know you well, your fortunes have been fair, 
 
 As any gentleman's of your repute. 
 
 But Brown, should you be guilty of this fact,— 
 
 As this your flight has given shrewd suspicion, — 
 
 Oh Brown your hands have done the bloodiest deed 
 
 That ever was comnutted. 
 Broicn. He doth not live dare charge me with it. 
 James. Pray God there be not. 
 Mayor. Seijeants bring hiai nearer, see if this poor soul 
 
 know him. 
 Barnes. It cannot be, these two days space he knew no 
 
 creature. 
 Brown. Swounds ! lives the villain yet? (aside.) 
 
 O how his very sight atFrights ray soul ! 
 
 His very eyes will speak had he no tongue. 
 
 And will accuse me. 
 Barnes. See how his wounds break out afresh in 
 
 bleeding ! 
 James. He stirs himself. 
 Mayor. He opens his eyes. 
 Barnes. See how he looks upon him! 
 Brown. I gave him fifteen wounds — (aside.) 
 
 Which now be fifteen mouths that do accuse me : 
 
 In every wound there is a bloody tongue, 
 
 Which will all speak, although he hold his peace ; 
 
 By a whole jury T shall be accused. 
 Barnes. John, dost thou hear? Know'st thou this man ?
 
 INTRODUCTION. XV 
 
 John. Yea, this is he that murdered me 
 
 and Master Sanders. (He sinks down.) 
 
 James. O hold him up ! 
 
 Mayor, John comfort thj'self ! 
 
 James. Bow him ; — give hira air. — 
 
 Barnes. No, he is dead. 
 
 Brown. Methinks he is so fearful in my sight, 
 
 That were he now but where I saw him last, 
 I'or all this world I would not look upon him. 
 
 Barnes. The wondrous work of God !— that tlie poor 
 creature not speaking for two days, yet now should 
 speak to accuse this man, and presently yield up 
 his soul. 
 
 James. 'Tis very strange. 
 
 Mayor. Serjeants away I — prepare you for the court. 
 And I will follow you immediately. 
 
 Barnes. Sure the revealing of this murder's strange. 
 
 James. It is so Sir ; but in the case of blood, 
 God's justice hath been still miraculous. 
 
 Mayor, I have heard it told, that digging up a grave. 
 Wherein a man had twenty years been buried. 
 By finding of a nail knock'd in the scalp, 
 And due enquiry who was buried there, 
 The murther yet at length did come to light. 
 
 Barnes. I have heard it told, that once a traveller 
 Being in the hands of him that murdered him. 
 Told him, the fern that then grew in the place, 
 If nothing else, yet that would sure reveal him : 
 And. seven years after, being safe in London, 
 There came a sprig of fern borne by the wind, 
 Into the room wheras the murderer was,
 
 XVI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 At sight whereof he suddenly start up. 
 And then reveal'd the murder. 
 
 James. I'll tell you Sir, one more to quit your tale : — 
 A woman that had made away her husband, 
 And sitting to behold a tragedy, 
 At Lynn a town in Norfolk, 
 Acted by players travelling that way, 
 Wherein a woman thot had murthered her's 
 
 ji j Was ever haunted with her husband's ghost : — 
 ' " ■ i The passion written by a feeling pen. 
 And acted by a good tragedian. 
 She was so moved with the sight thereof. 
 That she cried out, — the play was made for her, — 
 And openly confest her husband's murder. 
 
 Barnes. However their's, Gods name be praised for this ! 
 You Master Mayor I see must to the court, 
 I pray you do my duty to the Lords. 
 
 Mayor. That will I Sir. 
 
 James. Come, I'll go along with you. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Tragedy enters to conclude. 
 
 Tragedy, Here are the launces that have sluic'd forth sin. 
 And ript the venom'd ulcer of foul lust, 
 Which being by due vengeance qualified. 
 Here Tragedy of force must need conclude. 
 Perhaps it may seem strange unto you all. 
 That one hath not reveng'd another's death. 
 According to the observation of such course : 
 The reason is, that now of truth I sing, 
 And should I add, or else diminish ought. 
 Many of these spectators then could say,
 
 INTRODUCTION. XVII 
 
 1 have committed error in my play. 
 
 Bear with this true and home-born tragedy, 
 
 Yielding so slender argument and scope. 
 
 To build a matter of importance on ; 
 
 And in such form as haply you expected. 
 
 What now hath failed, to-morrow you shall see, 
 
 Performed by History or Comedy. 
 
 It remains now to say a few words respecting the 
 following pages. 
 
 They were undertaken, by the present writer, in 
 conjunction with an old and much valued Friend, 
 whose state of health and more important avocations, 
 prevented him from bearing the part in it which he at 
 first proposed, and the work has suft'ered materially in 
 consequence. Thus much to explain the use of the 
 plural pronoun, whidi without this explanation, might 
 seem to be an affectation. 
 
 No small number of books have been consulted in 
 the compilation of these pages, a far greater number 
 indeed than by the scanty fruits may appear. The com- 
 piler claims the merit of having taken nothing upon 
 trust; he has read carefully all the works which he 
 could procure of the several v/ritevs upon whose merits 
 he has ventured to pass an opinion, and that opinion 
 has in every instance been his own, whatever may be 
 said of its justice or coriectness. 
 
 The orthography has been modernized throughotit to 
 fit the work for general readers ; and the lines have 
 been arranged according to the rhyme. No other
 
 XVIIl INTRODUCTION. 
 
 liberties have been taken with the extracts, except 
 where, in a few instances, obvious incorrectness in the 
 printing or punctuation demanded to be put right. 
 
 To his Friend above alluded to, the Writer is under 
 the greatest obligation for the use of books, for pro- 
 curing him the loan of books, and introducing him to 
 various souices of original information. His thanks 
 are also due to the Yory Rev. the Dean and Chapter 
 of Canterbury Cathedral, for permission to examine a 
 manuscript poem in their library ; to the Rev. H. J. Todd 
 for the loan of a scarce poem by the llev. Thomas 
 Curteis, and other books from his library ; to Messrs. 
 Longman and Co. Booksellers, for the loan of scarce 
 and valuable books from their extensive collections ; 
 to Miss Duncorabe of Canterbury, in an especial 
 manner, for communications respecting Dr. Hawkea- 
 worth, the Rev. John Duncorabe, Mrs. Duncorabe, 
 and Mr. William Jackson ; to Mrs. Lukyn, of Can- 
 terbury, for the use of some manuscript poems, ty 
 Mr. William Jackson ; and to Mrs. May of Heme, 
 near Canterbury, for correct copies of some poems 
 written, and published incorreclly, by her late brother 
 Mr. James Six. 
 
 To those who, knowing the compiler's professional 
 employments, may be inclined to censure him for sup- 
 posed neglect of his more serious " calling" for the 
 " idle trade" of authorship, upon a subject which they 
 may deem light and trifling, he might reply, if there 
 were not a tinge of vanity it, in the words ofthepoat, — 
 
 neque semper arcum 
 
 Tendit Apollo : '-
 
 INTRODUCTION. XIX 
 
 he has, however, another quotation at hand, and with 
 that, as it exactly suits his case, lie will lake iiis 
 leave. 
 
 " Forsitan hoc studium possit furor esse videri : 
 Sed quiddam furor, hie utilitatis habet ; 
 
 Semper in ohtutu mentcm vetat esse malorum, 
 Prcesentis casus immemoretnque facit."* 
 
 (Ovid. Trist. Lib. iv. Eleg. i.) 
 
 * Haply my lovi; of verse may fully seem : 
 All though it be, this iecompcnce I share,— 
 
 My mind it lures from many a painful theme, 
 And sweet obliviou brings of present care.
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 Born 1503.— Died 1542. 
 
 " Then let me fly to Meihcaifa stream, 
 
 Where flowing IVytttt used to dream 
 
 His moral fancies / Ivied towers, 
 
 'Ncdth uidch the silver Nuiad pours 
 
 Her jnurmuring waves through verdant meads, 
 
 Where the rich herd luxuriant feeds ; 
 
 How often in your si ill recesses, 
 
 I've seen the muse inflowing tresses, 
 
 Scatter her flowers as U'yatt bade, 
 
 In Spring's enamell'd colours clad ! 
 
 SirE. Brtuges. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt, was descended from a re- 
 spectable family originally settled in Yorkshire, He 
 was the son of Sir Henry Wyatt, being the eldest of 
 three children. His brother Henry Wyatt lived also 
 in Kent, but his family subsequentiy removed into the 
 Countv of Essex, — His sister Margaret married Sir 
 Anthony Lee, ancestor to the Earls of Litchfield. 
 
 Sir Henry Wyatt, the father of the poet, was a man 
 distinguished in his time by the favour of two sovereigns. 
 He seems to have attached himself to the House of 
 Lancaster, and to have incurred in consequence the 
 displeasure of Richard the third, by whose directions he 
 was confined a prisoner in the Tower. There is a story 
 connected with his confinement, which absurd as it 
 certainly is, has attained with a late biographer some 
 degree of credit, — -^Ve are told by the inscription on his 
 Monument, "That he was imprisoned and tortured in the
 
 2 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 Tower, in the reign of Richard the Third, and kept in 
 that dungeon, when he was fed and preserved by a cat." 
 The tradition illustrative of this record is, that the cat 
 brought him every day a pigeon from a neighbouring 
 dove-house. The untameable disposition, and total 
 want of personal attachment, which are the well known 
 characte'-s of the domestic cat, are sufficient to confute 
 this legend. 
 
 Sir Henry AVyatt was the first of liis name who settled 
 in Kent. About the year 1493, he purchased the 
 castle and estate of Ailing-ton, near Maidstone, upon 
 the banks of the Medway. — Here he fixed his family, 
 and his descendants as long as they retained it, made 
 this pleasant seat the chief place of their residence.* 
 
 * Allingtou Castle seems to have been fortified so early as 
 the time of Edward tbe first, when it belonged to Sir Stephen 
 de Penchester. Ii was afterwards part of the ample possessions 
 of the Cobhams. It reverted to the Crown upon the attainder 
 of Sir Thomas Wyatt the younger, in 155-1, and was given by 
 Queen Elizabeth to the Astlcy family.— By this family the 
 Castle was suffered to go to decay, and the park broken up 
 and cultivated. Tlic present ruins are extensive, but exhibit 
 but little remains of a place of strength — the moat still exists, 
 and an ancient gateway, built by one of the Cobhams, as well 
 as one of the round towers, which is very large. " The Castle," 
 says Dr. Nott, " though partly in ruins, still serves as a residence 
 to a farmer and three or four labourers. The situation is sin- 
 gularly pretty — it stands in an angle of a sweetly verdant 
 meadow surrounded on three sides by the Medway. The oppo- 
 site bank is abrupt, and clothed with hanging woods. The 
 grounds behind the Castle form a gentle declivity, varied with 
 groves of wood, and hop-grounds intermixed. The country 
 dame who shews the Castle to strangers, takes them to one of 
 the towers, and tells them it is the identical place where the 
 old Sir Henry was imprisoned; and then points to an adjoining 
 dove-house, whence the faithful cat, she assures them, regu- 
 larly took the pigeon every day to support her master with." 
 The ruins and estate form part of the possessions of the present 
 Earl of Romney.
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 3 
 
 Soon afterwards, he made a further purchase in Kent, 
 of the estate and mansion of the Mote, also near Maid- 
 stone, and the present residence of the Earls of llomney. 
 Sir Henry Wyatt was a Privy Counsellor to Henry 
 the seventh, and named in that Monarch's will as one of 
 his executors. He was afterwards appointed of the 
 Council for the management of pubUc affairs during 
 the minority of Henry the eighth. — Upon the coronation 
 of the latter, he was made a Knight of the Bath ; and 
 after the Battle of Spurs, where he held a military 
 command, was further distinguished by the chivalrous 
 title of a Knight Banneret in the field of battle — this 
 happened in 1513. In 1516 he was appointed to preside 
 certain days in the Star Chamber, and about the same 
 time was constituted Knight IMarshall ; in which capacity 
 he attended his master to Calais, when the famous inter- 
 view took place between the two Kings in the plains of 
 Ardres. In 1521 ha was made keeper of the King's 
 jewels. In 1527 he entertained the King at his Castle 
 of AUington, who was then, according to a praiseworthy 
 custom, now too much neglected, going his progress 
 round Kent. In 1533 he appears to have been the 
 King's Ewerer, an office of considerable distinction. 
 Sir Henry Wyatt died at AUington in 1538, being 
 not less than 78 years of age. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt was born at AUington Castle in 
 Kent, in 1503, and was sent to the University of Cam- 
 bridge, at the early age of twelve years. He was of 
 St. John's College ; took his degree of Batchelor in 
 1518, and that of Master in 1520. — Wood says he was 
 afterwards removed to Oxford, which assertion seems 
 contrary to the evidence of several facts. It is certain
 
 * SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 that he had finished his studies, and was admitted a 
 iicntleman of the King's bedchamber, some time pre- 
 vious to the year 1525. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt married, in the year 1523, Eliza- 
 beth the daughter of Brook Lord Cobham, and his 
 oldest son, the unfortunate Sir Thomas Wyatt the 
 younger, was born the following year. 
 
 The next memorable incident in the life of Sir 
 Thomas Wyatt, is after an interval of nine years, when, 
 ill 1533, he officiated for his father at the coronation of 
 Anne Eoleyn, in his capacity of Ewerer. All that 
 Ave know of him during this interval is, that he filled 
 the part of a courtier so well as to have obtained the 
 envied situation of favourite to his capricious and dan- 
 gerous master. His ascendency over the King at this 
 time was so great, that his recommendation was con- 
 sidered the surest road to preferment, and it became a 
 common saying upon any unexpected promotion, that 
 the successful candidate " had been in Wyatt's closet." 
 The accomplishments which insured our poet this 
 exalted station, were — great personal beauty, — a quick 
 and ready wit, — a generous and open disposition, — 
 dexterity in the martial exercises of the times, — a talent 
 for verse, — skill in languages, and in music. It is 
 certain that during this period of his life, Wyatt en- 
 tered with animation into all tlie gaiety and dissipation 
 of the court, and as such a life seems to have been 
 congenial to his disposition, he appears to have been 
 happy and contented. To these halcyon days, he 
 doubtless alludes in the following stanza: 
 
 " What earthly thing more can I crave ? 
 
 M'hat wo'.iltl I wish more at my vvili ! 
 Kothiiig Oil earth more wouliJ 1 liave,. 
 
 Save what I luivc, to liave it stilt."
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. O 
 
 It was also during this spring-time of liis age that 
 love gave inspiration to his muse. His reverend 
 biographer takes great pains to convince us that it was 
 of that rare kind called platonic love, — " an innocent 
 but a dangerous friendship." It was the practice of 
 the poets of that age, a practice borrowed from the 
 example of their master Petrarch, to single out some 
 object to whom they might address the most impassioned 
 strains, without even a distant expectation of obtaining 
 the usually hoped for reward of such etforts. Surrey, 
 the celebrated contemporary and friend of Wyatt, was 
 a married man when he assumed this poetic passion 
 for his Geraldine, who was herself a child, and in the 
 end but ill requited his labours. At a period rather 
 later, Sir Philip Sydney, himself a married man, 
 singled out the Lady Rich, a married woman, as the 
 heroine of his muse, and under the assumed titles of 
 Astrophel and Stella, addressed to her a volume of 
 poems in the language of genuine passion. The object 
 of Wyatt's attachment was the beautiful aiul unfor- 
 tunate Anne Boleyn. It is a remarkable fact, and it 
 tends in a degree to confirm the opinion that this 
 poetic love was of the kind* termed platonic, that the 
 ladies, in almost every instance, requited the infatuated 
 poets with the disdain they most justly merited. It is 
 probable that this practice was not confined to poets 
 only, but that in them it became notorious, and was 
 handed down to posterity from their embodying it in 
 verse. Dr. Nott has entered into an attempt to pal- 
 liate, if not to justify it, — the attem})t is fruitless, — the
 
 t> SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 practice admits of no palliation, — it was both criminal 
 and absurd.* 
 
 That the object of Wyatt's poetic, or if the term be 
 more appropriate, platonic affection, was AnneBoleyn, 
 is proved from the internal evidence of his works, as 
 well as from some obscure notices in the history of the 
 time, and from family tradition. One of his poems is 
 addressed to his love called Anna; in others, he alludes 
 to the necessity of relincpiishing the object of his affec- 
 tions to a powerful rival, and there is a sonnet begin- 
 ning with the line 
 
 " Whoso list-to hunt, I know wFiere is a Iiind." 
 
 * In !iis life of Surrey, Dr. Nott f^oes the length to assert, 
 
 that " Petrarch avowed his attachment to Laura ulien she wis^ 
 
 a mdrried woman; yei his love was deemed tin' purest and most 
 
 exalted that the human breast could entertain." In a note to 
 
 this passage, the Rev. Dr. fiutlter remarks — " Some doiibls 
 
 have been entertained of late, whetiier Laura was really a 
 
 married woman, as has been generally supposed. Lord Wood- 
 
 iionselee has written an ingenious essay ',d prove that she 
 
 lived and died single. The point miif.t s'HI be considered as 
 
 doubtful. But which ever way tiie truth may lie, in Snirey's 
 
 time Laura u-ns, I believe, vniversnllij believed to have been 
 
 vvirried." This is a remarkable instance of how far a writer 
 
 may be carried in his wish to support a particular point. Dr, 
 
 Notl is endeavouring to palliate a practice deserving only of 
 
 reprobation, and he desires to support it by the authority of 
 
 great names. Such trifling to call it by no worse term, with the 
 
 character of the iilustriojis dead, is not lionourable in any 
 
 writer. Dr. Nott must have known, if lie had read the essay of 
 
 j Lord Woodhouselee, two things : fmi—thut Laura was never 
 
 f marriid; secondly, that in Surrey's lime, the universal opinion 
 
 \ wui, that she was never married. The fact is, tliat the calumny 
 
 ; originated in the infamous vanity of a Frenchman in the last 
 
 J century. The essay of Lord Woodhouselee contains an ample 
 
 f refutation of this attempt, and is a most ingenious, delightful,. 
 
 I and praise-worthy composition. Its merits are not sufficiently 
 
 I known, and it has not been justly appreciated.
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 7 
 
 wliicli contains the following express declaration: 
 
 " Whoso list to limit, I put him out of donbt, 
 As well as 1 may siniitl his time in vain ; 
 Graven with diamonds, in letters | lain, 
 
 There is written her f.tir neck round about, 
 " Noli me tangere ;" for Cicsar's I am 
 And wild for to hold, though I seem tame." 
 
 When the British tyrant had determined to sacrifice 
 the unfortunate Anne to his lust, attempts were made 
 by his agents to tixa stain upon her honour, and amon^ 
 others the attachment of Sir Thomas Wyatt was selected, 
 as ati'ording a pretence of that nature. ^Vriters are not 
 wanting who assert, that he made himself a voluntary 
 confession of criminal intimacy vsith her previous to 
 her marriage. There is every reason to hope, for the 
 credit of our poet, that this calumny was without foun- 
 dation. It is not, it must be confessed, contrary to the 
 character and spirit of the time, which afford instances 
 of every thing mean, dastardly, and disgusting ; but 
 there can be little doubt had he made such an acknow- 
 ledgement, that he vv'ould have added another to the 
 train of victims which accompanied this most revolting 
 tragedy.* 
 
 * The whole compass of history does not furnish an example 
 of more infernal tyranny on the |)art of a ruler, or more servile, 
 base, and dastardly conduct on that of a numerous and power- 
 ful nobility, than that exiiibited in the trial and condemnation 
 of Anne IJoleyn. She was found guilty of a revolting and 
 unnatural crime, upon evidence of the slightest and most sus- 
 picious nature ; her near relation, the Duke of Norfolk, pre- 
 siding at the head of a jury consisting of the prime of Eng- 
 land's nobility ; the gentle, the chivalrous Surrey, alas! officia- 
 ting as Marshall. The number of Dukes, Marquisses, Earls, 
 and Barons assembled on this disgusting occasion, was twenty- 
 six, and history has consigned their names to eternal infamy. 
 The conduct of the royal monster outrages humanity. " The 
 oak," says- Dr. Nott, " is, I believe, still existing, called
 
 8 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 There are reasons to presume that the miserable 
 Queen, either from vanity, or motives even less justi- 
 fiable, was not totally insensible to Wyatt's passion, 
 w^hatever its nature may have been. We are told that 
 she indulged in reciting his poems composed in her 
 praise ; that she retained his sister about her person, 
 even to the latest moment of her life, and rewarded her 
 with the last kind look and gift she had to bestow ; that 
 the individuals of Wyatt's family, for a long time after 
 her death, considered themselves bound in honour to 
 defend the memory of the murdered Queen ; and that 
 one of them when young, had collected materials with 
 the intention of refuting the calumnies of her accusers. 
 Considering the affair in this light, the practice before 
 reprobated appears even move detestable, and it is not 
 too much to suspect that it afforded tlie most unfeeling 
 of all tyrants the pretence for sacrificing an inno- 
 cent, but unguarded woman, to his inhuman lust. In 
 this remark it is not intended to impute blame solely to 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt — it is well known that several indi- 
 
 Henry's oak, in Epping Forest, nntler which that King breaks 
 fasted, his hounds and attendant train beside him, on the morn- 
 ing which he had directed Anne Boleyn to be beheaded. — 
 There he remained until he heard the gun fired, which was to 
 be the signal to mark the time of the striking off her head. 
 No sooner, did he hear it, than starting np, he exclaimed 
 " Ah! Ah / it is done — Ike business is done — uncouple the hounds, 
 let us now follow the sport!" It is painful to add, for it reflects 
 discredit upon human nature, that Henry, after his return 
 from hunting that very evening, married Lady Jane Seymour." 
 The only redeeming instance in this horrid tragedy, is the con- 
 duct of the Earl of Northumberland, who was one of the 
 jury. H< had been a lover of the Queen's in early life, and 
 would have made her his wife but was compelled to resign her 
 to the tyrant. On seeing her brought into court as a criminal, 
 his feelings were overpowered, and he was obliged to retire 
 from the scene.
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 9 
 
 riduals actually suffered death for their supposed 
 attachmeut to the Queen. Why may not these have been 
 platonic lovers? 
 
 From this period Sir Thomas Wyatt seems to have 
 strung his lyre to other notes than love. We are in- 
 formed that he contributed very materially to the Re- 
 formation, as it was called, or more correctly speaking, 
 to the dissolution of the religious houses. As a pre- 
 liminary step, he had previously joined the conspiracy 
 by which Cardinal Wolsey suffered disgrace. Dr. 
 Nott is inclined to think that Wyatt was induced to 
 this line of conduct by religious conviction ; he however 
 furnishes us with the following anecdote of him, which, 
 with its corollary, does not, it must be allowed, tend 
 to confirm his opinion. "One day as the King was 
 conversing with Wyatt on the suppression of monaste- 
 ries, he expressed his apprehension on the subject, 
 saying, he foresaw it would excite general alarm, should 
 the crown resume to itself such extensive possessions as 
 those belonging to the church." " True Sire," replied 
 Wyatt, " but what if the rook's nests were buttered V* 
 Henry understood the force and application of the pro- 
 verb, and is said from that moment to have formed the 
 design of making the nobility a party in the reformation, 
 by giving to them a portion of the church lands ." The 
 " rook's nests" assuredly were " buttered" lavishly, and 
 among the rest that belonging to our bard. We are 
 told by the same authority, that the King " reserved 
 for him the house of the Friars at Aylesford in Kent, 
 which he had particularly requested to have," and that 
 "it was an acquisition of the utmost importance to 
 Wyatt, as it adjoined his family estate at Allingtoa."
 
 10 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 After this acknowledgment it is little better than folly 
 to speak of Wyatt's attachment to Henry's reformation 
 from religious or disinterested motives. 
 
 The honour of Knighthood was conferred upon Sir 
 TTiomas Wyatt on Easter-day, March 18th, 1536; soon 
 after which he was confined for a short time in the 
 Tower. — ^The cause of this imprisonment is unknown ; 
 but is said to have arisen out of some personal quarrel 
 between himself and the Duke of Suffolk. It appears 
 to have been of short duration, and not to have pro- 
 duced any influence upon the conduct of the King as it 
 respected Sir Thomas Wyatt. Immediately after his 
 liberation, he was appointed to a command in the army 
 designed to act against the rebels in Lincolnshire ; and 
 in the ensuing year, he was nominated High Sheriff 
 for the County of Kent. 
 
 In April 1537, Sir Thomas Wyatt was sent Em- 
 bassador to the Emperor Charles the Fifth, then resi- 
 dent in Spain. We are informed that he was selected 
 for this embassy, in consequence of the unlimited con- 
 fidence his master was disposed to place in liim, and 
 the chance that his engaging manners and address might 
 contribute to promote the intentions of his mission. — 
 It is not consistent with the object of the present work 
 to enter into the particulars of this negociation, as they 
 are matters of general history, and may be found at 
 full in the proper places. Sir Thomas Wyatt, though 
 he did not fully accomplish the purpose of his employer, 
 seems to have conducted himself with much firmness 
 and prudence, and entirely to his satisfaction. The 
 situation, however, was neither very pleasant nor pro- 
 fitable to him, and he repeatedly signified his desiie to
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 11 
 
 be recalled. He had for his associate in this affair, 
 the afterwards too famous Bonner, Bishop of London. 
 This mean spirited and vindictive man, thinking him- 
 self humbled by the ascendency of Wyatt's talents, 
 and the respect shewn to him by the Emperor, medi- 
 tated the design of revenging himself, and accordingly 
 accused him of corresponding with Cardinal Pole, at 
 that time a proclaimed traitor, and of speaking disre- 
 spectfully of the King, He was at length permitted to 
 return, which he did in June 1539, and immediately 
 requested a public enquiry into his conduct, as con- 
 nected with the subjects of Bonner's charges. He 
 was assured by Cromwell, then in power, that the 
 whole had been submitted to investigation during his 
 absence, and dismissed as unfounded. 
 
 A short time only was allowed Sir Thomas Wyatt 
 for the repose he longed to enjoy at his favourite resi- 
 dence in Kent, which was now his own, and which he 
 took a great delight in improving. In the latter part 
 of the year 1539, circumstances again required that he 
 should resume his situation at the Emperor's court. — 
 This embassy seems to have been as unproductive of 
 beneficial consequences as the former; it was however 
 of short duration, and Sir Thomas Wyatt returned to 
 England in the following spring. Motives of a private 
 nature seem to have induced him to press earnestly for 
 his recall in this instance. He was aware that the party 
 inimical to Cromwell was gaining an ascendency 
 over tlie King, and he deemed it necessary to be upon 
 the spot to defend himself from the consequences of 
 that great man's fall. His suspicions were well founded, 
 within two months from the arrival of Wyatt, the ruin 
 of the minister was accomplished.
 
 12 SIR THOMAS M'YATT. 
 
 Bonner selected this tirae as a fit one again to bring 
 forward his charges against his late colleague. He did 
 so, and so effectually^ as to produce an immediate com- 
 mand for the anprehension and confinement of Sir Tho- 
 mas Wyatt; who was committed to the Tower upon the 
 double charge, of holding a treasonable correspondence, 
 and of using disrespectful language in speaking of the 
 King, in the latter part of the year 1540, or beginning 
 of 1541. He was treated with more than common ri- 
 gour, and has recorded the event in one of his best short 
 pieces, addressed to Sir Francis Bryan : — 
 
 Sighs are iny food ; my drink they are my tears ; 
 
 Clinking of fetters sncli music wotdJ crave : 
 Stink and close air away my life wears ; 
 
 Innocency is all the hope I have. — 
 Rain, wind, or weather I judge hy mine ears ; 
 
 Malice assaults that righteousness should have — 
 Sure I am, my Bryan, this wound shall heal again ; 
 
 But yet alas ! the scar shall still remain. 
 
 In this confinement, Wyatt spent several months. At 
 length Bonner having prepared his evidence, a hearing 
 took place before the Privy Council, some time about 
 the month of June, 1541. Wyatt in his defence, de- 
 livered an oration, which has been fortunately pre- 
 served, and is a monument of the speaker's wisdom, 
 eloquence, firmness, and command of language. As 
 there cannot be a better production from which to select 
 a specimen of Wyatt's prose, the following is submitted 
 as curious in more particulars than one. — After having 
 refuted the principal charges, he remarks : — 
 
 " But what thing is that, that these men would not 
 wrest for their purpose, that wrest such things. They 
 found fault that I did not them the honour that belongs 
 to the King's ambassadors. — I lent not them my horses 
 when tliey went out of Barcelona ; nor I did not ac- 
 company them oil the way."
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. >• 
 
 " First I report me to nly servants, some of whom 
 are gentlemen, right honest men ; to their servants ; 
 yea ! and let them answer themselves. Did ye not sit 
 always at the upper end of the table? Went we abroad at 
 any time together, but either the one or the other was at 
 my right hand? Came any man to visit me, whom I 
 made not do ye reverence, and visit ye too ? Had ye 
 not in the galley the best and most commodious places I 
 Had any man a worse than I ? Where ye were char- 
 ged with a groat, was I not charged with five ? Was 
 not I for all this first in the commission? Was not I 
 ambassador resident ? A better man than either of ye 
 both, should have gone without that honour that I did 
 you, if he had looked for it. I know no man that did 
 you dishonour, but your unmannerly behaviour, that 
 made ye a laughing stock to all that came into your 
 company ; and me sometimes to sweat for shame to see 
 you; yet let others judge how I hid and covered your 
 faults. But 1 have not to do to charge you ; I will 
 not spend the time about it. 
 
 " But mark I pray you ! ' I lent not them my horses.' 
 They never desired to go into the town, to walk or stir 
 out of their lodgings, but they had mule, or horse, or 
 both, ready for them, foot cloth, and harnessed with 
 velvet, the best that I had for mule or hackney. — 
 Marry ! it was thought indeed among us that Bonner 
 could have been content to have been upon a genet 
 with gilt harness. These men came in post and went 
 again in post. At their parting, my servants had gotten 
 their post horses ready ; would they have had without 
 necessity, my horse to have ridden post? I brought 
 them to their horse ; would they 1 should have accom- 
 panied them riding in post ? Children would not have
 
 l-i SIR THOMAS W YATT. 
 
 played the fool so notably. Was not this a pretty ar- 
 ticle towards treason to have been alledged against me 
 by Bonner ? Some men might think that hereby a man 
 might perceive the malice that hath moved my trouble. 
 But yet it shall be more manifest. 
 
 " Another occasion there is, that I should say, — 
 " They were more meet to be parish priests than am- 
 bassadors." By my truth, I never liked them indeed 
 for ambassadors ; and no more did the most part of 
 them that saw them, and namely, they that had to do 
 with them. But that I said not, on my failh, to any 
 stranger. But if I said they were meeter to be parish 
 priests, on my faith I never remember it ; and it is not 
 like I should say so, for as far as I could see, neither 
 of them both had greatly any fancy to mass ; and that 
 ye know were requisite for parish priests ; for this, all 
 that were there can report, that not one of them all the 
 while they were there, said mass, or offered to hear 
 mass, tliough it was but a superstition. I say both 
 Mason and I , because of the name that Englishmen 
 then had to be all Lutherans, were fain to entreat them 
 that we might sometimes shew ourselves in the church 
 together, that men conceived not an ill opinion of us. 
 Let Mason be asked of this. It was not like then that 
 the Bishop of London should sue to have the scrip- 
 ture in English taken out of the church. 
 
 *' But because I bound myself to make this malice 
 of my accusers to appear manifest to you, let me come 
 to another part of their accusing, which was, by Bon- 
 ner's letters to the Earl of Essex, that I lived viciously 
 amongst the Nuns of Barcelona. 
 
 " To the end ye be fully persuaded and infonned of 
 the matter, there be many Nuns in the town, and most
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 15 
 
 of them gentlewomen ; and many iiere and there talk 
 with those ladies, and when they will, go in and sit 
 company together with them, talking in their chambers. 
 Gentlemen of the Emperor's chamber. Earls, Lords, 
 Dukes use the same, and I among them. I used not 
 the pastime in company with ruffians, but with such as 
 these; or with the ambassadors of Fenara, of Mantus, 
 or of Venice, a man of forty years old, and such 
 vicious company. 
 
 " I pray you now let me turn my tale to Bonner, for 
 this riseth of him ; yea ! and so I think doth all the 
 rest ; for his crafty malice I suppose in my conscience 
 abuseth the other's sirapleness. 
 
 " Come oil now my Lord of London, — what is my 
 abominable and vicious living? Do ye know it? — or 
 have ye heard it ? 1 grant I do not profess chastity ; 
 but yet I use no abomination. If ye know it, tell it 
 here, with whom, and when ? If ye heard it, who 
 is your author? Have you seen me have any harlot in 
 my house whilst ye were in my company ? Did you 
 ever see woman so much as dine or sup at my table ? 
 None, but for your pleasure | The woman that was 
 in the galley; which I assure you may be well seen, 
 for before you came, neither she nor any other came 
 above the mast. But because the gentlemen took 
 pleasure to see you entertain her, therefore they made 
 her dine and sup with you ; and they liked well your 
 look, your carving to Madonna, your drinking to her, 
 and your playing under the table. Ask Mason, ask 
 Blage, (Bowes is dead,) ask Wolf that was my Stew- 
 ard ; they can tell how the gentlemen marked it, and 
 talked of it. It was play to them ; the keeping of your 
 bottles that no man might drink but yourself; and,
 
 16 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 " That the little fat j/.lest were a jolly morsel for the 
 »Signora." Tiiis was their talk ; it is not my device." 
 
 It may be remarked here, that my Lord of London 
 is treated with very little ceremony throughout the 
 whole of this speech, and must have made, as he as- 
 suredly deserved, a very ridiculous figure. The other 
 priest alluded to was Dr. Haynes, the King's chaplain. 
 
 After Sir Thomas Wyatt's acquittal, the King, to 
 mark his sense of the injustice done him, conferred 
 upon him several valuable grants of land, and offices 
 of trust. But our Poet sought retirement, and the 
 cultivation of his talents upon the banks of the Medway. 
 Soon after this escape he composed many of his best 
 pieceSj and among others, his satires addressed to 
 Poynz and Sir Francis Bryan, and his paraphrase of 
 the seven penetentiary psalms, which was considered 
 by him principally as a religious exercise. 
 
 At this period of his life, Sir Thomas Wyatt seems 
 to have had' the conHnand of a ship of war, as appears 
 from a passage in a Latin poem by Leland the antiquary.* 
 The sea service at this era was not a distinct branch of 
 the military department of the state, and the command 
 of ships was given indiscriminately to any approved 
 leader. The circumstance, however, may be advancctl 
 in proof of the versatility of \>^yatt's genius. 
 
 In the autumn of 1542 Sir Thomas Wyatt was sent 
 by order of the King', to meet the Imperial ambassador 
 who had landed at Falmouth, for the purpose of con- 
 
 * Haec Pinus volucris; nova haec triremis, 
 Cui Praefectus erat mens Viatns ; 
 Cultor Nereidum volat Celebris, 
 Cultor Pieridnm Celebris ille, 
 Is'ostii et Martia sacula ^ohijitas.
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 17 
 
 ilvcting him to London. Tho weather was hot, and 
 AYyatt to shew his zeal in his master's service, rode 
 with too much haste. On his arrival at .Sherborne, he 
 was seized with a fever, which in a few days, notwith- 
 standino- the care pf one of his most intimate friends 
 who resided in the neighbourhood, and who attended 
 him assiduously, terminated his life. — He was buried 
 on the 11th of October, in the great church at Sher- 
 borne, but no monument has been raised there to his 
 memory. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt died in the thirty-nint'i year of 
 his age. His widow afterwards married Sir Edward 
 Warner. He had issue one Son only, who obtained 
 the honour of knighthood in his father's life-time, and 
 was commonly known by the appellation of Sir Thomas 
 Wyatt the youn2,er. His short and calamitous life 
 forms part of the history of his time. 
 
 In the general character of Sir Thomas Wyatt, there 
 is much to admire. The Emperor Charles the tifth, a 
 consummate judge, declared him to be the most accom- 
 plished gentleman of his time, and a man of the 
 greatest penetration and acuteness in business. His 
 own master, Henry the eighth, also no mean judge of 
 merit, selected him as his favourite companion, de- 
 lighted in his conversation, and employed his talents. 
 How he was esteemed and mourned by the accom- 
 phshed Surrey, will be shewn in the progress of this 
 work. He was a Scholar, a Wit, a Poet, an Orator, 
 a Man of the World, a Statesman, a Keformer, a 
 Military and a Naval Commander. That he was 
 attentive, in no common degree, to the retiied and do- 
 mestic duties, his beautiful letters to his son, and the
 
 18 SIR THOMAS WYATT 
 
 care he took of his nephew's education, amply prove. 
 He lived in the best society, and selected his friends 
 from among- the most eminent men of his age. His 
 premature death was universally lamented as a national 
 loss, and few men have enjoyed in a greater degree, the 
 envied distinction of being praised by those whose 
 praise is fame — landarl a Imidatis. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt, by the accounts of his contem- 
 poraries, was remarkably handsome in his person. His 
 friend, the Earl of Surrey, describes himtoliave had " a 
 visage stern but mild," and "a form where force and 
 beauty met," — Leland confirms this description in the 
 following lines, 
 
 " Addidit huic faciem qua iion foimn?ior altra 
 LKta serenatze subfixit luniiiia froiiti 
 Luniiiia fulgentes radiis imitantia stellis." 
 
 Holbein, Dr, Nott informs us, has left two portraits of 
 him. From one of these Dr. Nott has given us an en- 
 gTaving, but it is to be feared that the draughtsman has 
 not done justice to the original. The other, a drawing 
 in his Majesty's collection, represents him as a young 
 man with a countenance of great beauty and sweetness 
 of expression. 
 
 As a poet, Sir Thomas Wyatt must be content to 
 hold an inferior, though a respectable rank. In every 
 thing tliat constitutes the claim to distinction, he was 
 suipassed by his friend and contemporary, the celebrated 
 Earl of Surrey. — He was deficient in invention, in har- 
 mony, and in grace. Few of his pieces are original, 
 and his translations frequently degrade the subjects from 
 which they are taken. In his more elaborate compo- 
 sitions he is less happy than in those of slighter fabric, 
 and like many other artists, his smaller Avorks are his
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 19 
 
 host. Many of his poems are written in the rythmical 
 measure, and cannot be read as verse without a due 
 attention to the pecuharity of their construction. In 
 his choice of words he has frequently selected a bad 
 one where a better was at hand, and his pieces are much | 
 deformed by redundancies, and the frequent recurrence / 
 of monosyllables. He indulged in the use of the | 
 French accentuation, Avhether his words were of French ; 
 origin or not, which was excusable in his own time ; 
 when it was the common practice, but materially injures 
 the effect of his poems at the present day. His meta- 
 phors are strained, haish, and ill-selected. He seldom 
 affords any description of natural scenery, although we 
 are assured he loved the country, and admired the 
 beauties of nature. His conceptions which are fre- 
 quently beautiful, are too commonly shrouded in lan- 
 guage uncongenial and deficient in the qualities of 
 dignity and of grace. These are his defects. His 
 merits are considerable. He is the first English poet, 
 Chaucer not excepted, whose works may be read at 
 the present day without disgust. He is also the first of 
 our poets who attempted a great variety of metre ; in 
 this attempt for a beginner he was eminently successful, 
 and has left but little for future inventors. In the various 
 productions of his muse, we may trace a cultivated 
 mind, extreme good sense, and intimate knowledge of 
 the human heart. He is free from pedantry, in a degree 
 unknown to the writers of the Elizabethan age, though 
 his learning is always conspicuous. His poems display 
 strong, correct, and manly feeling. — In many of them 
 there is a striking character of moral dignity, often 
 better imagined than expressed, indicating a well exer-
 
 / 
 
 20 ~ SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 cised, profound, and powerful intellect. He was cer- 
 tainly the first English satirist, and it is much to be 
 regretted that he has left so little in that department of 
 literature, what he has accomplished being excellent. 
 Heliad a talent for description, and if he had cultivated 
 the dramatic muse, would probably have excelled in 
 comedy. He frequently reminds us of Shakespeare, 
 and many of his lighter pieces, composed to be sung to 
 the lute, would not have disgraced the hand of that 
 great master of song. 
 
 The poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt were first collected 
 and published in 1.559. They were afterwards reprinted 
 by Dr. Sewell, in 1717, and were admitted for the first 
 time into a collection of English poetry, by Dr. Ander- 
 son, in 1793. Of late they have attracted the notice 
 of a very indefatigable and distinguished editor in Dr. 
 Nott, from whose ample volume published in 1816, 
 the following extracts are taken. 
 
 The Lover complaincth of the joikindness of his Love. 
 
 My lute awake ! perform the last 
 Labour that thou and I shall waste, 
 
 And end that I have now begun ; 
 For when this song is sung- and past. 
 
 My lute ! be still, for I have done. 
 
 As to be heard where ear is none ; 
 As lead to grave in marble stone. 
 
 My song may pierce her ears as soon : 
 Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan ? 
 
 No, no, my lute ! for I have done.
 
 SIR THOMAS "WTATT. 21 
 
 The rock doth not so cruelly 
 Repulse the waves continually, 
 
 As she my suit and aftection ; 
 So that I am past remedy : 
 
 Whereby my lute and I have done. 
 
 Proud of the spoil that thou has got, 
 Of simple hearts, thorough love's shot 
 
 By whom, unkind, thou hast them won; 
 Think not he hath his bow forgot. 
 
 Although my lute and I have done. 
 
 Vengeance may fall on thy disdain, 
 That maketh game of earnest pain ! 
 
 Trow not alone under the sun, 
 Unquit to cause thy lovers's plain, 
 
 Although my lute and I have done 
 
 May chance thee lie Avithered and old ; 
 The winter nights that are so cold; 
 
 Plaining in vain vmto tliQ moon : 
 Thy wishes then dare not be tpld ; 
 
 Care then who list, for I have done. 
 
 And then may chance thee to repent 
 The time that thou hast lost and spent. 
 
 To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon : 
 Then shalt thou kuow beauty but lent. 
 
 And wish and want, as I have done. 
 
 Now cease my lute ! this is the last 
 Labour, that thou and I shall waste. 
 
 And ended is that I begun ; 
 Now is this song both sung and past : 
 
 My lute ! be still, for I have done.
 
 22 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 " This," says Dr. ISTott, "is one of the most beautiful 
 Odes in our language. It is as beautifully arranged in 
 all its parts as any of the odes of Horace. The lute, 
 to which the Ode is addressed, corresponded nearly to 
 the modern guitar. It was the instrument to which al- 
 most all the amatory compositions of our early Poets 
 were sung; whence they are properly called songs, 
 corresponding to the Italian cantata. Eveiy person of 
 good education played upon the lute. It was the lover's 
 constant companion ; and to its strings he attempered all 
 his hopes and fears, his joys and sorrows." 
 
 He ruleth not, though he reign over realms, who is 
 subject to his own lusts. 
 
 If thou wilt mighty be, flee from the rage 
 Of cruel will; and see thou keep thee free 
 
 From the foul yoke of sensual bondage. 
 
 For though thy empire stretch to Indian sea, 
 And for thy fear trembleth the farthest Thule, 
 
 If thy desire have over thee the power. 
 
 Subject then art thou, and no governor ! 
 
 If to be noble and high, thy mind be moved. 
 Consider well thy ground and thy beginning ; 
 
 For he that hath each star in heaven fixed, 
 
 And gives the moon her horns and her eclipsing, 
 Alike hath made thee noble in his working ; 
 
 So that wretched no way may thou be 
 
 Except foul lust and vice do conquer thee. 
 
 All were it so, thou had a flood of gold, 
 Unto thy thirst yet should it not suflice ; 
 
 And though with Indian stones, a thousand fold 
 More precious than can thyself devise : 
 Y-charged were thy back, thycovetice - 
 
 And busy biting yet should never let 
 
 Thy death, nor do thy wretched life profet.
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 23 
 
 " In this line moral ode, the sentiments are highly 
 digr.itied and just; the versitication has that grave and 
 solemn flow of harmony whicli is peculiar to Wyatt's 
 composition. The whole is ibrmed on three detached 
 passages in Boethius de Consolatione." 
 
 All earnest mit to his unkind Mistress not to forsake him. 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 
 Say nay, say nay for shame ! 
 
 To save me from the blame 
 
 Of all my grief and grame. 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 
 Say nay, say nay. 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 
 That hath loved thee so long, 
 
 In wealth and woe among : 
 
 And is thy heart so strong 
 As for to leaTC me thus, 
 
 Say nay, say nay '. 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 
 That hath given thee my heart 
 
 Never for to depart ; 
 
 Neither for pain nor smart ; 
 And wilt thou leave me thus? 
 
 Say nay, say nay ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 
 And havG no more pity, 
 
 On him that loveth thee ? 
 
 Alas ! thy cruelty ! 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 
 Say nay, say nay !
 
 24 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 Tfie Poet sheweth how he is forsaken of Fortune, who 
 sometime favowed him. 
 
 They flee from me, that sometime did me seek. 
 With naked foot stalking iji my chamber, 
 
 I have seen them gentle, tame and meek. 
 That now are wild and do not remember 
 That sometime they put themselves in danger 
 
 To take bread at my hand ; and now they range. 
 
 Busily seeking with continual change. 
 
 Thanked be Fortune, it hath been othenvise 
 Twenty times better; but once in special, 
 
 In thin array, after a pleasing guise 
 When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall ; 
 And she me caught in her arms long and small. 
 
 Therewithal! sweetly she did me kiss 
 
 And softly said : " Dear heart how like you this ?" 
 
 It was no dream, I lay broad waking, 
 
 But all is turned through my gentleness. 
 Into a strange fashion of forsaking; 
 
 And I have leave to go of her goodness, 
 And she also to use new-fangleness ; 
 But since that I so kindly now am served, 
 I fain would know what she hath deserved. 
 
 This is an oiiginal ode, and highly characteristic of 
 Wyatt's peculiar manner. The personification of For- 
 tune, with her loose gown falling from her shoulders, is 
 one of the most pleasing images in the whole compass 
 of his poetry. — " The propriety of the salute, depends 
 in a great measure, on a circumstance which grew out of 
 the manners of the days of chivalry, and which is now 
 forgotten. Whenever a lady accepted the service of a 
 knight, or acknowledged a person as her servant or 
 lover, she gave him a kiss, voluntarily offered on her
 
 SiR THOMAS WYATT. 25 
 
 part, and this was considered to be an inviolable bond 
 of obligation. The kiss being thus given, the lover was 
 formally recognised under the title of " Servant 
 d'Amour." — See Chaucer's Troilus and Cressida, 
 B. 111." 
 
 The Lover prayeth not to be disdained, refused, mis- 
 trusted, nor forsah en . 
 
 Disdain me not vrithout desert. 
 Nor leave me not so suddenly ; 
 
 Since well ye wot that in my heart, 
 I mean ye not but honestly. 
 
 Refuse me not without cause why. 
 Nor think me not to be unjust; 
 
 Since that by lot of fantacy. 
 
 This careful knot needs knit I must. 
 
 Mistrust me not, though some there be. 
 That fain would spot my stedfastness; 
 
 Believe them not, since that ye see 
 The proof is not as they express. 
 
 Forsake me not 'till I deserve. 
 Nor hate me not, 'till I offend j 
 
 Destroy me not 'till that I swerve; 
 But since ye know what I intend. 
 
 Disdain me not that am your own ; 
 
 Refuse me not, that am so true ; 
 Mistrust me not, 'till all be known ; 
 
 Forsake me not now for some new. 
 
 D
 
 26 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 On his return from Spain. 
 
 Tagus farewell ! that westM ard with thy streams, 
 Turnest up the grains of gold already tried ; 
 
 With spur and sail, for I go seek the Thames 
 Gainward the sun that sheweth her wealthy pride; 
 
 And to the town which Erutus sought by dreams. 
 Like bended moon doth lend her lusty tide. 
 
 My king, my coxmtry, alone for whom I live. 
 
 Of mighty love the wings for this me give. 
 
 Tliat pleasure is mixedivith every pain. 
 Venomous thorns that are so sharp and keen 
 
 Sometimes bear flowers fair and fresh of hue ; 
 Poison oftime is put in medicine, 
 
 And causeth health in maa for to renew. 
 Fire that purgeth all things that are unclean, 
 
 May health and hurt : and if these things be true, 
 I trust sometime my harm may be my health ; 
 Since every woe is joined with some wealth. 
 
 This little poem is a translation from the Italian of 
 Serafino. 
 
 The Lover complaineth that his Love doth not pity him. 
 
 Resound my voice ye woods, that hear me plain. 
 Both hills and dales causing reilection ; 
 
 And rivers eke, record ye of my pain. 
 Which have ye oft forced by compassion 
 As judges, to hear my exclamation. 
 
 Among whom pity I find doth remain ; 
 
 Where I it seek, alas ! there is disdain.
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 27 
 
 Oft, ye rivers, to hear my woeful sound 
 
 Have stopped your course : and plainly to express, 
 
 Many a tear by moisture of the ground, 
 The earth hatli wept to hear my heaviness, 
 Which causeless I suffer without redress : 
 
 The hugy oaks have roared in the wind. 
 
 Each thing methought complaining in their Idnd. 
 
 Why then, alas ! doth not she on me rue ? 
 
 Or is her heart so hard that no pity 
 May in it sink, my joy for to renew? 
 
 O stony heart ! who hath thus framed thee 
 
 So cruel that art clothed with beauty. 
 No gmce to me from thee there may proceed, 
 But as rewarded, death for to be my meed. 
 
 The Lover compareth his state to a Ship in a perilous 
 storm tossed on the sea. 
 
 My galley charged with forgetfulness. 
 Thorough sharp seas in winter's nights doth pass 
 Tween rock and rock ; mine enemy, alas ! 
 
 That is my lord, steereth with cruelness, 
 
 And every oar, a thought in readiness. 
 
 As though that death were light in such a'case. 
 An endless wind doth tear the sail apace 
 
 Of forced sighs, and trusty fearfulness. 
 
 A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain, 
 
 Have done the wearied cords great hinderanco, 
 Wreathed with error and with ignorance. 
 
 The stars be hid that led me to this pain ; 
 Drowned is reason that should me consort, 
 And I remain despairing of the port.
 
 28 SIR THOMAS WYATT 
 
 This sonnet is a translation from one of Petrarch's 
 beginning 
 
 Passa la nave mia colma d'obblio. 
 
 It is perhaps the most correctly finished of all Wyatt's 
 sonnets, and will not suffer by comparison with any 
 similar composition of that age. 
 
 The Courtier^s Life. 
 
 In courts to serve decked with fresh array, 
 Of sugar'd meats feeling the sweet repast ; 
 
 The life in banquets, and sundry kind of play. 
 Amid the press of lordly looks to waste ; 
 Hath with it joined oft times such bitter taste, 
 
 That whoso joys such kind of life to hold 
 
 In prison joys, fettered with chains of gold. 
 
 Of the mean and sure estate. 
 
 Stand whoso list, upon the slippery top 
 
 Of high estate ; and let me here rejoice, 
 And use my quiet without let or stop. 
 
 Unknown ia court that hath such brackish joys. 
 In hidden place so let my days forth pass, 
 
 That when my years be done withouten noise, 
 I may die aged after the common trace. 
 
 For him death gripeth right hard by the crop. 
 That is much known of others, and of himself, alas ! 
 Doth die unknown dased with dreadful face, 
 
 " This is a translation of the following lines of Seneca's 
 
 Thyestes. 
 
 Stet quiciinque volet potens 
 • Aulie culinine hibrico ;
 
 / 
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 29 
 
 Me dulcis saturct quics. 
 
 Obscuro positiis loco 
 
 Leni peifniar otio. 
 
 Nulla nota Qiiiritibns 
 
 iEtas per taciturn fluat. 
 
 Sic cnm trausierint niei 
 
 Nulio cum strepitu dies, 
 
 Plcbeiiis moriarsenex. 
 
 Illi mors gravis incubat, 
 
 Qui notus niniis omnibus 
 
 Iguotus moritur sibi. v. 391. 
 
 The reader perhaps need not be reminded, that the 
 above passage from Seneca has been frequently imitated 
 in our language. It" Wyatt's were compared v. ith any 
 of the more modem translations, it would not be found 
 inferior to the best." 
 
 Of dissemhling icords. 
 
 Throughout the world, if it were sought. 
 Fair words enough a man shall find ; 
 
 They be good cheap; they cost right nought; 
 Their substance is but only wind : — 
 
 But well to say, and so to mean. 
 
 That sweet accord is seldom seen. 
 
 That the eye betrayeth always the secret affections of 
 
 the heart. 
 
 And if an eye may save or slay. 
 
 And strike more deep than weapon long; 
 
 And if an eve by subtle play, 
 
 May move one more than any tongue ; 
 How can ye say that I do wrong 
 
 Thus to suspect without desert? 
 
 For the eye is traitor to the heart.
 
 30 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 To frame all well, I am content 
 That it were done unweetiagly ; 
 
 But yet I say, who will assent. 
 To do but well, do nothing why 
 That men should deem the contrary; 
 
 Por it is said by men expert. 
 
 That the eye is traitor to the heart. 
 
 But yet alas ! that look, all soul, 
 That I do claim of right to have. 
 
 Should not, methinks, go seek the school. 
 To please all folk, for who can crave 
 Friendlier thing than heart witsave 
 
 By look to give in friendly part ; 
 
 1 or the eye is traitor to the heart. 
 
 And my suspect is without blame ; 
 For as ye say, not only I 
 
 But others more have deemed the same; 
 Then sure it is not jealousy. 
 If subtle look of reckless eye 
 
 Did range too far, to make me smart; 
 
 For the eye is traitor to the heart. 
 
 But I your friend shall take it thus, 
 
 Since you will so, as stroke of chance; 
 
 And further leave for to discuss. 
 
 Whether the stroke did stick or glance ; 
 Excuse who can let him advance 
 
 Dissembled looks, but for my part, 
 
 My eye must still betray my heart.
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 31 
 
 And of this grief ye shall be quit, 
 
 In helping truth stedfast to go. 
 Tlie time is long that truth did sit 
 
 Feeble and weak, and suffering woe; 
 
 Cherish him well, continue so; 
 Let him not from your heart depart ; 
 Then fears not the eye to shew the heart. 
 
 The Lover despair iny relinquisheth the pursuit. 
 
 Whoso list to hunt ! 1 know where is a hind ! 
 But as for me, alas ! I may no more, 
 The vain pursuit hath wearied me so sore, 
 
 I am of them that furthest come behind. 
 
 Yet may I by no means my wearied mind 
 Draw from the deer ; but as she fleeth afore 
 Fainting I follow ; I leave off therefore, 
 
 Since in a net I seek to hold the wind. 
 
 Who list to hunt, I put him out of doubt 
 As well as I, may spend his time in vain ! 
 Graven with diamonds in letters plain. 
 
 There is written her fair neck round about 
 " Noli me tangere ; for Caesar's I am 
 And wild for to hold, though I seem tame." 
 
 The probable connection of this sonnet with Wyatt's 
 passion for Anne Boleyn, has been before observed. It 
 is a translation from the Italian of Romanello, who 
 himself imitated his countryman Petrarch. The trans- 
 lation with the exception of the last line, is so close, as 
 to admit of a doubt if any particular object was present 
 in the author's mind when he wrote it.
 
 3'2 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 He hopeth hereafter for better cliance. 
 
 He is not dead that sometime had a fall ; 
 
 The Sun returns that was beneath a cloud ; 
 And when fortune hath spit out all her gall, 
 
 I trust good luck to me shall be allowed. 
 For I have seen a ship into haven fall — 
 
 After the storm hath broke both mast and shroud. 
 And eke the willow that stoopeth with the wind. 
 Doth rise again, and greater wood doth bind. 
 
 The mournful Lover to his heart, tcith complaint that it 
 icill not break. 
 
 Comfort thyself, my woeful heart, 
 
 Or shortly on thyself thee wreak ; 
 For lengtli redoubleth deadly smart; 
 
 Why sighest thou, heart ! and wilt not break ? 
 
 To waste in sighs were piteous death ; 
 
 Alas ! I find thee faint and weak. 
 Enforce thyself to lose thy breath. 
 
 Why sighest thou, heart ! and wilt not break .'' 
 
 Thou knowest right well that no redress 
 
 Is thus to pine ; and for to speak, 
 Perdie ! it is remediless ; 
 
 Why sighest hou then, and wilt not break ? 
 
 It is too late for to refuse 
 
 The yoke, when it is on thy neck ! 
 To shake it oft", vaileth not to muse, 
 
 Why sighest thou then, and wilt not break ?
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 33 
 
 To sob and sigh it were but vain, 
 Since there is none that doth it reek ; 
 
 Alas ! thou dost prolong thy pain ; 
 Why sighest thou then, and wilt not break ? 
 
 Then in her sight to move her heart 
 
 Seek on thyself, thyself to vs^reak. 
 That she may know thou sufFerest smart ; 
 
 Sigh there thy last, and therewith break ! 
 
 A description of such a one as he would love. 
 
 A face that should content me wondrous well. 
 Should not be fair, but lovely to behold ; 
 
 With gladsome cheer all grief for to expel : 
 With sober looks, so would I that it should 
 
 Speak without words, such words as none can tell ; 
 The tress also should be of crisped gold. 
 
 With wit, and these might chance I might be tied, 
 
 xind knit again the knot that should not slide. 
 
 The Lover's Lute cannot he blamed though it sing of his 
 Lady's unkindness. 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! for he must sound 
 
 Of this or that as liketh me ; 
 For lack of wit the Lute is bound 
 
 To give such tunes as pleaseth me ; 
 And though my songs be somewhat strange, 
 And speak such words as touch thy change. 
 
 Blame not my Lute !
 
 34 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 My lute and strings may not deny. 
 
 But as I strike they must obey ; 
 Break not them then so wrongfully, 
 
 But wreak thyself some other way ; 
 And though the songs which I indite. 
 Do quit thy change with rightful spite, 
 
 Blame not my lute ! 
 
 Spite asketh spite, and changing change, 
 And falsed faith must needs be known, 
 
 The fault so great the case so strange, 
 Of right it must abroad be blown : 
 
 Then since that by thine own desert. 
 
 My songs do tell how true thou art. 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! 
 
 Blame but thyself that hast misdone. 
 And well deserved to have blame ; 
 
 Change thou thy way, so ill begone. 
 
 And then my Lute shall sound that same : 
 
 But if till then my fingers play, 
 
 By thy deset their wonted way; 
 
 Blame not my Lute I 
 
 Farewell ! unknown ; for though thou break 
 My strings in spite with great disdain. 
 
 Yet have I found out for thy sake. 
 Strings for to string my lute again : 
 
 And if perchance this silly rhyme. 
 
 Do make thee blush at any time, 
 
 Blame not my Lute ! 
 
 " Wyatt appears to have written this piece as a 
 counterpart to his beautiful little ode * My Lute awake !'
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 35' 
 
 [page 20.] It is probable that the ode had been felt 
 as a satire by the Lady to whom it was directed, and 
 that she had found fault with Wyattin consequence, — 
 This [)roduced the ode now before us. It is extremely 
 ingenious, and possesses considerable merit. The ver- 
 sification is harmonious and elegant throughout. It 
 bears evident marks of being one of Wyatt's late com- 
 positions." 
 
 TO JOHN POYNZ.* 
 
 Of the Courtier's Life. 
 
 Mine own John Poynz, since you delight to know 
 
 The causes why that homeward I me draw. 
 And flee the press of courts, whereso they go,t 
 
 Rather than live in thrall, under the awe 
 Of lordly looks, wrapped within my cloak, 
 
 To wit and lust, learning to set a law ; 
 It is not, that because I scorn or mock 
 
 The power of them whom fortune here hath lent 
 Charge over us, of right to strike the stroke. 
 
 But true it is that I have ever meant 
 Less to esteem them than the common sort. 
 
 Of outer things that judge in their intent, 
 Without regard that doth inward resort,| 
 
 * John Poynz was descended from the younger branch of an 
 honouralle family lonj? settled in Gloucestershire, He appears 
 to have been an attendant upon the court, but what particu- 
 lar office he boie is not known. His portrait occurs among 
 the Holbein Heads, tVoni which he appears to have had a re- 
 markably expressive and intelligent countenance. He died 
 in 1558, without issue. 
 
 t The coiirt, in Wyatt's time, was seldom stationary, but 
 made regular progresses, in the summer time particularly. 
 
 t The meaning here is obscure, it seems to be— I do not 
 scorn or deride the powerful, but yet, I esteem them less than 
 the common sort of men do, who judge more by outward ap- 
 pearances than by real intrinsic merit.
 
 36 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 I grant sometime that of glory the fire 
 Doth touch my heart ; and me lust not report 
 
 Blame by honour, and honour to desire. 
 But how may I this honour now attain. 
 
 What cannot dye the colour of black a liar ? 
 My Poynz, I cannot frame my tongue to feign ; 
 
 To cloak the truth for praise, without desert. 
 Of them, that lust all vices to retain. 
 
 I cannot honour them that set their part 
 With Venus or Bacchus all their life long; 
 
 Nor hold my peace of them, although I smart. 
 I cannot crouch, nor kneel to such a wrong, 
 
 To worship them as God on earth alone. 
 That are like wolves, these silly lambs among. 
 
 I cannot with my words complain, and moan, 
 And suffer nought; — nor smart without complaint; 
 
 Nor turn the word that from my mouth is gone. 
 1 cannot speak with look right as a saint ; 
 
 Use wiles for wit, and make deceit a pleasure ; 
 And call craft counsel ; for profit still to paint. * 
 
 I cannot wrest the law to fill the coffer. 
 With innocent blood to feed myself fat. 
 
 And do most hurt where that most help I offer. 
 I am not he, that can allow the state 
 
 Of high Caesar, and doom Cato to die. 
 That by his death did 'scape out of the gate 
 
 From Ciesar's hands, if Livy doth not lie, 
 And would not live where liberty was lost : 
 
 So did his heart the common weal apply. 
 I am not he, such eloquence to boast. 
 
 * " To paini," means to deceive— to give a false colour to 
 any thing.
 
 SIR tHOMAS WYATT. ^"7 
 
 To make the crow in singing- as the swan ; 
 Nor call the Lion of coward beasts the most, 
 
 That cannot take a mouse as the cat can ; 
 And he that dieth for hungor of the gold 
 
 Call him Alexander ; and say that Pan 
 Passelh Apollo in music many fold ; 
 
 To praise Sir Topas for a noble tale. 
 And scorn the story that the kiiight told ;* 
 
 Praise him for Counsel that is drunk with ale ; 
 Grin when he laughs that beareth all the sway; 
 
 Frown when he frowns, and groan when he is pale ; 
 Oh other's lust to hang both night and day. 
 
 Xone of these points would ever frame in me ; 
 My wit is nought, I cannot lea' n the way. 
 
 And much the less of things that greater be, 
 That asketh help of colours of device, 
 
 To join the mean with each extremity ; 
 With the near virtue to cloak alway the vice ; 
 
 And, as to purpose likewise it shall fall. 
 To press the virtue that it may not rise. 
 
 As, drunkenness good fellowship to call ; 
 The friendly foe, that hath a double face, 
 
 Say he is gentle and courteous therewithall ; 
 And say that favcl f hath a goodly grace 
 
 In eloquence ; and cruelly to name 
 Zeal of justice, and change in time and place; 
 
 And he that sufteretli offence without blame, 
 Call him pitiful ; and him true and plain. 
 
 That raileth reckless unto each man's shame ; 
 
 * Two of Chaucer's Tales are here alluded to. t " Favel" 
 means flattery.
 
 38 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 
 Say he is rude that cannot lie and feign ; 
 
 The lecher a lover ; and tyranny 
 To be the right of a prince's reign. 
 
 I cannot, 1, no, no ! it will not be. 
 This is the cause that I could never yet 
 
 Hang on their sleeves that weigh as thou niay'st see, 
 A chip of chance more than a pound of wit. 
 
 This maketli me at home to hunt and hawk ; 
 And in foul weather at my book to sit, 
 
 lu frost and snow; then with my bow to stalk j 
 No man doth mark whereso I. ride or go ; 
 
 In lusty leas at liberty I walk ; 
 And of these news 1 feel nor weal nor woe. 
 
 Save that a clog doth hang yet at my heel.* 
 No force for that, for it is ordered so, 
 
 That I may leap both hedge and dyke full well. 
 I am not now in France to judge the wine. 
 
 With savoury sauce the delicates to feel ; 
 Nor yet in Spain, where one must him incline 
 
 Rather than to be, outwardly to seem : 
 I meddle not with wits that be so fine. 
 
 Nor Flanders cheer letteth my sight to deem. 
 Of black and white ; nor takes my wits away 
 
 With beastliness, they beasts do so esteem. 
 Nor am I not, where Christ is given in prey 
 
 For money, poison, or treason, at Rome 
 A common practice, used night and day. 
 
 * Warton conjectures that this alludes to some office the poet 
 held at court— Dr. Nott thinks some temporary restraint is 
 alluded to, by which he was confined to his domain of Alling- 
 tou. From the opening of the poem it is probable that neither 
 of these conjectures is the right.
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT 39 
 
 But I am here in Kent and Christendom, 
 Among- the muses, where I read and rhyme : 
 
 Where if thou hst, mine own John Poynz to come, 
 Tliou shalt be judge how I do spend my time. 
 
 This is a free translation, or rather an imitation of 
 the tenth Satire of Luigi Alamanni, a contemporary 
 writer, and probably personally known to Sir Thomas 
 Wyatt, when he was a resident at the Emi^tror's court. 
 It is thought by the commentators, to be the earliest of 
 the three poems of a similar character contained in 
 Wyatt's works, and, if so, is certainly the first sa- 
 tirical composition in point of time, extant in the 
 English language. This circumstance seems to have 
 been unknown to Bishop Hall, who publishing his Sa- 
 tires fifty years afterwards, ventured roundly to assert, 
 
 " I first adventure, follow nie who list 
 And be the second English satirist." 
 
 which is the more extraordinary, as it is evident that 
 Hall had paid particular attention to the poems of Sir 
 Thomas Wyatt, having written an imitation of his ode 
 beginning " Blame not my Lute."
 
 HENRY HOWARD, 
 Marl of Surrey ; 
 
 Born 1517.— Died 1547. 
 
 The following Poem by this accomplished nobleman, 
 being on a subject eminently Kentish, demands a place 
 in this selection. 
 
 An Epitaph on Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Elder. 
 
 Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest : 
 
 Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain ; 
 And virtue sank the deeper in his breast: 
 
 Such profit he of envy could obtain.* 
 A head where wisdom mysteries could frame ; 
 
 T^liose hammers beat still on that lively brain, 
 x\s on a stithy, t where some work of fame 
 
 ^Vas daily wrought, to turn to Britain's gain. 
 A visage stern, and mild; where both did grow 
 
 Vice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice. I 
 Amid great storms, whom grace assured so. 
 
 To live upright, and smile at fortune's choice. 
 
 * " The meaning of this stanza is obscure. — " In this grave 
 resteth Wyatt, vho, when living, conld never rest in inaction. 
 Who suffered not the disdain he conceived at the unworthy 
 treatment he experienced, to lepress the exercise of his hea- 
 venly talent : but turning the envy of his persecutors to his 
 own advantage, drew from their malice a generous motive 
 to fix the love of virtue more deeply in his heart." 
 
 t Stithy or stiddie means the anvil of the smith, and is a 
 word still in use in the northern parts of England. 
 
 i That is ; "an expression of countenance, wiiich at the 
 same time that it was stern, to mark his abhorrence of vice, 
 was mild to encourage the love of virtue."
 
 HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 41 
 
 A hand, that taught what might be said in rhyme ; 
 
 That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit. 
 A mark, the which (unperfected for time,) 
 
 Some may approach, but never none shall hit. 
 A tongue that served in foreign reahns his king ; 
 
 Whose courteous talk to virtue did intlame 
 Each noble heart ; a worthy guide to bring 
 
 Our English youth by travail unto fame. 
 An eye, whose judgment no effect* could blind. 
 
 Friends to alhne, and foes to reconcile ; 
 ^^ hose piercing look did represent a mind 
 
 With virtue fraught, reposed, void of guile. f 
 A heart, where dread was never so impres't 
 
 To hide the thought that might the truth advance ; 
 In neither fortune loft^l nor yet represt. 
 
 To swell in wealth, nor yield unto mischance. 
 A valiant corpse, ^^ here force and b^xu^y m 3: : 
 
 Happy, alas! too happy, but for foes, 
 Lived, and ran the race, that nature set. 
 
 Of manhood's shape, where she the mould did lose. 
 But to the heavens that simple soul is fled. 
 
 Which left, with such as covet Christ to know. 
 Witness of faith that never shall be dead; § 
 
 Sent for our heaUh, but not received so. 
 Thus for our guilt this jewel have we lost; 
 The earth his bones, the heavens possess his ghost. 
 
 *" Effect, " is here used foraffections or passions of the mind. 
 
 t "Reposed," tirnily fixed, in opposition to whatever is ca- 
 j)ricioiis or variable. 
 
 i " Loft," elevated, — iieitiier elated by good, uor re- 
 pressed by ill fortune. 
 
 § " In allusion to Wyatt's translation of the seven pencten- 
 tiary psalms, of which the principal object is, to shew that 
 faith in the mercies of a Redeemer, is the only meritorious 
 cause of acccptunce with God."
 
 42 
 
 HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 
 
 " This Elegy, for it may more properly be called an 
 Elegy than an Epitaph, seems to have been generally 
 read and admired before it was printed. The whole 
 poem is justly entitled to the highest commendation. — 
 Warton cites some stanzas of it as a specimen of a 
 manly and nervous style. So far his praise is just; but 
 this is the least part of Surrey's merit. The objects 
 selected for praise in his departed friend, are virtues of 
 the purest and most exalted nature. I'aith in God, and 
 a humble reliance on divine grace ; abhorrence of sin ; 
 love of virtue ; innocency of life ; and a steady de- 
 votion of great natural abilities, and high attainments, 
 to the diffusion of general good, and the service of his 
 country. These could not have been tixed upon by 
 Surrey as topics of panegyric in Wyatt's character, 
 unless they had found congenial virtues in his own 
 bosom." 
 
 * * 
 
 * 
 
 The comments, marked by inverted commas, vpcn 
 the Poems of Wyaft and Snrrcy, are taken from Dr. 
 Notfs late edition of their icorks.
 
 THOMAS SACKMLLE, 
 
 Lord Btichhurst and Earl of Dorset. 
 
 Born 1527— Died 1G08. 
 
 In vain I tliink, righl honouvalde Lord, 
 
 By this rude rhyme to memorize thij name, 
 Whose learned inuse had trrit her oirn record 
 
 In golden verse, leorlhtj immortal fame ! 
 Thou much more fit, were leisure for the same. 
 
 Thy gracious sovereign's praises to compile, 
 And her imperial majesty to frame. 
 
 In lofty numher and heroic style. 
 
 (Sjteiisei's Sonnet to Lord IJuckhurst, 
 prefixed to the Faery Uueen.) 
 
 This very accomplished poet and excellent states- 
 man, though not a native of Kent, yet demands in this 
 place, an ample notice ; being the first of an illustrious 
 line, who have for more than two centuries, honoured 
 that county by selecting it as their principal place of 
 residence. He was the son and heir of Sir Richard 
 Sackville, chancellor and sub-treasurer of the exche- 
 quer, and born at Buckhurst, in the Parish of A^^ithiara, 
 in Sussex, in the year 1527. From a domestic tuition, 
 says Warton, he was removed to Hart Hall, now 
 Hertford College, Oxford, where he resided some time, 
 but took no deoree : he afterwards ^removed to Cam- 
 bridge, where, after a short residence, he had the 
 degree of Master of Arts conferred on him. At the
 
 44 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 
 
 universities he acquired fame as a Latin and English 
 poet. Wood says " he was in his younger years 
 poetically inclined ; and wrote while he continued at 
 Oxford, several Latin and English poems, which not 
 being published carefully, are now lost or forgotten." 
 
 It was then customary for every young man of for- 
 tune, before he commenced his political career, or even 
 began his travels, to pass some time in the study of the 
 law. Sackville, accordingly, removed from College to 
 the Inner Temple for that purpose, and at an early 
 period of his life was called to the bar. During his 
 residence at the Temple, his love of poetry was more 
 conspicuous than his attachment to the severe study of 
 the law, and he wrote in conjunction with Thomas 
 Norton, a tragedy called " Ferrex and Porrex," which 
 was acted before Queen Elizabeth, at Whitehall, by the 
 Students of the Inner Temple, in 1561. This tragedy 
 the title of which he afterwards changed for thatofGor- 
 boduc, was repeatedly printed in the author's life-time, 
 and has been republished since by Dodsley, in his col- 
 lection of old plays. 
 
 About the year 1557 , Dr. Anderson informs us, he 
 formed the plan of the " Mirror for Magistrates," in 
 which all the illustrious, but unfortunate characters in 
 English history, from the conquest, to the end of the 14th 
 century, were to pass in review before the poet, who 
 descends like Dante, into hell, and is conducted by 
 sorrow. Eveiy personage was to recite his own misfor- 
 tunes, in a soliloquy. But he had leisure only to 
 finish a poetical preface called an Induction, and one 
 legend, which is the life of Heniy Stafford, Duke of 
 Buckingham,
 
 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 45 
 
 As he early, continues Dr. Anderson, quitted the 
 study of the law, for the flowery paths of poetry, so 
 the poet was soon lost in the statesman, and negociations 
 and embassies extinguished the milder ambitions of the 
 ingenious muse. 
 
 He sat in parhament during the reign of Queen Mary, 
 and was returned one of the members for Buckingham- 
 shire, in the year 1564. Not long after this, he tra- 
 velled, and was detained some time a prisoner at Rome, 
 in consequence of pecuniary embarrassment. He 
 seems to have contracted at this time, a fondness for 
 magniticence and expence, which probably led him 
 into repeated inconveniences, as it afterwards attracted 
 the attention of his Royal Mistress, by whose admo- 
 nition he learned to submit his taste to prudential 
 controul. On the death of his father, which happened 
 in 15GG, he procured liis liberty, and returned to Eng- 
 land, to take possession of his ample patrimony. 
 
 His eminent accomplishments and abilities, secured 
 him the confidence and esteem of Queen Elizabeth. He 
 was knighted in her presence by the Duke of Norfolk, 
 in 1667, and at the same time promoted to the peerage, 
 by the title of Baron Buckhurst. 
 
 He went Ambassador to France in 1573, and in the 
 following year, being a member of the Privy Council, 
 he sat as one of the Peers on the trial of Thomas 
 Howard, Duke of Norfolk. He was nominated a 
 commissioner for the trial of Mary, Queen of Scots, 
 but it does not appear that he was present at her con- 
 demnation ; he was however selected to be the bearer 
 of the unjust and arbitrary sentence to the unfortunate 
 queen, and to be present at its execution.
 
 46 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET, 
 
 In 1587 he went ambassador to the States-General; 
 but having incurred the displeasure of Leicester and 
 Burleigh, who were then in power, he was recalled, 
 and confined for some months to his house. 
 
 On the death of Leicester \m recovered the Queen's 
 favour, was made a Knight of the Garter, appointed to 
 sit at the trial of Lord Arundel, and joined with Bur- 
 leigh in negociating a peace with Spain and Holland. 
 On December 17th, 1591, in consequence of the 
 earnest recommendation of the Queen, he was 
 elected Chancellor of the University of Oxford, in 
 opposition to Essex, the object of her capricious passion. 
 On the death of Lord Burleigh, he succeeded him in 
 the office of Lord High Treasurer, and in the next 
 year was joined in the commission with Essex and Sir 
 Thomas Egerton, for negociating an alliance with Den- 
 mark. He afterwards presided at the trial of the Earls 
 of Essex and Southampton, officiating on the occasion 
 as Lord High Steward. 
 
 At the accession of James the First, his patent of 
 Lord High Treasurer was renewed for life ; and in 1603 
 he was created Earl of Dorset, and appointed one of 
 the Commissioners for executing the office of Earl 
 Marshal. But he did not long enjoy these accumu- 
 lated honours ; on the 19th of April, 1608, he died 
 suddenly while at the council table, in the 81st year of 
 his age. He was interred with great funeral solemnity 
 in Westminster Abbey; his funeral sermon being 
 preached by his chaplain, Dr. Abbott, afterwards 
 Archbishop of Canterbury. 
 
 The connection of this illustrious man with the 
 County of Kent, commenced in the year 1507, when
 
 tttOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 47 
 
 Queeu Elizabeth granted him the manor and mansion- 
 house of Knole, which had belon;^ed originally to 
 the See of Canterbury, but having bee.i ceded to the 
 crown, had passed by successive grants, through a 
 series of eminent proprietors, and had lately been in 
 the possession of the Earl of Leicester. This noble- 
 man demised it upon lease, and Lord Buckhurst did 
 not obtain possession until the year 1603. From this 
 time it became the principal residence of him and his 
 successors. 
 
 Of the Earl of Dorset as a statesman, the present 
 work does not take cognizance ; as a Poet, tliough he 
 has done but little, yet he is most justly entitled to an 
 eminent rank. A disciple of the same school, and 
 drawing from the same stock, he doubtless led the way 
 for Spenser, whom he almost equals in some of the 
 higher departments of poetry. His language is pure, 
 rich, and dignified. The construction of his stanzas, 
 harmonious and regular. Where he has attempted de- 
 scriptions of nature, and natural scenery, as in his 
 solemn and beautiful Winter's Evening, and in the 
 fine picture of repose in the Legend of Buckingham, 
 he has shewn the hand and eye of a master, and leaves 
 us to regiet that he has done so little in that most de- 
 lightful walk. But it is in allegory that his chief per- 
 fection lies. " The shadowy inhabitants of hell's 
 gates," says Warton, " are his own, conceived with the 
 vigour of a creative imagination, and described with 
 great force of expression ; they are delineated with 
 that fullness of proportion, that invention of pic- 
 turesque attributes, distinctness, animation, and ampli- 
 tude, of which Spenser is commonly supposed to have
 
 48 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 
 
 given the first specimen in our language, and which 
 are characteristical of his poetiy." The " Induction 
 to the Mirror for Magistrates," should be studied by the 
 Poet and by the Painter; it is both in conception and 
 execution, one of the most perfect poems in the Eng- 
 lish language. The Poet has introduced himself and 
 his subject with the consummate art that almost equals 
 the unrivalled Shakspear, and though it is high praise, 
 it is perhaps no exaggeration, to assert, that this intro- 
 duction will bear a comparison even with the opening 
 scene in Hamlet. The approach of winter is first 
 described by its effects, and every incident carefully 
 wrought in that tends to heighten them. It is a win- 
 ter's evening, and the poet has sought the fields, — night 
 approaches " with misty mantle spread," — the sun sets, 
 the moon and stars appear. The Poet, from the scene 
 around him, is led to meditate upon the mutability of 
 human affairs. From generalising, he descends to 
 particular instances. He continues to ramble and to 
 meditate. The night grows dark, and he quickens his 
 pace ; when suddenly his steps are arrested by the ap- 
 pearance of an hideous phantom, whom he first de- 
 scribes by her attributes, and afterwards by the name 
 of Sorrow. This shadowy being, knowing the subject 
 of his thoughts, offers to conduct the Poet to the man- 
 sions of the dead, and introduce him to the illustrious 
 unfortunate, that he may receive from them the par- 
 ticulars of their several fates. They proceed, and 
 after passing the mouth of Avernus, encounter the 
 grisly residents " within the porch and jaws of hell !" 
 These, consisting of Remorse of Conscience, Dread, 
 Revenge, Misery, Care, Sleep, Old-age, Malady,
 
 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 49 
 
 Famine, and War, are described in success'on. They 
 pass the lake, and are introduced into the " large great 
 kingdoms, and the dreadful reign of Pluto," where 
 Sorrow pauses, and points out to her companion, 
 " Princes of renown that whilom sat at top of 
 fortune's wheel, now laid full low," — she directs him 
 to attend to their complaints, and to " recount the same 
 to Kesar, King, and Peer." The whole is a grand and 
 solemn dream. 
 
 The " Legend of ]?uckingham" is not equal to the In- 
 duction, but it, notwithstanding, contains some excel- 
 lent passages. It was badly selected, and appears to 
 have been hastily composed. 
 
 The "Mirror for Magistrates," for which these pieces 
 of Sackville's were written, was frequently reprinted 
 within the first half century of it? appearance, but no 
 modern edition, or selection from it, has been published 
 since. Sackville's share of it was first admitted into a 
 collection of English poetry, by Dr. Anderson, in 
 1793. A complete collection of the works of this Poet 
 including his Tragedy of Gorboduc, and whatever 
 else may result from a careful search, is surely a desi- 
 deratum in our literature.
 
 50 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 
 
 A Winter's Evening, and per soniji cation of Sonx/w, 
 from the Induction to the Mirror for Magistrates. 
 
 The wrathful winter 'preaching- on apace, 
 
 With blustering blasts hath all y-bared * the treen, 
 
 And old Saturnus with his frosty face. 
 
 With chilling cold hath pierced the tender green : 
 The mantles rent wherein enwrapped been 
 
 The gladsome groves, that now lay overthrown. 
 
 Their tapetsf torn, and every bloom down blown. 
 
 The soil that erst so seemly was to seen. 
 Was all despoiled of its beauty's hue : 
 
 And soot fresh flowers, wherewith the summer's queen 
 Had clad the earth, now Boreas' blasts down blew : 
 And small fowls flocking, in their song did rue 
 
 The winter's wrath, wherewith each thing defaced 
 
 In woeful wise, bewailed the summer past. 
 
 Hawthorn had lost his motley livery, 
 
 The naked twigs were shivering all for cold. 
 
 And dropping down their tears abundantly ; 
 
 Each thing, methought, w ith weeping eye me told 
 The cruel season, bidding me withold 
 
 Myself within, — for I was gotten out 
 
 Into the fields, whereas I walked about. 
 
 When lo, the night with misty mantle spread, 
 'Gan dark the day, and dim the azure skies. 
 
 * " The prefix y does not, so far as can now be discovered, 
 alter the sense ; and therefore in poetry, seems to serve the 
 purpose Hierdy of supplying tbe writer at pleasure, with an 
 additional syllable." GouwiK. 
 
 % Tapestries.
 
 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. o^ 
 
 And Phaeton now near reaching to his race, 
 With glistering beams gold-streaming where they 
 bent, 
 
 Was prest to enter in his resting place. 
 Erithius, that in the car first went. 
 Had even now attained his journey's stent, 
 
 And fast declining hid away his head. 
 
 While Titan couched him in his purple bed. 
 
 And pale Cinthea, with her borrowed hght. 
 Beginning to supply her brother's place, 
 Was past the noon-stead six degrees in sight; 
 T^lien sparkling stars amid the heaven's face. 
 With twink'ling light shone on the earth apace : 
 That while they brought about the nightis chair,* 
 The dark had dimmed the day, ere I was 'ware. 
 
 And sorrowing I, to see the summer flowers. 
 The lively green, the lusty leas forlorn. 
 
 The sturdy trees so shattered with the showers. 
 The fields so fade, that flourished so beforne ; 
 It taught me well, all earthly things be born 
 
 To die the death, for nought long time may last;-- 
 
 The summer's beauty yields to winter's blast. 
 
 Then looking upwards to the heaven's leames, f 
 With night-stars thick y-powdered every where, 
 
 Which erst so glistened with the golden streams. 
 That cheerful Phoebus spread down from his sphere ; 
 Beholding dark oppressing day so near : 
 
 The sudden sight reduced to my mind. 
 
 The sundry changes that on earth we find. 
 
 * " The nightis chair the stars about do bring."— Surrey. 
 t Lights.
 
 62 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OP DORSET. 
 
 That, musing on this worldly wealth in thought, — 
 Wliich comes and goes, more faster than we see 
 
 The flickering flame that with the fire is wrought, — 
 My busy mind presented unto me. 
 Such fall of Peers as in this realm had be : 
 
 That oft I wished some would their woes descrive,* 
 
 To warn the rest, whom fortune left alive. 
 
 And strait, — foith-stalking with redoubled pace, — 
 For that I saw the night drew on so fast, 
 
 In black all clad, — there fell before my face, 
 A piteous wight, whom woe had all forwaste : f 
 Forth from her eyes the crystal tears out brast, I 
 
 And sighing sore, her hands she wrung and fold, 
 
 Tearmg her hair, that ruth was to behold. 
 
 Her body small forwithered and forspent. 
 
 As is the stalk that summer's drought oppressed; 
 
 Her wealked § face with woeful tears besprent, — 
 Her colour pale, as seemed it her best; 
 In. woe and plaint reposed was her rest : 
 
 And, as the stone that drops of water wears. 
 
 So dented were her cheeks with fall of tears. 
 
 Her eyes swollen with flowing streams afloat, 
 Were, with her looks, thrown up full pitiously ; 
 
 Her forceless hands together oft she smote, 
 With doleful shrieks that echoed to the sky ; 
 Whose plaint such sighs did strait accompany. 
 
 That, in my doom, was never mtm did see 
 
 A wight but half so woe-begone as she. 
 
 * Describe, t The prefix " for," in the olJer writers, was 
 treed emphatically to render the signification more intense.— 
 J Participle of Brest, to biust. § Withered, wrinkled.
 
 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OP DORSET. 53 
 
 This wretched personage is Sorrow, — 
 
 Sorrow T am, in endless torments pained, 
 Among the furies in the infernal lake ; 
 
 That Sackville was not completely original in his 
 conception of this character, will appear by the follow- 
 ing quotation from Chaucer's liomaunt of the Rose. 
 
 Sorrow was painted next envy, 
 Upon that wall of masonry ; 
 But well was seen in her colour, 
 That she had lived in langour; 
 Her seemed to have the jaundice, 
 Not half so pale was avarice ; 
 Full sad, pale, and meagre also, 
 Was never wight yet half so woe. 
 As that her seemed for to be, 
 Nor so fuUilled with ire as she : — 
 I trow that no wight might her please. 
 Nor do that thing that might her ease ; 
 So deep y-was her woe begon, 
 And eke her heart in anger ron, 
 A sorrowful thing well seemed she ; 
 Nor had she nothing slow y-be 
 For to be scratchen all her face. 
 And for to rent in many place 
 Her clothes, and for to tear her swire,* 
 As she that was fultilled with ire. 
 And all to torn lay eke her hair 
 About her shoulders here and there. 
 And eke I tell you certainly, 
 How that she wept full tenderly ; 
 And allto dashed herself for woe. 
 And smote together her hands two, 
 Her roughtt little of playing. 
 Or of clipping, or of kissing. 
 
 * The neck or bosom, t The passive participle of reck, — 
 to care. 
 
 y- '7 icy- vteyr^/ic^f"-
 
 45 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 
 
 The "shadowy residents of Helly ate, ^^ from the same. 
 
 And first, within the porch and jaws of hell, 
 Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent 
 
 With tears ; and to herself oft woukl she tell 
 Her wretchedness, and cursing never stent 
 To sob and sigh ; but ever thus lament, 
 
 With thoughtfu care, as she that all in vain 
 
 W^ould wear and waste continually in pain. 
 
 Her eyes unsteadfast rolling here and there, 
 
 Whirled on each place as place that vengeance 
 brought 
 
 So was her mind continually in fear. 
 
 Tossed and tormented with the hideous thought, 
 Of those detested crimes which she had wrought : 
 
 With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky, 
 
 Wishing for death, and yet she could not die, 
 
 Next saw we Dread all trembing how he shook, 
 AYith foot uncertain proffered here and there ; 
 
 Benumbed of speech, and with a ghastly look. 
 Searched every place, all pale and dead for fear; 
 His cap borne up with starting of his hair ; 
 
 Stoyned * and amazed at his own shade for dread, 
 
 And fearing greater danger than was need. 
 
 And next, within the entry of this lake. 
 Sat fell Revenge gnashing her teeth for ire ; 
 
 Devising means how she may vengeance take ; 
 Never to rest 'till she have her desire ; 
 But frets within so far forth with the fire 
 
 Of wreaking flames, that now determines she . 
 
 To die by death, or vcnged by death to be. 
 
 Astounded.
 
 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 55 
 
 When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence. 
 
 Had shewn herself as next in order set, 
 
 L 
 With trembing limbs we softy parted thence. 
 
 Till in our eyes another sight we met ; 
 
 When from my heart a sigh foithwith I fet, 
 Rueing * alas ! upon the woeful plight, 
 Of Misery tliat next appeared in sight. 
 
 His face was lean and some deal pined away 
 And eke his hands consumed to the bone ; 
 
 But what his body was I cannot say. 
 For on his carcase raiment had he none 
 Save clouts and patches pieced one by one. 
 
 With start' in hand, and scrip on shoulder cast. 
 
 His chief defence against the winter's blast. 
 
 His food for most was wild fruits of the tree, 
 Unless sometimes some crumbs fell to his share ; 
 AVhich in his wallet long, God wot, kept he. 
 And on the same full daintly would he fare. 
 His drink the running stream ; his cup the bare 
 
 Of his palm closed ; his bed the hard cold ground. 
 
 To this poor life was Misery y-bound. 
 
 Whose wretched state M'hen we had well beheld, 
 With tender ruth on him and on bis feres, f 
 
 With thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held. 
 And by and by, another shape appears 
 Of greedy Care,* still brushing up the breres. X 
 
 His knuckles knobbed, Jiis flesh deep dented in, 
 
 With tawed hands, and hard y-tanned skin. 
 
 •Regrettiug, rumiuating with pity, t Companions, t Briars.
 
 56 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 
 
 The morrow gray no sooner hath begun 
 
 To spread her light even peeping in our eyes^ 
 
 Than he is up, and to his work y-run ; 
 
 But let the night's black misty mantles rise, 
 And with foul dark never so much disguise 
 
 The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, 
 
 But hath his candles to prolong his toil. 
 
 By him lay heavy Sleep, cousin of Death, 
 Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, 
 
 A very corps, save yielding forth a breath. — 
 Small keep * took he whom fortune frowned on, 
 Or whom she lifted up into the throne 
 
 Of high renown, but as a living death. 
 
 So dead alive, of life he drew the breath. 
 
 The bodies' rest, the quie^ of the heart. 
 
 The travels' ease, the still night's feer was he;. 
 
 And of our life on earth the better part; 
 
 Reaver f of sight, and yet in whom we see 
 Things oft that tide,t and oft that never be. 
 
 Without respect esteeming equally 
 
 King Craesus' pomp, and Irus' poverty.. 
 
 And next in order sad Old Age we found, 
 
 His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and Wind,, 
 
 With drooping cheer still poring on the ground. 
 As on the place where nature him assigned 
 To rest, when that the sisters had untwined 
 
 His vital thread, and ended with their knife. 
 
 The fleeting course of fast declining life. 
 
 • Custody, guard, t That taketb away, t Betide— happen.
 
 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 57 
 
 There heard we him, with broken hollow plaint 
 Rue with himself his end approaching fast ; 
 
 And all for nought his wretched mind torment. 
 With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past. 
 And fresh delights of lusty youth forwaste. 
 
 Recounting which, how would he sob and shreek. 
 
 And to be young again of Jove beseek. 
 
 But, and the cruel fates so fixed be. 
 That time forspent can not return again. 
 
 This one request of Jove yet prayed he ; 
 
 That in such withered plight and wretched paia 
 As eld, accompanied with his loathsome train. 
 
 Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief. 
 
 He might awhile yet linger forth his life. 
 
 But who had seen him, sobbing where he stood, 
 Unto himself, and how he would bemoan 
 
 His youth foi-past, as though it wrought him good 
 To talk of youtli, although his youth forgone ; 
 He would have mused and marvelled much whereon 
 
 This wretched age should life desire so fain. 
 
 And know full well life doth but length his pain. 
 
 Crook back'd he was, tooth shaken, and blear eyed, 
 Went on three feet, and sometimes crept on four. 
 
 With old lame bones, tliat rattled by his side ; 
 His scalp all pilled,* and he with eld forlore : 
 His withered fist still knocking at death's door;f 
 
 Fumbling and drivelling as he draws his breath ; 
 
 For brief — tlie shape and messenger of death. 
 
 * Bald, 
 
 t And every hour they knock at deathi's gate.— Spenser.
 
 58 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 
 
 And fast by him pale Misery was placed. 
 Sore sick in bed, her colour all forgone, 
 
 Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste ; 
 
 Nor could she brook no meat but broths alone ; 
 Her breath corrupt, her keepers every one 
 
 Abhorring her, her sickness past recure, 
 
 Detesting- physic, and all physic's cure. 
 
 But oh ! the doleful sight that then we see ! 
 We turned our look, and on the other side 
 
 A grisly shape of Famine might we see 
 
 With greedy looks, and gaping mouth that cried, 
 And roared for meat, as she should there have died ; 
 
 Her body thin, and bare as any bone. 
 
 Whereto was left nought but the case alone ; 
 
 And that, alas ! was gnawn on every where 
 All full of holes, that I ne mought refrain 
 
 From tears, to see how she her arms could tear, 
 And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain : 
 When all for nought she fain would so sustain 
 
 Her starved corps, that rather seemed a shade, 
 
 Than any substance of a creature made. 
 
 Gieat was her force, that stone walls could not stay, 
 Her tearing nails scratching at all she saw; 
 
 With gaping jaws that by no means y-may 
 Be satisfied with hunger of her maw. 
 But eats herself as she that hatli no law ; 
 
 Gnawing, alas ! her carcass all in vain, 
 
 Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein.
 
 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 5i> 
 
 On her while we thus firmly fix our eyes. 
 That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight, 
 
 Loe suddenly she shrieked in so huge wise, 
 As made hell gates to shiver with the might ; 
 Wherewith a dart, we saw how it did light 
 
 Rio-ht on her breast, and therewithal! pale Death 
 
 EuthrilUng it to reave her of her breath. 
 
 And bye and bye, a dumb dead corpse we saw. 
 Heavy and cold, the shape of death aright, 
 
 That daunts all earthly creatures to his law ; 
 Against whose force in vain it is to fight. 
 Nor peers, nor princes, norno mortal wight, 
 
 No towns, nor realms, cities, nor strongest tower. 
 
 But all perforce must yield unto his power. 
 
 His dart anon out of the corpse he took. 
 And in his hand a dreadful sight to see, 
 
 With great triumph eftsoons the same he shook. 
 That most of all my fear affrayed me : 
 His body dight with nought but bones, pcrdie. 
 
 The naked shape of man there saw I plain. 
 
 All but the flesh, the sinew and the vein. 
 
 Lastly stood War, in glittering arms y-clad ; 
 
 With visage gTira, stern look, and blackly-hued; 
 
 In his right hand a naked sword he had. 
 
 That to the hilt was all with blood embrued : 
 And in his left, that kings and kingdoms rued. 
 
 Famine and fire he held, and therewithall 
 
 He razed towns, and threw down towers and all.
 
 60 tHOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 
 
 Cities he sacked, and realms that whilome flowered 
 la honour, glory, and rule above the best, 
 
 He overwhelmed, and all their fame devoured, 
 Consumed, destroyed, wasted, and never ceased, 
 'Till he their wealth, their name and all oppressed : 
 
 His face for-hewed* with wounds, and by his side 
 
 There hung his targe with gashes deep and wide. 
 
 In midst of which, depainted there we found 
 Deadly debate, all full of snaky hair, 
 
 That with a bloody fillet was y-bound, 
 
 Outbreathing nought but discord every where, 
 And round about were pourtrayed here and there 
 
 The hugy host, Darius and his power, 
 
 His kings, princes, his peers, and all his flower. 
 
 Some of these personifications had also been painted 
 by Chaucer, and doubtless Sackville had seen and pro- 
 fited by the designs of the elder bard. 
 
 Elde was y-painted after tliis. 
 That shorter was a fote, I wis, 
 Than she was wont ih her yoimghede : t 
 Uneth herself she niighiy-feed : + 
 So feeble and so old was she 
 That faded was all her beauty : 
 Full sallow was waxen her colour ; 
 Her head for hoar was white as flour: 
 All waxen was her body unwelde § 
 And dire and dwindled all for elde : 
 A foul fotwelked || thing was she, 
 That whilome round and soft had bee ; 
 Her hair sboken fast withal. 
 As from her head they wouldf n fall ; 
 Her face y-frounced and forpined H 
 And both her hands lorn ford wined : ** 
 
 * Much scared, t Youth. J She could scarcely feed herself. 
 ^Unwieldy. || Much withered. 1^ Wrinkled and much wasted. 
 «* Shrunk and rendered useless.
 
 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. Ul 
 
 So old she was, that she ne \vent 
 A foot,' but it were by potent :* 
 But nathelessl trow that s!ie 
 Was fair sometime and fresli to see, 
 AVhen she was in lier ri^litfiil age, 
 But she was passed all that passage, 
 And was a doting tiling becomen. 
 A fnrred cap on had she nomen ;1- 
 AVell had she clad herself and warm, 
 For cold might else doen her harm. 
 
 And alder last* of every one 
 Was painted Poverty all alone ; 
 That not one penny had in hold, 
 Although that she her clothes sold, 
 And though she should an hanged be, 
 For naked as a worm was slie : 
 And if the weather stormy were, 
 For cold she should ha\e died there. 
 She ne had on, but a strait old sack, 
 And many a clout on it there stack ; 
 This was Iier coit and lier muntel, 
 No more was there never a dele§ 
 To cloth her with ; I undertake 
 Great lesor|| liadde she to quake : 
 And she was put, that I of talk, 
 Far from these others, up in a halk ;^ 
 There luiked and there coured** she, 
 For povcr thing wiiereso it be, 
 Is shamefaced and despised aye. 
 
 One more image which is excellettt, and even supe- 
 rior to the Revenge of Sackville : — 
 
 Amidest saw I Hate y-stond 
 That for iter wrath and ire and onde = 
 Seemed to be a minoress,tt 
 An angry wight, a chidefess;t+ 
 And fi II of guile and fell courage 
 By semblaunt was that like image. 
 And she was nothing well ariayed, 
 But like a wode§§ woman afraid ; 
 
 * A crutch, t Partici|)le passive of ninie, to take. | Last of 
 all, § Never so little. || Great cause. H A corner. ** Crouched. 
 = Malice, ft A religious order —A Nun tt A scold. §§ Mud.
 
 62 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 
 
 Y-frounced* foul was lier visage, 
 And grinning for dispiteous rage ; 
 Her nose y-snorted up for tenc, t 
 Full hideous was she for to seen : 
 Full foul Kud rusSy was she this, 
 Her head 5-writh'^n+ was I wis, 
 Full grimly with a great towel. 
 
 If however, Sackville was indebted to Chaucer, he, 
 in his turn has conferred obhgations upon several suc- 
 ceeding Poets, Instances of these will occur to every 
 poetical student ; but the limits of the present compi- 
 lation forbid their insertion, 
 
 A 3Iidnight Scene ; from the Legend of Buckivgham. 
 
 Midnight was come, and every vital thing 
 
 "With sweet sound sleep their weary limbs did rest. 
 
 The beasts were still, the Uttle birds that sing, 
 Now sweetly slept beside their mother's breast : 
 The old and young were shrouded in their nest. 
 
 The waters calm, the cruel seas did cease. 
 
 The woods, the fields, and all things held their peace. 
 
 The golden stars were whirled amid their race, 
 And on the earth did laugh with twinkling light, § 
 
 When each thing, nestled in his resting place, 
 Forgot day's pains with pleasure of the night : 
 The hare had not the greedy hounds in sight, 
 
 The fearful deer of death stood not in do ubt. 
 
 The partridge dreamed not of the falcon's foot. 
 
 * Wrinkled, t Grief; any violent affection of the mind. 
 + Enwrathed . 
 
 § And firey Phoebus riseth up so bright, 
 That all the orient laugheth at the sight. 
 
 Chaucer.
 
 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 03 
 
 The ugly bear now miudeth not the stake, 
 Nor how the cruel mastiffs do hiin tear ; 
 
 The stag lay still unroused from the brake ; 
 The foamy boar feared not the hunter's spear ; 
 All thmg was still, in desert, bush, and brcar. 
 
 "With quiet heart, now from their travels rest. 
 
 Soundly they sleep, isi midst of all their rest. 
 
 These are very fine stanzas, but they want origi- 
 nality. The original must be sought in the iEneid of 
 Virgil. 
 
 " Nox erat, et placidum carpebant fessa soporem 
 Corpora per terras, siUoeque et sajva quierant 
 iEquora; cam medio volvuntiir sidera lapsii ; 
 Cum tacet omnis ager; pecudes, pictoeqiie voliicres, 
 Qiioeqne lacus late liquidos, quceque aspeia dumis 
 li'nra tenent, somiio positee sub nocte silenti 
 Lenibant curas, et corda oblita laboruni." 
 
 (Lib. IF. 523 J 
 
 This passage is not oidy poetical in itself, but has 
 perhaps, in an especial manner, been the cause, as 
 Falstaff would say, of poetry in others. Besides our 
 author and his predecessor Surrey, both Ariosto and 
 Tasso have made free with it. The imitation in the 
 latter is so close, that a translation of it will serve a 
 double purpose, and give the unlearned reader a very 
 clear conception of the original. 
 
 " 'Tvvas night ; tlie breatliing winds, the waters cease, 
 And tlirough the still creation all is peace. 
 Each being tiiat has life, the scaly train 
 That skim the rivers or the boundless main. 
 The beasts that roam in herds, or far from men, 
 Tenant in trackless wilds their lonely den, 
 Wrapt in the arms of sweet oblivion lie ; 
 The feathered tribes, the wanderers of the sky, 
 IJeneath the silence of the secret gloom 
 Close their light wings, and fold their painted plume ; 
 All sought repose, with daily toil oppressed, 
 They eased their wearied hearts, and steeped their cares in 
 rest." 
 
 i/ 
 
 /^
 
 64 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 
 
 The passage in Tasso, of whlcli this is a translation, 
 was written at a period somewhat later than the above 
 imitation by Sackville. 
 
 *' Alas ! so all things now do hold tlieir peace ! 
 
 Heaven and earth disturbing in nothing; 
 The beasts do sleep, the birds their songs do cease, 
 
 The nightis chair the stars about doth bring. 
 Calm is the sea ; the waves work less and less." 
 
 '' No dreams do drench them of tlie night 
 Of foes, that would thera slay or bite ; 
 As hounds to hunt them at the tail ; 
 Or men force them through hill and dale : 
 The sheep then dreams not of the wolf; 
 The sliipman forces not the gulf; 
 The lamb thinks not the butcher's knife 
 Should then bereave him of his life." 
 
 " The heaven shews livt-ly art and hue, 
 Of sundry shapes, und colouisnew, 
 And langlis upon the caith ." 
 
 " And tell in songs full merrily. 
 
 How they have slept full (juietly, 
 
 That nigiit, about their mother's sides, 
 
 An;l wlien they have sung mure besides. 
 
 Then fall they to their mother's breast." Sukuey. 
 
 It is evident from numerous passa;^es in his poems, 
 that Sackville had studied the writings oi" his noble 
 predecessor with much assiduity, and had formed his 
 poetic style from that of Surrey. In the above instance 
 he has certainly extended this licence too far, and may 
 fairly be taxed with plagiarism. 
 
 It is but justice to our poet fo remark, that the three 
 last extracts are taken from a poem inserted by Dr. 
 Nott in his late edition of the works of Surrey, for the 
 first time, and claimed by him for that author. This 
 claim has been made upon slight grounds, and has 
 been disputed by a writer ut the Edinburgh Ileview. 
 It was first printed among a collection by uncertain 
 authors. The reviewer is inclined to give it to Lord 
 Vaux. May it not have been written by Sackville 
 himself, many of whose poems produced, as AY^ood 
 assures us, in early life, have been lost, or remain 
 ujclaitned?
 
 THOMAS SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 05 
 
 The Restlessness of Guilt; from the same. 
 
 Well gave that judge his doom upon the death 
 Of Titus Clelius, that in bed was slain : 
 
 When every wight the cruel murder layeth 
 To his two sons, that in his chamber layon : 
 The judge, that by the proof perceived plain 
 
 That tliey were found fast sleeping in their bed, 
 
 llath deemed them guiltless of that blood y-shed. 
 
 He thought it could not be, that they which brake 
 The laws of God and man in such outrage, 
 
 Could so forthwith themselves to sleep betake : 
 He rather thought the horror and the rage 
 Of such an heinous guilt, could never swage ; 
 
 JJ^or ever suffer them to sleep or rest. 
 
 Or dreadless breathe one breath out of their b.east. 
 
 So gnaws the grief of conscience evermore. 
 And in the heart it is so deep y-grave. 
 
 That they may neither sleep nor rest therefore. 
 Nor think oae thought, but on the dread they have. 
 Still to the death fovtossed with the wave' 
 
 Of restless woe, in terror and despair, 
 
 They lead a life continually in fear. 
 
 Like to the deer that stricken with a dart. 
 Withdraws himself into some secret place,* 
 
 And feeling green the wound about his heart. 
 Startles with pan^s 'till he fall on the grass. 
 And in great fear lies gasping there a space; 
 
 Forth braying sighs, as though each pang had brought 
 
 The present dea h, which he doth dread so oft. 
 
 J[_Then as the stricken deer withdraws himself alone, 
 So iBb seek some secret place, where I juay make my moan, 
 
 Surrey.
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 Born 1533— Died 1003. 
 
 *' Let Genovic'jm* hoast, fo • boast she may. 
 The birth of great Eliza, — Hail my queen, 
 And yet I'll call thee hy a dearer name, — 
 My COUNTRY-WOMAN hull ! (Smart.) 
 
 This illustrious native of Kent was bom at Greenwich, 
 in 1533. "The seventh of September," says John 
 Stow, being Sunday, between three and four of the 
 clock, at afternoon, the queen was delivered of a fair 
 lady, for whose good deliverance, Te Deum was sung 
 hicontinently, and great preparation was made for the 
 christening." The ceremonials of this christening, from 
 which Shakespeare has made a pageant in his play of 
 Henry the eighth, are given at full by the honest 
 chronicler, whose principal merit consists in his accu- 
 rate descriptions of such scenes, in which he seems to 
 have delighted. 
 
 This princess, if v/e may credit her historians, gave 
 early proof of her talent for acquiring languages. 
 *' When she was but twelve years old," says Mr. 
 Ballard, " she translated from the English tongue, into 
 Latin, French, and Italian, certain prayers and medi- 
 tations, selected for that purpose, by Queen Catherine. 
 This work was dedicated to the King, her father, and 
 dated at Hatfield, Dec. 30th, 1545. 
 
 * Greeuwicb.
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH. (>7 
 
 She was instructed in the learned languages, first by 
 AVilham Grindall, who died when she was about 
 sixteen, and afterwards by the celebrated lloger 
 Ascham,* who, in his Schoolmaster, 1570, speaks 
 of Queen Elizabeth's literary pursuits in the following- 
 terms : — " It is to your shame, you young gentlemen 
 of England, that one maid should go beyond you all 
 in excellency of learning, and knowledge of divers 
 tongues. Point out six of the best given gentlemen of 
 this court, and they altogether, spend not so much 
 time, bestow not so many hours daily, orderly and 
 constantly, for the increase of learning and knowledge, 
 as doth the Queen's majesty herself. Yea, 1 believe, 
 that beside her perfect readiness in Latin, French, and 
 Spanish she readeth here at Windsor more Greek every 
 day, than some Prebendary of this church, doth Latin 
 in a whole week." 
 
 Bizari, an Italian writer, bears testimony to the ab- 
 solute command which the learned queen had over his 
 native tongue. Scaliger tells us that she spoke five 
 languages, and knew more than all the great men then 
 living. Sir Henry Savile in his dedication of Tacitus, 
 speaks in terms of the highest commendation of several 
 translations from classical authors, which she had made, 
 some of which are extant at the present day. " Her 
 ready responses in Latin," says Lord Orford, " to the 
 compliments of the LTniversity of Cambridge, many 
 
 * " Mr. Ascham," says Fuller, in his Holy .State, "was a 
 good Schoolmaster to her, but affliction was a better, so that it 
 is bard to say whether she was more happy in having a crown 
 so soon, or in havina; it no sooner, till atfliclion had first laid in 
 her a low, (and therefore sure) foundation of humility, for 
 highness to be afterwards built thereupon."
 
 08 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 years after she had ceased to have learned leisure, are 
 well known ; and her ingenious evasion of a captious 
 theological question, is still more and deservedly ap- 
 plauded : — 
 
 " Christ was the word that spake it; 
 
 He took the bread and brake it ; 
 
 And what that word did make it : 
 
 That I beheve and take it." 
 
 She excelled even in things of a much more trifling 
 
 nature. There cannot be a sillier species of poetry 
 
 than the rebus ; yet of that kind there are few better 
 
 than the following M'hich the queen made upon Mr. Noel : 
 
 " The word of denial and letter oi Jifty 
 
 Is that gentleman's name that will never be thrifty." 
 
 For this we have the authority of Collins, who in 
 his account of the house of Stanhope, mentions the 
 following distich, in which her Majesty gave the 
 characters of four Knights of Nottinghamshire : — 
 
 " Gervase the gentle. Stanhope the stout, 
 Markham the lion, and Sutton the lout." 
 
 Fuller records on English hexameter, composed by 
 this queen in imitation of Sir P. Sidney. Coming 
 into a grammar school, she thus expressed her opinion 
 of three classic authors : — 
 " Persius acrabstaff ; bawdy Martial ; Ovid a fine wag." 
 
 The same author relates that Sir Walter Raleigh 
 having written on a window obvious to the queen's eye, 
 
 " Fain would I climb, yet fear I to fall :" 
 she immediately wrote under it 
 
 " If thy heart fail thee, climb not at all."
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH. G9 
 
 A greater instance of genius, and that too in latin, 
 was her extempore reply to an insolent prohibitioa 
 delivered to her from Philip the second, by liis embas- 
 sador, in this tetrastic : — 
 
 " Te veto ne pergas bello defendere Eelgas ; 
 
 Quie Dracus eripuit, nunc restituantur oportet; 
 
 Quas pater evertit, jubeo te condere cellas ; 
 
 Religio Papaj fac restituatur ad unguem." 
 She instantly answered, with as much spirit as she 
 used to return his threatened invasion . 
 
 "Ad Grajcas, bone rex, fient mandata Calendas." 
 
 An instance of the same spirit, and a proof that her 
 compositions even in the learned tongues, were her 
 own, is that rapid piece of eloquence with which she 
 interrupted an insolent embassador from Poland. 
 " Having ended her oration, she, lion-like, rising," 
 saith Speed her contemporary, "daunted the malapert 
 orator no less with her stately port, and majestic de- 
 porture, than with the tartness of her princely checks ; 
 and turning to the train of her attendants, said, "God's 
 death ! my lords, I have been forced this day, to scour 
 up my old latin, that hath longbeen rusting." 
 
 Puttenham, in his "Art of English Poesie," pub- 
 lished in 15U9, thus sums up the character of Queen 
 Elizabeth's poetry. " But last in recital, and first in 
 degree, is ihe queen, our sovereign lady, whose 
 learned, delicate, noble muse, easily surmounteth all 
 the rest that have wiitten before her time or since, be it 
 in ode, elegy, epigram, or any other kind of poem, 
 wherein it shall please her majesty to employ her pen, 
 even by as much odds, as her own excellent estate and 
 degree exceedeth all the rest of her most humble
 
 70 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 vassals." * I find no example so well maintaining the 
 figure of the gorgeous (Exargasia) as that ditty of her 
 Majesty's own making, passing sweet and harmonical. 
 And this was the action — our sovereign lady, perceiving 
 how the Scottish queen's residence within this realm, 
 at so great liberty and ease, as were scarce worthy of 
 so gi'eat and dangerous a prisoner, bred secret factions 
 among her people, and made many of her nobility in- 
 clined to favour her party — to declare that she was 
 nothing ignorant in those secret favours, though she 
 had long with great wisdom and patience dissembled 
 it, writeth this ditty, most sweet and sententious." 
 
 The doubt of future foes 
 
 Exiles my present joy. 
 And wit me warns to shun such snares 
 
 As threaten my annoy. 
 For falsehood now doth flow. 
 
 And subject faith doth ebb ; 
 Which would not be if reason ruled, 
 
 Or wisdom weaved the webb — 
 But clouds of toys untried 
 
 Do cloak aspiring minds. 
 Which turn to rain of late repent. 
 
 By course of changed winds. 
 The top of hope supported 
 
 The root of ruth will be. 
 And fruitless all their grafted guiles, 
 
 As shortly ye shall see. 
 Then dazzled eyes with pride. 
 
 Which great ambition blinds. 
 Shall be unsealed by worldly wights, 
 
 lYhose foresight falsehood finds.
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 71 
 
 The daughter of debate. 
 
 That eke discord doth sow. 
 Shall reap no gain where former rule 
 
 Hath taught still peace to grow. 
 No foreign banished wight 
 
 Shall anchor in this port ; 
 Our realm it brooks no stranger force, 
 
 Let them elsewhere resort. 
 Our rusty sword with rest. 
 
 Shall find his edge employ 
 To poll their tops that seek such change. 
 
 And gape for eager joy. 
 
 There is more merit in this poem than appears at first 
 reading. It is strikingly characteristic of the illustrious 
 author ; written evidently with much pains ; very har- 
 monious ; and so overflowing with metaphor, that every 
 line almost, contains one, and some two conceits. — 
 Several other poetical compositions by Queen Elizabeth 
 are extant; one may be found at length in Mr. Park's 
 additions to the ' Royal and Noble Authors,' being a 
 translation in blank verse of a chorus in the Hercules 
 fl:^taeus of Seneca. A few lines of this may amuse, 
 and will doubtless satisfy the reader. 
 
 The weight of sceptre's sway if choice must bear. 
 
 Albeit the vulgar crew fill full thy gates, 
 
 And hundred thresholds with their feet be smoothed ; 
 
 Though with thy gleaves and axes thou be armed. 
 
 And root full great do glory give thy name ; 
 
 Amid the view of all these sundry sorts 
 
 One faultless faith her room even frank may claim. 
 
 * The lines in the original are of twelve and fourteen sylla- 
 lables; they are here divided for the convenience both of the 
 reader and the printer.
 
 « 
 
 72 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 It is amusing to contrast this bombast with the sim- 
 phcity of the original. 
 
 Tu, quicunque es, qui sceptra tenes, 
 Licet omne tua vulgus in anlu 
 Centum pariter liinina pulset; 
 Cum tot populis stipatus eas 
 In tot populis vix una tides. 
 
 There is an air of originality in these, and other 
 poems of Queen Ehzabeth, which leaves very little 
 reason to doubt their being genuine and uncontaminated 
 by a meaner hand. In truth, who but ancient Pistol 
 himself could have produced their like ? Tiie same 
 remark cannot with justice be applied to her father's 
 compositions, otherwise his name as a Kentish man 
 should have adorned our pages, in due form. Henry 
 the eighth was also born at the palace at Greenwich. 
 In the Nugse Antiques is a letter from Sir John Har- 
 rington to Prince Henry, inclosing " a special verse" 
 of King Henry the eighth, when he conceived love for 
 Anne Boleyn; "and hereof," says Sir John, " I en- 
 tertain no doubt of the author; for if 1 had no better 
 reason than the rhyme, it were suificient to think that 
 no other than such a King could v, lite such a sonnet; 
 but of this my father oft gave me good assurance, who 
 was in his household. This sonnet w as sung to the 
 lady at his commandment, — and here followeth." 
 
 The eagle's force subdues each bird that flies ; 
 
 What metal can resist the flaming fire ? 
 Does not the sun dazzle the clearest eyes, 
 
 And melt the ice, and make the frost retire? 
 The hardest stones are pierced through with tools : 
 The wisest are, with princes, made but fools. 
 
 This is too good for a King of the age of Henry the 
 eighth, and was more probably made for him, than by 
 him. The following, taken from a manuscript of that
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 73 
 
 pcriofl, given by Mr. Ilitson to the Biitisli IMuseain, 
 where it is called •' The King's Balade,' is much more 
 iu character. 
 
 Pastime with good company 
 
 I love, and shall until I die ; 
 
 Grudge whoso will, but noue deny ; 
 
 So God be pleased, so live will I. 
 
 For my pastaunce 
 
 Hunt, song, and dance. 
 
 My heart is set. 
 
 All goodly sport. 
 
 To my comfort, 
 
 Who shall me let ^ 
 
 Youth will needs have dalliance, 
 
 Of good or ill some pastaunce. 
 
 Company methinketh them best 
 
 All thoughts and fancies to digest ; 
 
 For idleness 
 
 Is chief mistress 
 
 Of vices all: — 
 
 Then M'ho can say, 
 
 But pass the day, 
 
 Is best of all. 
 
 Company with honeste 
 
 Is virtue, and vice to flee ; 
 
 Company is good or ill. 
 
 But every man hath his free will. 
 
 The best ensue. 
 
 The worst eschew. 
 
 My mind shall be ; 
 
 Virtue to use. 
 
 Vice to refuse, 
 
 I shall Use me. 
 
 H
 
 74 
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 So much for Henry the eighth, whose character 
 was never better drawn than in the following stanza : — 
 
 " Harry tlie eighth, as story saith, 
 
 Was a king so nnjiist. 
 He ne'er did spare man In his ire, 
 
 Nor woman in his lust." 
 
 except perhaps, the memorable words of "Wolsey, on 
 his death-bed. — " He is a prince, who rather than he 
 will miss or want any part of his will, he would en- 
 danger the one half of his kingdom."
 
 ALEXANDER NEVILLE, 
 
 Born 1544.— Died 1614. 
 
 Alexander iSTevUle (or Nevil) was the eldest son of 
 Richard Neville, of an ancient and honourable Not- 
 tinghamshire family, and born at Canterburj-, according 
 to Fuller, probably in 1544; his mother was Anne, 
 daughter of Sir Walter Mantel, of Ileyford, iu 
 Northamptonshire. He was brother to Tliomas Ne- 
 ville, the fourth Dean of Canterbury, and after spending 
 his youth at court, retired to that City, where he passed 
 his age in honourable seclusion, and the pursuits of 
 literature. As an author, perhaps the following account 
 by Warton, in his History of English Poetry, is the 
 best we can select. 
 
 "Alexander Neville translated,^ or rather paraphrased 
 the Q^dipus of Seneca, in the sixteenth year of his 
 age, and in the year 1560, but it was not printed till 
 1581. It is dedicated to Dr. Wootton, a privy-coun- 
 sellor, and his god-father. Notwithstanding the 
 translator's youth, it is by far the most spirited and 
 elegant version in the whole collection, and it is to be 
 regretted that he did not undertake all the rest. He 
 seems to have been persuaded by his friends, who were 
 of the graver sort, that poetry was only one of the 
 lighter accomplishments of a youag man, and that it 
 should soon give way to the more weighty pursuits of 
 literature. 
 
 " Neville occurs taking a Master's degree at Cam- 
 bridge, with Robert, Earl of Essex, on the Cth day of
 
 7C ALEXANDER NEVILLE. 
 
 July, 1581. He was one of the learned men whom 
 Archbishop Parker retained in his family ; and at the 
 time of that Prelate's death, in 1575, was his secre- 
 tary. He wrote a latin narrative of the Norfolk 
 insurrection under Kett, which is dedicated to Arch- 
 bishop Parker, and was printed in 1575. To this he 
 added a latin account of Norwich, printed the same 
 year, called Norvicus, the plates of which were 
 executed by Lyne and Hogenberg, the Archbishop's 
 domestic engravers, in 1574. He published the Cam- 
 bridge verses on the death of Sir Philip Sidney, which 
 he dedicated to Lord Leicester in 1587. He was th« 
 author of another latin work, Apologia ad Wallia 
 proccres, London, 1576. He projected, but probably 
 never completed, a translation of Livy, in 1577. He 
 died October 4th, 1G14." 
 
 An article in the Kentish Register, for January, 
 1795, signed Ant. A — r — , furnishes us with the 
 following paragraph : — 
 
 " His brother, the Dean, seems to have survived 
 him only until the 14th of May following, and they 
 Tfere both buried in an ancient Chauntry in the Cathedral 
 of Canterbury^ which had been founded in 1447, by 
 Lady Joan Brenchley, and having fallen into decay, 
 was repaired and beautified by the Dean, as a burial 
 place for his family. In it a marble monument was 
 placed by him to the memory of his father, mother, and 
 uncle ; and another to himself and his brother. In 
 1787 when the cathedral was newly paved, it was 
 tliought proper to remove this small chapel, as a blemish 
 to the outside appearance of the venerable structure to 
 which it was attached. At the time it was said that the 
 rich and beautiful monuments in it, would be moved
 
 ALEXANDER NEVILLE. 77 
 
 with care, and replaced with the utmost fidelity, in 
 some more convenient spot. But they were, (as the 
 lovers of the ancient arts saw with great concern,) little 
 regarded when pulled down ; but moved among other 
 rubbish from place to place, uiitill they were nearly de- 
 stroyed, when by the earnest exertions of a respectable 
 character lately deceased, (Mr. John Hayward), then 
 a resident of Canterbury, but formerly a SiiTgeon at 
 Ash, and an ingenious Antiquarian,) the mutilated relics 
 of the figures of the Dean and his brother, were placed 
 in the chapel of the Virgin Mary." * 
 
 The translation by Neville occurs in a volume of 
 which the following is the title : — " Seneca, his ten 
 tragedies translated into English. Imprinted at Lou- 
 don, in Fleet-street, near unto Saint Dunstan's Church, 
 by Thomas Marsh, 1581, 4to." The translations were 
 made by difterent hands, and at difterent times. 
 
 Neville seems to have been a learned man and an 
 elegant writer of the latin language; many compli- 
 mentary addresses from his pen, are to be found in the 
 various publications of the day, and he bore his part 
 in Ihe volume published by the university to which he 
 belonged, on the death of Sir Philip Sidney. As a 
 writer of English poetry, little need be said, what he 
 printed was the exercise of a boy, and as such, has 
 
 * This elegant and beautiful chapel, is on the east side of the 
 ]\Iartyrdoiii, ami now coiiunonly called the Dean's Chapel, 
 several of thciii having been buried there. On the remains of 
 the Neville monument, (he effigy of the Dean is the most 
 perfect ; he is kneeling at a reading desk, in his habit ; that of 
 Alexander is in the same posture, in armour. The inscriptioa 
 which is placed between the two ligures, remains entire, br*, 
 as the monument was probably erected in their livcs's time, me 
 blanks left for the dates, have not been tilled up. Beneath is 
 the family motto— «< Nii Vile Yelis.'"
 
 78 ALEXANDER NEVILLE. 
 
 merit. The following short specimen will perhaps 
 suffice. 
 
 Nothing alas ! remains at all in wonted old estate, 
 But all are turned topset dovn, qriic vdd and desolate ; 
 The fainting horse for sudden pain his back from burden tats, 
 And after on his master's breast his lifeless limbs he squati, 
 Who cries for help, but all in vain ; the beasts in field that 
 
 bide 
 Unkept, unknowen ways and paths do rang e and overstride ; 
 
 The bull for lack of food and meat in field all fainting licsj^ 
 And all his flock dispersed quite, the sely shepherd dies. 
 The herdsman eke among his beasts his fatal breath expires. 
 And to the heavens with piteous cries commends his last desires. 
 The harts without allfear of wolves, do live in wretched peace, 
 The rage and wiathful roaring sounds of ramping lions cease ; 
 The vengeful wild outrageous bears are now as tame as sheep ; 
 The ugly serpent that was wont in rocky dens to keep, 
 Oft qualfing poisoned venom sups in inward heat she boils, 
 And all inflamed and scorched, in vain for longer life she toils ; 
 The woods are not adorned now with fresh and lively hue, 
 The wonted shades are gone. All things are quite out of their 
 
 cue. 
 No greenish grass on ground doth grow, ihe earth no moisture 
 
 soups, 
 The vine withouten any sap his drowsy head down droops. 
 What shall I say ? all things alas ! are writhen out of course, 
 And as it seem to me are like to fare still worse and worse. 
 *********** 
 
 This is part of the chorus at the end of the first act, 
 which gives minute particulars of the misery arising 
 from the wrath of the gods.
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Born 1j54.— Died 1586. 
 
 Thy Sidney, (Iintiwm / — He, from court retired, 
 
 In Penshiirst's siveel Elysium siaig delight. 
 
 Sung transport to the snft I'espondiiig stream 
 
 Of Medway — and enlivened nil her groves. (SMART.) 
 
 "The life of Sir Philip Sidney" says Mr. Campbell, 
 "was poetry put into action." " As his heart was all 
 virtue," says Miss Porter, " so his soul was all poetry : 
 poetical thoughts burst and bloom even in his gravest 
 prose." Yet, strange to say, his poems have never been 
 admitted into any collection, and are in a great mea- 
 sure unknown to the poetical reader. The truth is, that 
 it has been a fashion for more than two hundred years, 
 to praise Sir Philip Sidne}^, and in praisisg him, lan- 
 guage itself has been exhausted. Much of this adulation 
 has passed current from one author to another, without 
 any examination of its merits, or the foundations upon 
 which it was at first erected. It is certainly proper to 
 approach this idol of his country^ with respect ; but, if 
 we desire to do justice to his character, we must en- 
 deavour to divest our minds of prejudice ; to forget all 
 that has been written of him ; and to form our opinions 
 solely from what he himself has written. 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney was the eldest son of Sir Henry 
 Sidney, and of Mary, eldest daughter of John Dudley, 
 Duke of Northumberland, and, what is of more
 
 80 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 consequence to the reader of his life to remember, ne- 
 phew to Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. He was 
 born at Penshurst in Kent, his father's residence, No- 
 vember the 29th, 1554. 
 
 The family . f Sidney is of French extraction, and 
 cannot be traced, in this country, higher than the reigu 
 of Henry the second, to whom ^Villiam de Sidney was 
 Chamberlain. 
 
 The grandfather of our hero, Sir William de Sidney, 
 was one of the Commanders at the battle of Flodden, 
 and was made a Knight Banneret in consequence. — 
 He was Chamberlain and Steward of the Household 
 to Henry the Eighth. 
 
 Sir Henry Sidney, his father, the only surviving son 
 of Sir William de Sidney, was, from his earliest 
 infancy, the companion and bosom friend of King 
 Edward the Sixth; who knighted him, selected him 
 as his representative at the court of France, and after- 
 wards promoted him to several appointments near his 
 person. During the succeeding reign, he conducted 
 himself with so much prudence, as not only to obtain 
 honour and promotion, but also most etiectually to 
 serve the obnoxious family to which he was allied by 
 marriage. By Queen Mary, he was tirst appointed 
 Vice-Treasurer, and afterwards Governor General of 
 the Revenue, and Lord Justice of Ireland, He was 
 so much in favour with the Queen, as to obtain the 
 especial honour of giving to his eldest son the name of 
 the haughty Spanish monarch, to whom she was united. 
 Upon the accession of Queen Elizabeth, all his honours 
 and employments were contirmed to him. He was, in 
 addition, made Lord President of Wales, and a Knight
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 81 
 
 of the Garter. The Government both of Ireland and 
 Wales, which was never before nor since united in one 
 person, he continued to hold for upwards of 20 years. 
 Sir Henry Sidney was one of the most eminent States- 
 men in an age celebrated for producing great men in 
 that department ; of unblemished honour, and of the 
 strictest integrity ; unable, after a life spent in the 
 service of three sovereigns, and in employments where 
 ample fortunes may, and have been acquired, to give 
 a small portion of 2000 pounds to his daughter, upon 
 her marriage, or to reward his faithful secretary for his 
 services. He was removed from the government of Ire- 
 land in 1578, but retained that of Wales until his 
 death, which happened at Ludlow Castle, May 5th, 
 1586, in the 57th year of his age. 
 
 Greatly indebted as Sir Philip Sidney must have been 
 to the instruction and example of such a father, he was 
 probably even under greater obligations to his excellent 
 mother. This lady, highly born, and cai'efully in- 
 structed, as the ladies of that age were — and as ladies 
 should be in every age — in polite learning, possessed a 
 mind and spirit equal to her illustrious birth. Warned 
 by the fearful example in her family, she shrunk from 
 public life, and sought happiness where it was more 
 likely to be found, in the careful discharge of the re- 
 ined and domestic duties. She was the first instructor 
 of her son, and formed his infant mind to that love of 
 virtue and noble actions, which afterwards rendered him 
 so illustrious in his life time, and has embalmed hia 
 memory to every future .age. From his mother's care, 
 the youngPhilip was removed to a school at Shrewsbury, 
 which was probably selected from its vicinity to Ludlow 
 Castle, the residence of his father, as Governor of
 
 82 StR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Wales. He was an instance of early proficiency in men- 
 tal attainments. Sir Fulke Greville says, "though I 
 lived with him, and knew him from a child, yet I 
 never knew him other than a man, with such a steadi- 
 ness of mind, lovely and familiar gravity, as carried 
 grace and reverence above his years." At the age of 
 twelve years he addressed his father in two letters, 
 written in Latin and French. His father's answer, which 
 is a valuable record of paternal solicitude, contains a 
 compendium of excellent advice and instruction, but is 
 too long for insertion in this place. 
 
 In the year 1569, Sir Philip Sidney was removed to 
 Oxford, and entered of Christ Church College; and 
 he afterwards, according to the custom of that age, 
 passed some time at the sister University. During 
 this period, " such," says Fuller, " was his aptitude for 
 learning, that he could never be fed fast enough there- 
 with, and so quick and strong his digestion, that he 
 soon turned it to wholesome nourishment, and thrived 
 healthfully thereon." 
 
 In 1572, he obtained a licence for travelling, and 
 was in Paris during the massacre of the protestants; in 
 the horror and confusion of which, he saved his life by 
 taking refuge in the residence of Sir Francis Walsing- 
 ham, the English Ambassador. He spent three years 
 abroad, visited the principal cities of Italy and Ger- 
 many, and formed intimacies with several distinguished 
 foreigners. But, perhaps, the greatest acquisition he 
 made during this period of his life, was the friendship 
 of Hubert Languet, a distinguished scholar, and ex- 
 cellent man ; who continued ever afterwards to corres- 
 pond with him, and furnished him with the best advice 
 and instruction.
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 83 
 
 On his return from abroad, our accomplished young 
 man was immediately introduced to the notice of Queen 
 Elizabeth, under the most favourable auspices, for he 
 seems to have been adopted by his uncle, the powerful 
 Earl of Leicester, as his son and heir. 
 
 In 1570, being then only 22 years of age, he was 
 selected to carry the condolence of Queen Elizabeth to 
 the Emperor llodolph, on the recent death of his 
 father. In this embassy he had a pompous retinue, 
 kept great state, and displayed his armorial bearings 
 with a latin inscription, descriptive of his high descent 
 and employment, in front of every house in which he 
 chanced to lodge. This embassy seems to have had an 
 object distinct from the ostensible one. Sir Philip Sid- 
 ney had instructions to procure certain intelligence res- 
 pecting the manners and views of the Emperor for the 
 information of the British ministry ; and to visit the 
 principal protestant states of Germany, for the purpose 
 of effecting an union in defence of their religious 
 opinioos. He does not seem to have been engaged in 
 this mission many months ; the first letter addressed by 
 him to Walsingham, as Secretary of State, bears date 
 May 1570, and that he was returned in June 1577, 
 appears by a letter of the Secretary's to his father, an- 
 nouncing that event, and highly approving of his 
 conduct. 
 
 This was the first, and with the exception of that in 
 which he afterwards lost his life, the only public em- 
 ployment conferred upon Sir Philip Sidney. He con- 
 tinued to reside at court, and occasionally appeared in 
 the pageantry of the age, as a champion in the list^ ; 
 but his only oflSce was that of cup-bearer to the queen,
 
 84 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 honourable, perhaps, but not important or dignified. 
 He seems at this time to have been supported by a 
 quarterly allowance, paid him by his father, and per- 
 haps by the occasional bounty of his uncle. From the 
 queen, he obtained a sinecure in Wales, of the yearly 
 value of 120 pounds only, on which account he was 
 included in the list of those young aspirants who were 
 considered as her pensioners. So late as the year 1 582 
 he does not not even appear to have obtained a seat at 
 the privy council. 
 
 In 1579 he ventured to write a letter to the queen, 
 remonstrating with her on the impolicy of her projected 
 marriage with the Duke of Anjou ; which seems to 
 have been well received, and if we may credit his 
 biographers, produced its desired effect upon the royal 
 mind. He had previously employed his pen in defence 
 of his father's government of Ireland. 
 
 In 1580 he incurred the displeasure of th^queen in 
 consequence of a quarrel he had with the Earl of Ox- 
 ford, at a tennis court, and he found it necessary for a 
 time to retire from court. During this retirement, 
 which he passed at Wilton, the seat of his brother in law, 
 the Earl of Pembroke, he wrote his Arcadia. 
 
 In 1581 he wrote his Defence of Poetry. 
 
 In January, 1583, he was Knighted. About this 
 time be wrote the defence of his uncle, the Earl of 
 Leicester, against the author of a book called Leicester's 
 Commonwealth, but this defence was not published, 
 and certainly produced no good effect upon the charac- 
 ter of the Earl. 
 
 In the same year, Sir Philip Sidney married Frances 
 the only daughter and heir of Sir Francis Walsingham.
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 85 
 
 Tkat he married this lady whon his affections were fixed 
 on another, is certain, and will be the subject of some 
 future remarks. 
 
 In the year 1585, the inhabitants of the Netherlands 
 applied to Queen Elizabeth for protection against the 
 tyranny of the Duke of Alva, and placed several of their 
 principal frontier towns in her hands. Flushing was one 
 of these, and Sir Philip b^dney, now a privy coun-. 
 sellor, was appointed to its government in November. 
 Very soon aftervvards a powerful army, under the 
 command of the Earl of Leicester, with the title of 
 Governor and Captain- General of the united provinces 
 of Holland and Zealand, landed in that country, and 
 was immediately joined by Sir Philip in the capacity 
 of General of the Horse. 
 
 The campaign which followed, was short and inglo- 
 rious, and memorable only for the death of Sir Philip 
 Sidney. 
 
 On the 22nd of September, 1586, a detachment of 
 the English army accidentally met with a" convoy sent 
 by the enemy to Zutphen, a town in Gueldevland, then 
 beseiged by the Spaniards. A severe conflict ensued, 
 and the English troops, though inferior in number, had 
 the advantage. Sir Philip Sidney, who commanded the 
 cavalry, had a horse shot under him ; having mounted 
 another, he rushed forAvavd to the relief of Lord Wil- 
 loughby, who was surrounded and in imminent danger. 
 In this charge he received a severe wound from a 
 musket ball in the left thigh, of which he languished 
 sixteen days, and died. 
 
 Such are, in brief, the leading facts in the life of this 
 highly extolled man, and no incident of any importance 
 is omitted. A slight foundatior. assuredly, on which
 
 86 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 had been raised one of the most towering structures ever 
 dedicated to the meniory of an individual in his native 
 country. 
 
 Tliough not exactly in conformity with the object of 
 the present compilation, it may not perhaps, be unac- 
 ceptable to the reader, if a few pages are devoted ia 
 this place to an impartial examination into the general 
 character of Sir Philip Sidney, and the causes which have 
 led to that exalted reputation, which, by almost uni- 
 versal consent, he has so long enjoyed. 
 
 Every accomplishment and every virtue has been 
 attributed to Sir Philip Sidney. " M'hatever applause," 
 says Dr. Zouch, "is due to his genius, and to his 
 erudition, much more is due to his goodness, to the 
 innocer.cy of his life, and to the unsullied purity of his 
 manners ; his whole moral conduct was indeed irre- 
 proachable." He has been put in comparison with the 
 BlackPrince and with the Chevalier Bayard, for bravery 
 and chivalrous gallantry. He was the patron of Spenser, 
 and the Maecenas of his time. Himself a learned man, 
 he was also the correspondent and friend of learned 
 men of all countries. A statesman from his first entry 
 into life, he aspired to be the counsellor of his sove- 
 reign, aiid at all times shewed his eagerness to take an 
 active part in public afiairs. He was an accomplished 
 soldier; a successful courtier ; a lover and a patron of 
 the arts ; a poet ; a writer on state policy ; a critic ; and 
 the founder of a department in the literature of his 
 country. Much has also been said of the elegance of 
 his person and manners ; of the sua^SsU^ of his dispo- 
 sition ; of his generosity and munificence ; and of the 
 correctness of his conduct in domestic life, as a son, a 
 brother, and a friend.
 
 SrR PHILIP SIDNEY. 07 
 
 There is perhaps no more certain test of the parity of 
 a man's moral conduct, than the history of liis inter- 
 course with women. Put to this proof, Sir Philip Sidney 
 appears a mere mortal. His biographer, who is also 
 his encomiast, passes over this pa.t of his life with 
 little orno notice; it did not suit his purpose, which 
 was, to publish an account of a perfect and immaculate 
 character. The principal poetical work of Sir Philip 
 Sidney, consists of a series of Sonnets and other short 
 Poems, addressed to a lady with the assumed name of 
 Stella. " This volume," says Wood, "is reputed to 
 have been written in compliment to the Lady Rich." 
 It was first printed in cpiavto in 1591. There are, how- 
 ever, positive proofs that Stella and Lady Rich was 
 one and the same person, in the Poems themselves, as 
 for instance, — 
 
 ■ -needy fame 
 
 Doth even grow rich, naming my Stellas name. 
 
 [Sonnei 35.] 
 and 
 
 But that rich fool, who by blind fortune's lot, 
 
 The richest gem of love and life enjoys, 
 And can with foul abuse such beauties blot. 
 
 Let him depriv'd of sweet, but unfelt joys. 
 
 Exiled for aye from those high treasures, which 
 
 He knows not, grow in only folly rich. 
 
 [Sonnet 24.] 
 But more especially — ^H 
 
 Towards Aurora's court a nymph doth dwell, '^B 
 
 liich in all beauties that man's ej'e can see : 
 Beauties so far from reach of words, that we 
 
 Abase her praise, saying, she doth excel :
 
 88 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Rich in the treasure of deserv'd renown. 
 Rich in the riches of a royal heart ; 
 
 Rich in those gifts tliat give the eternal crown ; 
 Who though most ricli in these and every part 
 
 Which makes the patents of true worldly bliss. 
 
 Hath no misfortune;, but, that KiCH she is. 
 
 [Sonnet 37.} 
 
 This lady, so celebrated, was Penelope the Daugh- 
 ter of Walter Devereux Earl of Essex, and sister to 
 the favourite of Queen Elizabeth. Her father dying 
 when she was young, and her mother marrying after- 
 wards the Earl of Leicester, she became a ward of 
 that nobleman, who, it must be remembered, was the 
 uncle of Sidney, and his father by adoption. Introduced 
 to each other in this familiar way, and at the most 
 susceptible age, an attachment between them was to 
 be expected. Such an attachment appears to have 
 taken place; it was mutual, ardent, and might have 
 been happy and innocent. What prevented their union 
 does not satisfactorily appear. Sidney alludes to it in 
 one of his best Sonnets, and shall speak for himself: — 
 
 I might — unhappy word ! O me ! I might, 
 
 And then would not, or could not, see my bliss ; 
 Till now, wrapt in a most infernal night, 
 
 I find how heavenly day, wretch, I did miss ! 
 Heart rend thyself! thou dost thyself but right; 
 
 No lovely Paris made thy Helen his ! 
 No force, no fraud, robbed thee of thy delight. 
 
 Nor fortune of thy fortune author is ; 
 But to myself, myself did give the blow. 
 
 While too much wit forsooth so troubled me 
 That I respects for both our sakes must shew; 
 
 And yet could not by rising morn foresee
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. OQ 
 
 How fair a day was nigh. O punished eyes ! 
 
 1 uat I had been more foolish, or more wise !* 
 
 [Swinet 33.] 
 
 There is a Letter in the Sidney Papers from Sir Ed- 
 ward Waterhouse to Sir Henry Sidney, which throws 
 some hght upon this aft'air. It is dated November the 
 i4tli, lo7f», and contains the following passage: — 
 " Trnly, my Lord, I nnist say to your Lordship, as I 
 have said to my Lord of Leicester and Mr. l*hi!ip, the 
 breaking off of this match, if the default be oa your 
 parts, will turn to more dishonour than can be repaired 
 with any other marriage in England. And 1 protest 
 unto your Lordship, I do not tliink that there is at this 
 day so strong a man in England of friends, ft'i the little 
 Earl of Essex, nor any man more lamented t'lan his 
 father, since the death of King Edward." The first 
 sentence in this letter evidently alludes to a treaty of 
 niiirriage v/'iit h had taken place between the young 
 people, and in [liain terras accuses the party who would 
 break it off, w ith acting dishonourably. By the evi- 
 dence of the Sonnet above quoted, Sidney himself was 
 liie cause of its being broken off, and consequently in 
 the opinion of Sir E. "^^aterhouse, " a person," says 
 
 * Tliere is some obscariiy in the concluding part ot" this 
 Sonnet. iVit at t!ie period of its coijipositiou, was synonimoiis 
 witli wisdom; — tlie line 
 
 "Tliat I respects for Ijoth our sakes must slievv,-' 
 probably a'lmies to propnsals of marriage, which had been 
 made to the lady by her future iiiisl);uid, Lord Rich, and to si- 
 milar proposals, made by his pohtical iViends to .Sidney, on 
 behalf of liis future wife. The" fair day," which Sidney hiames 
 himself for not having foreseen, niny allude to the rajud pro- 
 motion and unbounded power which the Earl of Essex, wlicu 
 a very young nan, acquired by his influence over the Queen. 
 It must be remembered that Essex, when his sister sacrificed 
 herself to Lord Rich, was very young.
 
 / 
 
 90 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Dr. Zouch, " of consummate prudence, and the com- 
 mon fiiend of both families," he acted dishonourably. 
 The following passage in this letter, probably guides us 
 to the true reason for breaking oft" thfr iuttMided match. 
 It had evidently been a question whether the connection 
 "vras advantageous to the young aspirant in a political 
 view, and Sir K. Waterhouse says, he considers the 
 little Earl of Essex to be the strongest of friends of any 
 man in England. Probably Sidney and his advisers 
 did not think so, and his subsequent marriage with the 
 daughter of Secretary Walsingham, seems to alVord a 
 probability that he was ambitious to connect himself 
 with some leading man at court. 
 
 However this may be, the match was, according to 
 the prediction of Sir E. Wateihouse, broken off; and 
 the Lady soon after the date of this letter, married Lord 
 Rich, who was afterwards created by James the first. 
 Earl of Warwick; a man said to be of a morose and 
 sullen disposition, and who, as wc may collect from 
 various passages in Sidney's poetry, neglected and ill- 
 treated his unhappy wife. * 
 
 This is not however, the most immoral pare of Sid- 
 ney's conduct, as connected with the unfortunate Stella. 
 Had he in the struggle between aft'ectio'.iand ambition, 
 sacrificed the former to the latter, he might have been 
 blamed ; and if, as is most probable, he acted in vio- 
 lation of good faith, and in contempt of the feelings of 
 another, he may be accused of dishonourable conduct : 
 
 * He wris the sou of a \vortblt\ss father. The first Lord 
 Rich, then a Cur.rl Lawyer, vvas employed to entrap the vir- 
 tuous Sir Thomas More. He led that excellent man into an 
 unguarded conversation, which was attervvards advanced in 
 evidence against him, and procured his condemnation! The 
 portrait oftiiis man occurs in the Holbein Heads, and strongly 
 characterises his disposition.
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 91 
 
 but u'.ifortunatoly for his character for " irreproachable 
 moraUty," he continued to prosecute this unhappy lady 
 with his suit after her marriage, nialdng her the subject 
 of the most impassioned strains, and he endeavoured, 
 for a purpose it is to be feared etjually base and sellish, 
 to eflect a breach between her and her husband, by 
 applying- to the latter the most opprobrious and obnoxious 
 epithets. This is a strong accusation, but it is impos- 
 sible for any unprejudiced person to read the volume of 
 poetry which he has devoted to the history of this 
 criminal and unfortunate passion, without being con- 
 vinced of its justice and strict veracity.* The plea 
 which lus encomiasts have set up in his justification, 
 which is, that his attachment to Lady Rich was merely 
 platonic, must also vauish before such a scrutiny, it is 
 too absurd to deserve serious notice. 
 
 Another part of Sidney's conduct can hardly be 
 reconciled with that exalted morality for which his 
 bioo'raphers are disposed to give him credit. This is his 
 written defence of his uncle, the Earl of Leicester, 
 against the severe charges in a publication, entitled, 
 "Leicester's Commonwealth." In this work the Earl 
 was accused, and there is every reason to presume 
 justly, with crimes, both public and private, of the 
 most heinous nature. In Sidney's answer, none of these 
 accusations are confuted, or even noticed ; he contents 
 himself with vindicatijig the high descent of his re- 
 lation, and after giving his antagonist the lie direct, 
 
 *See the poem entitled " Astroph el and Stella" passim, hut 
 more particularly the songs at p. 91, 100,109, and 120, of the 
 octavo edition, 1724 : and the articles marked 21, 37, and 78.
 
 92 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 ehallenges him to a meeting in any part of Europe, 
 within three months from the date of his rephcation. 
 This defence, if it be not a misnomer to call it so, was 
 written within two years of his death, so that the pica 
 of extreme youth cannot be fairly brought forward in its 
 excuse. 
 
 There is even another incident in the life of Sidney, 
 in which the strictness of his morals may be called in 
 question. In the year 1584, tired of an inactive life, 
 and repeatedly foiled in his attempts to procure some 
 employment from the queen's ministers, he made private 
 arrangements to accompany Drake in one of his piratical 
 attempts upon the Spanish colonies. He was to have 
 been the principal director of it, and had engaged 
 himself to furnish both a naval and a land armament 
 for the purpose of effecting a powerful attack upon the 
 newly settled states. He was prevented from cariying 
 his purpose into execution, by the powerful and judicious 
 interposition of the queen, who, while she secretly ap- 
 proved, perhaps, of the attempts made by a private 
 seaman, such as Drake then was, had too much pru- 
 dence and sense of propriety, to allov/ of them, when' 
 under the conduct of a man connected with some of her 
 principal nobility and counsellors, and long conspicuous 
 for his attendance near her person. It must be recol- 
 lected that England was at this time at peace with 
 Spain, and that Drake was justly considered by 
 foreigners, in no other character than that of a pirate 
 and freebooter. 
 
 Of the personal bravery of Sir Philip Sidney, there 
 can be no doubt ; it amounted to rashness, which 
 probably in the event cost him his life. On the morning
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 93 
 
 of the day in which he received his death wound, he is 
 said to have taken off his defensive armour, that he 
 might not appear to have been surpassed in daring, by 
 one whom he had accidentally met lightly armed. This 
 incident gave rise to a remark of Queen Elizabeth to 
 an impetuous young nobleman, who had gone abroad 
 without her knowledge, to serve under one of her 
 generals : — " Serve me so once again, and I will lay you 
 fast enough for running. You will never leave 'till 
 you are knocked on the head, as that inconsiderate 
 fellow Sidney was," But he was too little employed 
 in military affairs, to admit of any estimate of his 
 talents in the capacity of a soldier being fairly made. 
 Considered in this light, the comparison between him 
 and the Chevalier Bayard, or Edward the Black 
 Prince, completely fails. Of his public performances 
 in state pageants, in tilts and tournaments, little need 
 be said, they won him temporary fame, but make no 
 appeal to posterity. 
 
 That he patronised Spenser, is past all dispute by 
 the poet's own acknowledgment ; but the story of his 
 ordering his steward to advance him a large sum of 
 money upon first reading the Fairy Queen,* is contra- 
 dicted by Sidney's circumstances at the time. He was 
 then a young man dependent on the bounty of his uncle, 
 and as it appears, living upon a quarterly allowance 
 made him by his father, who was himself of too noble 
 
 *Mnny of tlie commentators on Spenser, among whom may 
 be incliicied Mr. Todd, llic latest and the best, are of opinion, 
 thattlie Fairy Q:ieon owes its origin to the advice of Sir Philip 
 Sidney, and that a portion of it was written when the Poet 
 resided at Pensljurst.
 
 94 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY^ 
 
 a disposition to acquire wealth by his employment*. 
 So far from being in circumstances to act the part of a 
 muHificent patron, we find by a curious document 
 printed by Dr. Zouch, that Sidney rt this period of his 
 life, was occasionally unable to pay his debts, and was 
 obliged to refer a tradesman to his father's steward, for 
 the amount of his bill, consisting of less than five pounds, 
 under promise of returning it at the next quarter. His 
 public employment had produced him but little, and he 
 held no office under the trown, if an exception may be 
 made to that of cup-beare. , and a small sinecure in 
 Wales, which has been before alluded to. 
 
 As a statesman. Sir Philip Sidney was but little 
 tried. The embassy which he undertook in early life, 
 appears to have been one of parade only, and of but a 
 few months continuance. From this time to his ap- 
 pointment as governor of Flushing, in the last year of 
 his life, he was never placed in anj situation of trust, 
 either civil or military, though he constantly resided at 
 court, was auibitions of power, frequently solicited 
 employment, and had the powerful influence of his 
 uncle and father in law, not to mention his excellent 
 father, to promote his views. He was not even ad- 
 mitted a member of the Privy Council, until within a 
 year or two of his death, though he was anxious to 
 obtain that honour, and in order to procure it, de- 
 scended even to request the assistance of his father's 
 secretary, whom he had previously insulted with un- 
 founded suspicions of being unfaithful to his trust. This 
 aueurs some defect in our hero. ItAvas not the custom 
 of Queen Elizabeth or her advisers, to permit merit to 
 sue for employment, and though the peiiod of Sidney's
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 05 
 
 life was not the most active part of her leign, yet 
 situations were not wanting, in which talents such as 
 are usually assigned to him, might have been advan- 
 tageously called into action. 
 
 As a writer, Sir Philip Sidney could not be publicly 
 known during his life, none of his works being printed 
 until some years after his death. He attained the full 
 amount of his honours while living to enjoy them, and 
 they have been confirmed only by posterity; so that 
 no part of his reputation can M'ith propriety be 
 attributed to this source. 
 
 The elegance of his person and manners may be 
 admitted without dispute. 
 
 Like most men of genius, Sidney appears to have 
 been of a melancholy temperament ; his friend Languet 
 aware of this, advises him in one of his letters, to 
 select cheerful companions. Several instances in the 
 events of his life, may be advanced in proof that he 
 was irritable and impetuous in his disposition. One 
 has been already noticed in his intemperate defence of 
 his uncle. He also embarked with even less discretion 
 in defence of his father's government of Ireland, which 
 as may be expected, did not please all men. Among 
 others, the Earl of Ormond, a near relation of the 
 queen's, and highly esteemed by her, expressed his 
 opinion unfavourably of some measures adopted by the 
 Lord Deputy, Sir Philip Sidney publicly insulted him, 
 with the intention of provoking a challenge, which the 
 magnanimity of the Earl prevented, \\ ho asserted, that 
 he would accept no quarrel with a gentleman who was 
 bound by nature to defend his father's cause, and who 
 was otherwise furnished with so many virtues as he
 
 '96 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 knew Sidney to be. Of his quarrel with the Eail df 
 Oxford, some notice lias been taken before ; hiu 
 biographers are anxious to explain this aflfair favourably 
 to their hero, and we have their account only, of the 
 provocation. It is certain that Sidney, though a fa- 
 vourite, received a reprimand from the queen, and also 
 found it necessarj' to absent himself, for a time, from 
 the court inconsequence. In his eagerness to defend 
 his father's government, he accused his secretary, Ed- 
 ward Molineux, Ei^q. a most respectable and worthy 
 man, of dishonourable practices, in divalging the con- 
 tents of confidential papers. " The language in which 
 he intimates his resentment," says Dr. Zouch, " is 
 extremely indecorous. Flushed with the ardour of 
 youth, he is for a moment alive to the impulses of anger 
 and the victim of violence and irritability of temper." 
 The charge appears to have been without foundation ; 
 the punishment however, denounced for a repetition of 
 this presumed offence, by Sidney, was death to the 
 offender. 
 
 In the several relations of a son, a brother, and 
 a friend, Sidney appears entitled to all the praise he has 
 received. 
 
 From the foregoing examination of the character and 
 conduct of Sir Philip Sidney, which was begun with 
 strong prfjudice in his favonr, and has been conducted 
 with all the impartiality of vrhich the writer is capable, 
 it is plain to him, that some causes independent of pure 
 desert, must have conspired to elevate Sir Philip Sid- 
 ney to the eminence to which lie has attained. Of these, 
 perhaps, the principal one is the accident of his birth. 
 The age in which he lived, was above all other*
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 07 
 
 remai^kable for producing a host of court sycophants 
 which exhausted every terra in the language in flattering 
 those in power, or those hkely to attain power. It was 
 not to be expected that the son of Sir Henry Sidney, 
 the Governor of IreUmd and of AV^iles, aud more parti- 
 cularly, the nephew atid adopted heir of the Earl of 
 Leicester the Queen's favourite, should escape from the 
 contamination of this herd of parasites and flatterers ; 
 more especially when both these advantages were united 
 ia one person, when that person was a young man of 
 merit and accomplishments, and distinguished as a 
 favourite by the Queen herself. * But it may be objected, 
 that Sidney has had for his encomiasts, both men, and 
 bodies of men, who from talent and rank should have 
 been secured from this meanness. That Spenser em- 
 ployed his magic pen to extend his fame, and that the 
 universities themselves bewailed his loss and celebrated 
 his praise in every language in which writers could be 
 1bund. Be it remembered, that Spenser wrote his im- 
 mortal work to honour a Queen by whom he was neg- 
 lected, that he addressed it, with a flattering sonnet, 
 to his personal enemy the cold-hearted and tasteless 
 Burleigh ; aud that he singled out the Earl of Leicester, 
 the accused murderer of his wife, and a man contaminated 
 
 * It is exceedinj;ly probable that the Earl of Leicester, who 
 was a designing aud artful man, IkiJ some selfish cud in view, 
 in placing his accomplished nephew about the person of the 
 queen. He well knew the queen's susceptible disposition, and 
 her partiality for handsome youn^ men. iMr. Parke, in a nota 
 upon the following passage in Shakspeare " There have been 
 Earls, and what is more Pensioners here/' remarks, thnt the 
 poet alludes to a paity of young men by which the queen was 
 in general surrounded; from subsisting prinoipally on her 
 bounty, this party had acquired the title of pensioners, and 
 Sir Philip Sidney is inserted in the list. 
 
 i
 
 98 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 witli every vice witlioiit any redeeming virtue, as the 
 prototype of the most exalted creation of his fancy, — 
 as the original of his poetic Prince xlrthur. Be it also 
 remembered, that the same Universities m hich so highly 
 complimented the memory of Sidney, published volumes 
 equally bulky, complimentary and learned, when a 
 child was born to that profligate and worthless Earl. 
 
 A second adventitious cause was the gallant manner 
 in wl ich Sir 1 h.lip Sidney met his fate, — a death worthy 
 of the noblest hero of antiquity. After fighting bravely 
 in defence of his friend and comrade, when placed on 
 a litter to be borne from the field of battle, mangled 
 and faint with loss of blood, he requested drink ; wa'.er 
 was brought to him, and he was about to raise it to his 
 lips, when his attention was directed to a dying soldier, 
 who eyed the refreshijig beverage with an earnest and 
 supplicating look. The appeal was not made in vain ; 
 the noble Sidney refused the yet untasted draught, and 
 directed it to be given to his more unfortunate brother 
 in arms, with the memorable expression — " thy neces- 
 sities are greater than mine." This is perhaps one of 
 the finest traits of magnanimity to be found in the his- 
 tory of human nature. / 
 
 A third, and very powerful cause, may be found in 
 the partiality and the power of surviving friends and 
 relations. The first memoir ever pubUshed of Sir 
 Philip Sidney, was from the pen of his most intimate 
 friend, Sir Fulke Greville, and the nature of this me- 
 moir may be presumed from the circumstance that the 
 writer considered the friendship of Sidney as the 
 greatest honour he had obtained during a long and suc- 
 cessful life ; of which he was so proud that he caused 
 it to be recorded on his monument. The Earl of
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY* 9g 
 
 Leicester wasi at the zsnlth of liis power when his 
 nephew died ; he was attached to his accompUshed 
 relative, and received with pleasure and satisfaction 
 every thing that tended to do honour to his memory, or 
 exalt his reputation. The widow of Sidney * after- 
 wards married the powerful Earl of Essex ; she also 
 cherished the memory of her gallant husband, and to 
 her Spenser addri.:;sed his elegy on his death. But per- 
 haps more is to be attributed to the exertions of his 
 sister, the Countess of Pembroke, than to all the others 
 combined. She inherited her brother's talents and 
 disposition, and was the depository of his literary 
 eftbrts. Learned herself, she aspired to be the 
 patroness of learned men, and during a long life she 
 was continually surrounded by men of talent, who 
 paid their court most effectually to her by extolling the 
 virtues and extending the fame of her beloved brother. 
 In fine, the character of Sir Philip Sidney, divested 
 of romance may be summed up as follows — He derived 
 from nature a handsome person, an engaging address, a 
 generous and noble disposition ; he acquired from cul- 
 tivation all the elegant accomplishments of his day, 
 a proficiency in languages, and a talent for poetry. 
 Introduced at court with every advantaae during a 
 female reign, he obtained a distinguished place as a 
 courtier. He paid his respectful addresses to the 
 Queen, he figured in the tiltyard, he gallanted with the 
 ladies, he patronised the poets, he received with plea- 
 sure and duly noticed the addresses and the works of 
 the learned. Ambitious also, and proud of liis birth 
 
 * The (laughter of Secretary Walsinghani, one of the most 
 powerful of Queen EHzabeth's ministers.
 
 100 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 and connexions, his disposition was probably impetuous 
 aod prone to take offence, a frame of miad not incompa- 
 tible, as Shakspeare has assured us, with gentle man- 
 ners. * He was a dutiful son, an affectionate brother, 
 a firm friend, a devoted partizan, and without doubt a 
 delightful companion. That he was brave, is suffi- 
 ciently proved by the last action of his life, but his 
 military talents were never fairly put to the test. That 
 he eagerly sought to be employed as a Statesman, is 
 also upon record, but it is equally certain that he was 
 not employed. In his attatchment to the sex he was 
 imfortuuate, but he had himself only to blame ; be 
 sacriticed at the shrine of ambition the richest treasure 
 bestowed upon our nature, the heart of a lovely and 
 accomplished woman, .and he suffered the punishment 
 of his unhappy choice. This incident, as he himself 
 has assured us, tinged the remainder of his life with 
 melancholy, led him iuto a criminal and a hopeless 
 pursuit, increased his irritability of temper, and pro- 
 duced frequent abstractions of mind ; but it also ga?e 
 occasion to his composing the ouly literary work that 
 will descend to posterity, and by the influence of 
 example confirmed him in the love of virtue and noble 
 actions. In a word. Sir Philip Sidney was an accom- 
 plished, and upon the whole, a virtuous man, but 
 there are no proofs of his possessing consummate 
 abilities, or extraordinary genius in any department ; 
 men fully his equals, have not been wanting at any 
 
 -"They are as gentle 
 
 As zepUyrs blovving below tlic violet, 
 ISot w;igging his sweet head; and yet as rough, 
 Their royal bleed encliyf'd, as the rude wind, 
 Tli;it by the (op doth take the inoantaln pine. 
 And make hiiu stoop to the vale." — [Cv.viiELiNE.]
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, 101 
 
 period of tiino, but ages may pass on before another is 
 born possessing- all his advantages. 
 
 The principal production of Sir Pliilip Sidney's pen, 
 is the Arcadia, a romance, in five books. This work 
 after having been the subject of hyperbolical praise 
 for a century and half, is now neglected and forgotten. 
 A late writer on the subject of English^ style, has 
 drawn the following character of it: — 
 
 "Sir Philip Sidney's literary productions are unfor- 
 tunately remarkable for little else tlwn their feebleness, 
 tautology, and conceit. They however contain no 
 phrases that are not genuine English ; no sesquipedalia 
 verba, and lew inversions or deviations from the idiom 
 of the language. Coldness, and puerility of concep- 
 tion, and with few exceptions, a total want of energy 
 and compression in the style, are the defects which 
 have huniad the Arcadia into oblivion." * 
 
 In looking over tlie pages of the Arcadia, the critical 
 reader should keep in mind that it bears the title of the 
 Countess of Pembroke's work, and that it is said to 
 have received some iinal touches from the pen of that 
 noble lady. The original. Sir Philip Sidney himself 
 informs us, was written hastily on loose " sheets of 
 paper," most of it in his sister's presence, and the rest 
 in detached parts, sent to her as soon as they wer6 
 composed.! There are reasons to suppose, from internal 
 evidence, that portions of this lomance, more particu- 
 larly some of the numerous specimens of poetry, were 
 written on various occasions, and worked into the 
 tissue of the story afterwards, by the author or pub- 
 lisher, as opportunity offered. After all, the tale is 
 
 * Essays, &c. by Dr. Drake, vol. 2, p. 9. t Dedication of 
 the Arcadia to Lady Pembroke.
 
 102 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 brought to a hasty termination, and an additional book 
 has been added to it by another writer. What portions 
 of the work are to be attributed to the pen of the 
 Countess, cannot now be ascertained, but the hand 
 of a lady is visible throughout, more particularly in the 
 minutiic of dress and costume. There are sufficient 
 reasons to presume that the whole was made up by 
 Liady Pembroke, not merely from the loose sheets, 
 but also from the common place books of her deceased 
 brother. 
 
 It is not an easy task to select from such a work as 
 the Arcadia, a short extract which fairly exhibits the 
 character of the vvritei-. In the Arcadia are found tales 
 of love and of chivahy, delineations of character, 
 speeches frequently long and elaborate, descriptions of 
 natural scenery, and of knightly combats. This may 
 serve as an excuse for the loiigth of the following" 
 specimen, which is sufficiently detached from the tissue 
 of the narrative to be intelligible, and embraces all the 
 usual topics of the author. 
 
 From the second hook of the Arcadia. 
 " As I passed through a land, each side whereof was 
 so bordered both with high timber trees, and copses of 
 far more humble growth, that it might easily bring a 
 solitaiy mind to look for no other companions, than the 
 wild burgesses of the forest, I heard certain cries, 
 which coming by pauses to mine ears from within the 
 wood of the right hand, made me well assured by the 
 greatness of the cry, it was the voice of a man, though 
 it were a very unmanlike voice, so to cry. But making 
 my eaxs ray guide, I left not many trees behind me, 
 before I saw at the bottom of one of them a gentleman, 
 bound with many garters hand and foot, so as well he
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 t03 
 
 might tumble ami toss, but neither run nor resist he 
 could. UpoD Iiiin, like so many eagles upon an ox, 
 were nine gentlewomen ; truly such, as one might well 
 enough say, they were handsome. Each of them had 
 bodkins in their hands, wherewith continually they 
 pricked him, having been before-hand unarmed of any 
 defence from the waste upward, but only of his shirt : 
 so as the poor man wept and bled, cryed and prayed 
 Wiiile they spo.ted themselves in his pain, and delighted 
 in his prayers as the arguments of thoir victory. 
 
 " I was moved to compassion, and so much the more 
 that he streight called to me for succour, desiring me 
 at least to kill him, to deliver him from those tormentors. 
 But before myself could resolve, much less any other 
 tell what I would resolve, there came in choleric haste 
 towards me about seven or eight knights; the foremost 
 of which, willed me to get away, and not to trouble the 
 ladies, while they were taking their due revenge; but 
 with so over-mastering a manner of pride, as truly my 
 heart could not brook it : and therefore, answering 
 them, that how I would have defended him from the 
 ladies I knew not, but from them I would, I began a. 
 combat tirst with him particularly, and after his death 
 with the others, that had less good manners, jointly. 
 But such was the end of it, that I kept the lield with, 
 the death of some, and flight of others. In so much as 
 the' women, afraid, what angry victory would bring 
 forth, ran all away, saving only one, who was so flesht 
 in malice that neither during, nor after the fight, she 
 gave any truce to her cruelty, but still used the little 
 instrument of her great spight, to the well witnest pain 
 of the impatient patient : and was now about to put out 
 his eyes, which all this while were spared, because
 
 104 giR PIIILIt^ SIDNEY. 
 
 they should do him the discomfort of seeing who pre- 
 vailed over him. When I came in, and after much 
 ado bi ought her to some conference, for some time it 
 was before she woukl hearken, more before she would 
 speak, and most before she would in her speech leave 
 oft' the sharp remembrance of her bodkin, but at length 
 when I pull'd oft' my head-piece, and humbly intreated 
 her pardon, or knowledge why she was cruel, out of 
 breath more with choler, which increased in his own 
 exercise, than with the pain she took, much to this 
 purpose she gave her grief unto my knowledge. Gen- 
 tleman, said she, much it is against my will to forbear 
 any time the executing of my just revenge upon this- 
 naughty creature, a man in nothing, but in deceiving 
 women. But because I see you are young, and like 
 enough to have the power, if you would have the mind,, 
 to do much more mischief than he, I am content upon, 
 this bad subject to read a lecture to your virtue. 
 
 •' This man called Pamphilus, in birth I must con- 
 fess noble, but what is that to him, if it shall be a 
 stain to his dead ancestors to have left such an oft-spring,. 
 in shape as you see, not uncomly, indeed the fit mask 
 of his disguised falsehood, in conversation wittily plea- 
 sant, and pleasantly gamesome; his eyes full of merry 
 simplicity, his words of hearty companiableness : and 
 such an one, whose head one would not think so stayed 
 as to think mischievously : delighted in all such things, 
 which by imparting the delight to others, makes the 
 user thereof welcome; — as musick, dancing, hunting, 
 feasting, riding, and such like. And to conclude, 
 such an one, as who can keep him at arms-end, need 
 never wish a better companion. But under these quali- 
 ties lies such a poisonous adder, as I will tell you.
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY^ 105 
 
 For by those gifts of nature and fortune, being in all 
 places acceptable, he creeps, nay, to say truly, he flies 
 so into the favour of poor silly women, that I would 
 be too much ashamed to confess, if I had not revenge 
 in my hand, as well as shame in my cheeks. F©r his 
 heart being wholly delighted in deceiving us, we could 
 never be warned, but rath«i one bird caught, served 
 for a stale to bring in more. For the more he got, the 
 more still he shewed, that he, as it were, gave way to 
 his new mistress, when he betrayed his promises to the 
 former. The cunning of his flattery, the readiness of 
 his tears, the iafiiiiteness of his vows, were but among 
 the weakest threads of his net. But the stirring our 
 own passions, and by the entrance of them, to make 
 himself lord of our forces, there lay his master's part 
 of cunning, making us now jealous, now envious, now 
 proud of what we had, desirous of more ; now giving 
 one the triumph, to see him that was prince of many, 
 subject to her; now with an estranged look, making 
 her fear the loss of that mind, which indeed could 
 never be had: never ceasing humbleness and diligence,, 
 till he had embarked us in some such disadvantage, as 
 we could not return dry-shod ; and then suddenly a 
 tjfrant, but a crafty tyrant. For so would he use his 
 imperiousness^ that wc had a delightful fear, and an 
 awe, which made us loath to lose our hope. And 
 which is strangest, when sometimes with late repent- 
 ance, I think of it, I must confess, even in the greatest 
 tempest of my judgment was I never driven to think him 
 excellent ; and yet so could set my mind, both to get 
 aiul keep him, as though therein had lain ray felicity : 
 like them I have seen play at the ball, grow extremely 
 earnest, who should have the ball, and yet every one
 
 106 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 knew it was but a ball. But in the end the bitter 
 sauce of the sport v,'as, that we had eitiier our hearts 
 broken with sorrow, or our estates spoiled by being at 
 his direction, or our honours for ever lost, partly by our 
 own faults, but principally by his faulty using of our 
 faults. For never was there man that could with more 
 scornful eyes behold her, at whose feet he had lately 
 lain, nor with a more unmanlike bravery use his tongue 
 to her disgrace, which lately had song sonnets of her 
 praises : being so naturally inconstant, as 1 mar- 
 vel his soul finds not some way to kill his body, 
 whereto it had been so long united. For sq hath he 
 dealt with us, unhappy fools, as we could never 
 tell, whether lie made greater haste after he once liked, 
 to enjoy, or after he once enjoyed, to forsake. But 
 making a glory of his own shame, it delighted 
 him to be challenged of unkiudness, it was triumph to 
 him to have his mercy called for : and he thought the 
 fresh colours of his beauty were painted in nothing so 
 well, as in the ruins of his lovers : yet so far had we 
 engaged ourselves, unfortunate souls,, that we listed 
 not complain, since our complaints, could not but carry 
 the greatest accusation to ourselves. But every one 
 of us, each for herself, laboured all means how to 
 recos'er him, while he rather daily sent us companions 
 of our deceit, than ever, returned in any sound and 
 faithful manner. Till at length he concluded all his 
 wrongs with betrothing himself to one, I must confess, 
 worthy to be liked if any worthiness might excuse s^o 
 unworthy a changeableness ; leaving us nothing but 
 remorse for what was past, and a despair of what 
 might follow. Then indeed the common injury made 
 us all join in fellowship, who till that time had employed
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 107 
 
 onr endeavours one against the other, for we thought 
 nothing was a more condemning of us, than the justi- 
 fying of his !ove to her by marriage : then despair made 
 fear valiant, and revenge gave shame countenance : 
 whereupon, we, that j'ou saw here, devised how to 
 get him among us alone : which he, suspecting no 
 such matter of them whom he had by often abuses, 
 he thought, made tame to be still abused, easily gave 
 us opportunity to do. 
 
 " Andaman may see, even in this, how soon rulers 
 grow proud, and in tiieir pride foolish : he came with 
 such an authority among us, as if the planets had done 
 enough for us, that by us once he had been delighted. 
 And when we began in courteous manner, one after the 
 other, to lay his unkiudness unto him, he seeing himself 
 confronted by so manj^ like a resolute orator, went not 
 to denial, ibat to justify his cruel falshood, and all with 
 such jests, and disdainful passages, that if the injury 
 could not be made greater, yet were our conceits made 
 the apter to apprehend it. 
 
 "Among other of his answers, forsooth, I shall 
 never forget, how he would prove it was no inconstancy 
 to change from one love to another, but a great con- 
 stancy; and contrary, that which we call constancy, 
 to be most changeable. For, said he, I ever loved my 
 delight, and delighted always in what was lovely : and 
 wheresoever, I found occasion to obtain that, I con- 
 stantly followed it. But these constant fools you speak 
 of, though their mistress grow by sickness foul, or by 
 fortune miserable, yet still will love her, and ^o commit 
 tlie absnrdest inconstancy that may be, in changing 
 their love from fairness to foulness, and from loveliness 
 to his contrary; Uke one not content to leave a friend,
 
 108 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 but will streight give over himself, to his mortal enemy : 
 •where I, whom you call inconstant, am ever constant 
 to beauty, in others, and delight in my self. And so 
 in this jolly scoffing bravery he went over us all, saying, 
 he left one, because she was over- wayward : another, 
 because she was too soon won : a tTTiTd, because she 
 was not merry enough : a fourth, because she was 
 over-gamesome : the fifth , because she was grown with 
 grief subject to sickness: the sixth, because she was so 
 foolish, as to be jealous of him : the seventh, because 
 she had refused to carry a letter for him to another that 
 he loved : the eighth, because she was not secret : the 
 ninth, because she was not liberal : but to me, who am 
 named Dido, and indeed have met with a false ^neas : 
 to me I say, O the ungrateful villain, he could find no 
 other fault to object, but that, perdy, he met with 
 many fairer. 
 
 " But when he had thus played the careless prince, we 
 having those servants of ours in readiness, whom you 
 lately so manfully overcome, laid hold of him ; begin- 
 ning at first but that trifling revenge, in which you found 
 us busy; but meaning afterwards to have mangled him 
 so, as should have lost his credit for ever abusing more- 
 But as you have made my fellows fly away, so for my 
 part the greatness of his wrong over-shadows, in my 
 judgment, the greatness of any danger. For was it 
 not enough for him to have d eceived me, and through 
 the deceit abused me, and after the abuse forsaken me, 
 but that he must now, of all the company, and before 
 all the company, lay want of beauty to my charge ? 
 many fairer. I trow even in your judgment, sir, if 
 your eyes do not beguile me, not many fairer ; and I 
 know, whoever says the contrary, there are not many
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. lOl) 
 
 fairer. Aiul of whom slioukl I receive this reproach, 
 but of him who hath best cause to know there are not 
 many fairer? and therefore howsoever my fellows par- 
 don his injuries, for my part I will ever remember, and 
 remember to revenge his scorn of all scorns. With 
 that she to him afresh ; and surely would have put out 
 his eyes, who lay mute for shame, if he did not some- 
 times cry for fear, if I had not leapt from my horse, 
 and mingling force Avith entreaty, stayed her fury, 
 
 " But while I v/as persuadingher to meekness, comes 
 a number of his friends, to whom he forthwith cried, 
 that they should kill that woman, that had thus betrayed 
 and disgraced him. But then I v/as fain to forsake the 
 ensign, under which I had before served, and spend my 
 uttermost force in the protecting of the lady : which so 
 v/ell prevailed for her, that in the end, there was a 
 faithful peace promised of all sides. And so 1, leaving 
 her in a place of security, as she thought, went on my 
 journey towards Anaaius, for whom I was forced to 
 stay two days in the appoint ^ J place, he disdaining to 
 wait for me till he were sure I were there. 
 
 " I did patiently abide his angry pleasure, till about 
 that space of time he came, indeed, according to pro- 
 mise, alone : and, that I may not say too little, because 
 he is wont to say too much, like a man, whose courage 
 was apt to clime over any danger. And as soon as 
 ever he came near me, in tit distance for his purpose, 
 he with much fury, but with fury skilfully guided, ran 
 upon me ; which I, in the best sort I could, resisted; 
 having kept myself ready for him, because I had un- 
 derstood that he observed few compliments in matter of 
 arms, but such as a proud anger did indite unto him. 
 And so putting our horses into a full career, we hit 
 
 K
 
 110 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 each other upon the head with our launces : I think he 
 felt my blow ; for my part, I must confess, I never 
 received the like : but I tliijik, though my senses were 
 astonished, my mind forced them to quicken themselves, 
 because I had learned of him, how little favour he is 
 wont to shew in any matter of advantage. And indeed 
 he was turned and coming upon nie with his sword 
 drawn, both our staves having been broken, at that 
 encounter: but I was so ready to answer him, that truly 
 J know not who gave the first blow. But whosoever 
 gave the first, was quickly seconded by the second. — 
 And indeed, excellentest lady, I must say trae, for a 
 time it was well fought between us ; he undoubtedly 
 being of singular valour, I would to God, it were not 
 abased by his too much loftiness : but as, by the occa- 
 sion of the combat, winning and losing ground, we 
 changed places, his horse, happened to come upon the 
 point of the broken spear, which, fallen to the ground, 
 chanced to stand upward, so as it lighting upon his 
 heart the horse died, lie driven to dismount, threat- 
 ened, if 1 did not the like, to do as much for my horse, 
 as fortune had done for his. But whether for that, or 
 because I would not be beholden to fortune for any 
 part of the victory, I descended. So began our foot- 
 fight in such sort, that we were well entered to blood 
 on both sides, when there comes by that unconstant 
 Pamphilus, whom I had delivered, easy to be known, 
 for he was bavefaced, with a dozen armed men after 
 him; but before him he had Dido, that lady, who had 
 most sharply punished him, riding upon a palfrey, he 
 following her ^vith most unmanlike cruelty ; beating her 
 with wands he had in his hand, she crying for sense of 
 pain, or hope of succour : which was so pitiful a sight
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 111 
 
 !>uto uie, that it moved mo to require Anaxius to defer 
 our combat till another day, and now to peiform the 
 duties of knighthood in helping- this distressed lady. 
 But he that disdains to obey any thing but his passion, 
 which he calls his mind, bid me leave off that thought; 
 but when he had killed me, he would then perhaps, go 
 to her succour. But I well finding the fight would be 
 long between us, longing in my heart to deliver tho 
 poor Dido, giving him so great a blow, as somewhat. 
 stayed him, to term it a right, I flatly ran away from 
 him toward my horse, who trotting after the company, 
 in mine armour I was put to some pain, but that use 
 made me nimble unto it. But as I followed my horse, 
 Anaxius followed me ; but his proud heart did so dis- 
 dain that exercise, that T had quickly over-run him, and 
 overtaken my horse ; being, 1 must confess, ashan3«d 
 to see a number of country folks, who happened to pass 
 thereby, who hallowed and hovvted after me, as at the 
 arrantest coward that ever shewed his shoulders to his 
 enemy. But when I had leapt on my horse, with such 
 speedy agility, that they all cried — * O see how fear 
 gives him wings,' I turned to Anaxius, and aloud pro- 
 mised him to return thither again, as soon as I had 
 relieved the injured lady. But he railing at me, with 
 all the base words angry contempt could indite ; I said 
 BO more but Anaxius assure thyself, 1 neither fear thy 
 force, nor thy opinion ; and so using no weapon of a 
 knight as at that time but my spurs, I ran in my know- 
 ledge after Pamphilus, but in all their conceits from 
 Anaxitis, which as far as 1 could hear, I might well 
 liear testified with such laughters and games, that I 
 was some few times moved to tura back again.
 
 112 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 " But the ladies misery over-ballauceJ my reputa- 
 tion ; so that after her I went, and with six hours hard 
 riding, through so wild places, as it were rather the 
 cunning of my horse soractimes, than of myself, so 
 rightly to hit the way, I overgat them a little before 
 uight, near to an old ill-favoured castle, the place 
 where I perceived they meant to perforin their unknight- 
 ly errand. For there they began to strip her of her 
 clothes, when I came in among them ; and running 
 through the first with a launce, the justness of the 
 cause so enabled me against the rest, false-hearted in 
 their own wrong-doing, that I had in as short time 
 almost as I had been lighting only with Anaxius, de- 
 livered her from those injurious wretches, most of whom 
 carried news to the other world, that amoiifjst men 
 secret wrongs are not alivays left unpunished. As for 
 Patriphilus, behaving once seen, as it should seem, 
 remembered me, even from the beginning began to be 
 in the rerevvard, and before they had left fighting, he 
 was too far off to give them thanks for their pains. But 
 when I had delivered to the lady a full liberty, both in 
 effect and opinion, for some time it was before she 
 coidd assure herself she was out of their hands, who 
 had laid so vehement apprehension of death upon her, 
 she then told me, hov/ as she was returning towards her 
 father's, weakly accompanied, as too soon trusting to 
 the falsehood of reconcilement, Pamphilvs had set 
 upon her, and killing those that were with her, carried 
 herself by such force, and with such manner as I bad 
 seen, to this place, where he meant in cruel and shame- 
 ful manner to kill her, in the sight of her own father, 
 whom he had already sent word of it, that out of his 
 «astk window, for this castle she said, was his, he
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 113 
 
 might h-we the prospect of his only child's destruction 
 if my coming, whom, she said, he feared as soon as 
 he knew me by the armonr, had not warranted her 
 from that near approaching cruelty. I was glad I had 
 done so good a deed for a gentlewoman wot unhand- 
 some, whom before I had in like sort helped. But 
 the night beginning to pursuade some retiring place, 
 the gentlewoman, even out of countenance before she 
 began her speech, much after this manner invited me to 
 lodge that night with her father." 
 
 ******** 
 
 Of the " Defence of Poesy" little need be said ; as 
 the composition of a well educated young man, it is 
 respectable, but it presents nothing original either in 
 conception or in execution . 
 
 The compositions in verse of Sir Philip Sidney, if 
 brought together, would form a volume of handsome 
 dimensions. Much of the Arcadia is metre of various 
 kinds, but particularly imitations of classical models in 
 all their varieties; unfortunately however, various as 
 this poetry is in kind, it is uniform in character, — tame, 
 dull, puerile, and prosaic , in a degree almost incon- 
 ceivable. Sir Philip Sidney was a poet only when he 
 wrote from the heart, inspired not by the muse, but by 
 a more powerful passion. The volume devoted to the 
 history of his unfortunate attachment is sprinkled with 
 the waters of Castaly ; there the hopes and fears of a 
 lover, the conflict between passion and reason, between 
 vice and virtue, are forcibly, and in some instances 
 poetically described. A character of truth, of genuine 
 and undisguised feeling, and of occasional pathos, per- 
 vades this work sufficient to force conviction that the 
 writer felt what he attempted to describe ; that his love
 
 114 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 was no phantom of a poetic bvain, no idle platonic 
 wailing, but masterless passion producing its over- 
 whelming eifects upon a susceptible mind, and creating 
 anguish almost amounting to agony. No one can read 
 the following passages without acknowledging the 
 truth of this remark. 
 
 As good to write, as still to lie and groan ! 
 
 O Stella dear ! how much thy power hath wrought ! 
 
 Thou hast my mind, none of the basest, brought 
 By still kept course, while others sleep, to moan ; 
 Alas ! if from the height of virtue's throne, 
 
 Thou canst vouchsafe the influence of a thought 
 
 Upon a wretch that long thy grace hath sought, 
 
 Weigh then, how I by thee am overthrown ! 
 
 lSo7inct 40.] 
 
 O eyes ! which do the spheres of beauty move. 
 
 Whose beams be heaven, whose joys all virtues be. 
 
 Who while they make love con(iuer, conquer love ; 
 The schools where Venus hath learned chastity. 
 
 O eyes ! where humble looks most glorious prove. 
 Only loved tyrants, just in cruelty, — 
 
 Do not, O do not, from poor me remove. 
 
 Keep still my zenith, ever shine on me ! — 
 
 ^ [Sonnet 42.] 
 
 Souls joy, bend not those morning stars from me ! 
 Where virtue is made strong by beauty's might, — 
 Where love is chastness, pain doth learn delight. 
 
 And humbleness grows on with majesty ; 
 
 Whatever may ensue, O let me be, 
 Copartner of the riches of that sight ! 
 
 Let not mine eyes be hell-driv'n from that light, 
 
 O look ! O shine ! let me die, and see '. 
 
 [Sonnet 4»,}
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 11» 
 
 Virtue awake ! beauty but beauty is, 
 
 I may, I must, I can, I will, I do 
 Leave foUowiugtliat whiclx it is gain ta miss f 
 
 Let her do — Soft, ! but here she comes 1 Go to;, 
 Unlviad ! I love you not : — O me ! that eye 
 Doth make my heart give to my tongue the lie ! 
 
 [Sonnet 47..] 
 
 No more, my dear, no more these counsels try ! 
 
 O give my passions leave to run their race ! 
 
 Let fortune lay on me her worst disgrace ; 
 Let folk o'ercharged with brain against me cry. 
 
 Let all the ea th with scorn recount ray case ; 
 But do not will me fiom my love to fly ! 
 
 [Sonnet 64.] 
 
 Sonnet 90. 
 Stella ! think not that I by verse seek fame. 
 
 Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee ! 
 
 Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history : 
 If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. 
 Not so ambitious am I as to frame 
 
 A nest for my young praise in laurel tree : 
 
 Li truth I. swear, I wish not there should be 
 Graved on my epitaph a poet's name : 
 Nor if I would, could I just title make, 
 
 That any laud thereof to me should grow ; 
 Without my plumes from other's wings I take : 
 
 For nothing from my wit or will doth flow; 
 Since all my words thy beauty dodi indite. 
 And love doth hold my hand, and makes me write! 
 
 A regular history of the progress of Sidney's passion 
 may, perhaps, be found in the arrangement of these 
 Sonnets. The second has the following passage :—
 
 110 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Not at first sight, — not with a dribbing shot, 
 
 Love gave the wound which while I breathe will bleed. 
 But known worth did in tract of time proceed. 
 
 Till by degrees it had full conquest got : 
 
 I saw, and liked , I liked but loved not, 
 
 I loved but straight did not what love decreed : 
 At length, to love's decrees, I forced, agreed. 
 
 Yet with repining at such partial lot. 
 
 Many Sonnets follow in which the contest between 
 love and reason, passion and virtue; between the ar- 
 dour of the Poet's aftcction, and the strict sense of 
 honour and firm principle of the unhappy object of it, 
 are severally pourtrayed. At length we arrive at 
 
 Sonnet 62. 
 Late tir'd with woe, even ready for to pine 
 
 With rage of love, I called my love unkind r 
 She in whose eyes, love, though unfelt, doth shine. 
 
 Sweet said, that I true love in her should find, 
 I joyed, but straight thus watered was my wine. 
 
 That love she did, but with a love not blind. 
 Which would not let me, whom she loved, decline 
 
 From noblest course, fit for my mirth and mind. 
 And therefore, by her love's authority. 
 
 Willed me these tempests of vain love to fly. 
 And anchor fast myself on Virtue's shore. 
 
 Alas I if this the only metal be 
 
 Of love new-coined to help my beggary, 
 Dear ! love me not, that you may love me more I 
 
 The progress of the Poet's suit may be traced in 
 
 Sonnet 07. 
 Hope! art thou true? or dost thou flatter me?. 
 
 Doth Stella now begin with piteous eye 
 
 The ruins of her conquest to espy ?
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 117 
 
 Will she take him, before all wrecked he be ? 
 Her eye's-speech is translated thus by thee : 
 
 But fail'st thou not in phrase so heavenly high ? 
 
 Look on again ; the fair text better try ; 
 What blushing- notes dost thou in margin see ? 
 AVhat sighs stol'n out, or kill'd before full born ? 
 
 Hast thou found such and such like argument ? 
 Or art thou else to comfort me forsworn ? 
 
 Well, how so thou inteipretthe contents, 
 I am resolved thy error to maintain. 
 Rather than by more truth to get more pain; 
 
 Sonnet 68. 
 
 Stella ! the only planefc of my light, 
 
 Light of my life, and life of my desire. 
 
 Chief good, whereto my hope doth only aspire. 
 
 World of my wealth, and heaven of my delight ! 
 
 Why dost thou spend the treasure of thy sp'rit — 
 With voice laore fit to wed Amphion's lyre. 
 Seeking to quench in rae ilie noble fire. 
 
 Fed by thy worth, and kindled by thy sight? 
 
 And all in vain, for while thy breath most sweet. 
 With choicest words, thy words with reasons rare, 
 
 Thy reasons firmly set on virtue's feet , 
 Labour to kill in me this killing care : 
 
 Oh ! think I then, what paradise of joy 
 
 It is, so fair a Virtue to enjoy ! 
 
 Sonnet 69. 
 
 O joy ! too high for my low style to shew : 
 O bliss ! fit for a nobler state tlian me : 
 EnVy put out thine eyes, lest thou do see 
 
 What oceans of delight in rae do flow. 
 
 My friend ! that oft saw'st through all masks ray woe,
 
 118 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Come, come, and let me pour myself on thee ! 
 Gone is the winter of my misery ; 
 / My spring appears, O see what here doth grow ! 
 ' For Stella hath, in words where faith doth shine. 
 Of her high heart given me the monarchy : 
 I, I, Oh ! I may say that she is mine ! 
 
 And though she give but this conditionally. 
 This realm of bliss, while virtuous course I take. 
 No kings be crowned, but they some covenants make ! 
 
 Sonnet 71. 
 
 Who will in fairest book of nature know. 
 How virtue may best lodged in beauty be, 
 Let him but learn of love to read in thee, 
 
 Stella, those fair lines, which true goodness shew; 
 
 There &hall he find all rice's overthrow, 
 
 Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty 
 Of reason, fiom whose light those night-birds fly 
 
 That inward sun in thine eyes shining so. 
 
 And not content to be perfection's heir 
 Thyself — dost strive all minds that way to move: 
 
 Who mark in thee, what is in thee most fair ; 
 So while thy beauty draws the heart to love, 
 
 As fast thy virtue bends that love to good ; 
 
 But, ah! desire still cries, give me some food. 
 
 Sonnet 72. 
 Desire, though thou my old companion art. 
 
 And oft so clingst to my pure love, that I 
 
 One from the other scarcely can descry, 
 While each doth blow the tire of ray heart ; 
 Now from thy fellowship I needs must part; 
 
 Venus is taught with Dian's wings to fly ; 
 
 I must no more in thy sweet passions lie;
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, 110 
 
 Virtue's gold now must head my Cupid's dart. 
 Service and honour, wonder with delight, 
 
 Fear to offend, well worthy to appear, 
 Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sp'rite : 
 
 These things are left me by my only dear; 
 But thou, desire, because thou would'st have all, 
 Now banished art ; but yet, alas ! how shall ? 
 
 To what little purpose the following Son"- directly 
 shews : — 
 
 Have I caught my heavenly jewel -4^,., 
 
 Teaching sleep most fair to h^? 
 
 Now will 1 teach her that she. 
 When she waketh is too cruel. 
 
 Since sweet sleep her eyes hath charm'd — 
 The two only daits of love : — 
 Now will I with that boy prove 
 
 Some play while he is disarm'd. 
 
 Her tongue, waking, still refuseth. 
 
 Giving frankly niggard No ; 
 
 Now will I attempt to know. 
 What No her tongue, sleeping, useth. 
 
 See the hand which waking guardeth ; 
 
 Sleeping grants a free resort ; 
 
 Now will I invade the fort ; 
 Cowards love with loss rewardeth. 
 
 But O fool ! thiidv of the danger 
 
 Of her just and high disdain : 
 
 Now will I, alas ! refrain ! 
 Love fears nothing else but anger.
 
 120 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Yet those lips so sweetly swelling, 
 
 Do invite a stealing kiss : 
 
 Now will I but venture this ! 
 Who will read must first learn speUing. 
 
 Oh ! sweet kiss ! but ah ! she's waking; 
 
 Lowerina,' beautv chastens me : 
 
 Now will I away hence flee ; 
 Fool ! more fool ! for no more taking. 
 
 This stolen kiss fills the poet with raptures, whiclx 
 he expresses in several Sonnets, the following is per- 
 haps the best. 
 
 Sonnet 81. 
 
 O kiss ! which dost those ruddy gems impart, 
 
 Or gems, or fruits of new-found Paradise, 
 Breathing all bliss and sweet'ning to the heart, 
 
 Teaching dumb lips a nobler exercise. 
 O kiss ! which souls, even souls, together ties 
 
 By links of love, and only nature's art : 
 How fain would I paint thee in all men's eyes. 
 
 Or of thy gifts, at least, shade out some part? 
 But she forbids ; with blushing words, she says 
 
 She builds her fame on higher seated praise : 
 
 But my heart burns, I cannot silent be. 
 Then since, dear life, you fain would have me peace, 
 And I, mad with delight, want wit to cease, 
 -•f -, Stop you my mouth, with still still kissing me ! 
 
 In the midst of these raptures, the following, Alas ! 
 is found. 
 
 Sonnet 78. 
 
 Oh ! how the pleasant airs of true love be 
 
 Infected by those vapours, which arise 
 
 From out that noisome gulf, which gaping lies
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. V-^l 
 
 Between the jaws of hellish jealousy ! 
 A monster, others harm, self-misery, 
 
 Beauty's plaj^e, virtue's scourge, seeker of lies ; 
 
 Who his own joy to his own hurt applies, 
 And only cherish doth with injury. 
 Bnt since he hath by nature's special grace. 
 So piercing paws, as spoil when they embrace ; 
 ' So nimble feet as stir not, but on thorns ; 
 So many eyes, aye seeking their own woe ; 
 So ample ears, as never good news know ; 
 
 Is it not evil that such a devil wants horns ? 
 
 There is no doubt but that the allusion in this Sonnet 
 is to Lord Rich, the husband of Stella, who had pro- 
 bably contracted some feelings of jealousy from the 
 intercourse between Sidney and his wife. 
 
 The lady resents the liberty taken with her person, 
 when sleeping, but as the oft'ence was venial, so her 
 anger was apparently slight, and of short duration. — 
 Sidney alludes to it as follows : — 
 
 And yet my star, because a sugar'd kiss 
 In sport I suck'd, while she asleap did lie. 
 
 Doth low'f, nay chide, nay threat, for only this; 
 Sweet, it was saucy love, not humble I. 
 
 [Sonnet 73.] 
 
 The Poet's passion was however too real to be con- 
 fined within the bounds prescribed to it; success and 
 pardon make him bold. Two Songs follow, which we 
 forbear to quote : these produce 
 
 Sonnet 80. 
 
 Alas ! whence came this change of looks ? — if I 
 Have chang'd desert, let mine own conscience bf 
 A still-felt plague, to self-condemniiig me \
 
 122 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Let woe gripe on my heart, shame load mine eye I 
 But if all faith, like spotless ermine lie 
 
 Safe in my soul, which only doth to thee,-~ 
 
 As his sole object of felicity, — 
 With wings of love, in air of wonder fly ! 
 
 ease your hand, treat not so hard your slave; 
 Injustice pains come not, till faults do call. 
 
 Or if I needs, sweet judge, must torments have, 
 
 Use something else to chasten me withall. 
 Than those blest eyes, where all my hopes do dwell ; 
 !N^o doom should make one's heaven become his hell. 
 
 The Poet now complains of absence, — and we have 
 the following: — 
 
 Sonnet 87. 
 When 1 was forced from Stella ever dear, 
 
 Stella ! food of my thoughts, heart of my heart; 
 Stella ! whose eyes make all ray tempests clear, 
 By iron laws of duty to depart; 
 Alas ! I found that she with me did smart; 
 
 1 saw that tears did in her eyes appear- 
 
 I saw that sighs her sweetest lips did part. 
 And her sad words, my saddest sense did hear : 
 Por me, I wept to see pearls scattered so, 
 I sighed her sighs, and wailed for her woe, 
 
 Yet swam in joy, such love in her was seen. - 
 Thus while the eftect most bitter was to me. 
 And nothing than the cause more sweet could be, 
 
 I had been vexed, if vexed I had not been. 
 
 Several good Sonnets follow, chiefly lamenting this 
 temporary absence ; when in tracing the history ot the 
 Poet's passion, the following dialogue arrests our atten- 
 tion, and probably explains the cause of the absence 
 bewailed.
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 123 
 
 Song, 
 ^' Who is it that this dark night, 
 
 " Uuderneath my window plaineth?" 
 It is one, who from thy sight, 
 
 Being, ah! exiled, disdaineth 
 Every other vulgar light. 
 
 " Why, alas ! and are you he ? 
 A t- I " Be not yet those fancies changed ?" 
 
 Dear, when you find change in me, 
 
 Tho' from me you be estranged. 
 Let my change to ruin be. 
 
 "Well, in absence this will die, 
 
 " Leave to see, and leave to wonder.' 
 
 Absence sure will help, if I 
 
 Can learn how myself to sunder. 
 
 From what in my heart doth lie. 
 
 " But time will these thoughts remove ; 
 
 " Time doth work what no man knowetb." 
 Time doth as the subject prove. 
 
 With time still affection groweth 
 In the faithful turtle-dove. 
 
 "What if you new beauties see, 
 
 '' Will they not stir new aflection ?" 
 
 I will think they pictures be 
 Image-like of saint perfection. 
 
 Poorly counterfeiting thee. 
 
 " But your reason's purest light, 
 
 *' Bids you leave such minds to nourish." 
 
 Dear, do reason no such spite ; 
 Never doth thy beauties flourish 
 
 More, than in my reason's sight.
 
 124 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 k ** But the wrongs love bears, will make 
 " Love at length leave undertaking.'* 
 
 l^o, the more fools it doth shake. 
 In a ground of so firm making 
 
 Deeper still they drive the stake. 
 
 " Peace ! I think that some give ear ! 
 
 " Come no more, lest I get anger." 
 Bliss, 1 will my bliss forbear ; 
 
 Fearing, sweet, you to endanger ; 
 But my love shall harbour there. 
 
 " Well, begone ! begone 1 say ! 
 
 " Lest that Argus' eyes perceive you.'^ 
 O unjust is fortune's sway ! 
 
 Which can make me thus to leave you; 
 And from louts to run away. 
 
 This Poem would admit of an ample commentary ; 
 which, with the clue that has been given him, shall be 
 left to the reader's own judgment to supply himself. 
 
 Three more Sonnets only occupy the volume, which 
 concludes with the following melancholy, but very 
 characteiistic essay. 
 
 Sonnet 108. 
 When sorrow, using mine own fire's might, 
 
 Melts down his lead into my boiling breast, 
 
 Through that dark furnace to my heart opprest, 
 There shines a joy from thee my only light '. 
 But soon as thought of thee breeds my delight, 
 
 And ray young soul flutters to thee his nest; 
 
 Most rude despair my daily unbidden guest, 
 Clips straight my wings, straight wraps me in his nighty 
 And makes lue then bow down my head, and say* 
 
 I
 
 SIR PHILTP SIDNEY 125 
 
 Ah ! what doth Phoebus's gold that wretch avail, 
 Whom iron doors doth keep from use of day ? 
 
 So strangely alas ! thy works ia me prevail, 
 That in my woes for thee, thou art my joy. 
 And in my joys for thee, my only aunoj'. 
 
 The following miscellaneous selection from this vo- 
 lume, exhibits the most favourable remaining specimens 
 we can find of Sir Philip Sidney's talents as a Poet. 
 
 Sonnet 6. 
 
 Some lovers speak, when they their muses entertain, 
 
 Of hopes begot by fear, of wot not what desites, 
 Of force of heavenly beams, infusing hellish pain, 
 Of living deaths, dear wounds, fair storms, and 
 
 freezing fires: 
 Some one his songs in Jove, and Jove's strange tale 
 attires. 
 Bordered widi bulls and swans, powdered with golden 
 rain : 
 Another, humbler wit, to shepherd's pipe retires, 
 Yet, hiding royal blood, full oft in rural vein : 
 To some, a sweetest plaint, a sweetest stile afl'ords, 
 While tears poar out his ink, and sighs breathe out 
 
 his words ; 
 His paper pale despair, and pain his pen doth move : 
 1 can speak what I feel, and feel as much as they, 
 But think that all the map of my state I display 
 
 When trembling voice brings forth, that I do Stella 
 love I
 
 12G SIR PHILIP SIDNEr, 
 
 Sonnet 15. 
 
 You that do search for every purling spring, 
 Whicli from the ribs of old Parnassus flows, 
 And every flower, not sweet perhaps, that grows 
 Near thereabouts, into your poem's wring : 
 You that do Dictionary's method's bring 
 Into your rhymes, running in rattling rows : 
 You that poor Petrarch's long deceased woes. 
 With new-born sighs, and wit disguised do sing : — 
 You take wrong ways, those far-fetch'd helps be such 
 As do betray a wdnt of inward touch. 
 
 And sure at length, stolen goods do come to light ; 
 But if, both for your love and skill, your name 
 You seek to nurse at fuUest breasts of fame, 
 Stella behold ! and then begin to indite. 
 
 3 
 
 Sonnet 23. 
 
 The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness 
 Betray itself in my long settled eyes, 
 Whence those same fames of melancholy rise, 
 With idle pains, and missing aim, do guess : 
 Some that know how ray spring I did address, 
 Deem that my muse some fruit of knowledge plies : 
 Others, because the prince my service tries. 
 Think that 1 aim state-errors to redress : 
 But harder judges, judge ambition's rage, — 
 
 Scourge of itself, still climbing slippery place, — 
 Holds my young brain captive in golden cagel 
 
 O fools, or over-wise, alas ! the race 
 Of all my thoughts have ncithev stop nor start. 
 But only Stella's eyes, and Stella's heart.
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 127 
 
 Sonnet 39. 
 
 Come sleep, — O sleep ! the certain knot of peace, 
 
 The baiting place of wit, tlie balm of woe. 
 The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
 
 The inditt'erent judge between the high and low; 
 With shield of proof, shield me from out the press 
 
 Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw : 
 O make in me those civil wars to cease ; 
 
 I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
 Take thou of me, smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 
 
 A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light, 
 A rosy garland, and a weary head : — 
 
 And if these things, as being thine by right. 
 Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt, in me. 
 Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 
 
 Sonnet .53. 
 
 In martial sports I had my cunning tried, 
 
 And yet, to break more staves, did me address, 
 AVhile, Avith the people's shouts, I must confess. 
 
 Youth, luck and praise, e'en filled my veins with pride. 
 
 AVhen Cupid, having me, his slave, descried 
 In Mars's livery, prancing in the press ; — 
 What now, sir fool? said he, I would no less ! 
 
 Look here, I say! — ^I looked, and Stella spied, 
 
 Who, hard by, made a window send fortli light. 
 My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes. 
 
 One hand forgai to rule, th' other to fight. 
 
 Nor trumpet's sound I heard nor friendly cries : 
 
 My foe came on, and beat the air for me. 
 
 'Till that her blush taught me my shame to see. 
 
 4- a 
 
 fi 
 
 ■I h., ■■; ,.^JU:^.i^ 
 
 I :
 
 128 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Sonnet 54. 
 
 Because I breathe not love to every one, 
 And do not use set colours for to wear, 
 Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair. 
 
 Nor give each speech the full point of a groan ; 
 
 The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan 
 Of them, who in their lips love's standard bear ; 
 
 What he? say they of me, now done I swear, 
 
 He cannot love ; no, no, let him alone ! 
 
 And think so still, so Stella know my mind: — 
 Profess, indeed, I do not Cupid's art, 
 
 But you fair maids, at length this truth shall find, 
 [ That his right badge is worn but in the heart: 
 
 Dumb swains, not chattering pies, do lovers prove ; 
 
 They love indeed, who quake to say they love I 
 
 Lady E-ich, as she appears in the volumes of Sit" 
 Philip Sidney, is a model of perfection, beautiful, and 
 virtuous. She is by general consent allowed to be the 
 original of the highly finished female character drawn 
 by his hand in the Arcadia, and an exquisite character 
 it is, one of those delightful visions. 
 
 " That youthful poets fancy when they love." 
 
 In this romance he has assigned to her the poetic name 
 of Philoclea, and has introduced hev in the following 
 beautiful passage : — " Methoiight there was more sweet- 
 ness in Philoclea, but more majesty in Pamela ; me- 
 thought Philoclea's beauty only persuaded, but so per- 
 suaded, that all hearts must yield ; Pamela's beauty 
 used violence, but such violence as no heart could
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 129 
 
 resist. And it seemed that such proportion is 
 between their minds. Phil odea is so bashful, as 
 though her excellencies had stolen into her before she 
 was aware ; so humble, that she will put all pride out 
 of countenance; in sura, such proceeding as will stir 
 hope, but teach hope good manners. Pamela of high 
 thoughts, who avoids not pride with not knowing her 
 excellencies, but by making that one of her excellen- 
 lencies to be void of pride." He proceeds to describe 
 the beauty of her person with all the ardour and all the 
 voluptuousness of a poet aad a lover. This description 
 is iatroduced by the following climax, which is in itself 
 worth all the metrical poetry in the romance. He 
 calls her "The ornament of the earth, the model of 
 heaven, the triumph of nature, the life of beauty, the 
 queen of love, young Pitiloclea.'" 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney excelled in his delineations of fe- 
 male character. The two sisters in the Arcadia are 
 sweetly drawn, and it is to be lamented that, from de- 
 fective taste, he has blinded them with most unworthy 
 associations. At the touch, however, of the Ithuriel's 
 spear of impartial history this beautiful creation vanishes, 
 and in its stead we have a mortifying picture of the 
 frailty of our nature. 
 
 Lady Rich, when no longer young, and the mother 
 of a large family, abandoned her husband and children, 
 and attached herself to one of her earliest lovers. — 
 This incident shall be related in the words of the seve- 
 ral authorities from whence it is derived. 
 
 Sanderson, speaking of the affair of Somerset and 
 the Countess of Essex remarks, " this case followed at 
 the heels of a former divorce, fresh in memory.
 
 130 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 between the Lord Rich and his fair lady hy mutual con- 
 sent ; but, because Mountjoy Earl of Devonshire mar- 
 ried her while her lord lived, the King was so much 
 displeased, as it broke the Earl's heart; for his Ma- 
 jesty told him that " he had purchased a fair wife v»'ith 
 a fonl soul," but this of Essex was a different exam- 
 ple, when you seek to parallel them together." 
 
 Dr. Birch, an historian of more credit, gives the 
 following account of this connection, on the authority 
 of the Earl of Devonshire's secretary. " After the 
 Irish wars, grief of unsuccessful love, brought him," 
 (the Earl) " to his last end. He had engaged in a 
 mutual ftfFection, and even promises of marriagfi, with 
 the E^irl of Essex's sister Penelope, before she was 
 married to Robert Lord Rich ; whom she afterwards 
 abandoned, and had several children by the Earl of 
 Devonshire, who, finding her upon his return from 
 Ireland delivered from her hnshand, married at Wan- 
 stead, in Essex, Dec. 26, 1605, the ceremony being 
 performed by his Chaplain, Mr. William Laud, after- 
 wards Archbishop of Canterbury ; an act which gave 
 great concern to that divine upon cooler reflection, and 
 exposed him to just censure. And his Lordships's con- 
 duct, with respect to that lady, gave such a wound to 
 his reputation, though he endeavoured to excuse it by 
 a written apology, that the impression which the dis- 
 grace made upon him ivas believed to have shortened his 
 life." 
 
 In Winwood's Memoirs, is a letter from Mr. Cham- 
 berlain, dated April 5, 1606, who says, " The Earl of 
 Devonshire left this life on Tuesday night last, soon and 
 early for his years (oetate 43) but late enough for himself;
 
 SIR PHILTP SIDNEY. 131 
 
 and happy had he been if he had gone two or three years 
 since; before the world was weary of him, or that he 
 had left that scandal behind him. lie was not long 
 sick, past eigh*^ or ten days, and d'leA o( a burning fever 
 and pntiefuction of his lungs, a defect he never com- 
 plained of. He hath left his lady, (for so she is now 
 generally held to be,) 1-500/. a year, and most of his 
 moveables ; and of Jive children that she fathered upon 
 him at the parting from her former husband, I do not 
 hear that he provided for more than three, leaving to 
 the eldest son, I hear, between 3 and 4000/. a year, 
 and to a daughter 6000/. in money." 
 
 The contradictions in these several accounts, and the 
 circumstances that may be advanced in extenuation of 
 this unfortunate lady's conduct, may be left to the 
 reader's discernment. She was imhappily married 
 at an early period, and was the object of attachment with 
 two of the most accomplished and elegant men of the 
 age in which she lived. The adage of ^'fortes a-eaniur 
 foitibns," may be very safely extended to the natural 
 endowments of form and features; Lady Rich was 
 without doubt remarkable for personal beauty , her two 
 sons by Lord Rich, who make so conspicuous a figure 
 in Clarendon's history, were the handsomest men of 
 their day, and a portrait of her grand daughter Isabella 
 first Countess of Radnor, now before the writer, pre- 
 sents one of the loveliest images ever created by that 
 painter of the graces, Sir Peter Lelly.
 
 132 SlR PHILIP SlDNiEV. 
 
 The following are from the Arcadia : — 
 
 An Epitaph. 
 His being was in her alone 
 And he not being she was none. 
 They joy'd one joy, one grief they griev'd, 
 One love they lov'd, one life they liv'd; 
 The hand was one, one was the sword, 
 That did his death, her death afford. 
 As all the rest, so now the stone, 
 That tombs the two is justly One. 
 
 A Song. 
 Why dost thou haste away 
 O Titan fair, the giver of the day ? 
 
 Is it to carry news 
 To western wights, what stars in east appear ? 
 Or dost thou think that here 
 
 Is left a sun, whose beams thy place may use ? 
 
 Yet stay and well peruse. 
 What be her gifts that make her equal thee, 
 Bend all thy hght to see 
 
 In earthy form inclos'd a heavenly spark : 
 
 Thy running course cannot such beauties mark. 
 No, no, thy motions be 
 
 Hasten'd from us with bar of shadow dark, 
 Because that thou, the author of our sight, 
 Disdain'st we see thee stain'd with other's light. 
 
 Frorn a long piece, 
 The lad Philisides 
 Lay by a river side, 
 In flow'ry field a gladder eye to please ; 
 His pipe was atliis foot,
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 133 
 
 His lambs were him beside ; 
 
 A widow turtle near on bared root 
 
 Sat wailing without boot. 
 
 Each thing both sweet and sad 
 
 Did draw his boihng brain, 
 
 To think, and think with pain. 
 
 Of Mira's beams cchj's'd by absence bad. 
 
 O si sic omnia! 
 
 Fr(ym a lonr/er piece. 
 
 As I my little flock on Istcr bank, 
 
 A little llock, but well my pipe they couth, 
 
 Did piping lead, the sun already sank 
 
 Beyond our world, and e'er I got my booth, 
 Each thing with mantle black the night did scoth : 
 
 Saving the glow-worm, which would courteous be 
 
 Of that small light oft watching shepherds see. 
 
 The welkin had full niggardly enclosed 
 In coffer of dark clouds his silver groats, 
 
 Y'cleped stars; each thing to rest disposed. 
 
 The caves were full, the mountains void of goats. 
 The birds eyes closed, closed their chirping notes, 
 
 As for the nightingale, wood-music's king. 
 
 It August was, he deigned not then to sing. 
 
 Amid my sheep, though I .saw naught to fear. 
 Yet, for I nothing saw, I feared sore : 
 
 Then found I which thing is a charge to bear, 
 As for my sheep I dreaded mickle more 
 Than ever for myself since I was bore. 
 
 I sat me down ; for see to go ne could, 
 
 And suiig unto my sheep lest stray they should. 
 
 M
 
 134 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 The song I sang old Lanquet had me taught, 
 Lanquet, the shepherd best swift Ister knew, 
 
 For clerkly read, and hatuig what is naught, 
 
 For faithful heart, clean hands, and mouth as true ; 
 With his sweet skill my skilless youth he drew, 
 
 To have a feeling taste of him that sits 
 
 Beyond the heaven, far more beyond our wits. 
 
 He said the music best thilk poweis pleased. 
 Was jump concord between our wit and will; 
 
 W^here highest notes to godliness are raised. 
 And lowest sink uot down to jot of ill : 
 With old true tales he wout mine ears to fill. 
 
 How shepherds were of yore, how now they thrive. 
 
 Spoiling their flocks, the while 'twixt them they strive. 
 
 He hked me, but pitied lustful youth : 
 
 His good strong staff my si ppeiy years upbore; 
 
 He still hoped well, because I loved truth : 
 
 'Till forced to part w ith heart and eyes e'en sore, 
 To worthy Corydon he gave me o'er ; 
 
 But thus in oak's true shade recounted he, 
 
 IVhichnow, in night's deep shade, sheep heard of me. 
 
 Hubert Languet, justly praised in this extract, was 
 a Frenchman, born at Viteaux in 1518. He was con- 
 verted to the protestant faith by reading the works of 
 Melancthon, and afterwards entered into the service of 
 the reformed princes of Germany. A series of his let- 
 ters to Sir Philip Sidney is extant, which exhibits him 
 to great advantage, as a profound schola ■, a wise and 
 prudent adviser, and a firm friend. lie died at An- 
 twerp in 1581, leaving behind him the character of 
 being one of the most learned men, and ablest poHti- 
 •ians of his time.
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 135 
 
 Sonnet. 
 Since nature's works be good, and death doth serve 
 
 As nature's work ; why shouhl we fear to die ? 
 Since fear is vain, but when it may preserve ; 
 
 Why should we fear that which we cannot fly ? 
 Fear is more pain, than is the pain it fears, 
 
 Disarming human rainds of native might : 
 While each conceit r.n ugly ligure bears, 
 
 Which were not ill well viev;ed in reason's light. 
 Our owly eyes, which dimmed by passions be. 
 And scarce discern the dawn of coming day. 
 Let them be cleared, then shall v/e 'gin to see 
 
 Our life is but a step in dusty way; 
 And let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind : 
 Of this we feel, great loss we cannot tind. 
 
 An Epitkalamhim. 
 Let mother earth now deck herself with flowers. 
 
 To see her oftspring seek a good increase. 
 Where justest love doth vanquish Cupid's powers. 
 And war of thoughts is swallowed up in peace, 
 AVhich never may decrease, 
 But, like the turtles fair, 
 Live one in two a well united pair; 
 Which that no chance may stain, 
 O Hymen long their coupled joys maintain. 
 
 O Heaven awake, shew forth thy stately face, 
 Let not these slumberuig clouds thy beauty hide, 
 
 But with Uiy cheerful presence help to grace 
 The honest bridegroom and the bashful bride. 
 Whose loves ma y ever bide. 
 Like to the elm and vine. 
 With mutual embraces them to twine : 
 
 In which delightful pain, 
 
 O Hymen long their coupled joys mainta'**
 
 136 &IR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Ye muses all which chaste affects allow. 
 
 And have to Thyrsis shewed your secret skill. 
 To this chaste love your sacred favours bow, 
 
 And so in hinoi and her your gifts distil 
 
 That they all vice may kill : 
 
 And like to lillys pure. 
 
 May please all eyes, and spotless may endure. 
 Where that all bliss may reign 
 O Hymen long their coupled joys maintain. 
 
 Ye nymphs that in the waters empire have, 
 
 8iiice Thyrsis music oft doth yield your praise. 
 Grant us the thing which we for Thyrsis crave. 
 
 Let one time but long since close up their days. 
 
 One grave their bodies seize ; 
 
 And like two rivers sweet 
 
 When they though divers, do together meet. 
 One stream both streams contain : 
 O Hymen long their coupled joys maintain. 
 
 Pan, father Pan, the god of silly sheep, 
 
 Whose care is cause that they in number grow. 
 Have much more care of them that (hem do keep, 
 
 Since from these good the other's good doth flow, 
 
 And make their issue show, 
 
 In number like the herd. 
 
 Of younglings which thyself with care hast reared. 
 Or like the drops of rain 
 O Hymen long their coupled joys maintain. 
 
 Virtue, if not a god, yet god's chief part, 
 Be thou the knot of this their open vow ; 
 
 That still he be her head, she be his heart; 
 He lean to her, she up to him do bow : 
 
 i
 
 K/ 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 137 
 
 Each other still allow ; 
 
 Like oak and mistletoe, 
 
 Her strength from him, his praise from her do grow; 
 In which most lovely train 
 O Hymen long their coupled joys maintain. 
 
 But thou foul Cupid sire to lawless lust. 
 
 Be thou far hence with thy empoison'd dart, 
 Which though of glittering gold shall here take rust. 
 
 Where simple love, which chasteness doth impart, 
 
 Avoids thy hurtful art. 
 
 Not needing charming skill 
 
 Such minds with sweet affections for to fill, 
 Which being pure and plain, 
 O Hymen lor.g their coupled joys maintain. 
 
 All churlish words, shrewd answers, crabbed looks. 
 
 All privateness, self-seeking, inward spite. 
 All waywardness, which nothing kindly brooks. 
 
 All strife for toys, and claiming master's right. 
 
 Be hence aye put to flight : 
 
 All stirring husband's hate 
 
 'Gainst neighbour's good for womanish debate. 
 Be fled as things most vain : 
 O Hymen long their coupled joys maintain. 
 
 All peacock pride, and fruits of peacock's pride, 
 
 Longing to be with loss of substance gay, 
 With reeklessness what may the house betide. 
 
 So that they may on higher slippers stay, 
 
 Be ever hence away ; 
 
 Yet let, not sluttery 
 
 The sink of tilth, be counted housewifery : 
 But, keeping wholesome mean, 
 
 Hymen long their coupled joys maintain.
 
 138 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 But above all, away vile jealoxisy 
 
 The evil of evils, just cause to be unjust, 
 How can he love, suspecting t: eachery ? 
 
 How can she love, where lov*e cannot win trust? 
 
 Go, snake, hide thee in dust, 
 
 Nor dare once shew thy face. 
 
 Where open hearts do hold so constant place. 
 That they thy sting restrain : 
 
 ITynien long their coupled joys maintain. 
 
 The earth is deck'd, with flowers, the heavens display'd. 
 
 Muses grant gifts, nymphs long 'and joined life. 
 Pan store of babes, virtue their thoughts well staid^ 
 
 Cupid's lust gone, and gone is bitter strife, 
 
 Happy man, happy wife ! 
 
 No pride shall them oppress, 
 
 'Nor vet shall yield to loathsome sluttishness. 
 And jealousy is slain : 
 For Hymen will their coupled joys maintain ! 
 
 A Song. 
 
 My true love hath my heart and 1 have his. 
 By just exchange one for another given ; 
 
 1 hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. 
 There never was a better bargain driven : — 
 
 My true love hath my heart, and I have his. 
 
 His heart iu me keeps me and him in one; 
 
 My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides ; 
 He loves my heart, for ouce it was his own, 
 
 I cherish his, because in me it bides ; 
 
 My true love hath my heart and 1 have his.
 
 MARY, COUNTESS OF PEM- 
 BROKE. 
 
 Born about 1550.— Died 1621. 
 
 Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ! 
 Death, e'er thou hast slain another, 
 Fair and good and ivisc as she. 
 Time shall throw a dart at thee ! 
 
 (Ben Jonson.) 
 
 Of the family of this illustrious lady, Sidney's sister, 
 enough has been said. Of the place and time of her 
 birth, the writer is reluctantly obliged to confess his 
 ignorance, — several volumes having been referred to in 
 vain. Mr. Park, one of the most accurate of our anti- 
 quarian writers, in his additions to the " Royal and 
 Noble Authors," says merely, that she was born about 
 the middle of the sixteenth century. If so, it is most 
 probable that Penshurst, in Kent, then the residence 
 of her fatlier, may lay claim to the honour of her birth- 
 place. 
 
 She received a learned education, under the directioH 
 of her excellent mother, of whom honourable mention 
 has been already made, and about the year 1576, 
 married Henry Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, very much 
 to the satisfaction of her family. Of her private his- 
 tory, little more is known, than that she survived her 
 husband more than twenty years, and died at an ad- 
 vanced period of life, in Aldersgate Street, London, 
 September the 2&th, 1621,
 
 140 MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 
 
 Mary, Countess of Pembroke, ranks deservedly 
 high in the catalogue of learned British ladies ; and 
 aftords probably the first example of that small but 
 illustrious band of female worthies which has been dis- 
 tinguished of late years by the whimsical appellation 
 of " Blue Stockings," (bas-bleus.) She was learned, 
 and she patronized learning. Surrounding herself with 
 men of genius, she received the incense of their praise 
 while living, and has secured herself an honourable 
 immortality in the literary monuments of the age in 
 which she lived. Spenser, and Daniel, and Jonson, 
 and Donne, her own illustrious brother, and a host of 
 inferior names, have united in celebrating the beauty of 
 her person, and the accomplishments of her mind. 
 
 The works of this learned lady, are not of easy at- 
 tainment, several of them appear yet to exist only in 
 manuscript, and those which have been committed to 
 the press are valuable from their rarity. It would be 
 uncandid from the few specimens we have seen to offer 
 any opinion of their merits, they shall speak for them- 
 selves, and make their own appeal to the judgment of 
 our readers. 
 
 The following specimen of her prose composition is 
 selected by Mr. Park from a volume which he describes 
 as "no less estimable than rare," entitled "A Dis- 
 course of Life and Death, written in French by Phil. 
 Mornay.— Done in English by the Countess of Pem- 
 broke. London : Printed for W. Pousonby, 1600, 
 12 mo," — from the exordium. 
 
 " It seemeth to me strange, and a thing much to be 
 marvelled, that the labourer to repose himself hasteneth 
 as it were the course of the sun ; that the mariner rows
 
 MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 141 
 
 with all force to attain the port, and with a joyful cry 
 salutes the descried land ; that the travellei" is never 
 quiet nor content, till he be at the end of his voyage ; 
 and that we, in the mean while, tied in this world to a 
 perpetual task, tossed with continual tempests, tired 
 with a rough and cumbersome way, cannot yet see the 
 end of our labour but with grief, nor behold our port 
 but with tears, nor approach our home and quiet abode 
 but with horror and trembling. This life is but a Pe- 
 nelope's web, wherein we are always doing and un- 
 doing; a sea open to all winds, which, sometimes 
 within, sometimes without, never cease to torment us; 
 a weary journey through extreme heats and colds, over 
 high mountains, steep rocks, and iheivish deserts. — 
 And so we term it, in weaving this web, in rowing at 
 this oar, in passing this miserable way. Yet lo, when 
 death comes to end our work ; when she stretchelh out 
 her arras to pull us into this port; when, alter so many 
 dangerous passages and loathsome lodgings, she would 
 conduct us to our true home and resting place ; instead 
 of rejoicing at the end of our labour, of taking com- 
 fort at the sight ol our land, of singing at the approach 
 of our happy mansion; we would fain, (who would 
 believe it?) retake our work in hand, we would again 
 iioist sail to the wind, and willingly undertake our 
 journey anew. No more then remember we our pains ; 
 our shipwrecks and dangers are forgotten ; we fear no 
 more the travels nor the thieves. Contrariwise, we ap- 
 proach death as an extreme pain, we doubt it as a 
 rock, we fly it as a thief. We do as little children , 
 who all the day complain, and when the medicine is 
 brought them, are no longer sick; as they who all the 
 
 V
 
 143 MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 
 
 week run up and clown the streets with pain of the 
 teeth, and seeing the barber coming to pull them out, 
 feel no more pain. We fear more the cure than the 
 disease ; the surgeon than the pain. We have more 
 sense of the medicine's bitterness, soon gone, than of 
 a bitter languishing, long continued ; more feeUng of 
 death, the end of our miseries, tlmn the endless mi- 
 sery of our lives. We fear that we ought to hope for, 
 and we v/ish for that we ought to fear." 
 
 If this be not a partial specimen, we may very safely 
 pronounce the Countess to have been a correct, ner- 
 vous, and spirited v/riter of prose ; who wielded her 
 native langue^^ge with the ease and dignity of a veteran 
 scholar, and far excelled her brother in this department 
 of literature. Almost every writer who has incidentally 
 mentioned Lady Pembroke, has compared her with 
 Sir Philip Sidney, for personal reseniblance, and si- 
 milarity of taste, of talent, and of disposition. A 
 contenipory, whose name is not at hand, relating an 
 incident in the life of her younger son, in which he 
 failed to resent an insult offered to him, remarks, that 
 the Countess, then at an advanced age, on hearing of 
 this want of spirit in her offspring, tore her hair; that 
 she possessed the lofty character of her brother, who 
 had no advantage over her, but by the chance of na- 
 ture in being a man, which was more than compensated 
 by the feminine beauty of her peison. Of the truth of 
 this latter remark, we can only judge by the portraits 
 which have been handed down to us. From these, we 
 should be led to suppose that her features, though 
 strongly marked, and full of expression, were of too 
 masculine a character to be consistent with female grace.
 
 MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, 143 
 
 The excellent engraving published by Mw Park from 
 a scarce print, represents her no longer young, with a 
 loHg, thin, and muscular face, a mouth slightly turned 
 up at the angles, a firm, thin, and well defined upper 
 lip, a projecting chin, large prominent eyes, and the 
 nose of an ancient hero. Her hair is turned back, and 
 curled into innumerable small ringlets, behind which a 
 circle of fur is so disposed as to resemble a halo of 
 rays. She wears the large open laced ruff of her time, 
 and an ermined mantle to denote her rank ; the more 
 completely to exhibit her character, her left hand dis- 
 plays an open book. She looks the very queen of 
 learnmg, the preaident and. patroness of literature. 
 
 We will now attend her ladyship to the region of 
 Parnassus, and first exhibit her in competition with 
 the divine Spenser, bewailing the untimely death of her 
 noble brother. In that poet's ''Astrophel,'' Lady Pem- 
 broke's elegy is introduced by the following stanza : — . 
 
 And first his sister, that Clarinda hight, 
 
 That gentlest shepherdess that lives this day ; 
 
 And most resembling both in shape and spright 
 Her brother dear ; began this doleful lay ; 
 
 Which lest I mar the sweetness of the verse. 
 
 In sort as she it sung I will rehearse. 
 
 Aye me! to whom shall 1 my case complain. 
 That may compassion my impatient grief? 
 
 Or where shall I unfold my inward pain. 
 That my enriven heart may find relief? 
 
 Shall I unto the heavenly powers it show, 
 
 Or unto earthly men that dwell below?
 
 144 MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 
 
 To heavens ? ah ! they ala;? ! the anthors were 
 And workers of my unremedied woe; 
 
 For they foresee what to ws happens here, 
 And they foresaw, yet suffered this be so. 
 
 From them comes good, from them comes also ill ; 
 
 That which they made, who can them warn to spill ? 
 
 To men ? ah ! they alas ! like wretched be, 
 And subject to the heaven's ordinance. 
 
 Bound to abide whatever they decree ; 
 Their best redress is their best sufferance. 
 
 How then can they, like wretched, comfort me, 
 
 The which no less need comforted to be? 
 
 Then to myself will I my sorrow mourn, 
 Since none alive like sorrowful remains. 
 
 And to myself my plaints shall back return, 
 And pay their usury with double pains : 
 
 The woods, the hills, the rivers shall resound 
 
 The mournful accents of mj'^ sorrow's ground. 
 
 Woods, hills and rivers, now are desolate. 
 Since he is gone the which did all them grace; 
 
 And all the fields do v,ail their widowed state, 
 Since death their fairest flower did late deface : 
 
 The fairest flower in field that ever gTew 
 
 Was Astrophel ! that was we all may rue. 
 
 What cruel hand of cursed foe unknown 
 
 Hath cropt the stalk that bore so fair a flower? 
 Untimely cropt, before it well were grown, 
 
 And clean defaced in untimely hour : 
 Great loss to all that ever him did see, 
 Great loss to all but greatest loss to me.
 
 MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 145 
 
 Break now your garlands, O ye shepherd lasses, 
 Since the fair flower that them adorned is gone ; 
 
 The flower that theui adorned is gone to ashes ; 
 Never again let lass put garland on : 
 
 Instead of garland, wear sad cypress now, 
 
 And bitter elder, broken from the bough. 
 
 Nor ever sing the love-lays which he made ; 
 
 Who ever made such lays of love as he? 
 Nor ever read the riddles which he said 
 
 Unto j'ourselves to make you merry glee : 
 Your merry glee is now laid all abed, 
 Your merry maker now, alas! is dead. 
 
 Death, the devourer of all world's delight. 
 Hath robbed you, and reft from me my joy ; 
 
 Both you and me, and all the world, he quite 
 Hath robb'd of joyance, and left sad annoy. 
 
 Joy of the world, and shepherds pride, was he; 
 
 Shepherds ! hope never like again to see. 
 
 O death ! that hast of us such riches reft 
 
 Tell us, at least, what hast thou with it done? 
 
 What is become of him whose flower h«re left 
 Is but the shadow of his likeness gone ? 
 
 Scarce like the shadow of that which he was. 
 
 Nought hke, but that he like a shade did pass. 
 
 But that immortal spirit, which was deck'd 
 With all the dowries of celestial grace ; 
 
 By sovereign choice from the heavenly quires select, 
 And lineally deriv'd from angel's race, 
 
 O what is now of it become ? aread ! 
 
 Aye me ! can so divine a thing be dead ? 
 
 N 
 
 /
 
 146 MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 
 
 Ah! no, it is not dead, nor can it die, 
 But lives for aye in blissful paradise ; 
 
 Where like a new-born babe it soft doth lie 
 In bed of lillies, wrapped in tender wise, 
 
 And conjpass'd all about with roses sweet, ' 
 
 And dainty violets from head to feet. 
 
 There thousand birds, all of celestial brood. 
 To him do sweetly carol day and night, 
 
 And with strange notes of him well understood, 
 Lull him asleep in angel-like delight : 
 
 Whil^:t in sweet dreams to him presented be 
 
 Immortal beauties, wliich no eye may see. 
 
 But he them sees, and takes exceeding pleasure 
 Of their divine aspects, appearing plain, 
 
 And kindling love in him above all measure ; 
 Sweet love, still joyous, never feeling pain : 
 
 Por what so goodly forms he there doth see, 
 
 He may enjoy, from jealous rancour free. 
 
 There liveth he in everlasting bliss, 
 
 Sweet spirit! never fearing more to die, 
 
 Not dreading harm from any foe of his. 
 Nor fearing savage beasts' more cruelty,— 
 
 Whilst we here wretches wail his private lack. 
 
 And with vain vows do often call him back. 
 
 But live thou there still, happy, happy spirit ! 
 
 And give us leave thee here thus to lament; 
 Kot thee, that dost the heaven's joy inherit. 
 
 But our own selves, that here in dole are drent. 
 Thus do we weep and wail, and wear our eyes, 
 Mourning in others our own miseries. 
 
 The lady's paradise, peopled with houris, is perhaps 
 rather in the Ma hometau taste. It is, however, no
 
 MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, 147 
 
 slight honour to her, that Milton in the most perfect 
 of all his works, his matchless " Lycidas," had an eye 
 upon her Elegy., Of this who can doubt, reading 
 the following lines : — 
 
 " "Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, 
 For Lyciilas your sorrow is not dead, 
 Sunk though he be beneath the watry floor. 
 So shiks the day-star in tlie ocean bej, 
 And yet anon repairs his droophig h^d, 
 And tricks his beams, and with ne\v'l;>an«led ore 
 Flames in the forehead of tlic morninj)- sky ; 
 So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, 
 Throiigli the dear might of him that walk'd the waves ; 
 ' Where other groves and other streams along, 
 With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 
 And hears th' unexpressive nuptial song 
 In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
 There entertain him all the saints above. 
 In solemn troops and sweet societies, 
 Tliat sing, and singing in their glory move, 
 And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes." 
 
 The bed of liUies compass'd about with roses and 
 violets, in which the disembodied soul reposes, like a 
 new-born babe, a sweet and truly feminine idea of the 
 lady, is changed by the poet into fresh groves and 
 streams, and noctar pure. The thousand birds who 
 sweetly carol niaht and day, become solemn troops 
 and sweet societies occupied in heavenly music. For 
 the immortal beauties kindling love, unallayed by jea- 
 lousy, we have the communion of saints. In both, the 
 originating ideas are the same — the figures only are 
 various. The lady's are perhaps the most poetical, the 
 poet's certainly the most orthodox. 
 
 In Davison's " PoeiicalRhapsody," printed in 1G02, 
 is a Poem, entitled *' A Pastoral Dialogue in praise 
 of Astrea," the poetical ajipellation of Queen Eliza- 
 beth, said to ha ve been " made by the excellent lady, 
 the Lady. Mavy Countess of Pembroke, at the Queen's 
 Majesties being at her house." 
 
 A Diahrjne between Two Shepherds. 
 THENOT AND PIERS. 
 Thenot. I sing divine Astrea's praise, 
 
 O Muses ! help my wits to raise. 
 And heave my verses higher.
 
 148 MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 
 
 Piers. Thou need'st the truth but plainly tell 
 
 Which much I doubt thou canst not well^ 
 Thou art so oft a liar. 
 
 Thenot. If in my song no more I show 
 
 Than heaven and earth and sea do know, 
 Tiien truly 1 have spoken. 
 Piers. SulTiceth not no more to name, 
 
 But being no less, the like, the same 
 Else laws of truth be broken. 
 
 Thenot. Then say, she is so good, so fair. 
 
 With all the earth she may compare, 
 Nor Woman's self denying. 
 Piers. Compare may think whe:e likeness hoIds> 
 Kought like to her the earth enfolds : 
 I thought to find you lying. 
 
 Thenot. Soon as Astrea shews her face. 
 Straight every ill avoids the place. 
 And every good aboundeth. 
 Pieres. Nay, long before her face doth show. 
 The last doth come, the first doth go ; 
 How loud this lie resouiideth. 
 
 Thenot. Astrea is our chiefest joy. 
 
 Our chiefest guard against annoy. 
 Our chiefest wealth, our treasure. 
 Piers. AVhere chiefest are, there others be. 
 To us none else but only she , — 
 
 When wilt thou speak in measure ? 
 
 Thenot. Astrea may be justly said — 
 
 A field in flowery robe array'd, 
 lu seasons freest springing.
 
 MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 149 
 
 Piers. That spring eiidures but shortest time. 
 This never leaves Astrea's clime : — 
 Thou liest in stead of singing. 
 
 Thenot. Astiea rightly term I may 
 
 A manly palm, a maiden bay, 
 Her verdure never dying. 
 Piers. Palm oft is crooked, bay is lovp, 
 
 She still upright, still high doth grow. 
 Good Thenot leave thy lying. 
 
 Thenot. Then, Piers, of friendship tell mo why, 
 My meaning true, my words should lie, 
 And strive in vain to raise her. 
 Piers. Words from conceit do only rise, 
 Above conceit her honour flies : 
 
 But* silence nought can praise her. f 
 
 A pure sample this of that outrageous flattery, close 
 bordering upon the brink of irony and ridicule, in which 
 Elizabeth was weak and vain enough to lind delight, — 
 strange inconsistency of human nature. 
 
 A very scarce published work of the Countess, 
 bears the title of "The Tragedy of Antonie ; — ■ 
 done into English by the Countess of Pembroke." 
 Dated at Ramsbury, 2(J Nov. 1590. Printed by P. S. 
 for W. Ponsouby, 1595, 16mo. From ihis production 
 Mr. Park has selected the following' extract as a 
 specimen : — 
 
 Chorus. 
 Lament we our mishaps. 
 
 Drown we with tears our woe ; 
 For lamenlabie haps, 
 
 Lamented, easy grow, 
 And much less toi ment bring, 
 Than when they flrst did spring. 
 
 * ». *. Except, t Royal and Noble Authors, Vol. 2, p, 195
 
 150 MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROSCE. 
 
 We want that woeful song 
 
 Wherewith wood-rausick's queen * 
 
 Doth ease her woes among. 
 
 Fresh spring-time's bushes green. 
 
 On pleasant branch alone. 
 
 Renewing ancient moan. 
 
 We want that moanful sound 
 That pratling Progne makes. 
 
 On fields of Thracian gTound, 
 Or streams of Thracian lakes. 
 
 To empt her breast of paiu 
 
 Por Itys, b}' her slain. 
 
 Though Halcyons do still. 
 
 Bewailing Ceyx lot, 
 The seas with plainings fill, 
 
 Which his dead limbs have got, 
 Not ever other grave 
 Than tomb of waves to have. 
 
 And though the bird in death, 
 That most Meander loves, 
 
 So sweetly sings his breath. 
 When death his fury proves, 
 
 As almost softs his heart. 
 
 And almost blunts his dart : 
 
 Yet all the plaints of those. 
 Nor all their tearful 'larras 
 
 Cannot content our woes. 
 Nor serve to wail the harms. 
 
 In soul which we, poor we ! 
 
 To feel enforced be, f 
 
 * Copied from lier biotber 
 
 -The Nightingale wood-musicks queen" 
 
 tRo^alanclMobleAuiliQts, Vol.2, p. 197.
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Born 1553.— Died 1599. 
 
 The connection of Edmund Spenser, the sweetest 
 of English Poets, with the County of Kent, has been 
 aheady noticed. One canto of tlie " Faery Queen," 
 is supposed, by some of the commentators, to have 
 been written when he was a visitor at Penshurst, then 
 the residence of Sir Henry Sidney. Sir PhiUp Sidney, 
 ta use his own words, — 
 
 " Who first my muse did hft out of the floor, 
 To sing his sweet delights in lowly strain," 
 
 was his first, his best, and almost his only patron. — 
 By him he was introduced to the powerful Earl of 
 Leicester, who procured his appointment in Ireland, 
 and the grant of land which he obtained in con- 
 sequence. At Sidney's recommendation the " Faery 
 Queen" was undertaken. To the same accomplished 
 man he dedicated " The Shepherd's Calendar," one of 
 his earliest works ; and he had the misfortune to devote 
 another to the memory oi" his untimely fate. From the 
 mass of "lucky words" with which the " gentle muse" 
 favoured the " destined urn" of Sidney, we shall se- 
 lect these of Spenser, — 
 
 " And bid fair peace be to his sable shroud."
 
 152 EDMUND SPENS^ER. 
 
 Aslrophel: a Pastoral Elegy upon the Death of the 
 most noble and valorous knight. Sir Philip Sidney: 
 Dedicated to the most beautiful and virtuous Lady, 
 the Countess of Essex. 
 
 A geatle shepherd, born in Arcady, 
 
 Of gentlest race that ever shepherd bore. 
 
 About the grassy banks of Hicniony 
 
 Did keep his sheep, his httle stock and store ; 
 
 Full carefully he kept them day and night, 
 
 In fairest fields, and Astrophel he hight. 
 
 Young Astrophel ! the pride of shepherd's praise ; 
 
 Young Astrophel ! the rustick lasses love ; 
 Tor passing all the pastors of his days, 
 
 In all that seemly shepherds might behove ; 
 In one thing only failing of the best. 
 That he was not so happy as the rest. 
 
 For from the time that first the nymph his mother 
 Him forth did bring, and taught her lambs to feed, 
 f A slender swain, excelling for each other 
 ; In comely shape like her that did him breed, 
 
 He grew up fast in goodness and in grace, 
 And doubly fair wax both in mind and face. 
 
 Which daily more and more he did augment 
 With gentle usage and demeanour mild. 
 
 That all men's hearts with secret ravishment 
 He stole away, and weetingly beguil'd ; 
 
 Not Spight itself, that all good things doth spill. 
 
 Found out in him that she could say was ill. 
 
 His sports were fair, his joyance innocent, 
 Sweet without sour, and honey without gall ;
 
 EDMUND SPINSER. l&JJ 
 
 And lie himself seein'd made for merriment, 
 Merrily masking both in bower and hall ; 
 There was no pleasure nor delij>;htful play 
 When Astrophel so e>er wab away. 
 
 For he could pipe and dance, and carol sweet 
 Amongst the shepherds in their shearing feast, 
 
 As summer's lark, that with her song doth greet 
 The dawning day, forth coming from the east : 
 
 And lays of love he also could compose ; 
 
 Thrice happy she whom he to praise did chose. 
 
 Full many maidens often did him woo 
 
 Them to vouchsafe amongst his rhimes to name, 
 
 Or make for them, as he was wont to do. 
 For her that did with lore his heart inflame ; 
 
 For which they promised to dight for him 
 
 Gay chapclets of flowers and garlands trim. 
 
 And many a nymph, both of the wood and brook 
 Soon as his oaten pipe began to slu'.li. 
 
 Both crystal wells and shady groves forsook. 
 To hear the charms of his enchanting skill; 
 
 And brought him presents, flowers it" it were prime, 
 
 Or mellow fruit, if it were harvest-time. 
 
 But he for none of them did care a whit, 
 Yet wood-gods for them often sighed sore ! 
 
 Nor for their gifts, unworthy of his wit. 
 Yet not unworthy of the country's store : 
 
 For one alone he car'd, for one he sigh'd. 
 
 His life's desire, and his dear love's delight. 
 
 Stella the fair ! the fairest star in sky. 
 As fair as Venus, or the fai est fair, —
 
 164 EDMUND SPBNSER. 
 
 A fairer star saw never living eye, — 
 
 Shot ber sharp-pointed beams through purest air ; 
 Her he did love, her he alone did honour, 
 His thoughts, his rhimes, his songs were allnponher. 
 
 To her he vow'd the service of his days, 
 On her he spent the riches of his wit, 
 
 For her he made hymns of immortal praise. 
 Of only her he sung, he thought, he writ; 
 
 Her, and but her, of love he worthy deemed. 
 
 For all the rest but little he esteemed. 
 
 Nor her with idle words alone he wooed, 
 
 And verses vain, — yet verses are not vain, — 
 
 But with brave deeds to her sole service vowed. 
 And bold atcliievements hei did entertain ; 
 
 For both in deeds and words he nurtred was. 
 
 Both wise and hardy, — too hardy alas ! — 
 
 In wrestling nimble, and in running swift ; 
 
 In shooting steady, and in swimmmg strong : 
 Well made to strike, to throw, to leap, to lift. 
 
 And all the sports that shepherds are among. 
 In every one he vanquished every one, 
 He vanquished all, and vanquished was of none. 
 
 Besides, in hunting such felicity. 
 
 Or rather infehcity, he found. 
 That ever}' held and forest far away 
 
 He sought, where savage beasts do most abound ; 
 No beast so savage but he could it kill. 
 No chace so hard but he therein had skill. 
 
 Such skill, matcht witli such courage as he had. 
 Did prick him forth with proud desire of praise
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 155 
 
 To seek abroad, of danger nought ydrad. 
 
 His niistre.-s' name and liis own fame to raise. 
 What needeth peril to be sought abroad. 
 Since round about us it dotli make abode. 
 
 It fo; tuned as he that perilous game 
 
 In foieign soil pursued far away. 
 Into a forest wide and waste he came, 
 
 "\^ l.ere store he heard to be of savage prey: 
 So wide a forest, and so waste as this. 
 Not famous Ardeyn nor foul Arlo is. 
 
 There his well-woven toils and subtle trains 
 He laid, the brutish nation to enwrap ; 
 
 So well he wrought with practice and widi pains, 
 That he of them great troops did soon entrap : 
 
 Full happy man, misweeningmuch, — was he, 
 
 So rich a spoil within his power to see, 
 
 Eftsoons all heedless of his dearest hale. 
 
 Full greedily into the herd he thrust. 
 To slaughter them and work their final bale. 
 
 Lest that his toil should of their troops be burst. 
 Wide wounds amonst them many a one he made, 
 Now with his sharp boar-spear, now with his blade. 
 
 His care was all how he them all might kill. 
 
 That none might 'scape, — so partial unto none,— 
 111 mind, to mind so much another's ill. 
 
 As to become unmindful of his om n : 
 But pardon unto the cruel skies. 
 That from himself to them withdrew his eyes. 
 
 So as he rag'd amongst that beastly rout, 
 A cruel beast of most accursed brood.
 
 156 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Upon him tiinvd, — despair makes cowards stout, — 
 
 And with fell tooth accustomed to blood, 
 Launced his thigh with so mischievous might. 
 That it botlt bone and muscles rived quite. 
 
 So deadly was the dint and deep the wound, 
 And so huge streams of blood thereout did flow. 
 
 That he endured not the dreadful stound, 
 
 But on the cold drear earth himself did throw ; 
 
 The whiles the captive herd his nets did rend. 
 
 And having none to let to wood did wend. 
 
 "O 
 
 Ah ! where were ye this while, his shepherd peers. 
 To whom alive was nought so dear as he ? 
 
 And ye, fair maids ! the matches of his years, 
 Which in his grace did boast you most to be ? 
 
 Ah ! where were ye when he of you had need 
 
 To stop his wound that wondrously did bleed ? 
 
 Ah ! wretched boy ! the shape of dreryhead. 
 And sad ensample of man's sudden end, 
 
 Full little faileth but thou shalt be dead, 
 Unpitied, unplain'd, of foe or friend; 
 
 Whilst none is nigh thine eyelids up to close. 
 
 And kiss thy lips like faded leaves of rose. 
 
 A sort of shepherds suing of the chace, 
 
 As they the forest ranged on a day, 
 By fate or fortune came unto the place, 
 
 Whereas the luckless boy yet bleeding lay ; 
 Yet bleeding lay, and yet would still have bled, 
 Had not good hap those shepherds thither led. 
 
 They stopt his wound, — too late to stop it was, — 
 And in their arms then softly did him rear ;
 
 tDMUND SfENSER* 157 
 
 ^henas he will'd unto his loved lass. 
 
 His dearest love, him dolefully did bear : 
 The dolefulest bier that ever man did see. y 
 
 Was Astrophel, })iit dearest unto me. 
 
 8he, wheu she saw her love in such a piigiit, 
 With curdled blood and rtllhy gore deformed, 
 
 *rhat wont to be with (lowers and oarlands diaht. 
 And her dear favours dearly well adorned, 
 
 Her face the fairest face that eye might see, 
 
 She likewise did deform, like him to be. 
 
 Her yellow locks, that shone so bright and long. 
 As sunny beams in fairest summer's day, 
 
 She fiercely tore, and with outrageous wrong 
 From her red cheeks the rases rent away ; 
 
 And her fair breast, the treasury of joy, 
 
 She spoil'd thereof, and filled with annoy^ 
 
 His pallid face, impictured with death, 
 She bathed oft with tears, and dried oft ; 
 
 And with sweet kisses suck the wastins; breath 
 Out of his lips, likeliilies, pale and soft; 
 
 And oft she call'd to him who answer'd nought. 
 
 But only by his looks did tell his thought. 
 
 The rest of her impatient regret. 
 
 And piteous moan the which sshe for him made. 
 No tongue can tell, nor any forth can set. 
 
 But he whose heart like sorrow did invade : 
 At last, when pain his vital powers had' spent, 
 His wasted life her weary lodge forwent. 
 
 Which when she saw, she stayed not a whit. 
 But after him did make untimely haste ;
 
 158 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Forthwith her ghost out of her corpse did flit, 
 And followed her mate, like turtle chaste ; 
 To prove that death their hearts cannot divide, 
 Which living were in love so firmly tied. 
 
 The gods, which all i.hings see, this same beheld, 
 And pitying this pair of lovers true, 
 
 Transformed them there lying on the field. 
 Into one flower, that is both red and blue : 
 
 It first grows red, and then to blue doth fade. 
 
 Like Astrophel, which thereinto was made. 
 
 And in the midst thereof a star appears, 
 As fairly forui'd as any star in skies, 
 
 Resembling Stella in her freshest years, 
 
 Forth darting beams of beauty from her eyes ; 
 
 And all the day it standeth full of dew, 
 
 ^Vhich is the tears that from her eyes did flow. 
 
 That herb of some Starlight is call'd by name, 
 Of others Penthea, though not so well ; 
 
 But thou, wherever thou dost find the same. 
 From this day forth do call it Astrophel ; 
 
 And whensoever thou it up dost take, 
 
 Do pluck it softly, for that shepherd's sake. 
 
 We shall venture to make one remark only upon 
 this poem. It is a little extraordinary that Spenser 
 though he has dedicated his elegy to Sidney's widow, 
 then Countess of Essex, shoidd make no mention of 
 that lady in any part of it. We are assured that she 
 accompanied her husband in his unfortunate expedition, 
 and assiduously watcbed over him in the anxious inter- 
 val from the time of his being wounded, until his death.
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 159 
 
 Tlie introduction of Lady Rich, or Stella, is still more 
 extraordinary, when the dedication is considered in con- 
 nection with the folio vving lines : — 
 
 For one alone he car'd, for one he sighed, 
 
 Stella the fair! — 
 
 Her did he love, her he alone did honour : 
 Her, and but her, of love he worthy deemed, 
 For all the rest but little he esteemed. 
 
 Mr. Todd remarks, that " the early love of Sir Philip 
 Sidney for Lady Rich is converted into a beautiful fic- 
 tion in Spenser's Elegy of Astiophel." To the present 
 writer, this fiction appears in a directly opposite light, 
 as one particularly unfortunate, and considering the 
 party to whom the Elegy is dedicated, almost indeco- 
 rous; very much unlike the manner of the gentle and 
 courtly Spenser. It may, however, perhaps, admit of 
 the following explanation : — Spenser's Elegy was writ- 
 ten before the publication of Sidney's poetry entitled 
 " Astrophel and Stella," which was probably never 
 communicated to him in manuscript. Tlie Poet had 
 doubtless heard of the poetic designation of Sidney's 
 mistress, but her real name was unknown to him. — 
 The haughty and high-born Sidney, though he conde- 
 scended to patronize and encourage the "lowly strains" 
 of Spenser, was not very likely to select the plebeiatt 
 bard for a confidant in an atfair of so much delicacy. 
 May we not then presume that Spenser, in celebrating 
 the loves of Astropiiel and Stella, had no other person 
 in his view than the Countess of Essex herself, whom he 
 considered m the (original oi Stella.'* This conjecture re- 
 ceives support from some expressions in the " Mourning 
 Muse," where Stella, hfineating the deaih of Sidney, 
 is made to call him her " true and faithful Pheer,"* 
 and her " trusty guide." 
 
 ».^[.==r=]f3=« 
 
 Companion.
 
 JOHN LILLY. 
 
 Flourished 1580. 
 
 Of all the fiowers a Lilly once I loved, 
 
 H'hose labouring beauties branched itself abroad, 
 Bui 710 w old age his glory katk removed. 
 
 (Henry Upcher.) 
 
 Of the jiersonal history of John Lilly, very little has 
 been handed down to us. Prom the authority of the 
 Oxford historian, we find that he wari entered of Mag- 
 dalen College in I.jGO, when he was about sixteen 
 years old, and by the titles of his books, it appears 
 that he took a master's degree. Perhaps the following 
 account of himself deUvered in a fictitious character, 
 is the best extant. — " I was boru in the wild of Kent, 
 of honest parents and worshipful, whose tender cares, 
 if the fondness of parents may be so termed, provided 
 all things, even from ray very cradle, until their graves, 
 that might either bring me up in good letters, or make 
 me heir to great li\ ings. I, without arrogance be it 
 spoken, was not inferior in wit to many, which finding 
 in myself, I flattered myself, but in tie end deceived 
 myself: for being of the age of twenty years, there 
 was no trade or kind of life that either fitted my humour 
 or served my turn, but the court; thinking that place 
 the only means to climb high and sit sure. "Wherein I 
 followed the vein of young soldiers, who judge nothing 
 sweeter than war till they feel the weight. I wastheie
 
 JOHN LILLY. 161 
 
 entertained as well by the great friends my father made, 
 as by mine own forwardness ; where it being now but 
 honey-mooi, 1 endeavoured to court it with a grace, 
 almost past grace, laying more upon my back than my 
 friends could well bear; having many times a brave 
 cloak, and a thread-bare purse. Who so conversant 
 with the Ladies as I ? Who more prodigal ? Who more 
 pleasant? Insomuch as I thought the time lost which 
 was not spent either in their company with delight, or 
 for their company in letters."* 
 
 That John Lilly has, in the above passage, drawn 
 his own character fai.ly, is proved by his various pub- 
 lications. He was a literary courtier ; and spent the 
 whole of his days in ministering to the vanity of the 
 Queen and her ladies. It would be pleasant to record 
 the fact that he received an adequate reward for his 
 pains; it is however much too probable that empty 
 fame, and perhaps, in his case, the labor ipse voluptas 
 constituted his only reward. The age of Elizabeth, 
 though fertile in learned men, was by no means cele- 
 brated for patronage, and much greater writers than 
 ' Lilly were repaid with neglect. That our courtly author 
 was however, led by promises to expect some sub- 
 stantial reward, appears by a letter he addressed to the 
 Queen in 1597, in which he reminds her majesty, that 
 he had been during thirteen years in expectation of re- 
 ceiviug the appointment of Master of the Revels. — 
 Whether he ever did acquire that, or any other recom- 
 pence, does not satisfactorily appear. 
 
 Euphiies and his England.
 
 1G2 JOHN LILLY. 
 
 Mr. Ellis supposes Lilly to have died about the com- 
 meiiceraerit of the 17th century; but he was probably 
 alive so Jate as 161G, that being the year ia which the 
 volume was published from whence the annexed motto 
 is taken, which does not speak of hira as dead, but as 
 being in old age. 
 
 It has been the fate of John Lilly to suffer equally 
 from the exaggerated praises of his contemporaries, and 
 from the ridicule and neglect of posterity ; and con- 
 sequently an impartial estimate of his talents has never 
 been made at any period of time. The following- 
 amusing contrast of opinions will sufficiently illiistrate 
 this remark. ^Villiam Webbe, the author of a scarce 
 pam{)hlet, published in 1-386, with the title of " A 
 Discourse on English Poetry," speaking of the elo- 
 quence of his contemporaries, thus expresses himself 
 respecting our author : — " There is none, I think, will 
 gainsay but that Master John Lilly hath deserved most 
 high commendations, as he that hath stepped one step 
 further than any. Whose works surely, in respect of 
 his singular eloquence, and brave composition of apt 
 words and sentences, let the learned examine, and 
 make a trial thereof through all parts of rhetoric, in fit 
 phrases, in pithy sentences, in gallant tropes, in flowing 
 speech, in plain sense, and surely in my judgment. I 
 think he will yield him that verdict, which Quintihan 
 giveth of both the best orators, Demosthenes and Tuliy : 
 that from the one nothing may be taken, and to the 
 other nothing may be added." — Mr. Ellis on the con- 
 trary, gives the following character of the same wri- 
 tings :— " He is said to have gained the admiration of 
 Queen Elizabeth's court, by the invention of a new 
 English, a model of which he exhibited in two prose
 
 ' JOHN LILLY. 163 
 
 works. It is to be supposed that this strange aucl bar- 
 barous jargon, the obscurity ot" whic'.i no intellect is 
 able to pierce, was adopted by the fashionable beauties 
 ot" that virgin court, tor the purpose of shielding their 
 virtue from the addresses of importunate ignorance." 
 Tlie former of these doughty critics had certainly an ad- 
 vantage over the latter, in iiaving formed his opinion 
 from actual perusal of his author's work ; since there 
 is every reason to suppose, from the opinion advanced, 
 that Mr. Ellis had never paid any attention to the books 
 he so severely censures. Lilly's style, faulty as it is, 
 according to modern estimate, is by no means ajargon,* 
 and it demands no violent stretch of intellect very 
 justly to compreheud the meaning of every passage. 
 
 John Lilly was certainly a man of considerable genius. 
 He was learned, and had stored his memory with the 
 fruits of a most extensive reading ; he was also a close 
 and a correct observer, and a candid judge of human 
 actions. As a writer, he was perfectly original, and 
 the founder of a school of temporary celebrity ; but 
 failing in the essential requisite of good taste, he has 
 
 * "Jargon, — unintelligible talk; gabble, gibberish." 
 
 [Johnson.] 
 
 It is remarkable, that both Mr. Dunlop and Mr. Campbell 
 make use of the same phrase to cliiracterise the writings of 
 Lilly. Tiie former writer sums up his character as follows: — 
 " In the romance of Eiiphues, tliere are chietiy three faults, 
 which indeed pervade ail the novels of the same school. 1st. 
 A constant antithesis, not merely in the ideas, but words, as 
 one more given to tlie/c t!ian thrift. 2nd. \ii ahsurd att'ecta- 
 tion of learning, by const, int reference to iiistory and mytho- 
 logy. 3rd. A singular siiperaban lance of simditudes. 
 
 Lilly is well characterised by Drayton, as always 
 
 '' Talking of stones, stars, planets, fishes, flies. 
 Playing with words and idle similies."
 
 164 JOHN LILLY. 
 
 been more commonly ridiculed of late years, for affec- 
 tation and nonsense, than praised as he deserves for 
 correct and nervous writing, for a fertile invention, a 
 most active and poetic imagination, and for that strict 
 attention to harmony in the construction of his periods, 
 of which he was the first to give an example in English 
 prose. Lilly attempted an ornamental style of writing, 
 and he is unfortunate only, in having outstepped that 
 just medium, so hard to hit. His pages are crowded 
 with images and metaphors, frequently both apposite 
 and beautiful, occasionally incongruous and absurd. — 
 His aim was, not merely to improve the language, but 
 also the morals of the age in which he lived ; and it is 
 highly probable that his books, from their popularity^ 
 effected in some degree his intention. It must be con- 
 ceded, that he is most unsparing in his flattery of the 
 "throned vestal" and her courtiers, both males and 
 females, but that is a blemish he inherited in common 
 with some of the best authors in our language, and was 
 the prevailing vice of his time. It has been of late 
 years a fashionable amusement among our gleaners in 
 the fields of literature, to collect aphorisms from the 
 domains of the elder writers ; to such labourers we yen-^ 
 ture earnestly to recommend the works of our Kentish 
 Lilly, who well deserves the character he obtained 
 from his contemporaries of being, one of the refiners 
 of the English tongue in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 
 Lilly's celebrated work is a kin I of novel in two 
 parts, the former under the title of " Euphues, the 
 Anatomy of Wit, &c." was first published in 1581. 
 The second part with the title of " Euphues; and his 
 England &c." appeared some years after, and from
 
 JOHN LILLY. 165 
 
 internal evklence was written in 1583. Many sub- 
 sequent editions followed, and one containing the for- 
 mer part only, is of so late a date as 1718. The first 
 part is dedicated to William West Lord De la Warre, 
 and contains two whimsical addresses to the Gentle- 
 men Readers and to the Gentlemen Scholars of Oxford. 
 The scene of the first part is laid in Naples, and 
 narrates first a love adventure of the hero Euphues and 
 his friend Philautus, conducted mostly in the form of a 
 dialogue, and containing more argument than incident; 
 — secondly, a treatise on education ; — thirdly, a con- 
 versation between Euphues and Atheos, in which the 
 latter, a decided atheist, is convinced by the arguments 
 of the former, of the existence of a deity, and of the 
 veraeJty of the christian revelation ; — fourthly, a series 
 of letters on various subjects, some of them among the 
 best of our author's v/riting^s. The second part conducts 
 Euphues and his friend to England, and is devoted to 
 the love adventures of the latter v. ith the English ladies. 
 The former has become a philosopher, and entertains 
 us with remarks upon the manners of the islanders, and 
 the character of their queen and her court. This part 
 is dedicated to Edward Vere Earl of Oxford, and con- 
 tains two addresses also, to the Ladies and Gentle- 
 women of England, and to the Gentlemen Readers. 
 The following extracts will enable the reader to form his 
 judgment concerning this singular work : — 
 
 " At thy coming into England, be not too inquisitive 
 of news, neither curious of matters of state; in assem- 
 blies ask no questions, either concerning manners, or 
 men ; be not too lavish of thy tongue, either in causes 
 of weight, lest thou shew thyself an espial, or in wan- 
 ton talk, lest thou p;ove thyself a fool.
 
 166 JOHN LILLY. 
 
 " It is the nature of that country to sift strangers ; 
 every one that shaketh thee by the hand, is not joined 
 to thee in heart. 
 
 "They think ItaUans wanton, and Grecians subtle: 
 they will trust neither, they are so incredulous ; but 
 undermine both, they are so wise. Be not quarrellous 
 for every light occasion ; they are impatient in their 
 anger of any equal, ready to levenge an injury, but 
 never wont to provoke any : they never fight without 
 provoking, and once provoked they never cease. 
 
 " Beware thou fall not into the snares of love; tlsp 
 women there are wise, tlje men are crafty, they will 
 gather love by thy looks, and pick thy mind out of thy 
 hands. It shall be there better to hear what they 
 say, than to speak what thou thinkest ; (hey have 
 long 6ars and short tongues, quick to hear and 
 slow to u'tcr : broad eyes and light fingers, ready to 
 espy, and apt to strike. Every stranger is a mark for 
 tbem to shoot at : yet this must I say, which in no 
 country I can tell the like, that it is as seldom to see a 
 stranger abused there, as it is rare to see any well used 
 elsewhere; yet presume not too much of the courtesy 
 of them, for they differ in nature; some are hot, some 
 cold ; one simple, another wily : yet if thou use few 
 words and fair speeches, thou shalt command any 
 thing thou standest in need oi.'' — There is much good 
 sense and truth in these remarks, which strongly re- 
 mind us of Sir Henry Wotton's advise to Milton, when 
 about to commence his travels. The following descrip- 
 tion of English customs is equally characteristic and 
 correct. — " Concerning their diet, in number of dishes, 
 and change of meat, the nobility of England do exceed 
 most, having all things that either may be bought for
 
 JOHN LILLY. 
 
 167 
 
 money, or gotten for the season. Gentlemen andmei-- 
 chants feed very finely, and a poor man it is thatdineth 
 with one dish, and vet they are so content with a little, 
 that having ha'f diiied, they say, as it were in a pro- 
 verb, tliat they arv as well satisfied as the Lord Mayor 
 of London ; whom they think to fare best, though he 
 eat not most. 
 
 " In their meals there is great silence and gravity, 
 usins: wine rather to ease the stomach than (o load it, 
 not like unto other nations, who never think they have 
 dined until they be drunken.' 
 
 " The attire they use is rather led by the imitation of 
 others, than their own invention; so that there is no- 
 thing in England more constant than the inconstancy of 
 attire : now using the French fashion, now the Spanish ; 
 then the Morisco gowns, then one thing, then another; 
 insomuch, that in drawing of an Englishman, the 
 painter setteth him down naked, having in one hand a 
 pair of sheers, in the other a piece of cloth ; who having 
 cut his collar after the French guise, is ready to make 
 his sleeve after the Barbarian manner. And although 
 this were the greatest enormity that I could see in Eng- 
 land, yet it is to be excused, for they that cannot main- 
 tain this pride, must leave off of necessity, and they 
 that be able, will leave when they see the vanity." 
 Euphnes to Botonio, to take his exile patiently. 
 
 " If I were as wise to give thee council, as I am 
 willing to do thee good, or as able to set thee at liberty, 
 as I am desirous to have thee free, thou shouldest nei- 
 ther want good advice to guide thee, nor suflScient 
 help to restore. Thou takest it heavily, that thou 
 shouldest be accused without colour, and banished with. 
 
 V
 
 168 ^ JOHN LILLY. 
 
 out cause ; and I think thee haijpy to be so well ritl of 
 the court, and be so void of care. 
 
 " Thou saye-t banishment is bitter to the free born, 
 and I deem it the better if thou be without blamd. 
 There be many meats that be sour in tlie mouth, and 
 sharp in the maw, but if thou mingle them with sweet 
 sauces, th&\ yield both a pleasant taste, and who4e^ 
 some nourishment. Divers colours offend the eyes, 
 vet having green among them, whet the sight. I speak 
 this to this end, that though thy exile seem grievous 
 to thee, yet, guiding thyself by the rules of philosophy, 
 it shall be more tolerable. He that is cold doth not 
 cover himself with care, but with clothes; he that is 
 washed in the rain drieth himself by the live, not by 
 his fancy ; and thou that art banished oughtest not 
 with tears to bewail thy hap, but in wisdom to heal 
 thy hurt. 
 
 " Nature hath given to no man a country, no more than 
 she hath houses, or lands, or livings. Socrates would 
 neither call himself an Athoniau, neither a Grecian, 
 but a Citizen of the World. Plato would never ac* 
 count hira banisiied, that had the sun, air, water, and 
 earth, that he had before ; where he felt the winter's 
 blast and the summer's blaze, where the same sun and 
 the same moon shined : v/hereby he noted that every 
 place was a country to a wise man, and all parts a 
 palace to a quiet mind. 
 
 ******** 
 
 *' And surely, if conscience be the cause thou art 
 banished the court, I account thee wise in being so pre- 
 cise, that by the using of virtue thou mayst be exiled 
 the place of vice. Better it is for thee to live with 
 honesty iu the country, than with honour in the court,
 
 JOHN LILLY. 169 
 
 and greater will thy praise be in tlying vanity, than tliy 
 pleasure in following trains. Choose that place for thy 
 palace which is most quiet, custom will make it thy 
 country, and an honest life will make it a quiet living. 
 Philip falling in the dust, and seeing the figure of h^s 
 own shape perfect in shew ; " Good Gotl," said he, 
 •* we desire the whole earth, aiul see how little serveth." 
 "Zeno heauiig that his only bark wherein all his 
 wealth was shipped, had perished, cried out, "Thou 
 hast done well fortune, to thrust me into my gown 
 again to learn pliilot^ophy." Thou hast therefore, in 
 my mind, great cause to rejoice that God by punish- 
 ment hath compelled thee to strictness of li(e, which 
 by liberty might have been grown to lewdness. When 
 thou hast not one place assigned therein to live, but 
 one forbidden thee, which thou mayst leave, then thou 
 being denied but one, that excepted, thou mayst 
 choose any. Moreover thus dispute with thyself, — I 
 bear no office whereby I either should for fear please the 
 noble, or for gain oppress the needy, I am no arbiter 
 m doubtful cases, whereby 1 should either pervert jus- 
 tice, or incur displeasure. I am free from the broils 
 of the strong, and tho malice of the weak. I am oat 
 of the injuries of the seditious, and have escaped the 
 threats of the ambitious. But as he that having a fair 
 orchard, seeing one tree blasted, recounteth the dis- 
 commodily of that, and passeth over in silence the 
 fruitfulness of the others : so he that is banished, doth 
 always lament the loss of his house, and the shame of 
 his exile, not rejoicing in the liberty, quietness, and 
 pleasure Jie enjoyeth by that sweet punishment. 
 
 "The Kings of Persia were deemed happy in that 
 they passed their winter in Babylon, in Media their
 
 ^'^^ JOHN LILLY. 
 
 summer, and the spring in Susis. And certainly, the 
 exile in this may be as happy as any king of Persia, 
 for he may at his leisure, begin his own pleasure, lead 
 his winter in Athens, his summer in Naples, his spring 
 in Argos. But if he have any business in hand, he may 
 study without trouble, sleep without care, and wake 
 at his will without controulment. 
 
 "But thon sayestthat banishment is shameful, — No 
 truly, no more than poverty to the content, or grey 
 hairs to the aged. It is the cause that maketh the 
 shame; if thou wert banished upon choler, greater is 
 thy credit in sustaining wrong, than thine enemies in _ 
 committing injury: and less shame it is to thee to be 
 oppressed by might, than their's that wrought it for 
 malice. But thou fearest thou shalt not thrive in a 
 strange nation, certainly thou art more afraid than hurt. 
 The pine tree groweth as soon in Phavos as in Ida; 
 the nightingale singeth as sweet in the desart as in the 
 woods of Crete ; the wise man liveth as well in a far 
 country, as in his own home. It is not the nature of 
 the place, but the disposition of the person, that 
 inaketh life pleasant. Seeing therefoie, Botonio, that 
 all the sea is apt for any tish ; that it is a bad ground 
 where no flower will grow ; that to the wise man all 
 lands are as fertile as his own inheritance ; I desire 
 thee to temper the sharpness of thy banishment with 
 the sweetness of the cause, and to measure the clear- 
 ness of thine own conscience with the spite of thine 
 enemies' quarrel; so shalt thou avenge their malice 
 with imtience, and endure thy banishment with 
 pleasure."* . 
 
 * Lilly is said to have published some anonymous works ; 
 among others, one levelled at the Puritans, with the follovfing
 
 JOHN LILLY. 1*71 
 
 As a dramatist, Lilly attained great popularity in his 
 day, and he has been fortunate enough to receive more 
 justice in this department of literature from modern 
 criticism. Mr. Campbell, after applying his predeces- 
 sor's phrase of "jargon" to Euphues, allows that his 
 dramas exhibit traits of genius, and that he has several 
 graceful interspersions of '•' sweet lyric song." The 
 truth ifi, that there is no perceptible difference between 
 his plays and his novel; the style is exactly similar, 
 and they are both carried on almost entirely in dialogue. 
 Lill}'^ wanted the principal requisites for a successful 
 dramatist, invention of character and of incident. All 
 fais pei'sonages hold the same lofty language, and tropes 
 and metaphors are banded about by gods and serving 
 men, heroes and artisans. The same poverty of^^inven- 
 tion is also exhibited in the conduct of his plots, which 
 display all the absurdities of his contemporaries, with- 
 out any of their wild originality or artful intricacy. The 
 gods and goddesses of the pantheon are assembled ia 
 the feus of Lincolnshire, and classic incidents are 
 strangely blended with modern customs. Lilly was a 
 learned man, and when be undertook to write plays' 
 for the amusement of his learned mistress, he naturally 
 reverted to the authority of classic models. His 
 comedies very much resemble those of antiquity : much 
 
 strange title: — " Pap with a liatchet ; alias a fig for my godson ; 
 or crack me this nut; or a country cuflf ; that is, a sound box 
 on the ear for the i(leot Martin to hold his peace. Written by 
 one that dares call a dog, a dog." Isaac Walton remarks that 
 publications of this kind from Lilly, Nash, Green, anJ others , 
 etfected more purpose in opposing the Martinists, than the 
 grave and formal replies of the unmerous divines engaged in 
 the controversy. Titles similar to tlie above, were applied m 
 ridicule of the uncouth phrases used by the Pinritanic writeri.
 
 172 JOHN LILLY. 
 
 of the plots is carried on by the agency of servants, 
 old men dispute respecting the disposal of their children, 
 exhibit much fatuity and suffer themselves to be duped 
 by artful knaves. There is the same catalogue of seniors 
 and juniors, parasites, serving men, matrons and har- 
 lots, which has, in the pages of Terence, served to try 
 the patience and corrupt the morals of our school boys 
 from generation to generation. Most of Lilly's plays 
 were written designedly for the ear as well as the eye 
 of Queen Elizabeth, and are consequently dashed with 
 an ample portion of court flatteiy. To effect this pur- 
 pose, some of the common tales of classic lore aie 
 strangely wrested from (heir course. In " Endimion" 
 Diana is converted into an earthly sovereign, and no is 
 the Grecian poetess in " Sappho and Phaon :" — in 
 " Galathea," we have Diana again, with all her attri- 
 butes, holding Cupid captive, and defying his power : 
 and in "Alexander" conquering his affection, the pro- 
 totype is visible. 
 
 Lilly's plays were collected and published after his 
 death, by Edward Blount, in one volume, with the follow- 
 ing title : — " Six Court Comedies, often presented and 
 acted before Queen Elizabeth by the children of her 
 majesty's chapel, and the children of Paul's. Written 
 by the only rare poet of that time, the witty, comical, 
 facetiously-quick, and unparalleled John Lilly, Master 
 of Arts. Decies repetita placebunt, London, printed 
 by William Stanley, for Edward Blount, 1632." This 
 editor appears to have been a disciple of our courtly 
 bard, and exhibits the perfection of his style in the 
 following neat dedication '• tollichard Lord Lumley of 
 Waterford," and " Address to the Reader."
 
 JOHN LILLY. 173 
 
 " My noble Lord : 
 
 " It can be no dishonour to listen to this poet's music, 
 whose tunes aUghted in the ears of a great and ever 
 famous queen. His invention was so curiously strung-, 
 that Eliza's couvt held his notes in admiration. Light 
 airs are now in fashion ; and these not being sad fit the 
 season, though perchance not suit so well with your 
 more serious contemplations. 
 
 " The spring is at hand, and therefore I present you 
 with a Lilly growing in a grove of laurels j for this 
 poet sat at the sun's table; Apollo gave him a wreath 
 of his own bays without snatching. The lute he played 
 on had no borrowed strings. 
 
 "lam, my Lord, no executor, yet I presume to 
 distribute the goods of the dead. Their value being in 
 no way answerable to those debts of duty and affection 
 in which I stand obliged to your Lordship. The greatest 
 treasure our poet left behind him are these six ingots 
 of refined invention, richer than gold. Were thoy 
 diamonds they are now your's. Accept them, noble 
 Lord, in part, and me 
 
 Your Lordship's 
 
 Ever obliged and 
 Devoted 
 
 Ed. Blount." 
 "To the Reader: 
 
 " Reader, I have for the love I bear lo posterity, 
 digged up the grave of a rare and excellent poet, whom 
 Queen Elizabeth heard, graced and rewarded. These 
 papers of his lay Ike dead laurels in a church-yard; 
 but I have gathered the scattered branches up, and by 
 a charm gotten from Apollo, made them green again, 
 and set them up as epitaphs to his memory.
 
 174 JOHN LILLY. 
 
 " A sill it were to suffer these rare monuments of 
 wit to be covered in dust; and a shame such conceited 
 comedies should be acted by nothing but worms. Ob- 
 livion shall not so trample upon a son of the muses, and 
 such a son as they called their darling. Our nation are 
 in debt for a new English which he taught them. — 
 Euphues and his England began fiist that language; 
 all our ladies were then his scholars, and that beauty 
 in court which could not parley Eupliuism, was as little 
 regarded, as she which now there, speaks not French. 
 "These his plays crowned him with applause, and 
 the spectators with pleasure. Thou canst not repent 
 reading them over; when old John Lilly is merry with 
 thee in thy chamber, thou shalt say, few, or none of 
 our poets now arc such witty companions, and thank 
 me that brings him to thy acquaintance. 
 
 Thine, 
 
 Ed. Blolnt." 
 These six comedies are severally entitled, — " En- 
 dimion,"— "Alexander and Campaspe,"— " Sappho and 
 Phaon,"— " Galathea,"— " Midas,"—" and " Mother 
 Bombie." It would be a waste of time to attempt an 
 analysis of any of them ; a few extracts, carefully se- 
 lected, will enable the reader to form a correct estimate 
 and character of the writer. 
 
 Every play has its prologue and epilogue, and some 
 of them two, one of them being addressed immediately 
 to the Queen, when the representation was graced with 
 her presence. The following is prefixed to Midas : — 
 
 " The Prologue in Pauls" 
 " Gentlemen, so nice is the world, that for apparel 
 there is no fashion, for music no instiument, for diet
 
 JOHN LILLY. 175 
 
 no delicate, for plays no invention, but breedeth satiety 
 before noon, and contempt before night. 
 
 " Come to the taylor, he is gone to the painters to 
 learn how more cunning may lurk in the fashion, than 
 can be expressed in the making. Ask the musicians, 
 they will say their heads ach with devising notes beyond 
 E La. Enquire at the ordinaries, there must be sallads 
 for the Italian ; pick-tooths for the Spaniards; pots for 
 the German ; pottage for the Englishman. At our ex- 
 ercises, soldiers call for tragedies, their object is blood; 
 courtiers for comedies, their subject is love ; country- 
 men for pastorals, shepherds are their saints. Trafic 
 and travel have woven the nature of all nations into 
 ours, and made this land like arras, which was broad- 
 cloth full of workmanship. 
 
 "Time hath confounded our minds, our minds the 
 matter ; but all cometh to this pass, that what hereto- 
 fore hath been served in several dishes for a feast, is 
 now minced in a charger for a gallimaufry. If we pre- 
 sent a mingle-mangle, our fault is to be excused, be- 
 cause the whole world is become a hodge-podge. 
 
 "We are jealous of your judgments because you are 
 wise; of our own performance because we are imper- 
 fect ; of our author's device because he is idle ; only 
 this doth encourage us, tliat presenting our studies 
 before gentlemen, though they receive an inward mis- 
 like, we shall not be hissed with an open disgrace : — 
 stirps rudis urtica est : stirps generosa rnaa." 
 
 The following scene, which concludes the "Tragical 
 Comedy of Alexander and Campaspe," is perhaps the 
 best in the whole series,
 
 XT'? JOHN LILLY. 
 
 Actus quintus, Scaena quarta. 
 Alexander, Hephestion, Page, Diogenes, ApelleSf 
 
 Campaspe. 
 
 Alex — .Me thinketh Hephestion you are more melan- 
 choly than you are accustomed, but I perceive 
 it is all for Alexander. You can neither brook 
 this peace nor my pleasure ; be of good cheer; 
 though I wink, I sleep not. 
 
 Meph. — Melancholy I am not, nor well content : for I 
 
 . know not how there is such a rust crept into my 
 
 ■w' bones with this long ease, that I fear I shall 
 
 not scour it out with infinite labours. 
 
 Alex, — Yes, yes, if all the travails of conquering the 
 world will set either thy body or mine in tune,' 
 we will undertake them. But what think you of 
 Apelles ? Did ye ever see any so perplexed ? 
 He neither answered directly to any question, 
 nor looked stedfastly upon any thing. I hold 
 my life the painter is in love. 
 
 Heph. — It may be : for commonly we see it incident 
 in artificers, to be enamoured of their own 
 works, as Archidamus of his wooden dove, 
 Pygmalion of hi» ivory image, Arachne of his^ 
 wooden swan ; especially painters, who playing 
 with their own conceits, now coveting to draw 
 a glancing eye, then a rolling, now a winking, 
 still mending it, never ending it, and then, poor 
 souls, they kiss the colours with their lips, with 
 which before they were loath to taint their fingers. 
 
 Alex, — I will find it out. Page go speedily to Apelles, 
 will him to come hither, and when you see us 
 earnestly in talk, suddenly cry out, " Apelles'^ 
 shop is on fire,"
 
 JOHN LILLY. 177 
 
 Page, — It shall be done. 
 
 Alex. — Forget not your lesson. 
 
 Heph. — I marvel what your device shall be. 
 
 Alex. — The event shall prove. 
 
 Heph. — I pity the poor painter, if he be in love. 
 
 Alex.—ViiY hitn not : I pray thee, that severe gravity 
 set aside : what do you think of love ? 
 
 Heph. — As the Macedonians do of their herb beet, 
 which looketh yellow in the ground, and black 
 in the hand ; think it better seen than touched. 
 
 Alex. — But what do you imagiuo it to be? 
 
 Heph. — A word, by superstition thought a god; by 
 use turned into a humour ; by self-will made a 
 flattering madness. 
 
 Alex. — You are too hard-hearted to think so of love. 
 Let us go to Dio2,enes : — Diogenes thou may'st 
 diink it somewhat that Alexander cometh to 
 thee again so soon. 
 
 Diog.—^li you come to learn, you could not come 
 soon enough; if to laugh, you be come too 
 soon. 
 
 Heph. — It would better become thee to be more cour- 
 teous, and frame thyself to please. 
 
 Diog. — And you better to be less, if you durst dis- 
 please. 
 
 Alex. — What dost thou think of the time we have 
 here ? 
 
 Diog. — That we have little and lose much. 
 
 Alex. — If one be sick, what would'st thou have him 
 do? 
 
 Diog. — Be sure that he make not his physician his heir. 
 
 Alex. — If thou mightest have thy will, how much 
 ground would content thee.
 
 350 JOHN EILLY. 
 
 Diog. — As much as you in the end must be contented 
 withal. 
 
 AUx, — What, a world ? 
 
 Diog. — No, the length of my body. 
 
 Akx. — Hepheslion, shall I be a little pleasant with 
 him? 
 
 Heph. — You may, but he will be very perverse with 
 you. 
 
 Alex, — I skills not, 1 cannot be angry with him. Di- 
 ogenes, I pray thee what dost thou think of love ? 
 
 Diog. — A little worscr tliau I can of hate . 
 
 Alex. — And why? 
 
 Diog. — Because it is better to hate the things which 
 make to love, than to love the things which give 
 occasion to hate. 
 
 Alex» — ^Why be not women the best creatures in the 
 world? 
 
 Dio^.— Next men and be es. 
 
 Alex. — What do^t thou dislike chiefly in woman 1 
 
 Diog. — One thing. 
 
 Alex.—Wh^V 
 
 Diog. — That she is a woman. 
 
 Alex. — In mine opinion thou wert never born of wo- 
 man, that thou thinkest so hardly of women. 
 But now Cometh Apelles, who I am sure is as 
 far from thy thoughts as thou art from his cun- 
 nins. Diogenes, I will have thy cabin removed 
 nearer to my court becausel will be a philosopher. 
 
 Diog. — And when you have done so, I pray you re- 
 move your court further from my cabin, because 
 I will not be a courtier. 
 j^lcx. — But here comes Apelles. — Apelles, what piece 
 of work have you now in hand ?
 
 JOHN LILLY. 179 
 
 ApeL — None in hand, if it like your majesty ; but I 
 am devisi»io- a |)latiorm in my head, 
 
 Alex. — I think your ha;rl put it in your head. Is it 
 Hotiiing about Venus? 
 
 ApeL — No, but someLhiiig about Vulcan. 
 
 Page. — Aptres, Apelles, look above you, your shop 
 is on fire. 
 
 Apel. — Aye nie, if the picture of Campaspe be burnt 
 I am undone. 
 
 Alex. — Stay Ape'.les, no haste, it is your heart is on 
 fire, not your shop, and if Campaspe hang there, 
 I would she were burnt. But have you the 
 picture of Campaspe ? behke you love her well, 
 that you care not though all be lost, so she be 
 safe. 
 
 Apel. — Not love her ; but your majesty knows that 
 painters in their last works are said to excel 
 themselves, and in this I have so much pleased 
 myself, that the shadow as much delighteth me, 
 being an artificer, as the substance doth others 
 that are amorous. 
 
 Alex. — You lay on your colours grossly : though I 
 could not paint in your shop, I can spy into 
 your excuse. Be not ashamed Apelles, it is a 
 gentleman's sport to be in love. Call hither 
 Campaspe. Methinks I might have been made 
 privy to your aftections ; though my council had 
 not been necessary, yet my countenance might 
 have been thought requisite. But Apelles for- 
 sooth loveth under-hand, yea, and under Alex- 
 ander's nose ; and — but I say no more. 
 
 Apel. — Apelles loveth not so, but he liveth to do as 
 Alexander will.
 
 180 JOHN Lilly. 
 
 Alex, — Campaspe, here is news, — Apelles is in love 
 
 with you. 
 Camp. — It pleaseth your majesty to say so, 
 Alex. — Hephestion, T will try her too. — Canipaspe, 
 for the good qualities I know in Apelles, and 
 the virtue I see in you, I am determined you 
 shall enjoy one another. How say you Cam- 
 paspe, — would you say aye? 
 Camp. — Your handmaid must obey if you command. 
 Alex. — Think you not Hephestion, that she would fain 
 
 be commanded ? 
 Heph. — I am no thought catcher, but I guess un- 
 happily. 
 Alex. — I will not enforce marriage where I cannot 
 compel love. 
 
 Heph But your majesty may move a question where 
 
 you be willing to have a match. 
 Alex. — Believe me Hephestion, these parties are 
 agreed, they would have me both priest and 
 witness. Apelles take Campaspe, why move 
 ye not."* Campaspe, take Apelles, — will it not 
 be ? If you be ashamed one of the other, by 
 my consent you shall never come together. 
 But dissemble not. Campaspe do you love 
 Apelles ? 
 Camp. — Pardon me, my lord, I lore Apelles. 
 Alex. — Apelles it were a shame for you being loved 
 so openly, of so fair a virgin, to say the con- 
 trary. Do you love Campaspe? 
 Apel. — Only Campaspe. 
 
 AleXt — ^Two loving worms Hephestion. I perceive 
 Alexander cannot subdue the affections of men,
 
 JOHN LILLY. 181 
 
 though he conquer their countries. Love fallelh 
 Jike a dew, as well upon the low grass, as upon 
 the high cedar ; sparks have their heat, — ants 
 their gall,^ — flies their spleen. Well, enjoy one 
 another; I give her thee frankly Apelles. Thou 
 shalt see that Alexander maketh but a toy of 
 love, and leadeth aftection in fetters, using fancy 
 as a fool to make him sport, or a minstrel to 
 make him merry. It is not the amorous glance 
 of the eye than can settle an idle thought in the 
 heart. Go Apelles, take witli you your Cam- 
 paspe, Alexander is cloyed with looking on that 
 ■which thou wond'rest at. 
 
 Apel. — Thanks to your majesty on bended knee, you 
 have honoured Apelles: 
 
 Camp. — Thanks with bowed heart, you have blessed 
 Canipaspe. [exeunt.'] 
 
 Alex. — Page, go warn Clytus and Parmenio and the 
 other lords, to be in readiness : let the trumpet 
 • sound, strike up the drum, and I will presently 
 into Persia. How now Hephestion, is Alex- 
 ander able to resist love as he list ? 
 
 Heph. — The conquering of Thebes was not so honour- 
 able as the subduing of these thoughts. 
 
 Alex. — It were a shame Alexander should desire to 
 command the world, if he could not command 
 himself. But come, let us go, I will try whe- 
 ther I can better bear my hand with ray heart, 
 than I could with mine eye. And good He- 
 phestion, when all the world is vvon, and every 
 country is thine and mine, either find me out 
 another to subdue, or of my word I will fall 
 in love. [exeunt.']
 
 182 JOHN LILLY. 
 
 We must not part with " the only rare poet of his 
 time, the facetiously-quick, and comically conceited 
 old John Lilly," w ithout a specimen of his wit, which is 
 " to make the reader merry in his chamber." Perhaps 
 the following sample, whu;:h is of the best quality, will 
 suffice : — 
 
 From Mother Bombie. 
 
 Present, three serving men, Dromio, Risio, and Half- 
 penny; enter to them a Hackney-man and a Ser- 
 geant, 
 
 Serg. — I arrest you. 
 
 Dro.— Mc sir, why then did'st not bring a stool with 
 
 thee, that I might sit down ? 
 Hack. — He arrests you at my suit for a horse. 
 Risio. — The more ass he ; if he had arrested a mare 
 instead of a horse, it had been a slight over- 
 sight, but to arrest a man that hath no likeness 
 of a horse, is tlat lunacy, or alecie. 
 Hack. — Tush ! I hired him a horse. 
 j)yQ^ — I swear then he was well ridden. 
 Hack. — I think in two days he was never baited. • 
 Half. — ^Vhy, was it a beac thou riddest on? 
 Hack. — I mean he never gave him bait. 
 Jlig^ — Why, he took him for no fish. 
 Hack. — I mistake none of you when I take you for 
 fools, — I say thou never gavcst my horse meat. 
 J)ro. — Yes, in four and forty hours I am sure he had a 
 
 bottle of hay as big as his belly. 
 Serg. — Nothing else, thou should'st have given him 
 
 provender. 
 ])ro. — ^^Yhy, he never asked for any. 
 Hack. — Why, dost thou think a horse can speak? 
 Hro. — No, for I spurred him till my heels ached, and 
 be said never a word.
 
 V 
 
 JOHN LILLY. 183 
 
 Hack. — Well, thou shalt pay sweetly for spoiling him ; 
 it was as lusty a nag as any in Rochester, and 
 one that would stand upon no groifiid. 
 
 Dro. — Then he is as good as ever he was ; I'll warrant 
 he'll do nothina; but lie down. 
 
 Hack. — I lent him thee gently. 
 
 Dro. — And I restored him so gently that he neither 
 would cry wyhie, nor wag his tail. 
 
 Hack. — But why did'st thou bore him through tire cars ? 
 
 Ris. — It may be he was set in the pillory, because he 
 had not a true pace. 
 
 Half. — No, it was for tiring. 
 
 Hack. — He would never lire ; it may be he would be 
 weary, he would go no further, or so. 
 
 Dro. — Yes, he was a notabl« horse for service, he 
 would tire and retire. 
 
 Hack. — Do you think I'll be jested out of myhOrse.'' 
 Sergeant wreak thy office on him. 
 
 Ris. — Nay, let him be bailed • 
 
 Hack. — So he shall be when I make him a bargain. 
 
 Dro. — It was a very good horse I must needs confess : 
 and now hearken of his qualities, and have pa- 
 tience to hear them since I must pay for him. — 
 He would stumble one mile in three hours. I 
 had thought I had rode upon addices between 
 this and Canterbury. If I gave him water, why 
 he would lie down and bathe himself Uke a 
 hawk. If one ran him, he would simper and 
 mump, as though he had gone a wooing to a 
 malt-mare at Rochester. He trotted before and 
 ambled behind, and was so obedient, that he 
 would do duty every minute on his knees, as 
 thoxigh every stone had been his fathpr.
 
 184 JOHN LILLY. 
 
 Hack. — I am sure he had no diseases, 
 
 J)ro. — A little rheum or pose, he lacked nothing but a 
 
 hand-keecher. 
 Scrj. — Come, what a tale of a horse have we here ; 
 
 I cannot stay, thou must with me to prison." 
 
 ****** 
 
 " And was not this a dainty dish to set before a Queen !" 
 
 It remains now to notice what Mr. Campbell is 
 pleased to call our author's "sweet lyric songs," and 
 these are reserved to the last that the reader and honest 
 John Lilly may part good friends. They constitute 
 much the better pintion of his dramatic labours. It is 
 however most necessary, in selecting these "musical 
 notes which fell so admirably into the ears of our ever 
 famous Quee:)," to proceed with caution. Much of this 
 poet's music is married to words so gross, that it is 
 better suited to the tap-room than the court; indeed it 
 must be a matter of wonder to all who explore it, how 
 the Queen and her ladies could ever sit it out. The 
 following are unobjectionable. 
 
 From Alexander and Campaspe. 
 
 Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 
 
 At cards for kisses : Cupid paid. — • 
 
 He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows. 
 
 His mother's doves, and team of sparrows : 
 
 Loses them too : then down he throws 
 
 The coral of his lips, the rose 
 
 Growing on his cheek — but none knows how, — 
 
 With these the chrystal of his brow. 
 
 And then the dimple of his chin : 
 
 All these did ray Campaspe win. 
 
 At last he set her both his eyes ; 
 
 She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 
 
 O Love ! has she done this to thee? 
 
 What then alas ! becomes o( me !
 
 X 
 
 JOHN ITLLY. 185 
 
 From the same. 
 What bird so sings, yet so does wail ? 
 Oh ! 'tis the ravished nightingale, 
 / Jug, jugj— jug, jugj — terue, — she cries, 
 And still her woes at midnight rise. 
 
 Brave prick-song ! who is't now we hear ? 
 None but the lark so shrill and clear ; 
 ,.^f' \ Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings, 
 The morn not waking 'till she sings. 
 
 ' Hark, hark ! with what a pretty note 
 Poor Robin red-breast tunes his throat ! 
 Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing 
 " Cuckoo," — to welcome in the spring? 
 From Sappho and Phaon, 
 O cruel love ! on thee I lay 
 My cuise, which shall strike blind thy day. 
 Never may sleep with velvet hand 
 Charm thine eyes with sacred wand ! 
 Thy jailors shall be hopes and fears, 
 Thy prison-mates groans, sighs, and tears : 
 Thy play, to wear out weary times, 
 Fantastic passions, vows, and rhymes. 
 Thy bed thou liest on be despair. 
 Thy sleep fond dreams, thy dreams long care. 
 Hope, like a fool, at thy bed's head 
 Mock thee, 'till madness strike thee dead. 
 
 As Phaon, thou dost me with thy proud ej^es: 
 In thee poor Sappho lives, for thee she dies ! 
 From Galathea. 
 JZc' O yes ! O yes ! if any maid 
 
 Whom jeering Cupid has bet ayed 
 To frowns of spite, to eyes of scorn, 
 And would in madness now see torn
 
 186 JOHN LILLY. 
 
 The boy iu pieces ; let lier come 
 Hither, and lay on him her doom! 
 
 O yes ! O yes ! has any lost 
 
 A heart which many a sigh has cost ? 
 
 Is any cozened of a tear 
 
 Which as a pearl, disdain doth wear? 
 
 Here stands the thief; let her but conisr 
 
 Hither, and lay on him her doom ? 
 
 Is any one undone by fire, 
 
 And turn'd to ashes through desiie ? 
 
 Did ever any lady weep. 
 
 Being cheated of her golden sleep, 
 
 Stolen by sick thoughts ; the pirate's found. 
 
 And in her tears he shall be drowned. 
 
 Read his indictment ; let him hear 
 
 "What he's to trust to : boy, give ear ! 
 
 From Midas. 
 Sing to Apollo, god of day,. 
 
 Whose golden beams with morning play, . 
 
 And make her eyes so brightly shine, 
 
 Aurora's face is called divine. 
 
 Sing to Phoebus and that throne 
 
 Of diamonds which he sits upon. ^ 
 16 pceans let us sing. 
 To physic's and to poesy's king! 
 
 Crown all his altars with bright fire. 
 Laurels bind about his lyre, 
 A Daphnean coronet for his head ; 
 The muses dance about his bed. 
 When on bis ravishing lute he plays, 
 Strew his temple round with bays. 
 16 pceans let us sing. 
 To the glittering Delian king !
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON, 
 
 Born 1563.— Died 1G31. 
 
 From the Poly-olbion — Song the eighteenth- 
 
 Tke ■praise of Kent. 
 
 * * * * * * « * 
 AVhen now the Kentish nymphs do interrupt her son^,. 
 By letting Medway know she tarried had too long 
 Upon this warlike troop, and all upon them laid. 
 Yet for their nobler Kent she nought or little said. 
 "When as the pliant muse, straight turning her about. 
 And coming to the land as Medway goeth out. 
 Saluting the dear soil, " O famous Kent, quoth she, 
 " What country hath this isle that can compare with thee, 
 Which hast within thyself as much as thou canst wish ? 
 Thytiouies, veason, fruit, thy sorts of fowl and fish: 
 And what with strength comports, thy hay, thy corn, thy 
 
 wood: 
 Nor any thing doth want, that any where is good. 
 Where Thames-ward to the shore, which shoots upon 
 
 the rise. 
 Rich Tenham undertakes thy closets to sufiSce 
 With cherries, which we say, the summer in doth bring. 
 Where with Pomona crowns the plump and lustful 
 
 spring ; 
 From whose deep ruddy cheek, sweet zephyr kisses 
 
 steals. 
 With their delicious touch his love-sick heart that heals.
 
 188 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 Whose golden gardeus seem ih' Hesperides to mock : 
 Nor there the damson wants, nor dainty apricock, 
 Nor pippin, which we hold of kernel-fruits the king. 
 The apple-orange ; then the savoury russettan ; 
 The pear-main which to France long e'er to us was 
 
 known, 
 Which careful fruit'rers now have denizen'd our own. 
 The renat, which though first it from the pippin came. 
 Grown through his pureness nice, assumes that curious 
 
 name. 
 Upon the pippin stock, the pippin being set; 
 As on the gentle, when the gentle doth beget : 
 Both bv the sire and dame being anciently descended 
 The issue born of them his blood hath much amended — 
 The sweeting, for v. hose sake the plowboys oft make war, 
 The wilding, costard, then the well-known pomwater. 
 And sundry other fruits, of good, yet several taste. 
 That have their sundry names in sundry countries plac'd^ 
 Unto whose dear increase the gardener spends his life, 
 With piercer, wimble, saw ; his mallet, and his knife ; 
 Oft covereth, oft doth bare the dry and raoist'ued root. 
 As faintly they mislike, or as they kindly suit ; 
 And their selected plants doth workman-like bestow. 
 That in true order they conveniently may grow. 
 And kills the slimy snail, the worm, and labouring ant. 
 Which many times annoy the graft and tender plant ; 
 Or else maintains the plot much starved with the wet. 
 Wherein his daintiest fruits in kernels he doth set : 
 Or scrapeth ofl" the moss, the trees that oft annoy." 
 
 But with these trifling things why idly do I toy, 
 Who any way the time intend not to prolong ? 
 To those Thamisian isles now nimbly turns my song.
 
 MICHAia DRAYTON. ISO- 
 
 Fair Shepey and the Greane* sufficiently supply'd, 
 To beautify the place where Madway shews her pride. 
 ■But Greane seems most of all the Medway to adore. 
 And Tenetf standing forth to the llhutupian shore ; t 
 By mighty Albion placed till his return again 
 From Gaul ; where after he by Hercules was slain. 
 For earth-born Albion then, great Neptune's eldest 
 
 son, 
 Ambitious of the fame by stern Alcides won, 
 Would over needs to Gaul, with him to hazard fight. 
 Twelve labours which before accomplished by his might. 
 His daughters then but young, on whom was all his 
 
 care,- — - 
 Which Doris, Thetis' nymph, unto the giant bare. 
 With whom those isles he left, and will'd her for hi» 
 
 sake. 
 That in her grandsire's court she much of them would 
 
 make : 
 But Tenet, th' eld'st of three, when Albion was to go. 
 Which lov'd her father best, and loth to leave him so. 
 There at the giant raught, which was perceiv'd by chance. 
 This loving isle would else have followed him to France ; 
 To make the channel wide that then he forced was. 
 Whereas, some say, before he us'd on foot to pass. 
 
 Thus Tenet being stay'd, and surely settled there, 
 AVho nothing less than want and idleness could bear. 
 Doth only give herself to tillage of the ground , 
 With sundry sorts of grain whilst thus she doth abound. 
 She falls in love with Stour, which coming down by Wye, 
 And towards the goodly isle, his feet doth nimbly ply. 
 To Canterbury then as kindly he resorts. 
 His famous country thus he gloriously reports : — 
 
 * The Isies of Sheppey and Grain, t Thaiiet. J Near 
 Sandwich.
 
 190 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 *' O noble Kent, quoth he, this praise doth thee belong. 
 The hard'st to be controiil'd, impatientest of wrong. 
 Who when thelVorraan first with pride and horror sway'd, 
 Threw'st off the servile yoke upon the English laid; 
 And with a high resolve, most bravely didst restore 
 That hberty so long enjoy'd by thee before ; 
 Not suff'ring foreign laws should thy free customs bind. 
 Then only shew'd'st thyself of th' ancient Saxon kind : 
 Of all the English shires be thou surnam'd the Free, 
 And foremost ever plac'd, when they shall reck'nedbe. 
 And let this town, which chief of thy rich country is. 
 Of all the British sees be still Metropolis." 
 Iloni7icy Marsh. 
 
 "-i^ ^ w '^ ^ w 
 
 Appearing to the flood, most bravely hke a queen. 
 Clad all from head to foot, in gaudy summer's green ; 
 Her mantle richly wroaght, with sundry flowers and 
 
 weeds ; 
 Her moistful temples bound, with wreaths of quivering 
 
 reeds ; 
 Which loosely flowing down, upon her lusty thighs. 
 Most strongly seem to tempt the river's amorous eyes; 
 And on her loins a frock, with many a swelling plait, 
 Imboss'd with well-spread horse, large sheep, and full- 
 fed neat. 
 Some wallowing on the grass, there lie awhile to batten, 
 Some sent away to kill , some thither brought to fatten ; 
 With villages amongst, oft powthered here and there ; 
 And, that the same more like to landskip should appear, 
 With lakes and lesser fords, to mitigate the heat 
 In summer when the fly doth prick the gadding neat, 
 Forc'd from the brakes, where late they brouz'd the 
 
 velvet buds, — 
 In which they lick their hides and chew their sav'ry cuds"
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEAR, 
 
 EoRN 1564,— Died 1616. 
 
 From King Henry VI. part 'id. Act 4th, Scene 7th. 
 
 Scene Smithjield. — Present, Cade and his company, 
 ivith Lord Say, prisoner. 
 
 Say — You men of Kent! 
 
 Dick — What say you of Kent ? 
 
 Say — Nothhig but this : 'Tis bona terra, mala gens. 
 
 Cade — Away with him, away with him ! he speaks 
 Latin. 
 
 Say — Hear rae but speak, and bear me where you will. 
 Kent, in <he Commentaries Cassar writ. 
 Is termed the civilest place of all this isle : 
 Sweet is the country, because full of riches ; 
 The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy ; 
 ^Vhich makes me hope you are not void of pity. 
 
 This passage is marked by Malone, in his edition of 
 Shakspear, as one corrected only by the mighty bard. 
 This editor has been hardy enough to venture upon a 
 lineal definition, in the historical plays, of passages ac- 
 tually written s only corrected, and not written by 
 Shaksj>ear ; but iw a matter of taste his ace iracy may 
 be questioned. The above quoted passage uas all the 
 characters of Shakspear's style, and has that peculiar 
 flow of sweet melody which none of his contemporaries 
 ever attained to. Ti:e stigma upon the Kentish men 
 expressed in the Latin sentence, doubtless had its 
 origin in their aptness to rebel. HolUngshed had a 
 similar opinion of them. "The KeiUisli men, whose 
 minds be ever moveable at the chan-e of princes," &c. 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt's rebellion was then fresh in memory
 
 192 WILLIAM SHAKSPEAR. 
 
 From King Henry VI. part 3d. Act 1st, scene Ist. 
 
 Present^ York and others. 
 York. — Richard enough ; I will be king, or diel 
 
 *4t- -Slf •Ur •U- 
 
 ^S* W •?«• 'K' 
 
 You, Edward, shall unto my Lord of Cobham, 
 With whom the Kentish men will willingly rise : 
 In them I trust; for they are soldiers 
 Witty * and cmjrteous, liberal, full of spirit. 
 
 From King Lear. Act 4th. Scene 6th. 
 Scene the country near Dover, — Present, Glcster and 
 
 Edgar. 
 
 G/o.— When shall we come to the top of that same hill ? 
 JEdg. — You do chmb up it now : look how we labour. 
 Glo. — Methinks the ground is even. 
 Edg.- ■ Horribly steep: 
 
 Hark ! do you hear the sea ? 
 
 * « * • * 
 
 Edg.— Come on, Sir ; here's the place : stand still ! 
 How fearful 
 And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's ej'^es so low ! 
 The crows, and choughs, that wing the mid-way 
 
 air, 
 Show scarce so gross as beetles : half way down 
 Hangs one that gathers samphire ; dreadful trade ! 
 Methinks, he seems no bigger than his head : 
 The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, 
 Appear like mice ; and yon tall anchoring bark, 
 Diminished to her cock ; her cock, a buoy 
 Almost too small for sight : the murmuring surge, 
 
 * Of souDd jadgmeot.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEAR. 
 
 193 
 
 Tiiat on the unniinibered idle pebbles chafes, 
 Cannot be heard so high : — I'll look no more ; 
 Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 
 Topple down headlong. — 
 
 * * ■ * * * * * 
 
 Edg. — Hadst thou been ought but gossamer, feathers, 
 air. 
 
 So manj' fathom down precipitating. 
 
 Thou hadst shivered like an egg : but thou dost 
 breathe ; 
 
 Ten masts at each make not the altitude, 
 
 Which thou had'st perpendicularly fell : 
 Glo. — But have 1 fallen, or no ? 
 Edg. — From the dread summit of this chalky bourn : — 
 
 Look up a-height; the shrill-gorged lark so far 
 
 Cannot be seen or heard." 
 
 '".i-'/fFf
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON, 
 
 Born 1568.— Died 1639. 
 
 On earth he tracelkd often, — not to say 
 He'd been abroad to pass loose time away; 
 For in whatever land he chanced to tome. 
 He read the men and manners, — bringing home 
 Their wisdom, learning, and their piety, 
 As if he went to conquer, not to see. 
 So well he understood the tnnsl and best 
 Of tongues that Babel sent into the west ; 
 Spoke them so truly, that he had, you'd swear, 
 JVof only lived, but been born every where. 
 Justly each nation's speech to him was known; 
 Who for the world was made, not us (done. 
 Nor ought the language of that man be less, 
 Who in his breast had all things to express. 
 He did the utmost bounds of knowledge find. 
 And found them not so large as was his mind. 
 
 (Cowley's Elegy on Sir H. Wottou.) 
 
 Thanks to the laudable zeal of the excellent Isaac 
 "Walton, we have ample materials before us respecting 
 the iife and character of this Kentish worthy. Pos- 
 terity has not duly paid the debt of gratitude it owes 
 the memory of this good man for the artless effusions 
 of his honest pen. In simple language, but bearing the 
 genuine impress of truth, he has furnished us with 
 memorials of exemplary characters, who might other- 
 wise, as far as their personal history is concerned, have 
 sunk into the grave
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 195 
 
 ignotique longA 
 
 N^octe, carent quia vate sacro. 
 Paalum sepultae distat inertiae 
 Celata virtus. — 
 
 Walton published under the title of '* Reliquiae 
 Wottonianae," a raeraoir of Sir Henry Wotton, and a 
 collection of his literary essays, state papers, letters, 
 and poems. From the fourth edition of this volume, with 
 such collateral aid as can be obtained, the following 
 account is collected, and wherever it is practicable 
 for obvious reasons, the words of the original writer are 
 retained. 
 
 The family of Wotton flourished in the county of 
 Kent nearly three centuries, commencing with Sir Ni- 
 cholas Wotton, Lord Mayor of London, who obtained 
 possession of Bocton Malherb, by marriage, in 1337 , 
 and expiring with the subject of the present article in 
 1639. 
 
 Several individuals of this family obtained distin- 
 guished rank and employment under various sovereigns, 
 but it is most remarkable for having produced Nicholas 
 Wotton the first Dean of Canterbury, distinguished 
 more as a politician than a divine. This supple eccle- 
 siastic, who may have been the original of the Vicar of 
 Bray, contrived so to suit his religious opinions to 
 the fluctuating times in which he lived, as to retain a 
 seat in the privy councils of Henry the Eighth, Edward 
 the Sixth, Queen Mary, and Queen Elizabeth, by all 
 of whom he was highly esteemed and confidentially 
 employed. The monumental inscription to his memory, 
 informs us that he was sent as ambassador to various 
 powers, no less than nine diiFerent times, besides hold- 
 ding other high temporary employments. He was a
 
 196 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 modest as well as a prudent man, having repeatedly- 
 refused his proposed election to the ecclesiastical bench r 
 and as he died poor after having witnessed the plun- 
 dering of the monasteries, there is every reason to pre- 
 sume that he was also honest and conscientious in tem- 
 poral affairs. 
 
 Sir Edward Wottou, another distinguished individual, 
 was Comptroller of the Household to Queen Elizabeth, 
 who employed him as her embassador at the court of 
 James the First, when King of Scotland." " This 
 man," says Dr. Robertson, "was gay, well-bred, and 
 entertaining; he excelled in all the exercises for which 
 James had a passion, and amused the young king by 
 relating the adventures which he had met with, and the 
 observations he had made during a long residence ia 
 foreign countries ; but under the veil of these superfi- 
 cial qualities, he concealed a dangerous and intrigueing 
 spirit. He soon grew into high favour with James, and 
 while he seemed attentive only to pleasure and diver- 
 sions, he acquired influence over the public councils,, 
 to a degree which was indecent for a stranger to pos- 
 sess." At the accession of James the Eirst to the Eng- 
 lish crown. Sir Edward Wotton, was advanced to the 
 peerage, by the title of Baron AVotton, of Merley, in 
 Kent; which title became extii.c: by his death without 
 male issue. 
 
 Of Sir Henry Wotton, the third distinguished indi- 
 vidual of his family, it is our business to treat more at 
 large. 
 
 He was the youngest son of Thomas Wotton, by a 
 second marriage, — great nephew to the Dean, — and 
 half-brolher to the Baron. His father appears to have 
 been a respectable, but a retired aod unambitious
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 197 
 
 country gentleman. Ilis mother was the daughter of 
 Sir William Finch, of Eastwell, and at the time of 
 her marriage with his father, the widow of llobert 
 Morton, both of Kent. 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton was born at Bocton Malherb 
 in 1568. He was educated at Winchester, and 
 removed at sixteen years of age to Oxford, where he 
 remained five years, having beep a resident at two 
 diflerent Colleges. On the occasion of his supplicating 
 for a degree, he composed and read three lectures ia 
 Latin, on the subject of vision. 
 
 In the year 1589 he lost his father, who bequeathed 
 him by will a younger brother's portion of one hundred 
 marks a year, charged upon his estates. With this 
 scanty provision, the year after his father's death, he 
 commenced his travels ; and during the six following 
 years, visited most of the principal cities in France, 
 Germany, and Italy. How he employed this portion 
 of his time, may be collected from a series of letters 
 written by him to Lord Zouch, and preserved in the 
 Reliquiae. 
 
 He seems to have assumed the character of a po- 
 litical student, acquiring languages, collecting facts, 
 and informing himself respecting the statistics of the 
 several countries he visited. His industry and appU- 
 cation are conspicuous in every letter of this series, as 
 is also his prudent management of his contracted in- 
 come. In a letter to his noble correspondent, dated at 
 Venice, December yth, 1590, he remarks, " I am 
 now to a certainty for a table and chamber with Doctor 
 Blotius, master of the imperial library, wliich I have 
 gotten by great means made to him, and am the only 
 person in his house besides his own family. My study
 
 108 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 joins upon the library, and I have that to uiy free use, 
 besides such discourses of state, and observations of 
 his own, as he hath in his travels and services of the 
 Emperor gathered together." In a subsequent letter of 
 the same month, he further observes — " I am now at 
 two florins a week, chamber, stove, and table ; lights 
 he finds me ; wood I find myself; wine I have as much 
 as it pleaseth me, for my fiieiid and self, and not a 
 stint, as the students of Altor[)h. All circumstances 
 considered, I make my account that I spend more at 
 this reckoning by five pound four shiliiiigs yearly, than 
 a good careful scholar in the universities of England." 
 The exact purport of his correspondence with Lord 
 Zouch does not satisfactorily appear. It is probable 
 that he was commissioned to procure political informa- 
 tion for the use of that nobleman, and that he received 
 a pecuniary or other recompence in return. In one of 
 his letters, he expresses himself as follows : — " It were 
 my shame, after so many bountiful friendlinesses re- 
 ceived at your honour's hands, to be negligent in any 
 thing that might be taken of my service and duty;" — 
 and " neither account I myself farther than your ser- 
 vant, and shall be ever right glad if I may by any 
 possible means deserve a number among them." Of 
 the nature of this correspondence, the following may 
 perhaps be considered a fair specimen : — 
 
 3I(iy 8, 1592, Florence. 
 
 '* Any point in this that concerns myself, I beseech that 
 > no man may see but your Honour." 
 
 My most honoured Lord, 
 
 " I can defer this duty no longer, though 
 my leisure be thi •- nrcsont little to perform so much as
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 199 
 
 IS occurrent unto me, concerning this last journey of 
 mine, or rather adventure, which, leaving all unprofit- 
 able words apart, hath been in this manner. Since 
 taking- of my humble leave of your Honour in Padua, 
 have passed three months, of which time 1 have spent 
 one month and two days in liome, eight in Naples, the 
 rest in continual motion, till the 25th of April, on 
 which day I returned to Florence. From Venice to 
 Rome I had the company of the Baron of Berloc, 
 with whom, notwithstanding his Catholic Religion, I 
 entered into very intrinsiciil familiarity, having persuaded 
 him that I was half his country-man, himself being 
 born, though under the D. of Cleeve, yet not far from 
 CoUen, which went for my town. I found him by con- 
 versation, to be very indiscreet, soon led, given much 
 to women, careless of religion, qualities notably ser- 
 ving my purpose, for while a man is held in exercise 
 with his own vices, he liath little leisure to observe 
 others ; and besides, to feign myself an accommodable 
 person into his humour on all points, was indeed most 
 convenient for me; looseness of behaviour, and a neg- 
 ligent kind of carriage of a man's self, are the least 
 faults that States fear, because they hurt only him in 
 whoni they are found. To take the benefit of this, I 
 entered Rome wilh a mighty blue feather in a black 
 hat; which, though in itself it were a slight mitter, yet 
 surely did it work in the imaginations of men three gTeat 
 effects. First, I was by it taken for no English, upon 
 which depended the ground of all. Secondly, I was 
 reputed as light in my mind as in my apparel, they are 
 not dangerous men that are so. x^nd thirdly, no man 
 could think that I desired to be unknown, who, by 
 wearing of that feather, took a course to make rnvseU
 
 SOO SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 famous through Rome in a few days. The judgments 
 and discourses of the people passing by me, and some 
 pointing at me, I was fain to suffer. Safety, and a 
 conscience clear before my God, were the things I 
 sought there. Credit is to be looked unto in England ; 
 and thus stood my entrance. Ten days after my arrival 
 in Home, 1 departed towards Naples, occasioned by a 
 fever that had taken me the day before, which I im- 
 puted partly unto the streight and rascal diet of that town 
 in Lent, and in part to the ill weather which we had on 
 the way ; though perhaps it were not without some dis- 
 order, after the Dutch manner, amongst as mad Priests 
 as I think may be found in this world. To Naples 1 
 came on the 18th of March, certainly, through the 
 goodliest country that God hath allotted unto mortal 
 men to run their glory in, if virtue were as frequent as 
 pleasure. Prom this town I departed on the 25th of 
 the same, by water, in a wherry of Genoa, that I 
 might so consider the maritime towns, as before 1 had 
 seen the principal Mediterranean of that Kingdom: a 
 course not without danger, as well in respect of the 
 Turk's Corsairs, as likewise the smallness of the vessels 
 prepared for transport of passengers : yet was the event 
 good, and I arrived at Neptune in two days. Nep- 
 tune is a town situate upon the bank of the Tin hen, 
 thirty-six Italian leagues from Rome, by land, and 
 from Ostia by water, belonging to the House of Co- 
 lonna, though in the Pope's territories : in commodity 
 offish, thought to bring yearly about 13,000 crowns; 
 of reasonable strength, but meanly peopled, and, as 
 it seems, some colony of the ancient Greeks, whose 
 attire the women yet hold, though the men, as com- 
 monly more stirrers from home, have heard of the
 
 SIR HENHY WOTTON. 201 
 
 Italian civility. Here I liept my Easter, occasioned 
 by change of the wind'from full east to full south, which 
 otherwise I determined to have done at Ostia; for oh 
 Easter-day I meant not to accompany the Pope to St. 
 Lateran. When the Easter was for the chiefest part 
 past, occasion wanting by sea, I returned to Rome oa 
 the Tuesday by land, and there continued three weeks ; 
 and my purpose was to have made longer abode there, 
 notwithstanding the rumour of the solemn day to be 
 celebrated here by the great Duke on the 26th of 
 April, because 1 found very profitable points to be 
 learnt of the Pope's court, and was grown somewhat 
 cunning in the prattick of Rome ; but fortune hath her 
 part to play in all human actions, and I was driven 
 away by the intervent of that gentleman that only hath 
 seen your honour's license; I desire pardon to describe 
 him no farther. This man was by chance invi ed by a 
 Scottish gentleman unto supper in the place where I 
 had my table, calling me into a sudden and da i3,erous 
 dehberation, standing upon these two doubts, — first, 
 whether it were best for me to sup there, or no, that 
 night; secondly, if to change my lodging, or leave 
 Rome ; were the discreetest part. The first I had drawn 
 into no question, but that the circumstances stood 
 perillously. The table was covered, the sallad, our 
 first dish, served in, all the gentlemen in the chamber 
 save the Scot, and amongst them myself, every man 
 ready to take his place, and in that instant came the 
 Scottish gentleman in with his guest, whom belike, 
 after the manner of his country, he first sent into his 
 chamber, giving me so much time to resolve the first 
 doubt, as till he came forth again. In short, I supped 
 not with him, making the best excuse of departure that
 
 202 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 I coultl accommodate unto the time. For determination 
 of the second donbt 1 had a night's respite ; that the 
 man was dangerous, I set down for certain. His con- 
 versation in Venice with persons suspected, practice 
 and familiarity heretofore with the old Earl of North- 
 umberland, which I had received from his own mouth, 
 travelling to Rome without language, discovery of 
 himself there to the English and Scottish nation, were 
 points that pleased me not, 
 
 " Not to hold your honour long, I resolved to leave 
 Rome as secretly, and with as great expedition as 
 might be; which I performed ; my state seeming unto 
 me not unlike a bad game at mawe, wherein the first 
 vye being seen, the cards are given up before the 
 second. And now, most honourable, having adver- 
 tised the generality of this my journey, before I come 
 to matter of public use, I crave pardon to say some- 
 thing of myself. No Englishman containing himself 
 within his allegiance to her Majesty, hath seen more 
 concerning the points of Rome than I h ave done ; 
 which I speak absolutely without exception : I have 
 been present at three solemnities of the Roman church 
 the Consecration of the Rose, Marriage, and Distri- 
 bution of Dowries unto the Virgin, and the taking of 
 Possession ; which is accounted the principal sight that 
 maybe seea in these parts. The Whore of Babylon I 
 have seen mounted on her chair, going on the ground, 
 reading, speaking, attired and disrobed by the Car- 
 dinals, or rather by Moutalto alone, in both her mitres, 
 in her triple crown, in her lettica, on her moyl, at mass, 
 and lastly, in public consistory. Certain other private 
 points, which are not to be caminitted unto letter, be- 
 cause I kuo V not the event of a piece of papar, I wiil
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 203 
 
 defer until the rendering of myself unto your honour's 
 sight and service. Of Rome in short, this is my 
 opinion, or ra\her indeed, my most assu ed knowledge. 
 That her delights on earth are sweet, and her judgments 
 in heaven heavy." 
 
 * * * * * * * * * 
 
 About the year 1596, bemg then 20 years of age 
 he returned to England. The elegance of his person 
 and manners, the accomplishments of his mind, and 
 tlie ample fund of political information he had obtained 
 during: his travels, recommended him to the notice of 
 the most eminent of his countrymen, and almost imme- 
 diately after his return, procured him the appointment 
 of Secretary to the Earl of Essex, then in the zenith of 
 his power. With this unfortunate nobleman he con- 
 tinued until his arrest and commitment to the tower, 
 upon the charge of treason which cost him his life : 
 when fearing to be involved in the impending fate of his 
 patron, he secretly left the kingdom and retired into 
 Italy. This happened in the year 1509. 
 
 During his second residence abroad, he passed the 
 ^eater portion of his time at Florence, and it was in 
 that city he composed his principal work, which was 
 not however printed until several years after his death. 
 This work is entitled, "The state of Christendom, or 
 a most exact and cuiious discovery of many secret pas- 
 sages and hidden mysteries of the times." His chief 
 aim in this composition, was to obtain favour with 
 Queen Elizabeth, and facilitate his return home ; why 
 it was not published does not appear. Of the state of 
 Florence at this time he had previously given the follow- 
 ing account in one of his letters to Lord Zouch. — " I
 
 204 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 live here in a paradise inhabited by devils. Venice 
 hath scarce heard of those vices which are here prac- 
 ticed. My best commodity is the conversation of 
 certain gentlemen, and '.heir vulgar very pure and cor- 
 rect ; so that lit;re we have good means to leani to 
 speak well and to do ill." 
 
 During his residence at Florence the following adven- 
 ture happened to him, and laid the foundation of his 
 future fortune. 
 
 The zeal which Queen Elizabeth, and her presumed 
 successor the king of Scotland, had shewn for the re- 
 formed religion, procured them the hatred and enmity 
 of all violent Catholics, and many plans were devised 
 to destroy both one and the other by assassination. In 
 the instance of the queen this was deemed a lawful and 
 praiseworthy deed, she having been formally excom- 
 municated by the Pope in 1576. In IGO'Z Ferdinand, 
 Grand Duke of Florence, had discovered by intercepted 
 letters, a design of this natuie upon the life of the 
 Scottish king. Having consulted with his secretary 
 Vietta respecting the best means of conveying this 
 information to the party threatened, he advised him to 
 dispatch Sir Henry TVotton, \^ho was his personal 
 friend, to Scotland. Accordingly, charged with letters 
 from the Duke, and with antidotes, he took his depar- 
 ture in the garb and with the assumed name of an 
 Italian ; found the king at Stirling, and immediately 
 procured admission to his presence b^ means of Bernard 
 Lindsay his chamberlain. 
 
 " When Octavio Baldi," for that was his assumed 
 name, " came to the presence-chamber door, be was 
 requested to lay aside his long rapier which Italian like 
 he then wore, and being entered the chamber, he found
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 205 
 
 there with the king three or four Scotch lords standing 
 distant in several corners of the chamber, at the sight of 
 whom he made a stand ; m hich the king observing, 
 bade him be bokl and dehver his message; for he 
 would undertake for the secrecy of all that were pre- 
 sent. Then did Octavio Baldi deliver his letters and 
 his message to the king in Italian ; which when the 
 king had graciously received, after a little pause, Oc- 
 tavio Baldi steps to the table, and whispers to the 
 king, in his own language, that he was an Englishman, 
 beseeching him for a more private conference with his 
 majesty, and that he might be concealed during his 
 stay in that nation ; which was promised, and really 
 performed by the King du iug all his abode there which 
 was about three months ; all which time was spent 
 with much pleasantness to the King, and with as much 
 to Octavio Baldi himself, as that country could aiFord ; 
 from >vhich he depaited astrue an Italiau us he came 
 thither." * 
 
 Upon the accession of James to the English crown 
 he returned home, and was immediately afterwards 
 introduced to the king, at his especial desire, by his 
 elder brother Lord Wotton. James received him with 
 open arms, hailed him as his friend by the name of 
 Octavio Baldi, and conferred upon him the order of 
 knighthood. 
 
 James, whatever may be said of the weakness of his 
 general character, shewed no want of discernment in 
 his selection of political agents. He very justly ap- 
 preciated the talents and acquirements of Sir Henry 
 Wotton, proposed to employ him as a resident at some 
 foreign court, and ottered him iiis clioice of France, 
 Spain, or Venice. This was highly honourable to 
 
 * Walton's Life of Wotton. 
 s
 
 206 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 both parties, — Wottoii with characteristic prudence 
 selected Venice, as the state best suited to his pre- 
 vious habits and acquirements, and as beina; better 
 adapted by its comparative rank, to the scantiness of 
 his private fortune. He vpas immediately nominated 
 embassador to the republic, veith a handsome allow- 
 ance for his present necessities, and a liberal main- 
 tenance during his future residence. 
 
 He embarked on this his first political mission in 1G04, 
 and in his journey to Venice committed an act of 
 incautious >vitticism, which several years after had 
 nearly lost him the contidence of his royal master. 
 Being at the city of Ausburg in Germany, where from 
 previous residence he had acquired many friends, and 
 passing the day in conviviality with one of them named 
 Christopher riecamore, he was requested by him to 
 insert some motto in his Album, (a blank paper book, 
 preserved for such uses, according to a national custom) 
 as a memorial of their friendship. Sir Henry took the 
 pen, and hastily wrote the following definition of his 
 newly acquired office of an embassador. — " Legatus 
 est vir bonus perigre missus ad mentiendum reipublicie 
 causfi." — This sentence when converted into English 
 becomes a pun, — an ambassador is an boniest man 
 sept to lie abroad for the good of his country, — and as 
 an English pun Sir Henry Wotton doubtless wished it 
 to be applied ; it is, however, no pun in the language is 
 which he wrote it. Eight years afterwards, Jasper 
 Scioppius, a papist, and a controversial writer of that 
 day, having obtained a knowledge of this incident, 
 produced the sentence in one of his j)ublications, as a 
 principle of state professed by King James, and pro- 
 mulgated by Sir Henry Wotton his embassador at
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 207 
 
 Venice. The discovery made more noise than it de- 
 served, and, as it was industriously propagated at 
 Venice, the embassador was called to account for it. 
 
 Whether or not this circumstance produced his 
 recal, does not a ppear ; it is certain that he was in 
 England in IGll, about the time that the publication 
 of Scioppius made its appearance, and his vindication 
 addressed in elegant latin to Mark Welser, governor of 
 vA.usburg-, his personal friend, is dated at London, 
 December 2d, 1G12. This composition which was 
 carefully circulated, and contained a simple statement 
 of the facts, together with some merited abuse of 
 Scioppius, seemed to produce the desired purpose of 
 exposing the malicious design of his adversary. Sir 
 Henry Wotton deemed it requisite to address himself 
 more pointedly to his royal master, and soothed his 
 irritated mind by a separate and apparently satisfactory 
 apology. 
 
 Sir Henry AYotton remained at home until 1(J14. 
 We are furnished in the Reliquiae with a series of his 
 letters written during this interval, to his nephew by 
 marriage and by adoption. Sir Edmund Bacon ; from 
 which what relates to himself personally shall be ex- 
 tracted. 
 
 Under date of I^ovember IGth, 1613, he writes, 
 " It may please you, Sir, to understand, that the 
 king, when he was last at Hampton, called me to him, 
 and there acquainted me with a general purpose that he 
 had to put me again to some use. Since which time, 
 the French embassador, having at an audience of some 
 length, besought his majesty, I know not whether 
 voluntarily, or set on by some of our own, to disen- 
 cumber himself of frequent accesses, by the choice of
 
 208 SIE HENRY WOTTOJf. 
 
 some confidential servant, to whom the said embassa- 
 dor might address himself in such occurrences as did 
 not require the king's immediate ear. It pleased him 
 to nominate me for that charge, with more gracious 
 commendation than it can beseem rae to repeat, though 
 I write to a friend in whose breast I dare repose even 
 my vanities. But lest you should mistake, as some 
 others have been apt to do here, in the present consti- 
 tution of the court, which is very umbrageous, the 
 king's end in this application of me, I must tell you 
 that it is only for the better preparing of my insufficiency 
 and weakness, for the succeeding of Sir Thomas Ed- 
 munds in France; towards which his majesty has 
 tiiought meet first to indae me with some knowledge of 
 the French businesses which are in motu. And I 
 think my going thither will be about Easter. 
 
 "Thus, you see, Sir, both my next remove, and 
 the exercise of my thoughts till then ; wherewith there 
 is joined this comfort, besides the redemption from ex- 
 pence and debt at home, which are the gulphs that 
 would swallow rae, that his Majesty hath promised to 
 do something for me before I go." 
 
 Nothing more is upon record of this intended appoint- 
 ment. That Sir Henry Wotton was a member of Par- 
 liament at this time may perhaps be presumed from the 
 following letter, but it is by no means certain. 
 , " Sir June 8. 1614. 
 
 It is both morally and naturally true, that I 
 have never been in perfect health and cheerfulness since 
 we parted; but I have entertained my mind, when my 
 body would give me leave, with the contemplation of 
 the strangest thing that ever I beheld, commonly called 
 in our language, as 1 take it, a Parliament ; which hath
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 209 
 
 produced nothing but inexplicable riddles in the place of 
 laws. For first, it is aborted before it was born, and 
 nullified after it had a baing; insomuch as the Count 
 Palatine, whose naturalization was the only thing that 
 passed in both houses, is now again an alien. And 
 whereas all other Parliaments have had some one ex- 
 cellent qualitjr that hath created a denomination ; some 
 being called in our records mad Parliaments, some 
 merciless, and the like : this 1 think, from two proper- 
 ties almost insociable, or seldom nieeting, may be 
 termed the Parliament of greatest diligence, and of 
 least resolution, that ever was, or ever will be ; for our 
 committees were as well attended commonly, as full 
 houses in former sessions, and yet we did nothing, 
 neither in the forenoon nor after; whereof I can yield 
 you no reason but this one, that our diversions were 
 more than our main purposes; and some of so sensible 
 na'ure, as took up all our reason, and all our passion, 
 in the pursuit of them. Now, Sir, what hath followed 
 since the dissolution of this civil body, let me rather 
 tell you, than lead you back into any particularities of 
 that which is passed. 
 
 " It pleased his majesty the very next morning' to 
 call to examination, before the Lords of his Council, 
 divers Members of the House of Commons, for speeches 
 better becoming a senate of Venice, where the treaters 
 are perpetual Princes, than where those who speak so 
 ii reverently, are so soon to return, which they should 
 remember, to the natural capacity of subjects. Of these 
 examinants, four are committed close prisoners to the 
 tower : — 1. Sir Walter Chute : 2. John Hoskins : 3. 
 one Wentworth, a lawyer : and 4. Mr. Christopher 
 Nevil, second son to my Lord of Abergaveny,
 
 210 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 " The first made great shift to come thither; for 
 having taken in our house some disgrace in the matter 
 of the undertakers, of wliom he would fain have been 
 thought one, — to get tl e opinion of a bold man, after he 
 had lost thar of a wise, he fell one morning into a de- 
 clamation against the times, so insipid, and so unsea- 
 sonable, as if he had been put but out of his place for 
 it, o!' Carver, into which one of my Lord Admiral's 
 nephew.'; is sworn, 1 should not have much piiied him, 
 though he be my coimtryman. 
 
 " The second is in for more wit, and for licentiousness 
 bap.tized freedom : for I have noted in our House, that 
 a false or faint patriot did cover himself with the shadow 
 of equal moderation : and on the other side, irreverent 
 discourse was called honest liberty : so, as upon the 
 whole matter, no excesses want precious names. You 
 shall have it in Pliny's language, which I like better than 
 mine own translation; "JSullis viliis desunt pretiosa 
 nomina." 
 
 *'The third is a silly and simple creature, God him- 
 self knows : and though his father was by Queen 
 Elizabeth at the time of a Parliament likewise put into 
 the place where ihe son now is ; yet hath he rather 
 inherited his fortune, than his understanding. His 
 fault was the application of certain texts in Ezekiel and 
 Daniel, to the matter of impositions; and saying, that 
 the French King was killed like a calf, with such poor 
 stuff; against which the French embassador, having 
 gotten knowledge of it, hath formed a complaint, with 
 some danger of his wisdom. 
 
 "The last is a young gentleman, fresh from the 
 school, who having gathered together divers latin sen- 
 tences against Kings, bound them up in a long speech,
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 211 
 
 and iiiterlai-tleJ them with certain Ciceronian exclama- 
 tions, as "O tempora O mores!" 
 
 '* Thus I have a Httlerun over these accidents unto you 
 enough only to break out of that silence which I will 
 not call a symptom of my sickness, but a sickness 
 itself. Howsoever, I will keep it from being hectical, 
 and hereafter give you a better account of my obser- 
 vations. This week I have seen from a most dear 
 neice, a letter, that hath much comforted one uncle, 
 and a postscript the other. Long may that hand move 
 which is so full of kindness. As for my particular, take 
 heed of such invitations, if you either love or pity 
 yourselves; for I think there was never needle touched 
 with a loadstone that did more incline to the north, than 
 I do to Redgrave. In the mean time, we are all here 
 well ; and so our Lord Jesus preserve you there. 
 
 Your faithfuUest, poor 
 
 Friend and Servant, 
 
 H. WOTTON." 
 
 This letter, not only very fairly exhibits Sir Henry 
 Wotton's epistolary style, and political sentiments, at, 
 this time, but is also curious as an historical document. 
 The Parhament it commemorates was a most refractory 
 one, summoned by James for the purpose of granting 
 supplies, and dissolved by him after a session of two 
 months only, before a single statute had been framed. 
 The spirit then displayed itself which afterwards in- 
 volved the country in civil war, and the government 
 in destruction. 
 
 In February, 1615, Sir Henry Wotton was agam 
 dispatched to his residence at Venice, but beseems to 
 hare been previously, and when on his journey probably
 
 212 SIR HENRY WOTTOX. 
 
 employed in various aftairs of state. Of these, he 
 gives some account in the following letter : — 
 
 To the King, 1615. 
 
 ** May it please your sacred Majesty — 
 
 " I beseech your Majesty to pardon me a 
 little short repetition, how I have spent my time since 
 my departure from your royal sight, because 1 glory 
 in your goodness. 
 
 " I have been employed by your favour in four seve- 
 ral treaties, differing in the matter, in the instruments, 
 and in the affections. 
 
 " The first was for the sequestration of Juliers, 
 wherein I was joined with the French. 
 
 " The second for the provisional possession of the 
 two Pretendents : wherein, contrary to the complaint of 
 the gospel, the labourers were more than the harvest. 
 
 "The third for a defensive league between the 
 United Provinces and the United Princes. Who, 
 though they be seperate bodies of state, do now by 
 your only mediation, make one body of strength. 
 
 " The fourth was for the composing of some dif- 
 ferences between your own and this people, in matter 
 of commerce ; which hath exceeded the other three 
 both in length and difficulty.'' 
 
 Respecting one of these employments he addresses 
 Sir Edmund Bacon under date of June 7, 1615, as 
 follows, — " For what sin, in the name of Christ, was 
 T sent hither among soldiers, being by my profession 
 academical, and by my employment pacifical." 
 
 He remained in Venice very much to the satisfaction 
 of all parties, until the year 1618, when he solicited 
 the Duke of Buckingham, whom he calls his most
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 2L3 
 
 honoured Lord and Patron, to procure liim leave to re- 
 turn home for a few weeks, on his own private affairs ; 
 which appears to have been granted to him. 
 
 About this time occurred the unfortunate election of 
 the Count Palatine, son in law of James, to the crown 
 of Bohemia, involving that pacific monarch in difficul- 
 ues irura which he wanted the necessary energy to ex- 
 tricate himself. Sir Henry AVotton being prepared to 
 return to his residence at Venice, when the affair be- 
 tween the Emperor and the Palatine was drawing to a 
 crisis, and military powers had been assembled on 
 both sides, was selected to make a final attempt at 
 pacification. Dignified with the title of embassador 
 extraordinary to the Emperor, and furnished with 
 instructions which display the moderation and prudence 
 of his royal master, he arrived at Vienna in August 
 1G20, and immediately commenced negociations, at 
 first with some appearance of success. These hopes 
 vrere however, of short duration ; the sword had been 
 drawn, and the rash and ill-judging friends of the 
 Palatine, ventured to commit his fortunes to the chance 
 of a battle, when victory decided in favour of his 
 more poweiful adversary. This happened in Novem- 
 ber; Sir H'^nry Wotlon continued to reside at the 
 Emperor's court until the end of the next month, when 
 finding his efforts vain, according to the tenor of his 
 instructions, he proceeded to his destination at Venice. 
 
 On taking leave of the Emperor, an incident occurred 
 highly honourable to the embassador, which cannot be 
 better related than in the words of his honest bio- 
 grapher : — 
 
 " Sir Henry seeing the face of peace altered by that 
 victoiy, prepared for a removal from that court ; and at
 
 214 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 his departure from the Emperor, was so bold as to re- 
 member him, — that the events of every battle move on 
 the unseen wheels of fortune, which are at this minute 
 up, and down the next : and therefore humbly advised 
 him to use his victory so soberly, as still to put on 
 thoughts of peace. Which advice, though it seemed 
 to be spoke with some passion, his dear mistress, the 
 Queen of Bohemia, being concerned in it, was yet taken 
 in good part by the Emperor, who replied, — that he 
 Vi'ould consider his advice : and though he looked upon 
 the King his master as an abettor of his enemy the 
 Paulsgrave ; yet for Sir Henry liimself, his behaviour 
 had been such, during the manage of the treaty, that he 
 took him to be a person of much honour and merit, 
 and did therefore desire him to accept of that jewel, 
 as a testimony of his good opinion of him, — which was 
 a jewel of diamonds, of more than a thousand pounds . 
 "This jewel was received with all ootward circum- 
 stances and terms of honour, by Sir Henry Wotton : 
 but the next morning, at his departure from Vienna, 
 at his taking leave of the Countess of Sabriua, an 
 Italian lady, at whose house the Emperor had ap- 
 pointed him to be lodged, and honourably entertained, 
 he acknowledged her merits, and besought her to ac- 
 cept of that jewel, as a testimony of his giatitude for 
 her civilities ; presenting her with the same that was 
 given him by the Emperor : which being suddenly dis- 
 covered, and told to the Emperor, was by him taken 
 for a high atfront, and Sir Henry Wotton told so by a 
 messenger. To which he replied, — that though he 
 received it with thankfulness, yet he found in himself 
 an indisposition to be the better for any gift that came 
 from an enemy to his royal mistress, the Queen of
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 215 
 
 Bohemia; for so she was pleased he should always 
 call her." 
 
 The following admirable Poem, which was certainly 
 composed about this time, by Sir Henry Wotton, forms 
 a becoming sequel to the narration of this gallant and 
 spiiited act of self-denial : — ■ 
 
 On his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia. 
 
 You meaner beauties of the night. 
 
 That poorly satisfy our eyes. 
 More by your number than your light ! 
 
 You common people of the skies ! 
 
 What are you when the sun shall rise ? 
 
 You curious chanters of the wood. 
 That warble forth dame Nature's lays. 
 
 Thinking your voices understood 
 
 By your weak accents 1 what's your praise 
 When Philomel her voice shall raise? 
 
 You violets, that first appear 
 By your pure purple mantles known. 
 
 Like the proud virgins of the year. 
 As if the spring were all your own ! 
 What are you when the rose is blown ? 
 
 So, when my mistress shall be seen, 
 In form and beauty of her mind. 
 
 By virtue tirst, then choice a Queen ! 
 
 Tell me, if she were not desigu'd , 
 
 Th' eclipse and glory of her kind? 
 
 H. W. 
 
 Let not our readers mistake this excellent little poem 
 for an efFusionof the tender passion. Sir Henry Wotton
 
 3816 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 was never accused of being a platonic lover, and 
 at the time of its composition was a grave diplomatist 
 of the age of fifty-two. It proceeded from a feeling 
 of chivalrous loyalty; and when connected, as it 
 always should be, with the anecdote of the jewel, 
 forms together a trait in his character, which the mind 
 may contemplate with unmixed delight.* 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton does not make much figure as a 
 ladies' knight, either in prose or poetry. In an age, 
 when every votary of the Muse attuned his lyre to 
 notes of love, he has left upon record only one memo- 
 rial of his susceptibility, and as that relates to some 
 disappointment in the early part of his life, it is rather 
 severe upon the sex. Walton entitles it, 
 
 * Some of his letters to the Qneen of Bohemia are printed 
 in the " Reliquiae." The foUowiug is subjoined as a specimen 
 of their style : — 
 
 1G2G. 
 
 " Most resplendent Queen, even in the darkness of Fortune. 
 
 " I most humbly salute your majesty again, after 
 the longest silence that I have ever held with you, since I first 
 took into my heart an image of your excellent virtues. My 
 thoughts indeed have from the exercise of outward duties been 
 confined within myself, and deeply wounded with my own 
 private griefs and losses ; which I was afraid, if I had written 
 sooner to your raajesty, before time had dried them up, would 
 have freshly bled again. And with what shall I now entertain 
 youi sweet spirits f" 
 
 * iK * * * * * 
 
 " The last and inward est consolation that I can represent (o 
 yo»r Majesty, is yourself, your own soul, your own virtues, 
 your own Christian constancy and magnanimity: whereby your 
 majesty hath exalted the glory of your sex, conquered your 
 affections, and trampled upon your adversaries. To conclude, 
 you have shewed the world, that though you were born within 
 the chance, yet without the power of fortune."
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 217 
 
 ** A Poem written by Sir Henry Wotton in his Youth." 
 
 Oh ! faithless world, and thy more faithless part 
 
 a woman's heart ! 
 
 The true shop of variety, where sits 
 
 nothing but Tits 
 
 And ferers of desire, and pangs of love, 
 
 which toys remove. 
 
 Why was she born to please, or I to trust 
 
 words writ in dust? 
 
 Sufieiing her eyes to govern my despair 
 
 my pains for air ; 
 
 And fruit of time rewarded with untruth 
 
 the food of youth. 
 
 Untrue she was : yet I believed her eyes, — 
 
 instructed spies, — 
 
 Till I was taught that love was but a school 
 
 to breed a fool . 
 
 Or sought she more by triumph of denial 
 
 to make a trial 
 
 - How far her smiles commanded my weakness ? 
 
 yield and confess, 
 
 Excuse no more thy folly ; but for cure 
 
 blush and endure 
 
 As well thy shame, as passions that were vain, 
 
 and think 'tis gain 
 
 To know, that love lodged in a woman's breast, 
 
 is but a guest. 
 
 H. W. 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton was not married ; and there is 
 only one intimation of such an event ever being pro- 
 bable during the whole of his life, to be found in any
 
 218 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 part of the volume devoted to his memory ; which i« 
 the following passage in a letter to Sir Edmund Bacon 
 of the date of 1G12 or 1613. *' In your last you men- 
 tioned a certain courtier that seemed to have spoken 
 somewhat harshly oT me : I have a guess at the man ; 
 and though for him to speak of such as I am, in any 
 kind whatsoever, was a favour : yet I wonder how I 
 am fallen out of his estimation, for it is not long since 
 he oftered me a fair match with his own tribe, and 
 much addition to her fortune out of his private bounty. 
 "When we meet, all the world to nothing we shall laugh ; 
 and in truth, sir, this world is worthy of nothing else." 
 During Sir Henry AYotton's residence at Vienna, 
 the following correspondence occurs, memorable for 
 the celebrity of the parties concerned in it. 
 
 "Lord Bacon to Sir Henry Wot ton. 
 
 " My very good Cousin — 
 
 " Your letter, which I received from your Lord- 
 ship upon your going to sea, was more tlian a com' 
 pensation for any former omission ; and I shall be verj 
 glad to entertain a correspondence with you in boti 
 kinds, which you writ of: for the latter whereof I am 
 now ready for you, having sent you some ore of that 
 mine. I thank you for your favours to Mr. Meawtus, 
 and I pray continue the same. So wishing you out of 
 that honourable exile, and placed in a better orb, J 
 €ver rest. 
 
 Your Lordship's affectionate Kinsman, 
 And assured Friend, 
 
 FR. VERULAM Ca.yc" 
 York House, Oct. 20, 1G20.
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 219 
 
 " Sir Henry Wotton to Lord Hacon. 
 ' Right Houourable, and my very good Lord — 
 
 " I have your Lordship's letters, dated 
 the 20th of October, and I have withal by t!ie care of 
 my Cousin, Mr. Tiiomas Meavvtis, and by your own 
 special favour, three copies of that work,* wherewith 
 your Lordship hath done a great and ever-living benefit 
 to all the children of nature; and to Nature herself, in 
 her uttermost extent and latitude, who never before had so 
 noble nor so true an interpreter, or, as I am readier to 
 style your Lordship, never so inward a secretary of her 
 cabinet : but of your said work, which came but this 
 week to my hands, I shall find occasion to speak more 
 hereafter ; having yet read only the first book thereof, 
 and a few aphorisms of the second. For it is not a 
 banquet, that men may superficially taste, and pat up 
 the rest in their pockets : but in truth, a solid feast, 
 which requireth due mastication. Therefore when I 
 have once myself perused the whole, I determine to 
 have it read piece by piece at certain hours in my do- 
 mestic college, as an ancient author, — for I have 
 learned thus much by it already, that we are 
 extremely mistaken in the computation of antiquity, by 
 searching it backwards, because indeed the first times 
 were the youngest ; especially in points of natural dis- 
 covery and experience. For though I grant, that Adam 
 knew the natures of all beasts, and Solomon of all 
 plants, not only more than any, but more than all 
 since their time ; yet that was by divine infusion, and 
 therefore they did not need any such Organum as your 
 Lordship hath now delivered to the woild ; nor we 
 neither, if they had left us the memories of their wisdom. 
 
 * The " Novum Organum."
 
 220 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 " But I am gone further than t meant in speaking of 
 this excellent labour, while the delight yet I feel, and 
 even the pride that I take in a certain congeniality, as 
 1 may term it, with your Lordship's studies, will scant 
 let me cease: And indeed I owe your Lordship, even 
 by promise, which you are pleased to remember, there- 
 by doubly binding me, some trouble this way; I mean, 
 by the commerce of philosophical experiments, which 
 surely, of all other, is the most ingenious traffic; — 
 therefore, for a beginning, let me tell your Lordship a 
 pretty thing which I saw coming down the Danube, 
 though more remarkable for the application, than the 
 theory. I lay a night at Lintz, the metropolis of the 
 higher Anstria, but then in very low estate, having 
 been newly taken by the Duke of Bavaria; who 'blan- 
 dicnte fortunu, was gone on to the late effects : there 1 
 found Keplar, a man famous in the sciences, as your 
 Lordship knows, to whom I purpose to convey from 
 hence one of your books, that he may see we have 
 f!ome of our own that can honour our King, as well as 
 he hath done with his * * Harmanica." In this man's 
 study, I was much taken with the draught of a land- 
 scip on a piece of paper, methoughts masterly done : 
 whereof inquiring the author, he bewrayed with a 
 smile, it was himself; adding, he had done it, JVo« 
 tanquam Pictor, sed tanqnam Mathematicus. This set 
 me on fire : at last he told me how. He hath a little 
 black tent, of what stuff is not much importing, which 
 he can suddenly set up where he will in a field, and it 
 it is convertible, like a windmill, to all quarters at 
 pleasure, capable of not much more than one man, as 
 I conceive, and perhaps at no great ease ; exactly close 
 and dark, save at one hole, about an inch and a half
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 221 
 
 in the diameter, to which he applies a long perspective 
 trunk, witli a convex glass fitted to the said hole, and 
 the concave taken out at the other end, which oxtendeth 
 to about the middle of this erected tent, through vJiich 
 the visible radiations of all the objects without, are intro- 
 mitted, falling upon a paper, which is accommodated 
 to receive tliem, and so he traceth them with his pen in 
 tlieir natural appearance, turning his little tent round by 
 degrees, till he hath designed the whole aspect of the 
 field. This I have described to your Lordship, because 
 I think there might be good use madeofitfor Ciiorogra- 
 phy ; for otherwise, to make landscips by it were illiberal ; 
 though surely no painter can do them so precisely. — 
 Now, from these artificial and natural curiosities, let 
 me a little diiectyour Lordship to the contemplation of 
 fortune. 
 
 •' Here, by a slight battle, full of miserable errors, 
 if 1 had leisure to set them down, all is reduced, or 
 near the point. In the Province, there is nothing but 
 of fluctuation and submission, the ordinary conse- 
 quences of victory; v. herein the triumphs of the field 
 do not so much vex my soul, as the triumphs of the 
 pulpit; for what noise will now the Jesuit disseminate 
 more in every corner, than Victrix Causa Deo placuit ; 
 which yet was but the Gospel of a Poet : No, my 
 Lord, when I revolve what great things Zisca did ia 
 the first troubles of his country, that were grounded 
 upon conscience, I am tempted to believe the all-dis- 
 tinguishing eye hath been more displeased with some 
 human aft'ections in this business, than with the business 
 itself. 
 
 " I am now preparing ray departure toward my other 
 employment ; for in my first instructions I had a power 

 
 222 SIR HENRY W0TT05. 
 
 to go hence, when this controversy should be decided, 
 either by treaty, or hy fortune; whereof now the worser 
 means have perverted the better. 
 
 " Here I leave the French embassadors upon the 
 stage, as I found them ; being willing, quod solum 
 superest, to deal between the Emperor and Bethlehem 
 Gabor, with whom 1 have nothing to do, as he is now 
 singled. 
 
 " Betwixt this and Italy I purpose to collect the 
 memorablest observations that I have taken of this great 
 affair, and to present a copy thereof unto your Lord- 
 ship's indulgence,not to your severe judgment. 
 
 «' The present 1 cannot end, though I have too much 
 tisurped upon your precious time, without the return of 
 my humble thanks unto your Lordship, for the kind 
 remembrance of my cousin, Mr. John Meawtis, in 
 your letter to me, and of your recommendation of him 
 before; being a gentleman, in truth, of sweet condi- 
 tions and strong abilities : I shall now transport him 
 over the Alps, where we will both serve your Lordship 
 and love one another. And so beseeching God to 
 bless your Lordship with long life and honour, I hum- 
 bly rest. 
 
 Your Lordship's" 
 
 The negociation at Vienna, as it was much the most 
 important, so it appears to have been the last state 
 affair in which Sir Henry VYotton was engaged. He 
 returned to his residence at Venice in the latter end of 
 the year 1620, where from the length of his employ- 
 ment, he had become in a great measure naturalised. 
 He seems however, from this time, to have occupied 
 himself less in political business, and to have indulged
 
 SIR HENHY WOTTON. 223 
 
 his fondness for literature and the arts. In December 
 1622 he addressed a letter to the king, with the signa- 
 ture of Oc'avio Baldi, announcing his intention of 
 composing a history of Venice, and inclosing a specimen 
 of the preface, written in the latin language, for the 
 royal approbation. This intention does not appear to 
 have been carried into eft'ect; which is to be regretted. 
 Sir Henry NVotton being certainly well qual fiedfoi the 
 task, and his latin superior to his English style. Some 
 few detached papers on Venetian subjects are preserved 
 in the "Reliquiie," but they are not of much value. 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton at this period of his life seems to 
 have paid his court to the Duke of Buckingham with 
 much assiduity. The following letters exhibit strong 
 traits of character. 
 
 To the Duke. 
 
 " My most honoured Lord and Patron — 
 
 " These poor lines will be presented unto 
 your lordship by ray nephew, one of your obliged ser- 
 vants ; and withal, some description, as I have prayed 
 him, of my long infirmities, which have cast me behind 
 in many private, and often interrapted even my public 
 duties ; with which yet I do rather seek to excuse some 
 other defects of service, than my silence towards your 
 lordship. For to importune your lordship seldom with 
 my pen, is a choice in me, and not a disease, having, 
 resolved to live, at what distance soever from your 
 sight, like one who had well studied before I came 
 hither, how secure they are whom you once vouch- 
 safe any part of your love. 
 
 And indeed I am well confirmed therein bj- your own 
 gracious lines ; for thereby I see that your lordship had
 
 224 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 me ill your meditation, when I scant remembered myself. 
 In answer of whicli letter, after some respite from mine 
 own evils, I have deputed my said nephew tore-deliver 
 my fortune into your noble hands, and to assure your 
 lordship that as it should be cheerfully spent at your 
 command, if it were present ond actual, from whose 
 meditation 1 have derived it, so much more am 1 bound 
 to yield up unto your Lordship an absolute disposition 
 of my hopes : but if it shall please you therein to grant 
 me any part of mine own humour, then I would rather 
 wish some other satisfaction than exchange of office : 
 yet even in this point likewise, I shall depend on your 
 will, which your lordship may indeed challenge from 
 me, not only by an humble gratitude and reverence due 
 to your most worthy person ; but even by that natural 
 charity and discretion which T owe myself : for what 
 do I more therein, than only remit to your own ar- 
 ^bitrement the valuation of your own goodness ? 1 have 
 likewise committed to my aforesaid nephew some me- 
 morials touching your lordship's familiar service, as I 
 may term it, in matter of art and delight. But though 
 I have laid these offices upon another, yet I joy with 
 mine own pen to give your lordship an account of a 
 gentleman worthier of your love than I was of the 
 honour to receive him from you. We are now, after 
 his well spent travels in the towns of purer language, 
 married again till a second divorce, for which I shall 
 be sorry whensoever it shall happen. For in truth my 
 good lord, his conversation is both delightful and 
 fruitful; and I dare pronounce that he will return 
 to his friends as well fraught with the best observations 
 as any that hath ever sifted this country ; which indeed 
 doth need sifting, for there is both flour and bran in it.
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTOTSr. 225 
 
 He hath divided his abode between Viena and Rome : 
 the rest of his time was for the most part spent in motion. 
 I think his purpose to be to take the French tongue ia 
 his way homeward, but I am persuading with him to 
 make Brussels liis seat, both because the French and 
 Spanish languages are familiar there ; whereof the one 
 will be after Italian a sport unto him, so as he may 
 make the other a labour : and for that the said town is 
 now the scene of an important treaty, which I fea^ will 
 last till he come thither ; but far be from me all ominous 
 conceit. I will end with cheerful thoughts and wishes; 
 beseeching the Almighty God to preserve your lordship 
 in health, and to cure the public diseases. And so I 
 ever remain 
 
 Your Lordship's most devoted 
 And obliged Servant, 
 
 H. WOTTON." 
 Venice, July 29, 1622. 
 
 To the Duke. 
 
 " My most honoured and dear Lord — 
 
 " To give your Lordship occasion to exer- 
 cise your noble nature, is withal one of the best 
 exercises of mine own duty ; and therefore I am confi- 
 dent to pass a very charitable motion through your 
 lordship's hands and mediation to his majesty. 
 
 " There hath long lain in the prison of Inquisition, a 
 constant worthy gentleman, viz. Master Mole ; in whom 
 his majesty hath not only a right as his subject, but 
 likewise a particular interest in the cause of his first 
 imp.isonment : For having communicated his majesty's 
 immortal work, touching the allegiance due unto sove- 
 reign princes, with a Florentine of his familiar
 
 220 SIR HENRY WOTTON, 
 
 acquaintance, this man took such impression at some 
 passages, as troubling his conscience, he took occasion 
 at the next shrift to confer certain doubts with his con- 
 fessor ; who out of malicious cariosity enquiring all 
 circumstances, gave afterwards notice thereof to Rome, 
 whither the said Mole was gone with mj^ Lord Ross ; 
 who in this story is not without blame, but 1 will not 
 disquiet his grave. 
 
 "Now having lately heard that his majesty, at the 
 suit of I know not what embassadors, but the Floren- 
 tine amongst them is voiced for one, was pleased to 
 yield some releasement to certain restrained persons of 
 the Roman faith; I have taken a conceit upon it that in 
 exchange of his clemency therein, the great Duke 
 would be easily moved by the king's gracious request, 
 to intercede with the Pope for Master Mole's delivery : 
 To vyhich purpose, if it shall please his majesty to grant 
 his royal letters, I will see the business duly pursued. 
 And so needing no arguments to commend this propo- 
 sition to his majesty's goodness, but his goodness itself, 
 1 leave it as 1 began, in your noble hands. Now 
 
 * touching your lordship's familiar service, as I may 
 term it, I have sent the compliment of your bargain 
 upon the best provided, and best manned ship that hath 
 been here in long time, called the Piioenix. And in- 
 deed, the cause of their long stay hath been for some 
 such vessel as I might trust. About which since I 
 wrote last to your lordship, I resolved to fall back to 
 
 I my first choice : so as now the one piece is the work 
 i of Titian, wherein the least figure, viz. the child in the 
 
 * virgin's lap playing with a bird, is alone worth the 
 price of your expence for all four, being so round, that 
 I know not whether I shall call it a piece of sculpture
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 227 
 
 or picture ; and so lively, that a man would be tempted 
 to doubt whether naure or art had made it. The other 
 is of Palma, and this I call the spec kiny -piece, as your 
 lordship will say it may well be termed; for except the 
 damsel broiiiiht to David, whom a silent modesty did 
 best become, all the other tigures are in discourse and 
 action. Tl'.ev come both distended in their frames : for 
 I dm st not hazard them in rowls, the youngest being 
 25 yeais old, aiu! therefore no longer supple and pliant. 
 With mem I have been bold to send a d'sh of grapes 
 to your noble sister, the Countess of Denbigh, pre- 
 senting them first to your lordship's view, that you may 
 be pleased to pass your censure whether Italians can 
 make fruits as well as Flemings, v/hich is the common 
 glory of their pencils. By this gentleman I have sent 
 the choicest melon seeds of all kinds, which his ma- 
 jesty doth expect, as I had order both from my lord of 
 Holderneis, and from Mr. Secretary Calvert. And 
 althouoh in my letter to his mdjesty,. which I hope by 
 your lordship's favour, himself shall have the honour 
 to deliver, together with the said seeds, I have done 
 him right in his due attributes; yet let me say of him 
 farther, as architects use to speak of a well chosen 
 foundation, that your lordship may boldly buikl what 
 fortune you please upon him, (or surely he will bear it 
 virtuously. 1 have committed to him for the last place, 
 a private memorial touching myself, wherein I shall 
 humbly beg your lordship's intercession upon a neces- 
 sary motive. And so with ray heartiest prayers to 
 heaven for your continual health and happiness, I most 
 humbly rest, 
 
 Yov.r Lordship's eVer 
 
 Obliged devoted Servant, 
 Vaiice, Bee. 12, 1G22. I 'V."
 
 22* SIR HENRY WOTTOSr* 
 
 Postscript. 
 
 " My noble Lord — 
 
 " It is one of my duties to tell your lordship 
 that I have sent a servant of mine, by profession a 
 painter, to make a search in the best towns through 
 Italy, for some principal pieces, which I hope may 
 produce somewhat for your lordship's contentment and 
 service." 
 
 The last published letter in the series, written from 
 abroad, is of the date of 1622-3, addressed to the 
 Earl of Holderness, and contaiHing the following pas- 
 sage : — " Now, for mine own obHgations unto your 
 Lordship, whereof I have from some friends at home 
 very abundant knowledge, what shall I say ? It was 
 in truth, my Lord, an argument of your noble nature, 
 to take my fortune into your care, who never yet made 
 it any great part of mine own business. I am a poor 
 student in philosophy, which hath redeemed me not 
 only from the envymg of others, but even from much 
 solicitude about myself. It is true, that my most 
 gracious ma.ster hath put me into civil practice, and now 
 after long service, 1 gTOw into a little danger of wish- 
 ing I were worth somewhat. But in this likewise I do 
 quiet my thoughts : for I see by your Lordship's so 
 free and undeserved estimation of me, that like the 
 cripple, who had lain long at the pool of Bethesda, I 
 shall find somebody that will throw me into the water 
 when it moveth." 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton returned home soon after the date 
 of the letter above quoted from. It is most probable he 
 procured his recall, with the intention of soliciting 
 some provisioa for his declining years. The following
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 2'29 
 
 letter is without date, hut it was evidently written soon 
 after his arrival in England. 
 
 To the Duke. 
 ** May it please your Grace, 
 
 " Having some days by sickness been de- 
 prived of the comfort of your sight, who did me so 
 much honour at my last access, I am bold to make 
 these poor lines happier than myself: and withal, to 
 represent unto your grace, whose noble patronage is my 
 refuge when I tind any occasion to bewail mine own 
 fortune, a thing which seemed strange unto me. I am 
 told, I know not how truly, that his majesty hath 
 already disposed the Venetian embassage to Sir Isaac 
 Weake ; from whose sufficiency if I should detiact, it 
 would be but an argument of my own weakness. 
 
 But that which herein dolh touch me, I am loth to 
 say in point of reputation, surely much in my livelihood 
 as lawyers speak, is, that thereby after seventeen years 
 of foreign and continual employment, either o dinary or 
 extraordinary, I am left utterly destitiile oi" all possi- 
 bility to subsist at home; much like those seal iishes, 
 which sometimes as they say, oversleeping themselves 
 io an ebbing water, feel nothing about them but a dry 
 shore when they awake. "^Vhich comparison 1 am fain 
 to seek among those creatures, not knowing among 
 men, that have so long served so gracious a master, 
 any one to whom I may resemble my unfortunate 
 bareness. Good my lord, as your grace hath vouch- 
 safed me some part of your love, so make me worthy 
 in this, of some part of your compassion. So I hum- 
 bly rest. Your Grace's, &c. 
 
 H. A\ OTTON.'' 
 
 Y
 
 230 . SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 The subsequent address to the king, is also of the 
 same date, though published without any. It distinctly 
 exhibits the object Sir Henry AYotton had in view in 
 soliciting his recal. 
 
 " To his sacred Blajesty. 
 
 " I do humbly resume the ancient manner, which was 
 adiie Ccesarem per Libelhim : with confidence in the 
 cause, and in your Majesty's gracious equity, though 
 not in mine own merit. 
 
 During my late employment, Sir E. P. then jNIaster 
 of the Rolls died. By his death Sir Julius C^sar 
 claimed not only the succession of that place, but the 
 gift of all the Cle;kships of the Chancery, that should 
 fall void in his own time. 
 
 Of these Clerkships your Majesty had formerly 
 
 granted two reversions : the one to the late Lord Bruce ; 
 
 for which Mr. Bond, secretary to my Lord Chancellor 
 
 had contracted with him. The second to me. The 
 
 said Bond got his grant through the favour of his 
 
 master to be confirmed by Sir Julius Cnesar before his 
 
 entrance into the Rolls : but through my absence in 
 
 your majpsty's service, and want of pressing it in the 
 
 due season, my grant remained unconfirmed, though 
 
 your majesty was pleased to write your gracious letter 
 
 in my behalf. Which maketh me much bewail mine 
 
 own case, that my deserts were so poor, as your royal 
 
 mediation was of less value for me, than my Lord 
 
 Chancellor's for his servant. The premises considered, 
 
 my humble suit unto your majesty is this ; that Sir 
 
 Julius Cassar may be drawn by your supreme authority, 
 
 to confirm unto rae my reversion of the second 
 
 clerkship, whereof I have a patent under your great
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 231 
 
 seal. Wherein 1 have jtist confidence in your majesty's 
 grace, since your very laws do restore them that have 
 been any ways prejudiced in servicio regis. 
 
 Your Majesty's 
 
 Long devoted 
 
 Poor Servant, 
 H. ^YOTTON." 
 
 In April 16-23, the Provostship of Eton became 
 vacant by the death of Thomas Murray. Williams, 
 the Lord Keeper, notices this event in a letter to the 
 Duke of Buckingham, his master, in the following 
 terms, — " Mr. Murray the provost of Eton, is now 
 dead: the place stayed by the fellows and myself 
 until your lordship's pleasure be known. Whomsoever 
 your lordship shall name I shall like of, though it be 
 Sir William Becker, though this provostship never de- 
 scended so low. The king named to me yesterday 
 morning. Sir Albertus Morton, Sir Dudley Carlton, 
 and Sir Robert Ayton, oar late Queen's secretary. 
 But in ray opinion, though he named him, last, his 
 majesty inclined to this Ayton most. It will rest 
 wholly upon your lordship to name the man. It is 
 somewhat necessary to be a good scholar, but more 
 that he be a good husband, and a careful manager, 
 and a stayed man, which no man can be that is so 
 much indebted as the Lord of St. Albans."* — Tlie lord 
 of St. Albans was the famous Bacon. The all-power- 
 ful Buckingham, to whom the sycophant prelate ad- 
 dressed himself, paid little attention to his intimation 
 of the royal inclinations. Our Kentish courtier, who 
 
 * Bacon's Works, Vol. 3, page 636, as quoted by Dr. Zouch.
 
 232 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 selected well his objects of worship, had gained the 
 influence of the favourite, and by his command he 
 was instituted to the Provostship July 2Gth, 1624. — 
 He did not however obtain this valuable presentation 
 without some sacrifice. Walton (ells us, "by means 
 of the interest of all his friends, and quitting the King 
 of his promised reveisionary offices, and a piece of ho- 
 nest policy, which I have not time to relate, he got the 
 grant from his majesty." 
 
 The value of this Provostship in the reign of James 
 the First, is uncertain. Its value a century before is 
 fixed by the following anecdote : — " Sir Thomas Wyatt 
 one day told the King, that he had found out a Hving 
 of one liundreu pounds in the year more Ihan enough, 
 and prayed iiim to bestow it on him. Truly, said the 
 King, we have no such in England. — Yes, Sir, said 
 Sir Thonias M'yatt, the Provostship of Eton, where a 
 man has his diet, his lodging, his horse-meat, his sev- 
 vant's wages, his riding charges, and one hundred 
 pound besidi s."* — It is not to be wondered at that a 
 , situation so admirably suited to a retiring statesman, 
 should be eaaerlv coveted. 
 
 However well qualif-ed Sir Henry Wotton might have 
 been for his new office in point of scholarship, he cer- 
 tainly was deficient in what the Lord Keeper deemed 
 the more necessary qualifications : he had not displayed 
 the conduct of a " good husband" in his own private 
 affairs, and though perhaps not so much embarrassed as 
 the ex-chancellor, yet he was, at the time of his ap- 
 pointment, oppressed with debts of longstanding. The 
 
 * Lloytrs State Woriliies— p. 79.
 
 SIR HSNRY WOTTON. 233 
 
 annuity derived from his father's will he had before 
 disposed of to his brother, the Baron, — and he had 
 expended more than the income derived from his state 
 employments, in generous living, and indulging in his 
 fondness for the fine arts. AVhen he took possession 
 of his apartments in the College of Eton, he v.as ac- 
 tually without the means of furnishing them, 'i'heie 
 appears at this time to have been arrears of money due 
 ti> him the from exchequer, and he was compelled to 
 exeriall the interest he had at court, to obtain a pay- 
 ment of £5C0 io defray his temporary expences. 
 
 What the exact nature of these arrears was, does not 
 satisfactorily appear ; whether portions of established 
 salary unpaid, or claims of remuneration for extraordi- 
 nary expences incu red during his state employments. 
 Both James the First and his successor, were, it is 
 well known, constantly necessitous, but it is too much 
 to assert, without clear proofs, that either of them 
 would suft'er a'l old and faithful servant to sue in vain 
 for claims justly due to him. It is most probable, that 
 the arrears sought to be obiainedbj' Sir Henry Wotton 
 were of a disputable nature, and might have been the 
 payment of debts incurred by him in his public capacitj^, 
 where his established salary did not equal his expences. 
 Dr. Zouch, in a note appended to his edition o( A\^al- 
 ton's lives, has quoted the following passage fVo:n|the 
 StiatTord letters: — "Sir Henry Wotton is at this time 
 under an arrest for three hundred pounds, upon execu- 
 tion, and Ues by it. Ete was taken coming from the 
 Lord Treasurer's, soliciting a debt of four thousand 
 pounds due to him from the King." — The correctness 
 of this assertion may be doubted. In a petition pre- 
 sented to the King iu 1G28, Sir Henry Wotton gives
 
 234 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 the followina; account of his services and claims. — " 1 
 served the King your father, of most blessed memory, 
 from the time he sent for me, at the beginning of his 
 reign, out of Fronce, twenty years, that is, almost 
 now a third part of my life, iu ordinary and extraordi- 
 nary employments abroad. I had many comforta- 
 ble letters of hs contentment, or at least, of his 
 gracious toleiatiou of my poor endeavouiL^ ; and I had 
 under his royal hand, two hopes of reversion. The 
 first, a moiety of a six clerk's place in Chancery. The 
 next of the office of the Rolls itseli'. The li(st of these 
 I was forced to yield to Sir William Beecher, ^]ion the 
 late Duke of Buckingham's former engagement to him 
 by promise, even after your majesty had been pleas^ed 
 to intercede for me with yout said ever blessed father. 
 And that was as much in value as my Provostship 
 were worth at a market. The other, of the reversion 
 of the Rolls, I surrendered to the said Duke, upon 
 his own very instant motion, though with serious pro- 
 mise, upon his honour, that he would procure rae some 
 equivalent recompence. I could likewise lemeraber 
 your majesty, the losses I have sustained abroad, by 
 taking up moneys for my urgent use, at more than 
 twenty in the hundred : by casualty of fire, to the da- 
 mage of near four hundred pounds iu my particular ; 
 by the raising of moneys in Germany, whc eby my 
 small allow auce when I was sent to the Emperor's 
 court, fell short five hundred pounds; and other ways.'' 
 He goes on to beg some portion of the profits de- 
 rived from the office of the Rolls, "towards the dis- 
 charge of such debts as he liad contracted in public 
 services, yet remaining upon rnterest;" and the " next 
 good Deanery that shall bo vacant by death or remove."
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 2S5 
 
 An indirect censure is passed in this document upon 
 the conduct of his good lord and patron, Buckingliam ; 
 but notliiiig is said of the bargain concluded when he 
 acquired the Provostship; which appears to have been 
 given !iim as an equivalent to the offices he had been 
 promised, and conditionally, that he should on such 
 appointment resign his claim to them : this is expressly 
 Dientioned by his biographer. If a debt of several 
 thousand pounds had been due to him, it is most pro- 
 bable it would liave been included in his statement of 
 his claims upon the King, but nothing of the kind 
 occurs. What he requests of the King, he "hum- 
 bly begs," to use his own words, from his ** royal 
 equity," and his " very compassion." If arrears of 
 salary had been due to liim, he might have demanded 
 it of his justice. Whatever may have been the nature 
 of his claims, it is certain that a pension of £200 a year 
 was settled upon him immediately after his petition was 
 presented ; and this pension was increased to £500 two 
 years afterwards. This augmentation was made in a 
 very handsome and delicate manner ; it was connected 
 with a compliment paid to his literary attainments by 
 the king, and was expressly assigned to him to enable 
 him to compose the ancient history of England, and to 
 bestow £100 upon the amanuenses and clerks neces- 
 sary to be employed in the woik.* Upon the whole, 
 there are good reasons to believe that Sir Henry Wot- 
 ton had as little cause to complain of the ingratitude of 
 princes, as most men who have devoted their lives to 
 their service. His employment abroad was of his 
 own selection ; and it might probably, with prudent 
 
 * Acta Regia— p. 81a.
 
 236 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 management, have been as profitable to him as it cer- 
 tainly was pleasant. He chose his own time of retirement 
 and in a few months after his return home, he obtained 
 an appointment in every respect suited to his habits, and 
 adapted for his wants. In addition to this he received 
 by successive grants, the pensions above noticed. 
 
 l^'hen he had been Provost of Eton three years, Sir 
 Henry Wotton, from scruples of conscience, entered 
 into holy orders, which was not strictly required of 
 him, as the office had been previously held by laymen, 
 though considered an ecclesiastical benefice, and under 
 the jurisdiction of a Bishop. It is most probable (hat 
 Sir Henry had private views in assuming the clerical- 
 stole; we have seen that he petitioned the King for the 
 " next good Deaney," and il is liUely that he aimed at 
 annexing other church preferment to his situation of 
 Provost. In this he was however disappointed. 
 
 Wlien established in his Piovostship, Sir Henry 
 Wollon might have assumed life philosopher bidden adieu 
 to the cares of the world, and enjoyed in perfection the 
 otiuni cum aiynitatc ^o much the object i.i perspective, 
 of all enterprising men. jjut he was oppressed with 
 debts, which harassed his mind, and destroyed his 
 independence. He hud been too long engaged in po- 
 litics to withdra\v his attention entirely from the 
 arena ol" liic slate; and his time of life, and STOwina: 
 infirmities, checked his ardour in the several literary 
 projection'^ in uhich he at uiil'erent times indulged. 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton enjoyed the Provostship of Eton 
 fifteen years, and died in November, 1G39, in the 
 72nd year of his age. His will, which bears date two 
 years before his death, is curious : " concerning which,"
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 237 
 
 says Walton, " a doubt still remains, whether it dis- 
 covered more holy loit, or conscionahle policy. But 
 there is no doubt, that his chief design was a christian 
 endeavour that his debts might be satisfied." In this 
 will, he bequeathed legacies of pictures and other valua- 
 bles to the King, Queen, and the Prince their son; 
 and to the Archbishop Laud aud Bishop Juxon, each a 
 valuable picture. Earnestly requesting the prelates, 
 that they would intercede with the King, to procure an 
 order that his creditors should be satisfied out of his 
 " arrears due in the Exchequer." It is satisfactory to 
 be told by Walton, that his honest desires were ac- 
 complished. 
 
 The whimsical epitaph which he selected for his mo- 
 numental stone, liardly deserves notice. It is neither 
 original, elegant, nor just, and exhibits the declining 
 faculties of old age.* 
 
 Sir Henry Wotlon was, to use his own words, " a 
 courtier in dangerous times," — dangerous for honest in- 
 dependence, sound integrity, and dignified conduct. 
 The king he served was a v/eak vain man, who expected 
 and as far as he could extorted, from all his agents, 
 unconditional submission ; who ruled as he thought by 
 divine right, but was himself governed by worthless 
 favourites and abject parasites ; who escaped fi om being- 
 a tyrant, by being in hi.i nature a coward. To James 
 however, more than to any king that ever reigned over 
 it, England is indebted, and to his pusillanimity, or if 
 it be a more decent term, his pacific disposifion, it 
 owes the improved constitution of government it now 
 
 * Hie jacet biijns sententiae primus author. Disputandi 
 FRURiTU* ECCLEsiAUL'M SCABIES. — Nomeu alias quaere.
 
 238 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 enjoj^s. The genius of liberty to which his regal creed 
 at first gave birth, passed its infancy unmolested and 
 attained an unnatural growtli, not by the nurture he af- 
 forded it, but by his forbearance. He well knew, and 
 his coward nature trembled at the presence of the giant 
 infant, but his fears forbade him from crushing it when 
 yet feeble and incapable of resistance, by the weight 
 of arbitrary power, and it throve vigorously in privacy 
 and retirement.* During his reign occasion was wanting 
 to call forth its strength ; in that of his successor it was 
 displayed with energy ill-directed, and all the rashness 
 of headstrong youth; but it had now attained the vigour 
 
 * The different character of the times in the reign of Eliz- 
 abeth, and in that of James, was never better drawn than by 
 Clarendon, in his reply to Sir Henry Wotton's parallel between 
 the Earl of Essex aiid the Duke of Buckingham. Of the 
 reign of Elizabeth, he remarks — 
 
 " Twas an ingpnuoiis nninquisitive time, when all the pas- 
 sions and affections of the people were lapped up in such an 
 innocent and humble obedience, that there was never the le.st 
 contestation nor capitulation wiih the Queen, nor, though she 
 very frequently consulted with her subjects, any further rea- 
 sons urged of her actions, than her own will." 
 
 In the reign of James, on the contrary : — 
 
 " 'Twas a busy querulous forward time, so much degenerated 
 from the purity of the former, that the people, under preienoe 
 of reformation, with some petulant discourses of liberty, which 
 their great impostors scattered amongst them, like false glasses 
 to multiply their fears, extended their enquiries even into the 
 chamber and private actions of the King himself. 'Twas 
 strange to see how men afflicted themselves to find out calami- 
 ties and mischiefs, whilst they borrowed the name of some 
 great person to scandalise the state they lived in. A general 
 disorder throughout the whole body of the commonwealth ; 
 nay, the vital part perishing, the laws violated by the judges, 
 religion prophaned by the prelates, heresies crept inio the 
 church, and countenanced; and yet all this shall be quickly 
 rectified without so much as being beholden to the King, or 
 consulting with the clergy."
 
 sin HENRY WOTTON. 230 
 
 of manhood, it acquired wisdom by experience, and 
 succeeding tyrants strove with its might in vain. A 
 successful courtier under such a king, must be of pHant 
 fibre, and sac.i an one was onr Kentish knight. He 
 seems to have placed before himself a^^ an example for 
 imitation, his sreat uncle the poli.ical Dean of Canter- 
 bury ; like him he sought employmeiit as a state agent 
 at a foreign court, and he aimed at procuring the same 
 reward that his ancestor obtained ; " a good Deanery." 
 Sir Henry Wotton was a faithful and an honest servant, 
 and being by good fortune removed from the contami- 
 nation of the court during the greater part of his active 
 life, he escaped from the constant exercise of that 
 meanness which would have been required to preserve 
 a station there. Assuredly he wanted the firmness of 
 principle that would have taught him to despise an 
 elevation so obtained. Some allowance must be made 
 for his personal necessities which appear at all times to 
 have been pressing, and to the embarrassed state of his 
 circumstances we may in charity attribute much of 
 that adulation which in the latter part of his life he 
 lavished with an unspasing hand upon every man that 
 attained power, whether A'^illiers or Bacon, or Williams 
 or Weston. His object in panegyrising such men as 
 these is at all times visible, probably for its attainment 
 at the moment too visible ; he sought arrears due to him 
 from the government, reward for services, and the 
 means of extricating himself from debt. With similar 
 intentions it is to be feared, though noi so openly 
 avowed, he addressed to Ciiarles the 1st, upon his 
 return from Scotland in 1633, a personal panegyric 
 couched in the most flattering tems and embellished 
 with the graces of Roman language.
 
 240 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 This was the weak and faulty part of Wotton 
 character ; in priv ate life, and in the circle of his friends 
 few men appear to more advantage. His loyal and 
 almost affectionate attachment to his mistress the un- 
 fortunate Queen of Bohemia, whom he always addressed 
 by the title of " Most resplendent queen, even in the 
 darkness of fortune." The real affection he bore for 
 his nephew Sir Albertus Morton, for Sir Edmund Ba- 
 con and his lady, for honest Nicholas Pey, for his 
 Chaplain, for whom he procured from the king a 
 handsome provision ; for his domestic friend Nicholas 
 Oudart, whom he informs us he had " trained from a 
 child," and who resided with him until his death, and 
 last, though perhaps not least, for worthy Isaac Walton 
 are all honourable to his memory, and displayed in 
 many dehghtful traits scattered throughout his published 
 correspondence. It was our intention to have made 
 copious extracts from these parts of the " Reliquiie," 
 but our limits warn us to forbear. 
 
 The literary remains of Sir Henry Wotton are not 
 so important as might be expected from the situations 
 he held, and the opportunities he enjoyed for observation 
 durin"- a long and active life. He does not seem to 
 have set much value upon the efforts of his pen, if 
 a judgment may be formed from what he ventured to 
 commit to the press ; the only work he printed being 
 " The Elements of Architecture." This v/as published 
 in 1624 and was most probably written during his re- 
 sidence at Venice. Being the first work of its kind in 
 England, it attracted some attention on its appearance, 
 but has long since been thrown into the shade by suc- 
 ceeding efforts of more value. It is reprinted by 
 Walton in the Reliqu?e. His political work, entitled
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 241 
 
 *' Tlie State of Christendom," was twice printed after 
 his death, in 1657 and 1677 ; it seems to be a work of 
 little estimation, and written for a temporary purpose. 
 A translation of his latin panegyric on Charles the first, 
 by an unknown pen, was also printed after his death ; 
 and two manuscripts of his hand are said to be in ex- 
 istence; one a journal of his several embassies to 
 Venice, formerly in the library of Lord Conway ; the 
 other on the subject of duels, in the library of the Col- 
 lege of Arms. 
 
 The collection published by Walton is of a 
 miscellaneous character, and the various articles are 
 huddled together without any attempt at arrangement. 
 The most important part of it, is the various letters and 
 state papers from which the preceding account has been 
 drawn, and extracts given. The papers on the subject 
 of the negociation at Vienna in 1620, are valuable as 
 historical documents ; these are dispersed in different 
 parts of the volume. Of his historical essays, the 
 most worthy of notice are those devoted to the memory 
 of his powerful patrons the Earl of Essex and the 
 Duke of Buckingham, which coming from such a 
 source have supplied the writers on the period in which 
 they lived with genuine materials. Sir Henry Wottoil 
 hovs^ever, viewed the conduct of Villiers with a partial 
 eye, and has probably given us only the better parts of 
 his character; it must be remembered that he was his 
 friend and patron, and much of what he advanced was 
 dictated by gratitude or prejudice. We are told by 
 Walton, that Sir Henry Wottou in his retirement, 
 meditated a history of the reformation under Luther, 
 for which he had collected materials, but that he was 
 prevailed upon to lay the work aside by the king, and 
 
 V
 
 242 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 substitute in its stead the history of his own country . 
 For this purpose as we have shewn, a handsome pen- 
 sion was assigned to him, but very little fruit of his 
 labour remains ; he was too far advanced in hfe for 
 such a task as this, being at the time he obtained his 
 pension in tl>e sixty-third year of his age, and infirm in 
 heaUh. On the subject of Venetian history there are 
 three or four unimportant papers. Some sHght materials 
 also are preserved towards a more finished treatise on 
 education, which seems to have occupied his leisure in 
 the college. His panegyric on Kmg Charles ; two re- 
 ligious meditations ; and his poems complete the volume. 
 
 Walton informs us that Sir Henry Wotton destroyed 
 many papers "that had passed his pen, both in the 
 days of his youth, and in the busy part of his life," 
 during his last illness. He himself in one of his 
 letters of the date of 1628, makes the following re- 
 mark. — "I have ransacked mine own poor papers for 
 some entertainment for the Queen." (of Bohemia) 
 " Though it be now a misery to revisit the fancies of 
 my youth, v.hich my judgment tells me are all too 
 green, and ray glass tells me, that 1 myself am grey." 
 
 There is nothing remarkable in the prose style of Sir 
 Henry "SVotton. It exhibits the prevailing faults of the 
 age in which he lived; being formal, pedantic, abound- 
 ing in expletives, deficient in grace, and void of 
 harmony. It is however, superior to that of Sir Philip 
 Sidney, fully equal to Lord Bacon's, and perhaps 
 little inferior to Clarendon's. Some of the selections we 
 have already made from his letters may be consideied 
 favourable specimens, as they appear to have been 
 written with much care and deliberation. The following 
 exordium to his " Life and death of the Duke of 
 Buekingham," is in his very best manner.
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 243 
 
 «' I determine to write the life and the end, the natare 
 and the fortunes, of George Villiers, Duke of Buck- 
 ingham ; esteeming him worthy to be registered among 
 the great examples of time and fortune. AV^hich yet I 
 have not undertaken out of any wanton pleasure in 
 mine own pen; nor truly, without much pondering 
 with myself before hand, what censures I might incur. 
 For I could not be ignorant by long observation both 
 abroad and at home, that every where all greatness of 
 ^hwer and favour is circura vested with much prejudice. 
 And that it is not easy for writers to research with due 
 distinction as they ought, in the actions of eminent 
 personages, both how much may have been blemished 
 by the envy of others, and what was corrupted in their 
 own felicity : unless after the period of their splendour 
 which must needs dazzle their beholders, and perhaps 
 oftentimes themselves, we could, as in some scenes of 
 the fabulous age, excite them again, and confer 
 awhile with their naked ghosts. However, for my 
 part, I have no servile or ignoble end in my present 
 labour, which may on either side restrain or embase 
 my poor judgment. I will therefore steer as evenly as 
 I can, and deduce him from his cradle, through the 
 deep and lubric waves of state and court, 'till he was. 
 swallowed in the gulph of fatality." 
 
 We come now to the leading object of the present 
 work, — Sir Henry Wotlon a^ a poet — aid this will not 
 detain us long. What may have been the character of 
 the " fancies of hi? youth," as they have not been pre- 
 served, so we have no means of judging ; but we may 
 venture to infer from the circumstances of his history, 
 and the objects to which he applied himself, that he 
 was not pf the poetic temperament, even at the poetic
 
 244 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 age. He was observing, hut his observations were for 
 the most part superficial. He studied, as Cowley remarks 
 "men and manners," but with the eye of a politician 
 rather than that of a poet or a philosopher; looking more 
 to actions and events than to their causes. On this 
 account it is to be presumed that he would not have 
 shone either as a historian, or as a votary of the muse, 
 had he in good earnest applied his mind to one or the 
 other of these pursuits. His judgment, without being 
 profound, would have curbed his imagination, and his 
 reasoning powers, though not at all times accurate, 
 would nevertheless, have been sufficient to check the 
 current of his enthusiasm. 
 
 The poems presei ved by AValton in the Reliquiae 
 Wottonianai, are few in number, and the longest does 
 not contain eighty lines; they are all, with the excep- 
 tion of two, written at an advanced period of his life, 
 on shght or unimportant occasions, and apparently 
 with little effort. It is plain, that if Sir Henry VVotton 
 possessed poetic strength, he did not exert it in such of 
 his poems as are extant, but we strongly suspect that 
 the worthy knight with all his apparent activity, was 
 in truth, deficient in energy, and fond of ease. The 
 complimentary stanzas addressed to the Queen of Bo- 
 hemia are worth all the remainder, and constitute in 
 fact, slight as they are, the only inspired poem in the 
 collection. The following are the best. . 
 
 Tears at the grave of Sir Albertus Morion, wept hj Sir 
 Henry Wot ton. 
 
 Silence, in truth, would speak my sorrows best, 
 For deepest wounds can least their feelings tell; 
 
 Yet let me borrow from mine own unrest, 
 
 But time to bid him whom I loved farewell !
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 245 
 
 Oh my unhappy lines ! you that before 
 
 Have sewed my youth to vent some wanton cries. 
 And now congealed with grief, can scarce implore 
 
 Strength to accent, — here my Albertus lies ! 
 
 This is the sable stone, this is the cave, 
 
 And womb of earth that doth his corpse embrace ; 
 
 While others sing his praise, let me engiave 
 These bleeding numbers to adorn the place. 
 
 Here will 1 paint the characters of woe ! 
 
 Here will 1 pay my tribute to the dead ! 
 And here my faithfultears in showers shall flow. 
 
 To humanise the flints whereon 1 tread. 
 
 Where though I mourn my matchless loss alone, 
 And none between my weakness judge and me; 
 
 Yet even these gentle walls allow my moan, 
 Whose doleful echoes to my plaints agree. 
 
 But is he gone? and live I rhyming here 
 As if some muse would listen to my lay. 
 
 When all distuned sit waiting for their dear. 
 
 And bathe the banks where he was wont to play? 
 
 Dwell thou in endless light, discharged soul ! 
 
 Freed now from nature and from foitune's trust : 
 
 While on this fluent globe my glass shall roll 
 
 And run the rest of my remaining dust. 
 
 H.W. 
 
 This elegy was written in IG26. Sir Albertus Mor_ 
 ton went as Secretary to his uncle. Sir Henry Wotton, 
 on his first embassy to Venice. He was afterwards se- 
 cretary to the Queen of Bohemia ; one of the clerks of the 
 council, — and at the time of his death, in November,
 
 246 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 1625, Secretary of State. Sir Albert us Morton is 
 frequently mentioned in his uncle's letters, in terms of 
 the warmest affection. The following passage in one 
 addressed to Nicholas Pey, written immediately after 
 his death, is highly honourable to all parties : — " Here, 
 when I had been almost a fortnight in the midst of much 
 contentment, I received knowledge of Sir Albertus 
 JMorton's departure out of this world, who was dearer 
 Tinto me than my ovvn being in it. What a wound it is 
 to my heart you will easily believe ; but His undisputa- 
 ble will be done, and unrepiniiigly received by all His 
 creatures, who is the lord of all nature and of all for- 
 tune, when he taketh away one, and then another, 'till 
 the expected day when it shall please him to dissolve 
 the whole, and to wrap up even the heavens itself as a 
 scroll of parchment. This is the last philosophy that we 
 must study upon earth. Let us now that yet remain, 
 while our glasses shall run by the dropping away of 
 friends, reinforce our love for one another ; which, of 
 all virtues, both spiritual and moral, hath the highest 
 privilege, because death shall not end it." 
 
 On a bank as I sate a Fishing. — A description of Spring . 
 
 And now all nature seemed in love, 
 The lusty sap began to move ; 
 New juice did stir the embracing vines. 
 And birds had drawn their valentines : 
 The jealous trout that low did lie. 
 Hose at a well dissembled fly : 
 There stood my friend with patient skill, 
 Attending of his trembling quill. 
 Already were the eaves possessed 
 With the swift pilgrim's daubed nest;
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 247 
 
 The groves already did rejoice 
 
 In Philomel's triumphant voice. 
 
 The showers were short, the weather mild. 
 
 The moHiiiig fresh, the evening smiled. 
 
 The fields and gardens were beset 
 
 With tulip, crocus, violet: 
 
 And now, though late, the modest rose 
 
 Did more than half a blush disclose. 
 
 Thus all looked gay, all full of cheer. 
 
 To welcome the new-liveried year. 
 
 H. W. 
 
 The friend hero "Uuded to was Isaac Walton, whose 
 fondness and talent for ii&hiug have rendered him im- 
 mortal. Perhaps a congenial disposition on the part 
 of Sir Henry Wotton, obtained for him in the latter 
 part of his life, the friendship of that worthy man. — 
 The following poem, on a very different subject, should 
 not be separated from the letter which first accom- 
 panied it; — 
 
 " To Isaac Walton. 
 
 " My worthy Friend — 
 
 " Since last I saw you, I have been con- 
 fined to my chamber by a quotidian fever, I thank God 
 of more contumacy than malignancy. It had once left 
 me as I thought, but it was only to fetch more com- 
 pany, returning with a surcrew of those vapours that 
 are called hypochondriacal ; of which most say, the 
 cure is good company, and I desire no better physi- 
 cian than yourself. I have in one of those fits endea- 
 voured to make it more easy by composing a short
 
 248 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 hymn ; and since I have apparelled my thoughts so 
 lightly as in verse, I hope I shall be pardoned a second 
 vanity, in communicating it with such a friend as your- 
 self: to whom I wish a cheerful spirit, and a thankful 
 heart to value it, as one of the greatest blessings of 
 our good God, in whose dear love 1 leave you, 
 remaining 
 
 Your poor friend to serve you, 
 
 H. WOTTON." 
 
 A Hymn to my God, in a night of my late Sickness. 
 
 Oh ! thou great power ! in whom I move, 
 For whom I live, — to whom I die. 
 
 Behold me through thy beams of love, 
 Whilst on this couch of tears I lie ; 
 
 And cleanse my sordid soul within. 
 
 By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin. 
 
 No hallowed oils, no grains I need, 
 No rags of saints, no purging fire ; 
 
 One rosy drop from David's seed. 
 
 Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire ! 
 
 Oh ! precious ransom ! — which once paid. 
 
 That constimmatnm est was said : 
 
 And said by him, that said no more. 
 But sealed it with his sacred breath : 
 
 Thou then that hast disponged my score. 
 And dying wast the death of death, 
 
 Be to me now, on thee 1 call. 
 
 My life, my strength, my joy, my all! 
 
 H. WOTTON.
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON, 249 
 
 Upon the sudden restraint of the Earl of Somersett 
 then falling from favour. 
 
 Dazzled thus with height of place. 
 Whilst our hopes our wits beguile, 
 
 No man marks the narrow space 
 'Twixt a prison and a smile ! 
 
 Then since fortune's favours fade, 
 
 You that in her arms do sleep. 
 Learn to swim and not to wade ; 
 
 For the hearts of kings are deep. 
 
 But if greatness be so blind. 
 
 As to trust in towers of air, 
 Let it be with goodness lined, 
 
 That at least the fall be fair. 
 
 Then, though darkened, you shall say. 
 When friends fail, and princes frown. 
 
 Virtue is the roughest way, 
 
 But proves at night a bed of down. 
 
 H. W. 
 
 This was written of course in 1615, and may be 
 considered one of the earliest poems of Sir Henry 
 Wotton extant. 
 
 The Character of a happy life. 
 
 How happy is he born and taught, 
 That serveth not another's will ! 
 
 Whose armour is his honest thought, 
 And simple truth his utmost skill.
 
 250 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 Whose passions not his masters are. 
 Whose soul is still prepared for death ; 
 
 Untied unto the world by care 
 
 Of public fame, or private breath. I| 
 
 Who envies not where chance doth raise, 
 
 Nor vice halh ever understood; 
 How deepest wounvls are given by praise. 
 
 Nor rules of state, but rules of good. 1 
 
 Who hath his litC^from rumour freed, " 
 Whose conscience is his strong retreat. 
 
 Whose state can neither flatterers feed. 
 Nor ruin make oppressors great. 
 
 Who God doth late and early pray. 
 
 More of his grace than gifts to lead : 
 And entertains the harmless day 
 
 With a religious book, or friend. 
 
 This man is freed from servile hands. 
 
 Of hope to rise, or fear to fall : 
 Lord of himself, though not of lands. 
 
 And having nothing, yet hath all. 
 
 H. WOTTON. 
 
 It may be presumed, that Sir Henry designed this 
 as a picture of himself in his retirement. 
 
 An Ode to the King ; at his retiirnincf from Scotland to 
 the Queen, after his Coronation tliere. 
 
 Rouse up thyself my gentle muse, — J 
 
 Though now our greea conceits be grey, — 
 
 And yet, once more, do not refuse 
 To take thy Phrygian harp and play, 
 In honour of this cheerful day. 
 
 i
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 251 
 
 Make first a song of j.oy and love, 
 Which cbastly fla ns ii royal eyes ; 
 
 Then tune it to the sj^heres above, 
 When the benigiiesl b.ai* do rise. 
 And sweet conjuiiciioiis grace the skies. 
 
 To this let all good hearts resound. 
 While diadeuis i .vest his head ; 
 
 Long niav he hve, vho^e life doth bound 
 Moie than his laws, and better lead 
 By high example, than by diead ! 
 
 Long may he round about hira see 
 His roses and his iillies bloom ! 
 
 Long may his only dear and he 
 Joy in ideas of their own, 
 And kingdom's hopes so timely sown ! 
 
 Long may they both contend to prove. 
 
 That best of crowns is such a love ! 
 
 H. W. 
 
 The return from Scotland iiere alluded to, took place 
 in 1633. 
 
 A translation of the CIV. Psalm, to the original sense. 
 
 My soul exalt the Lord with hymns of praise '. 
 
 O Lord my God, how boundless is thy might! 
 Whose fhroae of state is clothed with glorious rays, 
 
 And round about hast robed thyself with light. 
 Who like a Ccirtain hast the heavens displayed. 
 And in the watry roofs thy cnambers laid. 
 
 "Whose chariots are the thickened clouds above. 
 Who walk'st upon the Avinged winds below.
 
 252 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 At whose command tbe airy spirits move, 
 I And fiery meteors thtir obedience show. 
 Who on this base the earth didst firmly found. 
 And madst the deep to circamveit it round. 
 
 The waves tbat rise would drown the highest hill. 
 But at thy cbeck they fly, and when they hear 
 
 Thy thundering voice they post to do thy will. 
 And bound their furies in their proper sphere : 
 
 Where surging fiuods, and valing ebbs can tell. 
 
 That none beyond thy marks must sink or swell. 
 
 Who hath disposed but thou, the winding way 
 Where springs down from their steepy crags do beat 
 
 At which both fostered beasts their thirst allay. 
 And the wild asses come to quench their heat; 
 
 Where birds resort, and in their kind, thy praise 
 
 Among the branches chant in warbling lays ? 
 
 The mounts are watered from thy dwelling place ; 
 
 The barns and meads are filled for man and beast; 
 Wine glads the heart, and oil adorns the face. 
 
 And bread the staff whereon our strength cloth rest ; 
 Nor shrubs alone feel thy sufficing hand, 
 But even ttie cedars that so proudly stand. 
 
 So have the fowls their sundry seats to breed : 
 The ranging stork in stately beeches dwells ; 
 
 The chmbing goats on hills securely feed; 
 The mining coneys shroud in rocky cells : 
 
 Nor can the heavenly lights their course forget; 
 
 The moon her turns, or sun his times to set. 
 
 Thou mak'st the night to overveil the day, 
 
 Then savage beasts creep from the silent wood :
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 253 
 
 Then lion's whelps lie roaring for their prey, 
 
 And at thy powerful hand demand their food : 
 Who when at morn they all recouch again, 
 Then toiUng man 'till eve pursues his pain. 
 
 O Lord, when on thy various works we look. 
 How richly furnished is the earth we tread '. 
 
 Where in the fair contents of nature's book. 
 We may the wonders of thy wisdom read: 
 
 Nor earth alone, but lo, the sea so wide 
 
 Where great and small, a world of creatures glide. 
 
 There go the ships that furrow out their way , 
 Yea, there of whales enormous sights we see, 
 
 Which yet have scope among the rest to play. 
 And all do wait for their support on thee : 
 
 Who hast assigned each thing his proper food, 
 
 And in due season dost dispense thy good. 
 
 They gather when thy gifts thou dost divide ; 
 
 Their stores abound, if thou thy hand enlarge ; 
 Confused they are, when thou thy beams dost hide ; 
 
 In dust resolved, if thou their breath discharge. 
 Again, when thou of life renew'st the seeds. 
 The withered fields revest their chearful weed?. 
 
 Be ever gloried here thy sovereign name, 
 
 That thou raayst smile on all that thou hast made ; 
 
 Whose frown alone can shake this earthly frame. 
 And at whose touch the hills in smoke shall vade. 
 
 Forme, may while I breath, both harp and voice, 
 
 In sweet indictments of tiiy hymns rejoice. 
 
 Let sinners fail, let all profaneness cease, 
 His praise, my soul, his praise shall be thy peace ! 
 nr H. WOTTON.
 
 264 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 This is the most elaborate of all Sir Henry Wotton's 
 remaining poetical compositions, and may be fairly 
 considered a good example of a difficult kind of exer- 
 cise, in which many of our greatest writers have 
 entirely failed. The composition of hymns was one 
 of the purposed means of employing his leisure, 
 when set, led at Eton ; and he expressed this intention in 
 a letter to the king, announcing his having entered into 
 Deacon's orders, in the following passage. "Though 
 I must humbly confess, that both my conception and 
 expressions be weak, yet I do more trust my delibera- 
 tion than my memory: or if your majesty will give me 
 leave to paint myself in higher terms, I think I shall be 
 bolder against the judgments than against the faces of 
 men. This I conceive to be a piece of mine own cha- 
 racter ; so as my private study must be my theatre, 
 rather than a puipit ; and my books my auditors, as 
 they arc all my treasure. Howsoever, if 1 can produce 
 nothing else for the use of church and state, yet it shall 
 bp comfort enough to the little remnant of my life, to 
 compose some hymns to his endless glory, who hath 
 called me, for which his name be ever blessed, though 
 late, to his service, yet early to the knowledge of his 
 truth, and sense of his mercy." 
 
 Upon the Death of Sir Alhertus Morton's Wife. 
 
 He first deceased ; — she for a little tried 
 To live without him : liked it not, and died ! 
 
 H.W, 
 
 This is one of the very best imitations of the point, 
 spirit, and conciseness of the Greek epigram, in the 
 English language : Sir Henry doubtless, was pleased
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 255 
 
 with the thought himself. In a Letter to his fiieu J Jack 
 Dinely, then secretary to the Queen of Bohemia, be 
 mentions it in the following terms :—" If the Queen 
 have not heard the epitaph of Albertus Morton and 
 his Lady, — authoris iiicerti, — it is worth her hearing, 
 for the passionate phiinness," TlVis Letter is dated No- 
 vember, 1028, which fixes the time of its conceplioa. 
 
 A description of the Countnfs Recreations. 
 Quivering fears, heart-rending cares, 
 Anxious sighs, untimely tears, 
 Fly, fly to courts ! 
 Fly to fond worldling's sports, 
 Where strained sardonic smiles are glosing still, 
 And grief is forced to laugh against her will ; 
 Where mirth's but mummery. 
 And sorrows only real be ! 
 
 Fly from our country pastimes ! — fly 
 Sad troop of human misery ! 
 Come, serene looks, 
 Clear as the chrystal brooks. 
 Or the pure azur'd Heaven, that smiles to see 
 The rich attendance of our poverty ! 
 Peace, and a secure mind. 
 Which all men seek, we only find. 
 
 Abused mortals ! — did you know 
 Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow. 
 You'd scorn proud towers, 
 And seek them in the bowers. 
 Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may 
 
 shake. 
 But blustering care could never tempests make. 
 Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, 
 Saving of fountains that glide by us.
 
 256 SIR HENRY WO^TON. 
 
 Here's no fantastic mask or dance, 
 But of our kids that frisk and prance ; 
 Nor wars are seen. 
 Unless upon the greeo 
 Two harmless lambs are butting one another, 
 Which done both bleating run, each to his mother : 
 And wounds are never found. 
 Save what the plough-share gives the ground. 
 
 Here are no false entrapping baits. 
 To has'en too, too, hasty fates; 
 Unless it be 
 The fond credulity 
 Of silly tish, which wordlings like, still look, 
 Upon the bait, but never on the hook : 
 Nor envy, unless amoag 
 The birds, for prize of their sweet song. 
 
 Go, let the diving negro seek 
 Por gems, hid in some forlorn creek ; 
 "We all pearls scorn, 
 Save what the dewy morn 
 Congeals upon each little spire of grass. 
 Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass ; 
 And gold ne'er here appears. 
 Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 
 
 Blest silent groves ! — O may ye be 
 For ever mirth's best nursery I 
 
 May pure contents 
 
 For ever pitch their tents, 
 Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these 
 mountains,
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 257 
 
 And peaco still slumber by these purling fountains; 
 Which we may every year 
 Find, when we come a fishing here. 
 
 IGNOTO. 
 
 It may be doubted whether this be a poem of Sir 
 Henry Wotton's, or not, it is rather in a " higher 
 mood" than most ot his strains, and has not the 
 usual signature, or the initials of his name. — 
 Walton arranges it with " Poems found among the 
 papers of Sir ilenry Wotton," — some of which cer- 
 tainly were by other hands; at the same time it maybe 
 remarked, that he himself addressed one of his com- 
 positions to his friend Dinely, as the work — afithoris 
 incexti. — Another poem, with the same signature of 
 " Ignoto," is decidedly in ^Voltou's style. 
 
 De Morte. 
 
 Man's life's a Tragedy : his mother's womb 
 From which he enters, is the 'tiring room; 
 This spacious earth the theatre; and the stage, 
 That country which he Uves in ; passions, rage. 
 Folly, and vice, are actors ; — the first cry 
 The prologue to the ensuing tragedy : 
 The former act consisteth of dumb shews; 
 The second he to more perfection grows ; 
 In the third he is a man, and doth begin 
 To nurture vice, and act the deeds of sin; 
 In the fourth declines; in tlie fifth diseases clog 
 And trouble him; tlien death's his epilogue. 
 
 IGNOTO. 
 To the rarely accomplished, and worthy of best employ- 
 ment, Mr. Howell, tipon his Vocal Fouest. 
 
 Believe it, sir, you happily have hit. 
 
 Upon a curious fancy of such wit,
 
 258 
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 That far transcends the vulgar; for each line 
 
 MetLinks breathes Barclay or a Bocaliue : — 
 
 I know you might, none better, make the vine. 
 
 The olive, ivy, mulberry, and pine. 
 
 With others, their own dialect expose ; 
 
 But you have taught them all rich English prose. 
 
 I end, and envy, but must justly say. 
 
 Who makes trees speak so well, deserves the hay. 
 
 Henry Wotton. 
 
 The whimsical book of that voluminous wrfter, 
 James Howell, to which these lines are appended, 
 bears the title of " Dodona's Grove, or the Vocal 
 Forest." It was popular in its day, and passed through 
 many editions, being a political allegory, in which the 
 great personages of the time are characterised by the 
 several trees of the forest.
 
 PHIiNEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Born about 1584. — Died about 1650. 
 
 " Crave Falher of this Muse thou deem'sl ton light 
 To icear thy name, 'caufie of thy youthful hmin 
 
 It seems a sportful child ; resembling right 
 Thy witty childhood, not thy graver strain, 
 Which now esteems these works of fancy vain ; 
 
 Let not thy child, thee licins:, orphan be, 
 
 yVl.o, when thou'rt dead, tcill give a life to thee. 
 ***** * * 
 
 For thou art Poet born, who know thee, know it, 
 Thy Brtther, Sire, thy very name's a Poet : 
 Thy very name trill m'ike iluse Poems take. 
 These very Poems else thy name will make." 
 
 Wm. Benlowes. 
 
 " — . 7/ these dull times 
 
 Should want the present strength to prize thy rhymes. 
 The time-descended children of the next. 
 Shall fill thy margin, and admire the text. 
 Whose uell-reud Hues icill teach them now to he 
 The happy knoivers of themselves — and thee." 
 
 F. QUARLES. 
 
 The former of the above extracts is taken from a copy 
 of commendatory verses prefiixecl to the "Purple Island," 
 the principal poem of Phineas Fletcher, and inscribed 
 " to the learned author, son and brother to two judi- 
 cious poets, himself the third — not second to eithei' ;" 
 the latter from another address " to the ingenious com- 
 poser, the Spenser of his age," from his contemporary, 
 the quaint author of the " Emblems," the romance of 
 " Argalus and Parthenia/' &c. — and his own brother.
 
 260 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Giles Fletcher, (of whose taste and judgment we shall 
 hereafter give ample proof,) at the conclusion of his 
 *' Christ's Victory and Triumph," hails him as 
 
 -" the Kentish Lad, that lately taught 
 
 His oaten reed the tiiimpet's silver sound, 
 Young Thirsilis ; and for his music brought 
 
 The willing spheres from Heav'n, to lead around 
 The dancing nymphs and swains." • 
 
 To this we may add, that he made Spenser his mo- 
 del, — and, Milton ivas his debtor. 
 
 The principal poems of Phineas Fletcher were re- 
 published in Dr. Anderson's " complete edition of the 
 works of the Poets of Great Britain, 1793;" and 
 from the biographical and critical preface, the 
 following few particulars of his personal history are 
 chiefly derived ; iacluding also a general notice of his 
 family, as explanatory of the compliment paid to him by 
 his partial friend in the first of the foregoing extracts. 
 
 He is said to have been born at Brenchley, near 
 Penshurst; and it appears from some passages in his 
 writings, that he resided there during a part of his 
 earUer life. 
 
 His father Giles Fletcher, was ako born in this 
 county, bred at Eton, and elected scholar of Benet 
 College, Cambridge, in 1565, where he took the de- 
 gree of Doctor of Laws, in 1581. Wood says, " he 
 was a learned man, and an excellent poet.* The 
 abilities of Dr. Fletcher recommending him to Queen 
 Elizabeth, he was employed by her as a commissioner 
 
 * It is to be regretted that no proofs of the poetical talent 
 of the father of the Fletchers, appear to have come down 
 to OS.
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 2fll 
 
 in Scotland, Germany, and the Low Countries. In 
 1588, he was sent ambassador to Muscovy, in the 
 Dukedom of Theodore Inanovich, to reconcile the 
 Russians to the English commerce, and published a 
 curious account of " Tlic liuosc Oonamnn wealth, &C. 
 in 1591, which was suppressed, lest it should give 
 offence ; but afterwards reprinted in 1643 ; Camden 
 styles it " Libellum in quo plurima observanda." He 
 was afterwards made Master of the Requests, and 
 Secretary to the City of London. 
 
 His uncle was Dr. Richard Fletcher, successively 
 Bishop of Bristol, Worcester, and London, (1593.) 
 At the time of the execution of Mary Queen of Scots, 
 in 1586, he was Dean of Peterborough, and at- 
 tended her to the scaffold, where he displayed more' 
 zeal than good sense in pressing that unfortunate Queen 
 to turn Protestant. * 
 
 His cousin, the son of the Bishop, was John Fletch- 
 er, the celebrated dramatic poet, and associate of 
 Francis Beaumont. 
 
 His brothei- was Giles Fletcher, " equally beloved of 
 the Muses and the Graces." 
 
 Phineas was educated at Eton, and in 1600, was 
 elected to King's College, Cambridge, where he took 
 the degree of Batchelor of Arts in 1604, and of Mas- 
 ter in 1608, He afterwards entered into Holy Orders, 
 and was beneficed at Hilgay, in Norfolk, on the pre- 
 sentation of Sir Henry Willoughby, bart. in 1621. — 
 He held this living nearly thirty years, and it seems 
 probable that he -died there. 
 
 * He died suddenly in his chair, and as he was fend of 
 tobacco, then little known, Camden iinpntes his death to an 
 immoderate use of it.
 
 •262 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 This is all that we know of Phiaeas Fletcher ; «' a 
 man," adds Dr. Anderson, " whose fame is not equal 
 to his merit, and whose works deserve to be better 
 known than they are at present." 
 
 To extend thatyi/««c, o-uJ iu some degiee to render 
 his merit more conspicuous, by exhibiting specimens 
 of talent that might have decorated a much superior 
 station, and to make our Kentish Spenser better known 
 to the lovers of genuine poetry, is the humble aim of 
 this article. If it be found more extended than any 
 other in the volume, we venture to anticipate from our 
 readers a greater portion of praise than of blame, since, 
 in addition to the foregoing motives, which refer to the 
 credit of our author, we profess ourselves to be ac- 
 tuated by the " honest desire of giving useful pleasure :"* 
 we trust too, that we shall not be severely criticised on 
 the comparative merits of our selections, — sheltering 
 ourselves under the allowed axiom, that to choose the 
 best among the good is one of the most difficult duties 
 of editorship, where selection only can be admitted. 
 
 The following is the most correct list that can be 
 procured of the works of Phineas Fletcher, of the 
 different editions, and the dates of publication : 
 
 The Locusts, or ApoUyonists, Cambridge, 4to, 1627. 
 
 Sicelides; a Dramatic Piece : 4to. 1631. 
 
 Commentary on the First Psalm : London, 4to. J 632. 
 
 Joy in Tribulation, or Consolation for Afflicted Spi- 
 rits : London, 8vo. 1632. 
 
 The Purple Island, or Isle of Man; with Piscatory 
 Eclogues and other poetical raiscelianies : Cambridge, 
 4to. 1633. Reprinted with Giles Fletcher's " Christs 
 Victory and Triumph :" London, 8vo. 17B3, 
 
 * Dr. Johnsou.
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 263 
 
 The Piscatory Eclogues and Poetical Miscellanies ; 
 re-prjt>te(l with notes, critical and explanatory ; Edin- 
 burgh, 8vo, 1772. 
 
 De Literatis Antiqua Britannia? Ilegibus, proeser- 
 tim qui doctrin^ clavuerunt, quique Collegia Canta- 
 brigije fuiidiirunt: Canib. 12mo. 1633. 
 
 The ' Locusts'' and " Sicelides" for reasons not 
 given, (but which from the editor of a "complete edi- 
 tion," might of course be expected,) are neither of tiiem 
 reprinted by Dr. Anderson. VV^e have been fortunate 
 enough to procure a loan of the former, and will bestow 
 upon it the notice it deserves. 
 
 The Sicelides, which has eluded our search, is 
 noticed in Baker's " Biographia Dramatica ;" he 
 calls it a " Piscatory Drama, or Pastoral, acted at 
 King's College, Cambridge, and printed without 
 the author's name. It was intended originally to 
 be performed before King James the First, on the 
 I5th of March, 1614 ; but his Majesty leaving the 
 University sooner, it was not then represented. The 
 serious parts of it are mostly written in rhyme, with 
 chorusses between the acts. Some of the scenes and 
 characters appear to be taken from Ovid and Ariosto. 
 The scene lies in Sicily ; the time six hours.'' 
 
 The two Tiieological works that follow, and the 
 (probably) more learned and curious treatise, " De 
 regibus literatis, &c." are also not within our reach. 
 
 Of the Purple Island, Eclogues, and Miscellanies, 
 two editions of each are mentioned above, but that of 
 the P. I. printed at London in 1783, is severely cen- 
 sured by Dr. Anderson, and not without reason. — 
 Hervey, the ingenious and truly reverend author of the 
 " Meditations," who could touch nothing without a
 
 264 PHINEAS FLETCHRR, 
 
 desire of turning it to a religious purpose, says, in a 
 letter to a friend, dated Weston, October 19, 1758, 
 " You some time ago sent me a Poem with which I 
 was much delighted, notwithstanding the uncouth 
 metre, and obsolete words ; I mean Fletcher's " Pur- 
 ple Island," to which were subjoined several other of 
 his poetical pieces ; one particnlarly I remember, to 
 his brother, G. Fletcher, on his Poem entitled " Christ's 
 Victory in Heaven and on Earth," and his " Triumph 
 on and after Death." I have lately had this very poem 
 lent me, which I longed to see, as the title pleased 
 me so much. I have folded down several passages for 
 your inspection, and if they meet your approbation, I 
 hope you will join your mterest with muie in endeavour- 
 ing to preserve the work from perishing. The " Purple 
 Island," is, to be sure, a verj' supeiior poem, and 
 abounds with picturesque passages, useful and striking 
 sentiments. I wish any bookseller could be prevailed 
 with to reprint these poems in one neat volume. I am 
 now so very ill, that I scarce think I shall live to see 
 the approaching Christmas. Had I been in perfect 
 health, and disengaged from other employments, I 
 question whether I should not have retouched the 
 poetry, changed several of the obsolete words, illus- 
 trated the obscure passages by occasional notes, and 
 run the risk of publishing the whole at my own ex- 
 pence. To this I should have been more particularly 
 inclined, as there are few poems of the scriptural kind 
 wrote by men of genius ; though no subject can be 
 equally subUme and instructive, or more entertaining; 
 witness Milton's Paradise Lost, and Pope's Messiah." 
 But poor Hervey died on the Christmas day follow- 
 ing, according to his own apprehension, and his
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 265 
 
 proposal was carried into effect by an anonymous editor, 
 M'ho iu 1803 printed together the Purple Island and 
 G. Fletcher's poem, in the same spirit that Hervey 
 had suggested, but perbaps with less judgment than 
 he would have brought to the work ; and has excited 
 the severe reprobation of Dr. Anderson, who says , 
 that "In almost every page injuries are done to the 
 sense, where improvements were intended; and that 
 whoever takes up this edition for the purpose of en- 
 joying the poetry, or making an extract or a reference, 
 caa never be safe as to the authenticity of a single 
 stanza." 
 
 The Eclogues and Miscellanies appear to have met 
 with a better fate in the edition published at Edinburgh 
 in 1772, with introduction and notes ; which is es- 
 teemed a correct as well as an elegant edition. 
 
 Although it may happen that good poetry, on unex- 
 ceptionable subjects, and inculcating the best principles, 
 be sometimes written by men of unsettled opinions, or 
 immoral habits, yet generally will the fruits of the muse, 
 and of those genuinely inspired by the muse, faithfully 
 denote the stock from whence they sprung. Attention 
 to the poetical biography of all ages, wiil illustrate this 
 position ; but especially will the British reader who may 
 make the enquiry, be gratified by the result with which 
 it will furnish him, as far as his native bards are con- 
 cerned. 
 
 The subjects which Fletcher chose for the most part ; 
 the way in which he treated those subjects; the sacred- 
 ness of his station, and the commendations of his con- 
 temporaries, are the only guides left to us in forming an 
 opinion of him as a man, a clergyman, and a member 
 of society, and from these we may safely derive
 
 2Q6 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 our satisfaction and belief that he was amiable, 
 exemplary, and respectable — as well as pious and 
 learned. 
 
 Francis Quarks, who wrote the commendatory 
 verses from which an extract is inserted at the com- 
 mencement of this article, is said to have been, 
 notwithstanding the censures of some modern writers, 
 the most popular poet of his time, and a man of truly 
 poetical genius; to whom justice has never yet been 
 done. * 
 
 * Quarles was born at Runiford, in Essex, in 1592. As the 
 " Emblems" are still much regarded by one class of readers, 
 some farther notrce of the author may be acceptable. 
 
 On the breaking out of the rebellion in Ireland in 1611, he 
 held the situation of Secretary to Archbishop Usher, and of 
 course, from his attachment to the royal cause, snfiered greatly 
 in his fortune, both in ihat country, and in England, where he 
 fled for safety. But what he took most to heart was being 
 plundered of iiis books, and some manuscripts which he had 
 |jrepared for the press ; the loss of these is supposed to have 
 hastened his death, which happened in 1644. Langbaine says 
 " He was a poet that mixed religion and fancy together, and 
 was very careful in all his writings not to entrencii upon good 
 manners by any scurrility in his works, or any ways ofi'end 
 „ against his duty to God, his nelglibour, or himself." Thus, 
 according to Langbaine, (and others hate given him the same 
 testimonial,) he was a very good man, — but in the judgment of 
 some, he tins uls-y a very great man, and a nwst excellent Poet. — 
 Fuller says, " Had he been contemporary with Plato, he would 
 not only have allowed him to live, but advanced him to office, 
 in his commonwealth. Some Poets, if debarred profaneness, 
 wantoness, and satiricalness, that they may neither abuse God 
 nor their neighbours, have their tongues cut out in el!'ect. — 
 Others only trade in wit at second hand, being all from trans- 
 lations, nothing from invention. Quarles was free from the 
 faults of the first, and he was happy in his own inventions. 
 His visible poetry, I mean his emblems, is excellent, catching 
 therein the eye and fancy at one draught. His " Verses on 
 Job" are done to the life, so that the reader may see his forces, 
 apd through them the anguish of hii soul. According to the 
 advice of St. Hieromc, verba vcrtibut in opera, and practised 
 the Job he had described."
 
 PHINEAS FLETCII^. 2G7 
 
 Of Mi: William Benloioes whose address furnished 
 us with the second motto, and of Mr. Edward Sen- 
 lowes to whom the Purple Island is dedicated, we 
 know of no account ; but the dedication will give the 
 reader a good opinion of the patron, as well as of the 
 poet, and as it affords a specimen of the author's 
 prose, and of the usual form of this kind of address in 
 that period, we shall commence our extracts therewith. 
 
 To my most worthy and learned friend Edward 
 Benjlowes, Esq. 
 
 *' Sir, 
 
 "As some optic glasses, if we look one way 
 increase the object ; if the other, lessen the quantity : 
 such is an eye that looks through affection : it doubles 
 any good, and extenuates what is amiss. Pardon me, 
 Sir, for speaking plain truth ; such is that eye whereby 
 you have viewed these raw essays of ray very unripe 
 years, and almost childhood. How unseasonable are 
 blossoms in autumn ! (unless perhaps in this age, where 
 
 And in our days, the very judicious editor of " Select Beau- 
 ties of Ancient English Poetry," the lamented Charles Headly, 
 says, " The memory of Qiiailes has been branded witli more 
 than common abuse, and heseen)s to have been censured merely 
 for the want of being read. If his poetry failed to gain him 
 friends and reade/s, his piety should at least have secured him 
 peace and good-will. He too often, no doubt, mistook the 
 enthusiasm of devotion for the inspiration of fancy ; to mfx the 
 waters of Jordan and Helicon in the same cup, was reserved 
 for the hand of Milton; and for him, and him only, tolindthe 
 bays of Mount Olivet, equally verdant with those of P.irnassns. 
 Yet, as the effusions of a real poetical mind, however 
 thwarted by untowardness of subject, will be seldom rendered 
 totally abortive, we find in Quarles original imagery, striking 
 sentiment, fertility of expression, and happy combinations : 
 together with a compression of style that merits the observa- 
 tion of writers iu verse."
 
 268 miNEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 are more flowers than fruit) I am entering upon my 
 winter, and yet these blooms of my first spring, must 
 now needs shew themselves to our ripe wits, who cer- 
 tainly will give them no other entertainment but derision. 
 For myself, I cannot account that worthy of your 
 patronage, which comes forth so short of my desires, 
 thereby meriting no other light than the fire. But since 
 you please to have them see more day than their credit 
 can well endure, marvel not if they fly under your 
 shadow, to cover them from the piercing eye of this 
 very curious (yet more censorious) age. In letting them 
 abroad, I desire only to testify how much I prefer your 
 desires to mine own, and how much 1 owe to you more 
 than any other. This if they witness for me, it is all 
 the service I require. Sir, I leave them to your tuition, 
 and intreat you to love him who will contend with you 
 in nothing but to outlove you, and would be known to 
 the world by no other name, than 
 
 Your true friend, 
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER." 
 
 Hilgay, May \st. 1633. 
 
 Not only his love and admiration of Spenser, but 
 the taste of the age, for allegory and personificatioa, 
 probably induced Fletcher to prefer that species of com- 
 position for his principal poem, " The Purple Island," 
 which is a description of the human body, the passions, 
 and intellectual faculties. The first Canto commences 
 with a very brief account of the season of the year, 
 the meeting of Shepherds at their annual election of 
 " May- Lords," and an allusion to himself and his brother 
 Giles, on both of whom the choice of the Shepherds 
 had fallen : —
 
 PHINEAS FLETCIIEft. 269 
 
 The warmer sun the golden bull out-ran 
 
 And with the twins made haste to inn and play; 
 Seatterin;^ ten thousand flowVs, he now began 
 
 To paint the world, and piece the leagth'ning day; 
 
 ******** 
 
 The Shepherd-boys, who with the muses dwell, 
 
 Met in the plain their May-lords new to choose, 
 (For two they yearly choose,) to order well 
 Tlieir rural sports and year that next ensues ; 
 Now were they sat, where by the orchard walls 
 The learned Chaine* with stealing water crawls. 
 And lowly down before that royal temple falls. 
 
 Among the rout they take two gentle swains. 
 
 Whose sprouting youth did now but greenly bud : 
 Well could they pipe and sing, but yet their strains 
 Were only known iiiito the silent wood : 
 
 Their nearest blood from self-same fountains flow, 
 Their souls self-same in nearer love did grow ; 
 So seem'd tvvo join'd in one, or one disjoin'd in two ! 
 
 Now when the Shepherd lads, with common voice 
 
 Their first consent had firmly ratified, 
 A gentle boy thus 'gan • 
 
 Enlarging on the difficulty of finding new subjects 
 for Poetry, and the want of encouragement to Poets,' 
 he alludes to Spenser : — 
 
 Witness our Colin ; whom, though all the Graces 
 And all the Muses nurs'd; whose well-taught song 
 
 Parnassus' self, and Glovian* embraces. 
 
 And all the learn'd, and all the Shepherd throng; 
 
 * Cam. t Queen Elizabeth.
 
 270 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Yet all his hopes were cioss'd ; all suit denied; 
 Discourag'd, scorn'd, his writings villified ; 
 Poorly, poor man, he liv'd; poorly, poor man, he died ! 
 
 And had not that great Hart,* (whose honour 'd head. 
 
 Ah ! lies full low !) pity'd thy woeful plight; 
 There had'st tlion lain unwept, unburied, 
 
 Unbless'd, nor grac'd with any common rite : 
 
 Yet shalt thou live when thy great foe f shall sink 
 
 Beneath his mountain tomb, whose fame shall stink ! 
 
 And Time his blacker name shall blurr with blackest ink ! 
 
 O let th' Iambic muse revenge that wrong. 
 
 Which cannot slumber in thy shee!s of lead ; 
 Let thy abused honour cry as long 
 
 As there be quills to write, or eyes to read : 
 On his rank name let thy own votes be turn'd ; 
 " O may that man that hath the muses scorn 'd 
 Alive, nor dead, be ever of a muse adorn'd." I 
 
 l^ever elsewhere is the gentle muse of Thirsil roused 
 to such ungentle language; — but, after a few more 
 stanzas, settling into composure, she leads us to her 
 own retired scenes, and places us beside her in such 
 sweet tranquility, that we soon forget the frugal Trea- 
 surer, and almost the injured Bard. In the whole 
 poem, nor perhaps in any other poem, is there a pas- 
 sage more pleasing and delightful than the following, 
 referring still, under his twofold pastoral character, to 
 his hopes of domestic enjoyment, and to his sacred 
 office, as well as to his love of song. 
 
 But, ah ! let me, under some Kentish hill. 
 Near rolling Medway, 'inong my shepherd peers, 
 
 With fearless merry make, and piping still, 
 Secu ely pass ray few and slow-pac'd years : 
 
 * The Earl of Essex, whose cognizance was a bart. t Lord 
 Burleigh, t Spenser's " Ruins of Time."
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 271 
 
 "^ ^ -^ w w W "^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 There may I, master of a little flock. 
 
 Feed my poor lambs, antl often change their fare; 
 My lovely mate shall tend mv sparing stock. 
 And nurse my iittle ones with pleasing care. 
 
 Whose love and look shall speak their father plain ; 
 Health be my feast, heav'n, hope, content my 
 gain ; 
 So in my little house, my lesser heart shall reign. 
 
 The beech shall yi» Id a cool safe canopy, 
 
 While down I sit, and chant to th' echoing wood; 
 Oh, singing might I live, ;?nd singing die! — 
 So by fair Thames, or silver Medway's flood. 
 The dying swan, when years her temples pierce, 
 In music's strains breathes out her life and verse ; 
 And chanting her own dirge rides on her wat'ry hearse. 
 
 Invoking then no patron but the great Prince of 
 Shepherds, "Than his own Heaven more high;" he 
 enters at once on his subject. 
 
 Hark then, ah hark! you gentle shepherd crew; 
 
 An isle I fain would sing, an island fair; 
 A place too seldom viewed, yet still in view; 
 Near as ourselves, yet farthest from our ca'e ; 
 Which we by leaving tind, by seeking lost; 
 A foreign home, a strange, though native coast; 
 Most obvious to all, yet most unknown to most. 
 
 Yet this fair isle, scited so nearly near, 
 
 That from our sides nor place nor time may sever, 
 Though to yourselves, yourselves are not more dear. 
 
 Yet with strange carelessness you travel never :
 
 272 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Then, while yourselves, and native home forgetting, 
 You search for distant worlds with needless 
 sweating. 
 You never find yourselves , so lose ye more by getting. 
 
 Having mentioned the general plan of the Poem, and 
 selected much for future extracts , we must decline en- 
 tering into an analysis of the scientific portion of the 
 work; but we cannot forbear to remark that when we 
 consider the early age at which he wrote, and the 
 imperfect state of medical knowledge, as well as of 
 general science, at that day, the information he has 
 displayed does him great credit, and proves him to 
 have been no unworthy son of his alma mater, and that 
 had he invoked Apollo in both capacities, and attached 
 himself to the art of healing, he would have excelled 
 in physic as in song. 
 
 After describing the "new-born earth," and the 
 formation of man, in a style much more ingenious and 
 metaphysical than entertaining to modern readers, he 
 concludes his first canto in the true spirit of devotional 
 feeling for the great act of redemption, and with 
 another affectionate reference tq his brother's work. 
 
 O thou deep well of life, wide stream of love ; 
 
 More deep, more wide, than widest, deepest seas, 
 Who dying, death to endless death did'st prove, 
 To work this wilful rebel island's ease ; 
 Thy love no time began, no time decays; 
 But still increaseth w ith decreasing days ; 
 Where then may we begin, where may we end thy 
 praise ? 
 
 My callow wing that newly left the nest, 
 How can it make so high a towering flight? 
 
 A depth without a depth ! in humble breast 
 With praises I admire so wond'rous height : 
 
 But thou, my sister muse * may'st well go higher, 
 
 * See a book called " Christ's Victory and Triumrh."
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 273 
 
 And end thy flight; ne'er may thy pinions tire : 
 Thereto may he his grace, and gentle heat inspire. 
 
 Now let me end my easier taken story, 
 And sing this island's new recover'd seat; 
 
 But see — ■ 
 
 Our panting flocks retire into the shade. 
 
 The shepherds having sheltered tlieir charge from the 
 heat of noon, we find at the opening of the second 
 canto, 
 
 ^Thirsil on a gentle rising hill 
 
 "Where all his flock he round might feeding view, 
 Sat down, and circled with a lovely crew 
 
 Of pymphs and shepherd boys, thus 'gan his song renew. 
 
 The anatomical view of the human frame, is con- 
 tinued through this, and the four succeeding cantos, 
 and although we do not expect the reader would find 
 much entertainment from an enti ; e perusal of these, 
 there are many passages of peculiar character, as well 
 for close painting of rural scenery and pastoral habits, 
 (the identity of the shepherd-niinstiel heing all along 
 preserved,) as for correct and sweetly flowing versifi- 
 cation, for which indeed these brother bards are 
 remarkablv distinguished. The opening and closing 
 stanzas of each canto are of this description, and there 
 are also interspers^ed throughout admirable similies, 
 sentiments, metaphors, and allusions, many of which 
 it would be very delightful to extract. Perhaps, how- 
 ever, we shall do our author injustice not to admit a 
 specimen uf the dexterity with wh!ch he manages, for the 
 most part, his equally delicate and intricate subject. 
 He divides his "Isle of Man" into three parts, or 
 " regiments," as in the following slanzas, Irom the 
 second canto, to which we will add those that conclude 
 the fifth ; the first of these demonstrating the nature 
 and offices of the skin ; and the latter giving due
 
 274 PHINEAS FLETCIIIR. 
 
 praise and honor to all the powers and faculties of that 
 wondrous and important organ of good and ill — the 
 tongue. In this conclusion of the first part of his sub- 
 ject, he appears rejoiced to escape, (as the reader will 
 be,) as it were, from the theatre of the anatomist, to 
 enjoy the recollection of his earlier studies, and to have 
 an opportunity of culling again some of the choicest 
 flowers that delighted his studious rambles in the classic 
 garden of Eton. The few and short notes annexed to 
 the descriptive stanzas, may perhaps excite a smile 
 from our professional readers, but these will prove 
 that our author wrote only according to matter of fact, 
 as it was held in his days, when medical science had 
 not been enlightened by the result of those enquiries 
 which that great honour to our county, Dn. William 
 HARy^EY, soon after this period commenced in the 
 Circulation of the Blood ; a result of far greater advan- 
 tage to mankind than the discovery of the new world. 
 
 The whole Isle, parted in three regiments, * 
 
 By three metropolis's jointly sway'd ; 
 Ordering in peace and war their governments. 
 With loving concord, and with mutual aid : 
 The lowest has the worst but largest see ; 
 The middle less of greater dignity ; 
 The highest least, but holds the greatest sov'reignty. 
 
 Deep in a vale doth that first province lie. 
 With many a city grac'd, and fairly town'd ; 
 
 And for a fence from foreign enmity. 
 
 With five strong builded walls encorapass'd round ;t 
 
 * The whole body may be parted into three regions, the 
 lowest, or Belly ; the middle, or Kreast ; the highest, or Head ; 
 in the lowest the Liver is sovereign, whose regiment is the 
 widest, bnt meanest; in the middle the Heart reigns, most 
 necessary ; the Brain obtains the highest place, and is, as the 
 least in compass, so the highest in dignity. 
 
 t The parts of the lower region are either the contained, or 
 the containing ; the containing either common or proper; the 
 common are the skin, the fleshy panicle, and the fat ; the 
 proper are the muscles, or the inner tita of the belly.
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 275 
 
 Which my rude peucil will in liruniug stain : 
 A work more curious than, which poets feign 
 Neptune and Phoebus built, and pulled down again. 
 
 The first of these is that round spreading fence,* 
 
 Which like a sea gir's th' Isle in every part; 
 Of fairest i)uildiiig, quick, and nimble sense, 
 Of common matter, fram'd with special art: 
 Of middle temper, outwardest of all, 
 To warn of every chance that may befall ; 
 The same a fence and spy, — a watchman and a wall. 
 
 His native beauty is a lilly white ; f 
 
 Which still some other coloured stream infecteth, 
 Lest like itself, with divers stainings dight, 
 The inward disposition it detecteth : 
 
 If white, it argues wit ; if purple, fire ; 
 If black, a heavy cheer, and fix'd desire ; 
 Youthful and blithe, if suited in a rosy tire. 
 
 It cover'd stands with silken flourishing, X 
 Which, as it oft decays, returns again, 
 The others' sense and beauty perfecting ; 
 
 * The skin is a membrane of all the rest, the most large and 
 thick, formed of a mixture of the most nourishing fluids of the 
 body ; — the covering and ornament of parts tliat are under it; 
 the temper moderate, the proper organ of outward touching 
 (say physicians.) 
 
 t The native colour of the skin Is white, but (as Hippo- 
 crates,) changed into the same colour which is brought by the 
 humour predominant ; when melancholy abounds:, it is swarthy ; 
 when phlegm, it is white and pale ; when cholcr reigns, it is 
 red and firry ; but in the sanguine, of a rosy colour. 
 
 + The skin is covered with the cuticle, or flourishing of the 
 pitin ; it is the means of touching, without which we feel, but 
 with pain : it polislieth the skin, which many times is changed, 
 and, (as it is with snakes,) put off, and a new and more auiia. 
 blc brought in.
 
 276 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Which else would fee! with universal pain : 
 With p'easing sweetness, and resplendent shine, 
 Sof('iiiiig the wanton touch, and wandVing eyne, 
 Doth oft the Prince hiir:se!f with witch'iies undermine. 
 
 ^ W ^v ^ * 
 
 With Gustus « Linquaf dwells, his prattling wife, 
 
 Endowed with st -an j;e and adverse qualities ; 
 The nurs' of hate and love, of peace and strife ; 
 Mother of fairest truth, and foulest lies, 
 
 Or best, or worst, no mean, made all of fire. 
 Which sometirues hell, and somelimes heavens 
 inspire, 
 By whom oft truth's sslf speaks, odt that first murd'ring 
 liar. 
 
 The idle sun stood still at her command 
 Breathing his fiery steeds in Gibeon ; 
 And pale-fac'd Cynthia at her word made stand, 
 Besting her couch in vale of Ajalon. 
 
 Her voice oft open breaks the stubborn skies. 
 And holds the Almighty's hands with supphant 
 cries : 
 Her voice tears open hell with horrid blasphemies ! 
 
 Therefore that great Creator, well foreseeing 
 
 To what a monster she would soon be changing, 
 Though lovely once, perfect and glorious being '. 
 Curb'd with her iron bit, J and held from ranging; 
 And with j^^trong bonds her looser steps enchaining, 
 Bridled her course, too many words refraining, 
 And doubled all hie guards, bold liberty restraining. 
 
 * The taste or 'palate. tThetoEgue. t The tongue is held 
 by a ligaraeut ori g inally called a budle.
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 277 
 
 For close within he sits twice sixteen gaarders, * 
 
 Whose harden'd temper could not soon be mov'd ; 
 Without the gate he plac'd two other warders. 
 To shut and ope the gate as it behov'd : 
 
 But such strange fo ce hath her enchanting art. 
 That she hath made her keeper? of her part, 
 And they to all her flights all furtherance impart. 
 
 Then, with their help, by her the sacred muses 
 
 Refresh the prince duU'd with much business ; 
 By her the prince, unto his Prince oft uses 
 In heavenly throne from hell to find access ; 
 She heaven to earth in music often brings, 
 And earth to heaven : — but ah ! how sweet she 
 sings, 
 When in rich Grace's key she tunes poor nature's strings 
 
 Thus Orpheus won his lost Eurydice, 
 
 Whom some deaf snake that could no music hear. 
 Or some blind newte, that could no beauty see. 
 Thinking to kiss, kill'd with his forked spear ; 
 He when his plaints on earth were vainly spent, 
 Down to Avernus' river boldly went, 
 And charm'd the meagre ghosts with mournful blan- 
 dishment. 
 
 There what his mother fair Calliope 
 
 From Phoebus' harp and muses' spring had brought 
 him ; 
 What sharpest grief for his Eurydice, 
 
 And love redoubling grief, had nowly taught liim, 
 
 *Thc tongue is guarded with thirty-two teeth, and with the 
 lips ; all which do not a little help the spCeoh, nnd sweeten 
 the voice.
 
 278 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 He lavish'd out, and with his potent spell 
 Bent all the rig'roiis powers of stubborn hell; 
 He first brought pity down with rigid ghosts todwelK' 
 
 Th' amazed shades came flocking round about^ 
 Nor car'd they now to pass the Stygian ford, 
 All hell came running there, an hideous rout. 
 And dropp'd a silent tear for ev'ry word : 
 The aged ferryman shov'd out his boat; 
 But that without his help did thither float, 
 And having ta'en him in, came dancing on the moat. 
 
 The hungry Tantal might ha\ e filled him now. 
 
 And with large draughts swill'd in the standing pool, 
 The fruit hung list'niug on the wond'ring bough, 
 Forgetting hell's command : but he, ah, fool ! 
 Forgot his starved taste his ears to fill : 
 Ixion's turning wheel unmov'd stood still; 
 But he was rapt as much with powr'ful music's skill. 
 
 Tir'd Sisyphus sat on his resting stone. 
 
 And hop'd at length his labour done for ever : 
 The vulture feeding on his pleasing moan. 
 
 Glutted with music, scorn'd great Tityus' liver : 
 The furies flung their snaky whips away, 
 And melt in tears at his enchanting lay ; 
 No shrieks now were heard ; all Hell kept holiday ! 
 
 Tliat treble dog, whose voice, ne'er quiet, fears 
 All that in endless night's sad kingdom dwell, 
 
 Stood pricking up his thrice two list'ning ears, 
 With greedy joy drinking the sacred spell ; 
 And softly whining pitied much his veronge;
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 279 
 
 And now first silent at those dainty songs. 
 Oft wish'd himself more ears, and fewer mouths and 
 
 tongues. 
 
 « 
 
 At length return'd with his Eurydice ; 
 
 But with this law, not to return his eyes, 
 'Till he was past the laws of Tartary ; 
 Alas ! who gives love laws in misery ? 
 
 Love is love's law; love but to love is tied ; 
 Now when the dawn of neighbour day he spied. 
 Ah, wretch ! — Eurydice he saw, — and lost, — and died '• 
 
 As who so strives from grave of hellish night. 
 
 To bring his dead soul to the joyful sky ; 
 If when he comes in view of heavenly light, 
 He turns again to hell his yielding eye, 
 
 And longs to see what he had left; his sore 
 Grows desp'raty, deeper, deadlier than afore ; 
 His helps and hopes much less, his crime and judgment 
 more. — 
 
 But why do I enlarge my tedious song. 
 
 And tire my fl?.gging muse with weary flight? 
 Ah ! much I fear I hold you much too long. — 
 The outward parts be plain to every sight : 
 But to describe the people of this isle. 
 And the great Prince, these reeds are all too vile; 
 Some higher verse may fit, and some more holy stile. 
 
 See Phlegon drenched in the hissing main. 
 Allays his thirst and cools the flaming car ; 
 
 Vesper fair Cynthia ushers, and her train : 
 And see, the apish earth lights many a star. 
 Sparkling in dewy globes — all home invite :
 
 280 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Home then my flocks ; home, shepherds, home; 
 'fis night; 
 My song with clay is done — my muse is set wilh light. 
 
 By this tlie gentle boys had framed well 
 
 A myrtle garland mix'd with conqu'riKg bay, 
 From whose fit match issu'd a pleasing smell, 
 And all enaiuell'd it with roses gay; 
 
 With which they crown'd their honour'd Thirsil's 
 
 head ; — 
 Ah, blessed shepherd swain ! ah, happy meed ! 
 Whi'e ail his fellows chant on slender pipes of reed. 
 
 A tcr r;a!Uiiiig the happy state of the island before 
 the fall, the poet next pourtrays, individually, the 
 human passions, (the virtues and vices,) which still 
 contend for its entire possession ; the latler under the 
 conimrind of " that Great Dragon.''' the Prince of 
 Darkness ; the former led on by Eelecta, (or Intellect.) 
 Each passion or faculty, has its appropriate character, 
 and is distinguished by its pecnliar costume and orna- 
 ments, device and motto, with indeed more or less of 
 consistency and finishing, but exhibiting throughout the 
 allegory, numerous proofs of fertility of invention, cor- 
 rectness of taste, and command of imagery; whilst 
 the whole is animated by the genuine enthusiasm of 
 poetry. In the event Eelecta being nearly overpowered 
 by the strength and stratagems of her adversary, makes 
 an energetic appeal to heaven, from whence she obtains 
 immediate aid, and the arch enemy is subdued. From 
 the beautiful and interesting passages which abound in 
 these seven cantos, we must reluctantly confine our- 
 selves to extracting the introductory stanzas in the 
 seventh, on the instability of human happiness and 
 glory; the personification of Covetousness, Sparingness, 
 and Prodigality, in the eighth ; of Faith, Hope, and 
 Cliarity, in the ninth ; the exordium of the twelfth, dis- 
 playing the tranquil pleasures of the pastoral life ; aud
 
 PHINEA3 FLETCHER. 281 
 
 the last stanzas of the same, which end tlie subject of 
 Thirsi'ls song, aiul conclude the poem with the shep- 
 herds adding new laurels to their " May Lord's" brow. 
 
 Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness. 
 
 And here long- seeks what here is never found ! 
 For all our good we hold of heaven on lease. 
 With many forfeits and conditions bound ; 
 Nor can we pay the line and rentage due, 
 Though now but writ and seal'd, and giv'n anew ; 
 Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew. 
 
 Why should'st thou here look for perpetual good, 
 
 Of ev'ry loss 'gainst heaven's face repining? 
 Do but behold where glorious cities stood. 
 With gilded tops, and silver turrets shining ; 
 
 There now the hart, fearless of greyhound, feeds. 
 And loving pelican in safety breeds ; 
 There screeching satyrs fill the people's empty steads. 
 
 Where is the Assyrian lion's golden hide. 
 
 That all the east once grasp'd in lordly paw ? 
 Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling pride 
 The lion's self tore out with rav'nous jaw? 
 Or he which 'twixt a lion and a pard 
 Through all the world with nimble pinions far'd. 
 And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms 
 shar'd. 
 
 Hardly the place of such antiquity. 
 
 Or note of these great monarchies we find ; 
 
 Only a faded verbal memory, 
 
 And empty name in writ is left behind: 
 But when this second life and glory fades,
 
 282 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades, 
 A second fall ensues, and double death invades. 
 
 That monstrous beast,* which hid in Tiber's fen, 
 Did all the world with hideous shape affray ', 
 That till'd with costl}- spoil his gaping den, 
 
 And trode down all the rest to dust antl clay ; 
 His battering horns pull'd out by civil hands. 
 And iron teeth lie scatter'd on the sands ; 
 Back'd, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked 
 stands. 
 
 And that black vulture, f which with deathful wing 
 O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight 
 Ffighten'd the muses from their native spring, 
 Already stoops, and flags with weary flight : 
 W ho then shall look for happiness beneath? 
 Wheie each new day proclaims chance, change 
 and death ; 
 And life itself's as flit as is the air we breathe. 
 
 Next Pleoyicctes I went, his gold admiring. 
 
 His servant's drudge, slave to his basest slave ; 
 Never enough, and still too much desiring: 
 His gold his god ; yet in an iron grave 
 
 Himself protects his god from noisome rusting ; 
 Much fears to keep, much more to lose his lusting ; 
 Himself, and golden god, and every god mistrusting. 
 
 * Rome, t Turkey, t Covelousiiess
 
 PHINEAS FLETCUER. 283 
 
 Age on his hairs the winter snow had spread ; 
 
 That silver badge his near end plainly proves : 
 Yet on to earth he nearer bows his head, 
 
 So loves it more ; for Like his like still loves : 
 Deep from the ground he digs his sweetest gain, 
 And deep into the earth digs back with pain : 
 From hell his gold he brings, and hoards in hell again. 
 
 His clothes all patch'd with more than honest thrift. 
 And clouted shoes were nail'd for fear of wasting; 
 Fasting' he prais'd, but sparing was his drift; 
 
 And when he eats, his food is worse than fasting ; 
 Thus starves in store, thus doth in plenty pine; 
 Thus wallowing on his god his heap of mine. 
 He feeds his famish'd soul with that deceiving shine. 
 
 Oh, hungry metal ! false, deceitful ray ; 
 Well laid'st thou dark, press'd in th' earth's hidden 
 womb ; 
 Yet through our mother's entrails cutting way, 
 We drag thy buried corse from hellish tomb; 
 The merchant from his wife and home departs. 
 Nor at the swelling ocean ever starts ; 
 While death and life a wall of thin planks only 
 parts. 
 
 Who was it first, that from thy deepest cell. 
 
 With so much costly toil and painful sweat, 
 Durst rob thy palace bord'ring next to hell ? 
 
 Well may'st thou come from that infernal seat ; 
 Thou all the world with hell-black deeds dost fill : 
 Fond man, that with such pain do'st woo your ill ! 
 Needless to send for grief, for he is next us still.
 
 284 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 His arms were light and cheap, as made to save 
 His purse, not lirabs ; the money not the man ; 
 Rather he dies, than spend : his helmet brave 
 An old brass pot ; breast plate, a dripping pan ; 
 His spear a spit ; a pot-lid broad his shield. 
 Whose smoky plain a chidked impress fill'd ; 
 A bagsure seal'd: his word, Bluch better savd than 
 spilVd ! 
 
 By Pleonectes, shameless Sparing went. 
 
 Who whines and weeps to beg a longer day; 
 Yet with a thund'ring voice claims tardy rent. 
 Quick to receive, but hard and slow to pay : 
 His cares to lesson cost with cunning base; 
 But when he's forc'd beyond his bounded space, 
 Loud would he cry and howl, while others laugh apace. 
 
 Next march'd Asotus* careless, spending swain ; 
 
 Who with a fork went spreailing all around. 
 What his old sire, with sweating toil and pain. 
 Long time won raking from his racked ground : 
 In giving he observed nor form, nor matter. 
 But best reward he got that best could flatter. 
 Thus what he thought to give, he did not give, but 
 scatter. 
 
 Before array'd in sumptuous bravery, 
 
 Deck'd court like in the choice, and newest guise; 
 But all behind like drudging slavery. 
 
 With ragged patches, rent, and bared thighs, 
 His shameful parts, that shun the hated light, 
 Were naked left : ah, foul ui.honest sight! 
 Yet neither could he see, nor feel his wretched plight. 
 
 * Prodigality
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 5flS 
 
 His shield presents to life death's latest rites, 
 
 A sad black hearse borne up with sable swains; 
 Which many idle grooms with hundred lights. 
 Tapers, lamps, torches, usher through the plains 
 To endless darkness ; while the sun's bright brow, 
 With fiery beams, quenches their smoking tow. 
 And wastes their idle cost: the word, Not need, but 
 shew. 
 
 A vagrant rout, a shoal of tattling daws. 
 
 Strew him with vain-spent pray'rs, and idle lays ; 
 And flattery to liis sin close curtains draws. 
 Cloying his itching ear with tickHng praise : 
 Behind fond pity much his fall lamented. 
 And misery that former waste repented : 
 The usurer for his goods, jail for his bones indeuted. 
 
 His steward was his kinsman. Vain Expence, 
 Who proudly strove in matters light to shew 
 Heroic mind in braggart affluence ; 
 
 So lost his treasure, getting nought in lieu. 
 But ostentation of a fooUsh pride. 
 While women fond, and boys stood gaping wide ; 
 But wise men all his waste and needless cost deride. 
 
 Fido* was nam'd the marshall of the field ; 
 
 Weak was his mother when she gave him day ; 
 And he at first a sick and weakly child. 
 
 As e'er with tears welcom'd the sunny ray ; 
 
 Yet when more years aftord more growth and might, 
 A champion stout he was, and puissant knight, 
 As ever came in field, or shone in armour bright. 
 
 * Faith.
 
 286 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 So may we see a little lionet, 
 
 WhcH newly whelp'd, a weak and tender thing, 
 Despis'd by evVy beast; but waxen great, 
 
 When fuller times full strength and courage bring; 
 The beasts all eioucaing low, their king adore. 
 And dare not see what they contemn'd before ; 
 The trembling forest quakes at his affrighting roar. 
 
 Mountains he fliugs in deep with ntighty hand; 
 
 Stops and turns back the sun's impetuous coarse ; 
 Nature breaks nature's laws at his command ; 
 Nor force of hell or heaven withstands his force ; 
 Events to come, yet many ages hence. 
 He present makes, by wondrous prescience; 
 Proving the senses blind, by being blind to sense. 
 
 His sky-like arms, dy'd all in blue and white. 
 And set with golden stars that flamed wide ; 
 His shield, invisible to mortal sight, 
 Yet he upon it easily descry'd 
 
 The lively 'semblance of his dying Lord, 
 ^Vhose bleeding side with wicked steel was gor'd. 
 Which to Lis fainting sp'rits new courage would afford. 
 
 Strange was the force of that enchanted shield. 
 
 Which highest pow'rs to it from heav'n impart; 
 For who could bear it well, and rightly wield. 
 
 It sav'd from sword, and spear, and poison'd dart; 
 Well might he slip, but yet not wholly fall; 
 Nor final loss his courage might appal ; 
 Growing more sound by wounds, and lising by his 
 
 fall. 
 So some have feign'd that Tellus' giant son. 
 
 Drew many new-born lives from his dead mother ;
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 287 
 
 Another rose as soon as one was done. 
 And twenty lost, yet snl! remainM another; 
 For when h'j I'eli, and kiss'd the barren heath. 
 His parent strai^lit inspirVl successive breath ; 
 And though himself was dead, yet ransoni'd him from, 
 death.* 
 
 Next went Elpmus,f clad in sky-hke blue ; 
 
 And throuph his arms few stars did seem to peep. 
 Which there the workman's hand so liiiely drew. 
 That rock'd in clouds they softly see.ii'd to sleep: 
 His lagged shield was like a rocky mould, 
 On which an anchor bit with surest hold ; 
 / hold by being held, was written round in gold. 
 
 Nothing so cheerful was his thoughtful face. 
 As was his brotlier Fido's ; fear did dwell 
 Close by his heart ; his colour chang'd apace, 
 
 + Hope. 
 
 This shield h again alluded to in Canto 12tb. — 
 
 Of one pure diamond celestial fair. 
 
 That heav'r,' y shield by cunuir.f? hand was made ; 
 
 Whose light divine spread through the misty air, 
 
 To brigl'test morn wuidd turn the western shade, 
 
 And^ligliisome day beget before his time; 
 
 Framed in henv'n, without all earthly crime, 
 
 Dlpp'd in the fiery sun, which burnt the baser slime. 
 
 As when from fenuy moors, the Imnpisli clouds 
 
 With rising steams dam;, the *inght morning's face, 
 At length the pierciiif? sun his team nn?hroads, 
 And with his arrows ih' idle fog datli ^hace ; 
 The broken mist l.os melteU all in cears : 
 So this bright shidd the shrouding di.rkness tears, 
 And giving back the day dissolves their former fears.
 
 288 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 And went, and came, that sure all was not well : 
 Therefore a comely maid did oft sustain 
 His fainting steps, and fleetms; life maintain : 
 Pollicita* she hight, which ne'er could lie or feign. 
 
 These led the vanguard : and an hundred more 
 Fill'd up the empty ranks with oider'd train : 
 But first in middle ward did justly go 
 
 Jn goodly arms, a fresh and lovely swain,f 
 
 Of heavenly love the twin, but younger brother: 
 Well might he be, for even their very mother. 
 With pleasing error oft mistook tli' one for th' other. 
 
 As when fair Paris gave that golden ball, 
 
 A thousand doubts ran in his stagg'ring breast; 
 All lik'd him well, fain would he give it all ; 
 
 Each better seems, and still the last seems best: 
 Doubts ever new his reaching hand deferr'd ; 
 The more he looks, the more his judgment err'd: 
 So she first this, then that, then none, then both preferr'd. 
 
 Like them their armour seem'd full near of kin : 
 
 In this they only differ, th' elder bent 
 His higher soul to heav'n; the younger twin 
 
 'Mong mortals here his love and kindness spent; 
 Teaching- (st' ange alchymy) to get a living 
 By selling land, and to grow rich by giving; 
 By emptying, filling bags ; so heav'n and earth at- 
 chieving. 
 
 About him creep the pooi with num'rous trains, 
 
 Whom he with tender care, and large expence, 
 With kindest words and succour entertains ; 
 
 * The Promise, t Charity.
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHET?. 289 
 
 Nor looks for thanks, or thinks of recompeiice : 
 Ilis wardrobe serves to clothe the naked side. 
 And shameful parts of bared bodies hide; 
 If other clothes be lack'd, his own h« would divide. 
 
 To rogues liis gate was shut; but open lay- 
 Kindly the weary traveller inviting : 
 Oft theefore angels hid in mortal clay, 
 
 And God himself, in his free roofs delighting, 
 Lowly to visit him would not disdain. 
 And in his narrow cabin oft remain ; 
 Whom heav'n, and earth, and all the world cannot 
 contain. 
 
 His table still was fill'd with wholesome meat, 
 
 Not to provoke but quiet appetite ; 
 And round about the hungry freely eat, 
 
 With plenteous cates cheering their feeble sp'rite ; 
 Their earnest vows ope heav'n's widest door ; 
 That not in vain sweet plenty evermore 
 With giacious eye looks down upon his blessed store. 
 
 Behind attend him, in an uncouth wise, 
 
 A troop with little caps, and shaved head ; 
 Such whilome was enfranchis'd bondmen's guise, 
 New freed from cruel master's servile dread : 
 Those had he lately bought from captive chain ; 
 Hence they his triumph sing with joyful strain. 
 And on his head due praise, and thousand blessings rain. 
 
 He was a father to the fatherless; 
 
 To widows he supplied a husband's care ; 
 Nor would he heap up woe to tlieir distress. 
 
 Or by a guardian's name their state impair,
 
 200 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 But rescue them from strong oppressor's might ; 
 Nor doth he weigh the great man's heavy spite : 
 Who fears the highest Judge need fear 7io mortnhcight. 
 
 Once every week he on his progress went. 
 
 The sick to visit, and those meagre swains 
 Which all their weary life in darkness spent, 
 
 Clogg'd with cold iron, press'd with heavy chains ; 
 He hoards not wealth for his loose heir to spend it, 
 But with a willing hand doth well extend it ; 
 Good then is only good ivhen to our God we lend it ! 
 
 And when the dead, by cruel tyrant's spite. 
 Lie out to ravnous birds and beasts expos'd. 
 
 His yearnful heart pitying that wretched sight. 
 In seemly grave their weary flesh enclos'd, 
 And strew'd with dainty flow'rs their lowly hearse ; 
 Then all alone the last words did rehearse. 
 
 Bidding them softly sleep in his sad sighing verse. 
 
 The shepherds, guarded from the sparkling heat 
 
 Of blazing air upon the flow'ry banks, 
 Where various flow'rs damask the fragrant seat, 
 And all the grove perfume, in wonted ranks 
 Securely sit them down, and sweetly play; 
 At length thus Thirsil ends his broken lay. 
 Lest that the stealing night his later song might stay. 
 
 Thrice, ah, thrice happy shepherd's life and state! 
 
 When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns ! 
 His cottage low, and safely-humble gate 
 
 Shuts out proud fortune, with her scorns and fawns 
 No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep ;
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 291 
 
 Singing all day his flocks he learns to keep ; 
 Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep. 
 
 No Seiiaa worms he knows, that with their thread 
 
 Draw out their silken lives ; nor silken pride : 
 His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need, ' 
 Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dy'd ; 
 
 No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright ; 
 Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite : 
 But sweet content exiles both misery and spite. 
 
 Instead of music and base flattering tongues. 
 Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise, 
 The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs, 
 And bird's sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes. 
 In country plays is all the strife he uses ; 
 Or song or dance unto the rural muses, 
 And, but in music's sports, all difference refuses. 
 
 His certain life, that never can deceive him,* 
 
 Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content ; 
 The smooth-leav'd beeches in the field receive hitn 
 With coolest shades 'till noon-tide's rage be spent ; 
 His hfe is neither tost in boist'rous seas 
 Of trackless world, nor lost in slothful ease ; 
 Pleas'd and full blest he lives, when he his God can 
 please. 
 
 * Had we omitted all other encomium on our antiior, the 
 follovviiis; passage, on this stanza and tJie foUovviug, from Isaac 
 Wat.ton, would have been enough :—" There came also into 
 my mhid at that time, certain verses in praise of a mean es- 
 'tale, and an humble mind; they were written by P. F. an 
 excellent Divine and Angler; in which yon siiall see the pic- 
 ture of this good man's mind, and I wish mine to be like it. ' 
 
 [Complete Angler, Part 1st J
 
 292 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps. 
 
 While by his side his faithful spouse hath place ; 
 Hii little son into his bosom creeps, 
 The lively picture of his father's face : 
 
 Never his humble house or state torment him ; 
 Less he could like, if less his God had sent him; 
 And when he dies, green turfs M'ith grassy tomb content 
 him. 
 
 But see the day is ended with my song, 
 
 And sporting bathes with that fair ocean maid. 
 Stoop now thy wing- my muse, now stoop thee 
 
 low ; 
 Hence may thou freely play, and rest thee now ; 
 While here 1 hang my pipe upon the willow bough. 
 
 So up they rose, while all the shepherd throng 
 
 With their loud pipes a country triumph blew. 
 And led their Thirsil home with joyful song : 
 
 Meantime the lovely nymphs with garlands new. 
 His locks in bay and honour'd palm-tree bound. 
 With hlies set, and hyacinths around ; 
 And Lord of all the year, and their May-sporting, 
 crown'd. 
 
 From the time of Theocritus, who first sung the 
 Songs of the Shepherds to the Grecian lyre, to Robert 
 JBloomfield, the pride of Suffolk plains, and if we mis- 
 take not, the only Pastoral Poet of the present day, 
 numerous have been the writers of Idyls and Eclogiies 
 who have, more or less closely, adhered to the Sicilian 
 model ; nor, indeed, did Theocritus confine himself to one 
 particular form or subject, but varied his characters from 
 shepherd to fisher-swains, as his purpose or fancy led him. 
 How far our Phineas has been indebted to him m the
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 293 
 
 *' Piscatory Eclogues," or move immediately to his Italian 
 successor, Sannazarius, we leave to those who may 
 depend on finding rich amusement in the enquiry, whilst 
 in pursuance of our plan of selection, we proceed to 
 this second work of our Poet, where we shall meet 
 again the " g-entle Thirsil," harmouizingthe Shepherds 
 of the Ocean by attuning his pipe to the dashing of the 
 oar, and hanging his garlands as gracefully on the mast 
 of the fishing boat, as on tlie " smooth-leaved beeches" 
 that o'er-canopied his former audience. 
 
 The Fisher-Bard thus introduces himself in the first 
 Eclogue, entilled " Amyntas." 
 
 It was the time faithful Halcyone, 
 
 Once more enjoying new-liv'd Ceyx' bed. 
 
 Had left her young birds to the wav'riiig sea. 
 Bidding him calm his proud white curled head. 
 
 And change his mountains to a champain lea ; 
 
 The time — when gentle Flova'^s lover reigns, 
 
 Soft creeping all along green Neptune's smoothest plains. 
 
 When hapless Thelgon, a poor fisher-swain. 
 
 Came from his boat to tell the rocks his plaining; 
 In rocks he found, and the high swelling main. 
 
 More sense, more pity far, more love remaining. 
 Than in the fair Amynta's fierce disdain : 
 Was not his peer for soiig 'mong all the lads 
 Whose shrilling pipe or voice the sea-born maiden glads. 
 
 About his head a rocky canopy. 
 
 And craggy hangings, 'round a shadow threw. 
 Rebutting Phoebus' parching fervency ; 
 
 Into his bosom Zephyr softly flew ; 
 Hard by his feet the sea came wavuig by ; 
 The while to seas and rocks, poor swain, he sang ; 
 The while the seas and rocks ansvv'iing loud echoes rang.
 
 294 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 You goodly nj'mphs, that in youri marble cell 
 In sijending never spend your sportful days. 
 Or, ^vhen you list, in pearly boats of shell 
 
 Glide on the dancing wave that leaping plays 
 About the wanton skiff; and you that dwell 
 ]n Neptune's court, the ocean's plenteous throng. 
 Deign you to gently hear sad Thelgon's plaining song. 
 
 ^Vhen the raw blossom of my youth was yet 
 
 In my li st childhood's green inclosure bound. 
 Of Aquadune I learnt to fold my net. 
 
 And spread the sail, and beat the river round. 
 And withy labyrinths in straits to set. 
 And guide my boat where Thame and Isis' heir 
 By lowly Eton slides, and Windsor proudly fair. 
 
 There, while our thin nets, dangling in the wind. 
 Hung on our oar's tops, I learnt to sing 
 
 Among my peers, apt words to fitly bind 
 
 In num'rous verse; witness thou chrystal spring 
 
 Where all the lads were pebbles wont to find ; 
 
 And you thick hazles, that on Thame's brink, 
 
 Did oft with dallying boughs his silver waters drink. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ^P * w 
 
 In the fourth Eclogue, after the manner of the 
 Poet's favourite Virgil,* the swains venture on higher 
 themes : — 
 
 " Two Shepherds most I love, with just adorinc;, 
 The Mantuan swain, who chang'd his slender reed 
 
 To trumpet's martial voice, and war's loud roaring, 
 From Corydon to Turniis' daring deed ; / 
 
 And next our home-bred Colin." 
 
 [Purple Island, Canto 6th.'\
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 295 
 
 TkeUjon. 
 Chromis, my joy, why drop tliy rainy eyes? 
 
 And sullen clouds hang on thy heavy brow ? 
 Seems that thy net is rent, and idle lies ; 
 
 Thy merry pi[je hung broken on a bough : 
 But late thy time in hundred joys thou spend'st. 
 Now time spends thee, while thou in time lament'st. 
 
 Chromis, 
 
 Thelgon, my pipe is whole, and nets are new; 
 
 But nets and j-ipe coiitemn'd and idle lie ; 
 My little reed, that late so merry blew, 
 
 Tunes sad notes to his master's misery. 
 
 ^ ^ -a" tP w 
 
 Thelgon, 'tis not myself for whom 1 plain. 
 
 My private loss full easy could I bear, i 
 
 If piivateloss might help the public gain ; 
 
 But who can blame my grief, or chide my fear, 
 
 Since now the fisher's tra le and honour'd name. 
 
 Is made the common badge of scorn and shame ! 
 
 Little know they the fisher's toilsome pain. 
 
 Whose labour with his age still growing spends not, 
 
 His care and watchings, oft mispentiu vain, 
 The early morn begins, dark evening ends not ; 
 
 Too foolish men, that think all labour stands 
 
 In travel of the feet, or tired hands 1 
 
 Ah, wretched fishers ! born to hate and strife ; 
 
 To other's good, but to your rape and spoil : 
 This is the briefest sura of fisher's life. 
 
 To sweat, to freeze, to watch, to fast, to toil; 
 Hated to love, to live despis'd, forlorn ; 
 A sorrow to himself, all others' scorn !
 
 296 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Tlielgon. 
 
 T©o well I know the fisher's thankless pain, 
 Yet bear it cheerfiill} , nor dare repine ; 
 
 To grudge at loss is fond, too fond and vain. 
 When highest causes justly it assign. 
 
 Who bites the stone, and jet the dog condemns. 
 
 Much worse is than the beast he so conremns. 
 
 Chromis, how many. fisher's dost thou know. 
 That rule their boats, and use their nets aright? 
 
 That neitlier wind, nor time, nor tide foreslow ? 
 Such some have been ; but ah ! by tempest's spight 
 
 Their boats are lost ; while we may sit and moan, 
 
 That few were such, and now those few are none. 
 
 Instead of these, a crew of idle grooms, 
 Idle and bold, that never saw the seas, 
 
 Fearless succeed, and fill their empty rooms : 
 Some lazy live, bathing in wealth and ease ;. 
 
 Their floating boats with waves have leave to play, 
 
 Their rusty hooks all year keep hohday. 
 
 Here stray their skiffs, themselves are never here ; 
 
 Ne'er saw their boats ; ill might they fishers be : 
 Meantime some wanton boy the boat doth steer. 
 
 Poor boat the while ! that cares as much as he : 
 Who in a brook or wherry cannot row. 
 Now backs the seas, before the seas he know. 
 
 Those fisher swains, from whom our trade doth flow. 
 That by the King of Seas their skill was taught,
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 297 
 
 As they their boats on Jordan wave did row ; 
 
 And, catching fish, were by a fisher caught ; 
 Ah ! blessed chance ! much better was their trade, 
 That being fishers, thus were fishes made. 
 
 Those happy swains, in outward shew unblest, 
 
 Were scourg'd, were scorn'd, yet was this loss their 
 gain, 
 
 By land, by sea, in hfe, in death, distrcst ; 
 But now with th' King of Seas securely reign ; 
 
 For that short woe in this base earthly dwelling, 
 
 Dujoying joy all excellence excelling. 
 
 Then do not thou my boy, cast down thy mind. 
 But seek to please, with all thy busy care, 
 
 The king of seas ; so shalt thou surely find 
 Rest, quiet, joy, in all this troublous fare. 
 
 Let not thy net, thy hook, thy singing cease ; 
 
 And pray those tempests may be turn'd to peace I 
 
 Oh, Prince of waters. Sovereign of seas ! 
 
 Whom storms and calms, whom winds and waves 
 obey ; 
 If ever that great fisher did thee please, 
 
 Chide thou the winds, and furious waves allay : 
 So, on thy shores the fisher-boys shall sing 
 Sweet songs of peace to our sweet peace's king. * 
 
 * These are very beautiful ami pathetic passages, and if we 
 were not assured by the date of piiblieation, that they were 
 written previously to the civil war, might lead us to fear that 
 the poet was a personal sufferer in those disastrous times which 
 he lived to witness. As they are, they prove the ascendency 
 to which the party in opposition to the establishment had then 
 attained, and perhaps may be viewed as prophetic of the 
 calamities that followed.
 
 298 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 In the fifth eclogue, Love, the fittest subject for the 
 pastoral muse, whether she sings on the plain or on the 
 ocean, resumes his legitimate station ; and in the sixth 
 is suspected by the sagacious Thirsil, to hare stolen 
 from him the affection of his friend Thomaliu. 
 
 A fisher boy that never knew his peer 
 
 In dainty songs, the gentle Thomalin, 
 With folded arms, deep sighs, and heavy cheer, 
 
 Where hundred nymphs and hundred muses inn 
 Sank down by Thames' brinks ; with him his dear, 
 
 Dear Thirsil lay ; oft times would he begin 
 To cure his grief, and better way advise : 
 But still his words, when his sad friend he spies. 
 Forsook his silent tongue, to speak in wat'ry eyes. 
 
 Under a spreading vine they careless lie, 
 
 Whose tender leaves, bit with the eastern blast, 
 
 But now were bo.n, and now began to die ; 
 The latter, warned by the former's haste. 
 
 Thinly for fear salute the envious sky: 
 There as they sat, Thirsil embracing fast 
 
 His loving friend, feeling his panting heart 
 
 To give no rest to his increasing smart. 
 
 At length thus spake, while sighs words to his grief 
 impart. 
 
 Thirsil. 
 Thomalin, I see thy Thirsil thou neglectest. 
 
 Some greater love holds down thy heart in fear ; 
 Thy Thirsil's love and counsel thou rejectest ; 
 
 Thy soul was wont to lodge within my ear : 
 But now that port no longer thou respectest : 
 
 Yet hath it still been safely harboured there. 
 My ear is not acquainted with my tongue,
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 299 
 
 That either tongue or ear shoiild do thee wrong : 
 
 Why then should'st thou conceal thy hidden grief so 
 
 long? 
 
 Thomalin. 
 
 Thirsil, it is thy love that makes me hide 
 
 My sraother'd grief from thy known faithful ear : 
 
 May still my Thirsil safe and merry bide ; 
 Enough is me my hidden grief to bear: 
 
 For while thy breast in hav'n doth safely ride. 
 My greater half with thee rides safely there ! 
 
 Thirsil. 
 
 So thou art well; but still my better part. 
 My Thomalin, sinks laden with liis smart: 
 Thus thou my finger cur'st, and wound'st my bleeding 
 heart. 
 
 How oft has Thomalin to Thirsil vow'd. 
 
 That as his heart so he his love esteera'd : 
 Where are those oaths ? Where is that heart bestow'd 
 Which hides it from that breast which dear it deem'd, 
 And to that heart room in his heart allow'd ? 
 That love was never love but only seem'd ! 
 Tell me, my Thomalin, what envious thief 
 Thus robs thy joy; tell me my liefest lief : 
 Thou little lov'st me, friend, if more thou lov'»t thy 
 grief ! 
 
 Thomalin. 
 
 Thirsil, my joyous spring is blasted quite, 
 And winter storms prevent the summer ray ; 
 
 All as this vine, whose green the eastern spite 
 Hath dyed to black; his catching arms decay,
 
 I 
 300 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 And letting go their hold for want of might, 
 Marvl winter comes so soon, in first of May. 
 
 Thirsil. 
 Yet see, the leaves do freshly bud again ; 
 Thou drooping still dy'st in this heavy strain; 
 Nor can I see or end or cause of all thy pain. 
 
 Thomalin. 
 
 No marvel, Thirsil, if thou dost not know 
 
 This grief which in my heart lies deeply drown'd ; 
 My heart itself, though well it feels this woe. 
 
 Knows not the woe it feels : the worse my wound, 
 Which though I rankling find, 1 cannot shew. 
 
 Thousand fond passions in my breast abound ; 
 Fear leagu'd to joy, hope, and despair together. 
 Sighs bound to smiles, my heart though prone to either, 
 While both it would obey, 'twixt both, obeyeth neither. 
 
 Oft blushing flames leap up into my face, 
 
 My guiltless cheek such purple flash admires; 
 Oft stealing tears slip from mine eyes apace. 
 
 As if they meant to quench these causeless fires. 
 My good I hate ; my hurt I glad embrace ; 
 
 My heart though gviev'd, his grief as joy desires : 
 I burn, yet know no fuel to my firing; 
 My wishes know no want, yet still desiring : 
 Hope knows not what to hope, yet still in hope ex- 
 piring. 
 
 Thir$il 
 Too true my fears ! alas, no wicked sprite 
 
 No writhled witch with spells of pow'rful charms, 
 Or hellish herbs digg'd in as hellish night. 
 
 Gives to thy heart these oft and fierce alarms :
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 301 
 
 But love, too hateful love, with pleasing spite, 
 
 And spiteful pleasore, thus hath bred thy harms; 
 And seeks thy mirth with pleasance to destroy; — 
 Tis love, ray Thomalin, my liefest boy ; 
 Tis love robs rae of thee, and thee of all thy joy. 
 
 Thoinal'm. 
 
 Thirsil, I ken not what is hate or love. 
 
 Thee well I love, and thou lov'st me as well; 
 
 Yet joy, no torment, in this passion prove ; 
 And often have 1 heard the fishers tell 
 
 He's not inferior to the almighty Jove ; 
 
 Jove heaven rules ; Love Jove, heaven, earth, and 
 hell : 
 
 Tell me, my friend, if thou dost better know : 
 
 Men say he goes arm'd with his shafts and bow; 
 
 Two darts, one swift as fire, as lead the other slow. 
 
 Thirsil. 
 
 Ah, heedless boy ! Love is not such a lad 
 
 As he is fancied by the idle swain ; 
 With bow and shafts, and purple feathers clad ; 
 
 Such as Diana, who with buskin'd train 
 Of armed nymphs along the forest glade 
 
 With golden quivers, in Thessalian plain. 
 In level race outstrips the jumping deer 
 With nimble feet: or, with a mighty spear, 
 Flings down a bristled boar, or else a squalid bear. 
 
 Love's sooner felt than seen ; his substance thin 
 Betwixt those snowy mounts in ambush lies; 
 
 Oft m the eyes he spreads his subtle gi:i ; 
 ITe therefore soonest wins that fastest flies. 
 
 A 2 
 
 '-•^.^
 
 302 PHINEAS FLETCHEH. 
 
 Fly thence my dear ; fly fast my Thomalin : 
 Who him encounters once, for ever dies : 
 But if he lurk within the ruddy lips, 
 Unhappy soul that thence his nectar sips, 
 While down into his heart the sugar'd poison slips. 
 
 Oft in a voice he creeps down through the ear; 
 Oft from a blushing cheek he lights his fire; 
 /s^ J Oft shrouds his golden flame in likest hair ; 
 \f Oft in a soft smooth skin doth close retire^ 
 
 i 
 
 Oft in a smile; oft in a silent tear: 
 
 And if all fail, yet Virtue's self he'll hire : 
 HimselPs a dart when nothing else can move : 
 Who then the captive soul can well reprove, 
 When Love and Virtue's self become the darts of love ? 
 
 Thomalin. 
 
 Then love it is which breeds this burning fever : 
 For late, yet all too soon, on Venus' day, 
 
 I chanc'd, oh ! cursed chance, yet blessed ever ! 
 As careless on the silent shore I stray. 
 
 Five nymphs to see, five fairer saw I never, 
 Upon the golden sand to dance and play; 
 
 The rest among, yet far above the rest. 
 
 Sweet Melite. 
 
 Thirsil. 
 
 Thomalin, too well that bitter sweet I know. 
 Since fair Nicsea bred my pleasing smart: 
 
 But better times did better reason show. 
 
 And cur'd those burning wounds with heav'nly art :
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 303 
 
 These storms of baser fire are laid full low. 
 And higher love safe anchors in ray heart : 
 So now a quiet calm does safely reign : 
 And if my friend think not my counsel vain, 
 Perhaps my art may cure , or much assuage thy pain. 
 
 So did I quickly heal this strong infection, 
 
 And to myself restor'd myself apace : 
 Yet did I not my love extinguish quite ; 
 1 love with sweeter love and more delight. 
 But most I love the love which to my lore has right. 
 
 Thomalin. 
 
 Thrice happy thou that could'st ! my weaker mind 
 Can never learn to climb so lofty flight. 
 
 Tkirsil. 
 
 If from this love thy will thou cau'st unbind, 
 To will is here to can ; will gives thee might ; 
 
 Tis done, if once thou wilt; — 'tis done I find. — 
 Now let us home : for see, the weeping night 
 
 Steals from those farther waves upon the land. 
 
 To morrow shall we feast; then, hand in hand 
 
 Free will we sing and dance along the golden sand. 
 
 The " feast of the morrow" accordingly takes place, 
 and has for its object, the awardment of " the prize," 
 which gives name to the seventh and last Eclogue. 
 
 Aurora from old Tithon's frosty bed 
 
 (Cold wintry-wither'd Tithon) early creeps ; 
 
 Her cheek with grief was pale, with anger red ; 
 Out of her window close she blushing peeps;
 
 304 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Her weeping eyes in pearled dew she steeps ; 
 
 Casting what sportless nights she ever led; 
 
 She dying lives, to think he's living dead. 
 Curst be, and cursed is, that wretched sire 
 That yokes green youth with age, want with desire ; 
 Who ties the sun to snow, or marries frost to lire. 
 
 The morn saluting, up I quickly rise, 
 And to the green 1 post; for, on this day. 
 
 Shepherd and Fisher-boys had set a prize 
 Upon ihe shore, 1o meet in gentle fray, 
 Which of the two should sing the choisest lay. 
 
 Daphnis the Shepherd lad, whom Mira's eyes 
 
 Had killM ; yet widi such wound he gladly dies : 
 Thomalin, the Fisher, in whose heart did reign 
 Stella, whose love is life, and whose disdain 
 Seems worse than angry skies, or never-quiet main. 
 
 There soon I view the raerrv shepherd swains 
 March three by three, clad all in youthful green ; 
 
 And while the sad recorder sweetly plains. 
 Three lovely nymphs, each several row between. 
 More lovely nymphs could nowhere else be seen. 
 
 Whose faces' snow their snowy gf?rments stains; 
 
 With sweeter voices fit their pleasing strains. 
 Their flocks flock round about; the horned rams 
 And ewes go silent by, while wanton lambs. 
 Dancing along the plains forget their milky dams. 
 
 Scarce were the shepherds set, but straight in sight 
 The fisher-boys came driving up the stream; 
 
 Themselves in blue; and twenty sea-nymphs bright. 
 In curious robes ihat well the waves raiglit seem ;
 
 PHTNEAS FLETCHER. 305 
 
 All vlark below, the top like frothy cream : 
 
 Their boats and masts with flovv'rs and garlands 
 
 dight; 
 And round the swaas guard them, with armies white : 
 Their skitfs by couples dance to sweetest sounds, 
 Which running cornets breathe to full plain grounds. 
 That strike the river's face, and thence more svreet 
 rebounds. 
 
 And now the nymphs and swains had took their place ; 
 First those two boys ; Thomalin the fishers' pride ; 
 
 Daphnis, the shepherds': nymphs their right hand 
 grace ; 
 And choicest swains shut up the other side : 
 So sit they down in order fit apply'd : 
 
 Thirsil betwixt them both, in middle space 
 
 Thirsil, their judge, wha now's a shepherd base, 
 But late a fisher-swain ; 'till envious Chame 
 Had rent his nets, and sank his boat with shame; 
 So robb'd the boys of him, and him of all his game. 
 
 So as they sit, Thirsil begins the lay ; — 
 You lovely boys the woods' and oceans' pride, 
 
 Since I am judge of this sweet peaceful fray, 
 Pirst tell us, where and when your loves you spy'd ; 
 And when in long discourse you well are try'd, 
 
 Then in short verse, by turns we'll gently play : 
 
 In love begin, in love we'll end the day. — 
 Daphnis thou first : — to me you both are dear : 
 Ah! if I might, I would not judge, but hear; 
 Nought have I of a judge but an impartial ear. 
 
 Here again it would seem from the rf-ference to the 
 *' envious Chame," and fiom the former employment of
 
 30(3 PHINEAS FLKTCIIER. 
 
 Thirsil, as well as from the invocation to the " King of 
 Seas," and other passages in the Eolojuc s, (especially 
 the 4th), that some of the author's fellow colle^nans 
 were intended to be pourtrayed in the more prominent ij 
 
 charactes, a;id that certain transactions connected with 
 the Church, or University, at, or about that period, 
 are designed to be alluded to. Whether we are losers 
 or gainers by our ignorance on this point is of liitle mo- 
 ment; the conjecture is boms out by the text : our 
 pleasanter concern is widi the coiitendingpaities, whom 
 we left preparing to cliaunt their alternate sirains in 
 *• long di3cour^e," or in " shorter verses :" and in the 
 sequel wo tiad each does jiisiice to his " Love's per- 
 fections," witli 30 much ingenuity and success, that in 
 accordance with the established rules of buco'.ic dispu- 
 tation, their friendly urajnre declines a decision ; but 
 reserving the prize for a future occasion, 
 
 " praises their pastoral strains. 
 
 And gives to each a present for his pains."* 
 
 Daphnis. 
 Tliou gent'.e boy, what prize may well reward thee? 
 
 So slender gift as this not half requites thee : 
 May prosp'rous stars, and quiet seas regard thee; 
 
 But most that pleasing star that most delights thee : 
 May Proteus still, and Glaucus dearest hold thee; 
 But most her influence all safe enfold thee : 
 May she with gende beams from her fair sphere behold 
 thee. 
 
 Thomalin. 
 As whistling winds 'gainst rocks their voices tearing ; 
 
 As rivers through the vallies sofily gliding; 
 As haven after cruel tempests fearing; 
 
 Such, fairest boy, such is thy verse's sliding: 
 
 •" Arcades Amtw." " Not that they were Arcadians," says 
 Servlus, on tliis passage in Virgil's 7th Eclogue, " but so 
 skiHuI in singing, that they might be esteemed Arcadians."
 
 PHINSAS FLETCHER. 307 
 
 Thine be the prize ; may Pan and Phcebus grace tlice; 
 Most, whom thou most admir'st, may she embrace thee; 
 And flaming in thy love, with snowy arms enlace thee. 
 
 Thiisil. 
 You lovely boys, full well your art you guided ; 
 
 That with yout striving songs your strife is ended : 
 So you yourselves the cause have well decided ; 
 
 And by no judge can your award be mended. 
 
 Then since the prize for only one intended. 
 You both refuse ; we justly may reserve it. 
 And as your offering in love's temple serve it; 
 Since none of both desire whan both so well deserve it. 
 
 Yet, — for such songs should ever be rewarded, 
 Daphnis take thou this hook of ivory clearest. 
 
 Given me by Pan, when Pan my verse regarded ; 
 This fears the wolf when most the wolf thou fearest. 
 But thou, my Thomahn, my love, my dearest. 
 
 Take thou this pipe which oft proud storms restrained ; 
 
 Which spite of Chamus' spite 1 still retained •, 
 
 Was never little pipe more soft, more sweetly plained. 
 
 And you fair troop, if Tiiivsil you disdain not, 
 
 Vouchsafe with me to take some short refection; 
 Excess, or daints, my lowly roof maintains not; 
 Pears, apples, plumbs; no sugar'd-made confection. 
 So up they rose, and by Love's sweet direction. 
 Sea-nymphs with shepherds sort : sea-boys complain not* 
 That wood-nymphs with like love them entertain not. 
 And all the day to songs and dances lending, 
 Too swift it runs, and spends too fast in spending: 
 With day their sports began, with day they take their 
 ending.
 
 308 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 The " Miscellanies" will not detain us long. The 
 most extensive of these, but in point of general merit 
 and interest the most unequal, is entitled — " Eliza ; 
 an Elegy upon the unripe decease of Sir Antony Irby ; 
 composed at the request (and for a monument) of his 
 surviving Lady." Many of the stanzas abound in true 
 pathos, and the most exalted piety, as well as in poetic 
 excellence : the address from the dying Knight to hi» 
 Lady can scarcely be parallelled. 
 
 Look, as a stag, pierced with a fatal bovr, 
 When by a wood he walk'd securely feeding. 
 
 In coverts thick conceals his deadly blow. 
 And feeling death swim iu his endless bleeding. 
 
 His heavy head his fainting strength exceeding, 
 
 Bids woods adieu, so sinks into his grave; 
 Green brakes, and primrose sweet, his seemly hearse 
 
 embrave. 
 
 So lay a gentle Knight now full of death, 
 With cloudy eyes, his latest hour expecting ; 
 
 And by his side, sucking his fleeting breath, 
 His weeping spouse, Eliza, life neglecting, 
 
 And all her beauteous fairs with grief infecting : 
 
 Her cheek as pale as his; 'twere hard to scan, 
 If death's or sorrow's face did look more pale or wan. 
 
 Then she : " Great Lord ! thyjudgments righteous be 
 To make good ill, when to our ill we use it : 
 
 Good leads on to the greatest good, to Thee ; 
 But we to other ends most foul abuse it ; 
 
 A common fault, yet cannot that excuse it : 
 
 We love thy gifts, and take them gladly ever; 
 We love them, ah ! too much, more than we love the 
 
 giver."
 
 PHFNEAS FLETCHER. 309 
 
 Then falling low upon her humbled knees, 
 And all her heart within her eye expressing. — 
 
 ******** 
 
 *• Was't not thy hand that tied the sacred knot? 
 Was't not thy hand that to my hand did give him? 
 
 Hast thou not made us onei* command'st thou not 
 None loose what thou hast bound? if then thou 'reave 
 him, 
 
 How without me by halves dost thou receive him ! 
 
 Tak'st thou the head, and leav'st the heart behind? 
 Aye me ! in me alone can'st thou such monster find? 
 
 "Ah! why dost thou so strong, me weak assail? 
 Woman of all thy creatures is the weakest. 
 
 And in her greatest strength did weakly fail ; 
 Thou who the weak and bruised never breakest, 
 
 Who never triumph in the yielding seekest : 
 
 Pity my weak estate, and leave me never; 
 I ever yet was weak, and now moie weak than ever." 
 
 With that her fainting spouse lift.sup his head. 
 And with some joy, his inward griefs refraining; 
 
 Thus v> iih a feeble voice, yet cheerful, said : — 
 " Spend not in tears this little time remaining ; 
 
 Thy grief doth add to mine, not ease my paining: 
 
 My death is life ; such is the scourge of God : 
 Ah! if his rods be such, who would not kiss his rod? 
 
 " My dear! once all ray joy, now all my care ; 
 To these my words — these my last words — apply thee. 
 
 Give me thy hand : these my last greetings are 1 
 Shew me thy face — I never more shall eye thee.
 
 310 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Ah would our boys, our leaser selves, were by thee ! 
 These my live pictures to the world I give : 
 So single only die, ia them twice two I live. 
 
 *' You little souls, your sweetest time enjoy. 
 And softly spend amongst your mother's kisses; 
 
 And with your pretty sports, and artless joy. 
 Supply that weeping mothers' grievous misses : 
 
 Ah! while you may, enjoy your little blisses. 
 
 While yet you nothing know : when back you view. 
 Sweet will this knowledge seem, when yet you nothing 
 
 knew. 
 
 " For when to riper times your years arrive. 
 No more, ah then no more, may you go play you : 
 
 Launch'd in the deep, far from the wished hive. 
 Change of world's tempests through blind seas ^ill 
 sway you, 
 
 'Till to the long-long'd haven they convey you : 
 
 Through many a wave this brittle life must pass , 
 And cut the churlish seas, shipt in a bark of glass. 
 
 " How many ships in quicksands swallow'd been! 
 What gaping waves, whales, monsters there expect you ! 
 
 How many rocks, much sooner felt than seen ! 
 Yet let no fear, no outward fright afiect you : 
 
 He holds the stern, and he will safe direct you, 
 
 Who to my sails thus long so gently blew-, 
 That now I touch the shore, before the seas I knew. 
 
 " I touch the shore, and see my rest preparing : 
 Oh, blessed God ! how infinite a blessing 
 
 Is in this thought, that through this troubled faring. 
 Through all the faults this guilty age depreii^sing.
 
 PHTNEAS FLETCHER. 311 
 
 i guiltless past, no helpless man oppressing ; 
 And coming now to thee, lift to the skies 
 Unbribed hands, cleans'd heart, and never tainted 
 eyes !" 
 
 'j?' W W ^ * * 
 
 •' My dearest Betty, my more loved heart, 
 I leave thee now — with thee all earthly joying; 
 Heaven knows with thee alone I sadly part, 
 All other earthly sweets have had their cloying; 
 
 Yet never full of thy sweet love's enjoying : 
 
 Thy constant loves, next heav'n, 1 did refer them. 
 Had not much grace prevail'd, 'fore heav'n I should 
 
 prefer them. 
 
 " I leave them now the trumpet calls away ; 
 In vain thine eyes beg for some time's reprieving; 
 
 Yet in my children here immortal stay ; 
 In one I die, in many ones am living : 
 
 In them and for them stay thy too much grieving: 
 
 Look but on them, in them thou still wilt see 
 Marry 'd with thee again, thy twice-two Antony. 
 
 " And when with little hands they stroke thy face, 
 As in thy lap they sit, all careless, playing, 
 
 And stammering ask a kiss, give them a brace; 
 The last from me ; and then a Utile staying, 
 
 And in their face some part of me surveying. 
 
 In them give me a third, and with a tear 
 Shew thy dear love to him, who lov'd thee ever dear. 
 
 " And now our falling house leans all on thee; 
 This little nation to thy care comniend them : 
 In thee it lies that hence they want not me ;
 
 312 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Themselves yet cannot, thou the more defend them; 
 
 And when green age permits, to goodness bead 
 them ; 
 
 A mother were you once, now both you are : 
 Then with this double style double your love and care. 
 
 " Turn their unwary steps into the way ; 
 "What first the vessel drinks it long retaineth ; 
 
 !No bars will hold when they have used to stray : 
 And when for me one asks, and weeping plaineth, 
 
 Point thou to heaven, and say he there remaineth. 
 
 And if they live in grace, grow, and persever. 
 There shall they live with me — else shall they see nai* 
 never ! 
 
 " My God ! oh, in thy fear here let them livel 
 Thy wards they are, take them to thy protection : 
 
 Thou gav'st them first, now back to thee I give ; 
 Direct them thou, and help her weak direction ; 
 
 That re-united by thy strong election 
 
 Thou now in them, they then may live in thee; 
 And doing here thy will, may there thy glory see." 
 
 After this, we must the more reg'iet that we know 
 no par iculars of the private life and domestic history 
 of this interesting poet : the follow ing short Piece is the 
 only one in which he at all alludes to his own "heart's 
 choice.'' With this, together with part of an epistle to 
 his brother on his choice of a sacred subject, and ex- 
 tracts from two or three ad<lr»'sses to ditieront friends, 
 (among which we learn the name of his " Thomalin") 
 expressi^'e of his 'ove of home and the country, and 
 his attacbment to his native Kent, we must close our 
 selections from Dr. Ar-denons edition — which, as ob- 
 served before, however incomplete, and containing 
 many errors, is yet valuable as the only Collection, and
 
 PHINEA3 FLETCHER. 
 
 313 
 
 from which we could occupy many more pages with 
 choice passages whose rarity would be their least recom- 
 xnendatioQ — but our limits forbid. 
 
 To my cmltf chosen Valentine and Wife. 
 
 i Mavstress Elizabeth Vincent | 
 Anagram ^ j^ ^^ breast's chaste Valentine 5 
 
 Think not, fair love, that chance my hand directed 
 
 To make my choice my ciiance ; blind chance and hands 
 Could never see what most my mind affected ; 
 
 Butheav'n, that ever with chaste true love stands, 
 Lent eyes to see what most my heart respected : 
 Then do not thou resist what heav'n commands ; 
 But yield thee his who ever must be thine : 
 My heart thy altar is, my breast thy shrine; 
 Thy name for ever is, *' My breast's chaste Valentine.' 
 
 Upon my Brother, G. F. his Book, entitled " Chrisfs 
 
 Victory, Sfc" 
 
 Fond lads that spend so fast your posting time 
 
 To chaunt light lays, or frame some wanton rhyme ; 
 
 But thou, most near, most dear, in this of thine 
 Hast proved the Muses not to Venus bound ; 
 
 Such as thy matter, such thy Muse, divine : 
 
 Or thou such grace w ith Mercy's self hast found, 
 
 That she herself deigns in thy leaves to shine ; 
 
 Or stol'n from heav'n, thou brought'st this verse to 
 ground. 
 
 Which frights the numbed soul with fearful thunder, 
 
 And soon with honey'd dews thaws it 'twixt joy and 
 wonder ! 
 
 B 2
 
 314 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Then do not thou malicious tongues esteem; 
 
 The glass, through which an envious eye doth gaze, 
 Can eas'iy make a mole-hill mountain seem ; 
 
 His praise dispraises ; his dispraises praise ; 
 Enough, if best men best thy labours deem, 
 
 And to the highest pitch thy merit raise : 
 While all the Muses to thy song decree 
 Victorious triumph, — triumphant Victory. 
 
 To Mr. lo. Tomkins. 
 
 Thomalin, my lief, thy music strains to hear. 
 
 More lapts my soul than when the swelhng winds 
 On craggy rocks their whistling voices tear; 
 
 Or when the sea, if stopt his course he finds, 
 With broken murmurs thinks weak shores to fear, 
 
 Scorning such sandy cords his proud head binds : 
 IMore than where rivers in the summer's ray, 
 Through covert glades cutting their shady way, 
 llun tumbling down the lawns, and with the pebbles 
 
 play. 
 
 Thy strains to hear, old Chamus from his cell 
 
 Comes guarded with an hundred nymphs around : 
 An hundred nymphs, that in his rivers dwell, 
 
 About him flock, with water-lillies crown'd : 
 For thee the Muses leave tlieir silver well, 
 
 And marvel where thou all their art hast found : 
 There sitting they admire thy dainty strains, 
 Antl while thy sadder accent sweetly plains. 
 Peel thousand sug'red joys creep in their melting veins. 
 
 How oft have I, the Muses' bower frequenting, 
 
 3Iiss'd them at home, and found them all with thee '.
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 315 
 
 Whether thou sing^'st sad Eupatha's lamenting, 
 
 Or tunest notes to sacred harmony. 
 The ravish'd soul with such sweet notes consenting, 
 
 Scorning the earth, in heav'nly extasy 
 Transcends the stars, and with the angel's train 
 Those courts surveys ; and now come back again, 
 Finds yet another heaven in thy delightful strain. 
 
 Ah! couldst thou here thy humble mind content, 
 
 Lowly with me to live in country cell. 
 And learn suspect the court's proud blandishment ; 
 
 Here might we safe, here might we sweetly dwell. 
 Live Pallas in her tow'rs and marble tent ! 
 
 But, ah ! the country bowVs please me as well : 
 There with my Thomalin I safe would sing, 
 And frame sweet ditties to thy sweeter string ; 
 There would we laugh at spite, and fortune's thundering 
 
 No flattery, hate, or envy lodgeth there ; 
 
 There no suspicion wall'd in proved steel, 
 Yet fearful of the arms herself doth wear : 
 
 Pride is not there; no tyrant there we feel ; 
 No clam'rous law shall deaf thy music's ear ; 
 
 There know no change, nor wanton fortune's wheel : 
 Thousand fresh sports grow in those dainty places ; 
 Light fawns and nymphs dance in the woody spaces. 
 And little Love himself plays with the naked Graces, 
 
 But, seeing Fate my happy wish refuses. 
 
 Let me alone enjoy my low estate. 
 Of all the gifts that fair Parnassus uses. 
 
 Only scorn'd poverty and fortune's hate 
 Common I find to me, and to the Muses ; 
 
 But, with the muses, welcome poorest fate.
 
 316 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Safe in my humble cottage will I rest ; 
 
 And, lifting up from my untainted breast, 
 
 A quiet spirit to heav'n, — securely live, and blest ! 
 
 Strange power of Home,* with how strong twisted 
 
 arms 
 
 And Gordian twined knot dost thou enchain me? 
 
 Never might fair Cahsto's doubled charms, 
 
 Nor poweiful Circe's whisp'ring so restrain me. 
 Though all her art she spent to entertain me ; 
 
 Their presence could not force a weak desire ; 
 
 But, oh ! thy poweiful absence breeds still growing fire. 
 
 By night thou try'st with strong imagination 
 To force my sense 'gainst reason to belie it ; 
 
 Methinks I see the fasi-imprinted fashion 
 Of ev'ry place, and now I fully eye it; 
 And though with fear, yet cannot well deny it, 
 
 'Till the morn-bell awakes mfe ; then for spite 
 
 I shut mine eyes again, and wish back such a night. 
 
 But in the day my never-slack'd desire 
 Will cast to prove by welcome forgery. 
 
 That for ray absence I am much the nigher ; 
 Seeking to please with soothing flattery. 
 Love's wing is thought; and thought will surest fly 
 
 Where it finds want: then, as our love is dearer, 
 
 Absence yields presence, distance makes us nearer. 
 
 • "Nescio qua. nat^le solum dulcedine cunctos 
 
 Diuit, et immemores non sinit esse sui ?" — [OviD.] 
 ** I kcow not by wiiat sweetness our native soil attracts us, 
 and implants itself, ictleliblv, in our recollection f"
 
 PmNEA.S FLETCHER. 317 
 
 Oh ! might I In some humble Kentish dale,* 
 For ever eas'ly spend ray slow-pac'd hours : 
 
 Much should 1 scorn fair Eton's pleasant vale, 
 Or Windsor, Tempe's self, and proudest tow'rs : 
 There would I sit, safe f.om the stormy show'rs, 
 
 And laugh the troublous winds, and angry sky ; 
 
 Piping, ah ! might I live ; and piping might I die. 
 
 And would my lucky fortune so much grace me. 
 As in low Cranebrook, or high Brenchley's hill, 
 
 Or in some cabin near thy dwelling, place me ; 
 There would I gladly sport, and sing ray fill. 
 And teach my humble Muse to raise her quill : 
 
 And that high Mantuan shepherd' self to dare, 
 
 If ought with that high Mantuan shepherd might com- 
 pare. 
 
 Me Kent holds fast with thousand sweet embraces ; 
 
 There rnought I die with thee, there with thee live ! 
 All \n the shades, the nymphs and naked graces 
 
 Fresh joys, and still succeeding pleasures give; 
 
 So much we sport, we have no time to grieve ; 
 Here do we sit, and laugh white headed caring; 
 And know no sorrow simple pleasures marring. 
 
 * On this passage, the Editor of the Edinburgh edition re- 
 marks, " No wonder this county should be so agreeable to a 
 man of his turn of ujind, where there is a variety of green and 
 beautiful hills, extensive woods, and noble rivers. Cranbrook 
 and BrenclUey-liill, are remarkable for their beautiful situation. 
 Cranbrook lies low in the woody part of the country, near the 
 nver Rother, and is a pleasant village, well known at a dis- 
 tance by a tall spire, or steeple, formerly used as a beacon to 
 direct sailors,"
 
 318 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 A crowd of wood-nymphs, spread i' the grassy plain 
 Sit round about, no niggards of their faces : 
 
 Nor do they cloud their fair with black disdain ; 
 All to myself will they impart their graces : 
 
 Ah ! can such joys tind 1 in other places?— 
 
 To them I often pipe, and often sing. 
 
 Sweet notes to sweeter voices tempering. 
 
 Not difference, nor distance, of the place,* 
 Makes in my mind at all a diffe. ence. 
 
 Tor Love is not produc'd, or pen'd to space. 
 Having in the soul his only residence. — 
 Love's fire is thought ; and thought is never thence, 
 
 "Where it feels want : for, when true love is dear, 
 
 The mind at farthest distance is most near. 
 
 m ***** * 
 
 • ■»«•»»» 
 
 Then do not marvel Kentish strong delights. 
 Stealing the time, do here so long detain me ; 
 
 Not powerful Circe, with her Hecate rites. 
 Nor pleasing Lotus thus could entertain me. 
 As A"cw/jsA. powerful pleasures here enc'iain me : — ■ 
 
 lUean time, the nymphs that in our Brcnchley use. 
 
 Kindly salute your busy Cambridge Muse. 
 
 Another "last word,' ' — a wish at " new years' tide," 
 and we vmst have done ! — wishing the same wish to all 
 our readers at whatever season it may meet them : — 
 
 * We have here taken the liberty slightly to alter the con- 
 struction for the sake of connexion. In this and the following 
 stanza, (as well as in several other places in his poems,) tlie 
 nuthor appears to have copied from himself, but thrise 
 pieces were written to ditFercnt persons, and probably at dis- 
 tant periods, whilst a new turn i5 given to the same tboiijjht.
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 319 
 
 That sacred hand which to this year hath brought you. 
 Perfect your years, and with your years, his graces ; 
 And when his will unto his will hath wrought you. 
 
 Conduct your soul unto his happy places. 
 Where thousand joys and pleasures ever new, 
 And blessings, richer than the morning dew. 
 With endless sweota ram on that heavenly crew. 
 
 It remains now to notice the last written, and on 
 some accounts by far the most remarkable jooem of this 
 author. The '* Locusts or Apo'.lyonists" was certainly 
 composed after the commencement of the reign of 
 Charles the lirst, the conciudinjj; stanzas being addressed 
 to that monarch ; consequently it is of a date as recent as 
 1625. This poem is remarkable for the striking resem- 
 blance in some of its characters, incidents, and e .en its 
 expressions, to Milton's great work of Paradise Lost, 
 insomuch as to leave no doubt in the mind of the reader, 
 that the divine bard had been strongly impressed with 
 the perusal of it. The extracts we shall have occasion 
 to make will amply prove this assertion. 
 
 The poem of "The Locusts" appears to have been 
 published once only; it is consequently among those 
 literary rarities which bear a high price in the book 
 market. For a loan of the copy which now lies before 
 us, we are very recently indebted to the liberality of 
 Messrs. Longman and Co. the proprietors, in wliose 
 extensive and valuable sale catalogue, it is marked at 
 the price uf eight guineas. 
 
 The poem occupies a thin quarto of abeu' 70 pages, 
 and consists of 1700 lines: the title page i;-:, — "The 
 Locusts, or ApoUyonists ; by Phineas Fletcher, of 
 King's College, in Cambridge. Printed by Thomas 
 Bucke and John Bucke, printers to the University of 
 Cambridge, 1627." 
 
 The dedication to "The light noble Lady Towns- 
 hend," has nothing remarkable or worthy transcribing. 
 There is one short copy of commendatory verses, in
 
 320 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 conformity to the prevailing custom, signed H. M. this 
 also may be passed over. 
 
 Canto 1 commences with a stanza of violent abuse 
 of which the first line may serve for an example : — 
 
 Of men, nay beasts, wor>.e, monsters, worst of all 
 Incarnate hends. 
 
 An invocation of the deity as the " world's sole 
 pilot" follows in better taste, ending with the following 
 lines. 
 
 Steer me poor ship-boy, steer my course aright; 
 Breathe gracious sp'rit, breathe gently on these lays. 
 Be thou my compass, needle to my ways. 
 Thy glorious works my freight, my haven is thy praise. 
 
 The action of the poem commences with the 6th 
 stanza. 
 
 The cloudy.night came whirling up the sky. 
 
 And scattering round the dews, which first she drew 
 From milky poppies, loads the drowsy eye : 
 
 The watery moon, cool vesper and his crew 
 Light up their tapers : to the sun they fly. 
 
 And at his blazing flame their sparks renew. 
 Oh ! why should earthly lights then scorn to tine 
 Their lamps alone at that first sun divine .'' 
 Hence as false falling stars, as rotten wood they shine. 
 
 Her sable mantle was embroidered gay 
 
 With silver beams, with spangles round beset : 
 
 Four steeds her chariot drew, the first was grey. 
 The second blue, third brown, fourth black as jet. 
 
 The hallooing owl, her [tost, prepares the way, 
 
 And winged dreams, as gnat-swarms, fluttering let * 
 
 Hinder; prevent.
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 32). 
 
 Sad sleep, who faia his eyes in rest would steep ; 
 
 "Why then at death do weary mortals weep ? 
 
 Sleep's but a shorter death, death's but a longer sleep. 
 
 And now th' world and dreams themselves were drown'd 
 
 In deadly sleep ; the labourer snoreth fast. 
 His brawny arms imbent, his limbs unbound. 
 
 As dead, forgot all toil to come, or past; 
 Only sad guilt, and troubled greatness crowu'd 
 With heavy gold and care, no rest can taste. 
 Go then vain man, go pill the live and dead, 
 Buy, sell, fawn, flatter, rise, then crouch thy head 
 la proud, but dangerous gold ; — in silk, but restless bed. 
 
 When lo ! a sudden noise breaks th' empty air; 
 
 A dreadful noise, which every creature daunts ; 
 Prights home the blood, shoots up the limber hair. 
 
 For through the silent heaven hell's pursuivants 
 Cutting their way, command foul spirits repair 
 
 With haste to Pluto, who their counsel wants. 
 Their hoarse base horns like fenny bitte.ns sound; 
 Th' earth shakes, dogs howl, and heaven itself astound 
 Shuts all his eyes ; the stars ia clouds their candles 
 drown'd. 
 
 Mean time hell's iron gates by fiends beneath 
 
 Are open flung ; which framed with wondrous art 
 To every guilty soul yields entrance ealh ; • ^/^ 
 
 But never wight, but he, could thence depart. 
 Who dying once was death to ^ndless death. 
 
 So where the liver's channel to the heart 
 Pays purple tribute, with their three-forked mace 
 Three Tritons stand, and speed his flowing race. 
 But stop the ebbing stream, if once it back would pace. 
 
 • Easy.
 
 322 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 The porter to the inferual gate is Sin, 
 
 A shapeless shape, a foul deformed thing, 
 
 Nor nothing, nor a substance ; as those thiH 
 And empty forms whicdi through the ayer fling 
 
 Their wandering shapes, at length are fasten'd in 
 The chrystal sight. — It serves, yet reigns as king : 
 
 It Uves, yet's death; it pleases, full of pain : 
 
 Monster! ah who, who, can thy being feign ? 
 
 Thou shapeless shape, live death, pain pleasing, servile 
 reign. 
 
 Of that first woman, and the old serpent bred. 
 
 By lust and custom nurs'd ; whom when her mother 
 Saw so deformed, how fain would she have fled 
 
 Her birth and self? But she her dam would smother 
 And all her brood, had not he rescued 
 
 "Who was his mother's sire, his children's brother : 
 Eternity, who yet was born and died : 
 His own creator, earth's scorn, heaven's pride, 
 Who th' deity inflesht, and man's flesh deified. 
 
 Her former parts her mother seems resemble. 
 Yet only seems to flesh and weaker sight; 
 
 For she with art and paint could fine dissemble 
 
 Her loathsome face ; her back parts, black as night. 
 
 Like to her horrid sire would force to tremble 
 
 The boldest heart ;— to the eye that meets her right 
 
 She seems a lovely sweet of beauty rare; 
 
 But at the parting, he that shall compare. 
 
 Hell will more lovely deem, the devil's self more fair. 
 
 Her rosy cheek, quick eye, her naked breast. 
 And whatsoe'er loose fancy might entice.
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 323 
 
 She bare expos'd to sight, all lovely dress'd 
 
 In beauty's livery, and quaint devise : 
 Thus she bewitches many a boy unblest, 
 
 Who drenched in hell, dreams all of paradise; 
 Her breasts his spheres, her arms his circling sky, 
 Her pleasure, heaven, her love eternity : 
 For her he longs to live, with her he longs to die. 
 
 Close by her sat Despair, sad ghastly spright, 
 With staring looks, unmoved, fast nailed to Sin; 
 
 Her body all of earth, her soul of fright. 
 
 About her thousand deaths, but more within : 
 
 Pale, pined cheeks, black hair, torn, rudely dight; 
 Short breath, long nails, dull eyes, sharp pointed chin : 
 
 Light, life, hfiaven, p.arth, herself, and all she fled. 
 
 Fain would she die but could not ; yet half dead, 
 
 A breathing corse she seem'd, wrapt up in living lead. 
 
 In th' entrance Sickness, and faint Languor dwelt, 
 
 Who with sad groans toll out their passing knell; 
 Late fear, fright, horror, that already felt 
 
 The torturer's claws, preventing death and hell. 
 W ithin loud Grief, and roaring Pangs that swelt 
 
 In sulphur flames, did weep, and howl, and yell. 
 And thousand souls in endless dolour lie. 
 Who burn, fry, hiss, and never cease to cry, — 
 ** Oh that I ne'er had liv'd ! oh that I once could die ?" 
 
 And now the Infernal Powers through th' ayer driving. 
 For si)eed iheir leathern pinions broad display; 
 
 Now at eternal Death's wide gate arriving. 
 
 Sin gives them passage ; still they cut their way. 
 
 Till to the bottom of hell's palace driving 
 They enter Dis' deep conclave : there they stay,
 
 324 PHtNEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Waiting the rest, and now they all are met, 
 A full foul senate, now they all are set. 
 The horrid courts, big svvol'n with th' hideous counsel 
 sweat. 
 
 The mid'st but lowest, — in hell's heraldfy 
 The deepest is the highest room,— in state 
 
 Sat lordly Lucifer : his fiery eye. 
 
 Much swohi with pride, but more with rage and hate, 
 
 As censor musJer'd all his company; 
 
 Who round about with awful silence sate. 
 
 This do, this let rebellious spirits gain. 
 
 Change God for Satan, heaven's for hell's sov'reign : 
 j O let him serve in hell, who scorns in heaven to reign ! 
 
 Ah wretch ! who with ambitious cares opprest, 
 
 Long'st still for future, feel'st no present good : 
 Despising to be better, would'st be best ; 
 
 Good never; who wilt serve thy lusting mood, 
 Yet all command : not he, who raised his crest 
 
 But pulled it down, hath high and firmly stood. 
 "Fool rerve thy towering lust, grow still, still crave, 
 Rule, reign, this comfort from thy greatness have, 
 Now at thy top thou art a great commanding slave. 
 
 Thus fell that prince of darkness, once a bright 
 
 And shining star ; he wilful turned away 
 His borrowed globe from that eternal light : 
 
 Himself he sought, so lost himself; his ray 
 Vanished to smoke, his morning sunk in night. 
 And never more shall see the springing day : 
 i To be in heaven ihe second he disdains : 
 i So now the first in hell, in flames he reigns, 
 
 Crown'd once with joy and light ; crown'd now with 
 fire and painsi
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 325 
 
 As where the warlike Dane the sceptre sways, f 
 
 They crown usurpers with a wreath of lead ; ; 
 
 And with hot steel while loud the traitor brays. 
 
 They melt, and drop it down unto his head. j 
 
 Crown'd-he would live, and crown'd he ends his da) s : | 
 
 All so in heaven's court this traitor sped. 
 Who now, when he had overlooked his train. 
 Rising upon his throne with bitter strain. 
 Thus 'gan to whet their rage, and chide their frustrate 
 
 pain. 
 
 The speech af Satan, which occupies eighteen stan- 
 zas, is too long for insertion. He begins with lament- 
 ing the universal peace in which the world reposed, and, : 
 the extention of divine truth by the propagation of the 
 Gospel. 
 
 Spring-tides of light divine the air surround. 
 
 And bring down heav'n to earth; deaf ignorance 
 
 Vext with the day, her head in hell hath drown'd, 
 Fond superstition, frighted with the glance 
 
 Of sudden beams, in vain hath crost her round. 
 Truth and religion every v^here advance 
 
 Their conquering standards ; Error's lost and fled; 
 
 Earth burns in love to heaven ; heaven yields her bed 
 
 To earth ; and common grown, smiles to be ravished. 
 
 That little swimming Isle above the rest, 
 
 Spite of our spite, and all our plots, remains, 
 
 And grows in happiness ; but late our nest. 
 
 Where we, and Home, and blood, and all our 
 trains 
 
 Monks, nuns, dead and live idols, safe did re&t; 
 
 •^nt^ 
 
 C 2 

 
 32G PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Now there, — next the oath of God, — that Wrestler 
 reigns 
 Who fills the land and world with peace, his spear 
 Is but a pen, with which he down doth bear 
 Blind ignorance, false gods, and superstitious fear. 
 
 i(P ^ ^P •^ ^F 
 
 But me, oh ! never let me. Spirits, forget 
 
 That glorious day, when I your standard bore 
 And scorning in the second place to sit. 
 
 With you assaulted heaven, his yoke forswore ; 
 My dauntless heart yet longs to bleed, and sweat 
 
 In such a fray; the more I burn, the more 
 I hate : should he yet offer grace and ease, 
 If subject, we our arms and spite surcease, 
 Such offer should I hate, and scorn so base a peace. 
 
 Where are those spirits ? Where that haughty rage 
 
 That durst with me invade eternal light ? 
 What? i\reour hearts fallen too? Droop we with 
 age? 
 Can we yet fall from hell and hellish spite ? 
 Can smart our wrath, can grief our hate assuage ? 
 
 Dare we with heaven , and not with earth to fight ? 
 Your arms, aUies, yourselves are strong as ever, 
 Your foes, their weapons, numbers weaker never, 
 For shame tread down this earth ; what wants but your 
 endeavour ? 
 
 ^ 4F -fi* TT ^ •!? 
 
 And now you states of hell give your advice, 
 And to these ruins lend your helping hand. — 
 
 This said, and ceased, — straight hummmg murmurs rise : 
 Some chafe, some fret, some sad and thoughtful stand.
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 327 
 
 Some chat, and some new stratagems devise. 
 
 And every one heaven's stronger power ban'd, 
 And tear for madness their uncombed snakes, 
 And every one his fiery weapon shakes. 
 And every one expects who first the answer makes . 
 
 So when the falUng sun hangs o'er the main, 
 
 Ready to drop into the western wave, 
 By yellow Chame, where all the Muses reign. 
 
 And with their towers his reedy head embrave ; 
 The warlike gnats their fluttering armies train. 
 
 All have sharp spears, and all shrill trumpets have : 
 Their files they double, loud their cornets sound. 
 Now march at length, their troops now gather round : 
 The banks, the broken noise, and turrets fair rebound. 
 
 The 2nd Canto commences, as usual with this poet, 
 in a strain of solemn reflection. At the fourth stanza, 
 the following striking metaphor introduces the respon- 
 dent to the infernal leader : — 
 
 As when the angry winds with seas conspire, 
 
 The white-plum'd hills marching in set array. 
 Invade the earth, and seem with rage on fire ; 
 
 While waves with thundering drums whet on tlie fray, 
 And blasts with whist'ling fifes new rage inspire : 
 
 Yet soon as breathless airs their spight allay, 
 A silent calm ensues : the hilly main 
 Sinks in itself; and drums unbraced, refrain 
 Their thund'ring noise, while seas sleep on the even plain. 
 
 All so the raging storm of cursed fiends. 
 
 Blown up with sharp reproof and b.tter spight. 
 
 First rose in loud uproar, then falling, ends 
 And ebbs in silence : when a wily spright
 
 328 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 To give an answer for the rest intends : 
 Once Protens, now Equivocus he hight. 
 
 Father of cheaters, spring of cunning lies, 
 Of sly deceit, and refin'd perjuries. 
 
 That hardly hell itself can trust his forgeries ! 
 
 The speech of this demon strongly reminds us of the 
 replies of the fallen angels to Satan, in " Paradise Lost," 
 more particularly that of Belial, who seems to be his 
 counterpart. Fletcher, according to the prejudice of 
 his time, has made Fquivocus the patron of the fol- 
 lowers of Ignatius, whose qualificarions as devilish 
 agents are set forth very much at full in his speech, — 
 He advises (and here again the resemblance to 
 Milton is very striking,) the infernal prince to carry the 
 war from heaven to earth ; to assail in particular the 
 " Wrestler" and his subjects in the obnoxious •' httle 
 isle" and to eniploy the agency of his friends the Jesuits 
 for that particular enterprise —the synod approves his 
 counsel. — 
 
 With that the bold black spirit invades the day, 
 And heaven, and hght, and lord of both defies. 
 
 All hell run out, and sooty flags display, 
 
 A foul deformed rout : heaven shuts his eyes ; 
 
 The stars look pale, and early mornings' ray 
 Lays down her head again, and dares not rise : 
 
 A second night of spirits the air possest ; 
 
 The wakeful cock that late forsook his nest, 
 
 Maz'd how he was deceived, flies to his roost and rest. 
 
 So when the south, dipping his sable wings 
 
 In humid seas, sweeps with his dropping beard 
 
 The ayer, earth, and ocean, down he flings 
 
 The laden trees, the ploughman's hopes new ear'd 
 
 Swim on the plain; his lips loudthund'rings, 
 And flashing eyes make all the world afraid*.
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHEH. 
 
 329 
 
 Li2,htwit'i dark clouds, waters with fires are met, 
 
 The sun bat now is rising, now is set. 
 
 And finds west's shades in east, and seas in ayers wet. 
 
 Canto the third opens with the following stanza:— 
 
 False world how dost tliou witch dim reason's eyes ! 
 
 I see thy painted facR, thy changing fashion : 
 Thy treasures, honou s, all are vanities, 
 
 Thy comforts, pleasures, joys are all vexation, 
 Thy words aie lies ; thy oaths foul peijuries, 
 
 Thy wages, care, grief, beggary, death, damnation, 
 All this I know : I know thou dost deceive me, 
 Yet cannot as thou art, but seem'st, conceive thee : 
 I know I should, I must, yet oh ! I would not leave thee ! 
 
 Look as in dreams where the idle fancy plays. 
 One thinks that fortune high his head advances ; 
 
 Another spends in woe his weary days ; 
 
 A third sees sport in love and courtly dances; 
 
 This groans and weeps, that chants his merry lays ; 
 A sixth to find some glittering treasure chances : 
 
 Soon as they wake they see their thoughts were vain. 
 
 And quite forget and mock their idle brain ; 
 
 This sighs, that laughs to see how true false dreams can 
 feign . 
 
 Such is the world, such life's short acted play : 
 
 This base and scorn'd; this high in great esteeming, 
 
 This poor and patched seems, this rich and gay; 
 This sick, that strong; yet all is only seeming : 
 
 Soon as the parts aie done, all slip away; 
 
 So like, that waking, oft we think we're dreaming. 
 
 And dreaming hope we wake, — 'Wake watch mine eyes !
 
 330 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 What can be in this world, but flatteries. 
 Dreams, cheats, deceits, whose prince is king of night 
 and Has ? — 
 
 The scene now shifts from the infernal regions, to the 
 theatre of the world, and we are introduced to the 
 Jesuits and the countries of Europe most favourable to 
 their opinions and subject to their influence. The fiend 
 Equivocus is dispatched to Home which is well descri- 
 bed as contrasted with its former state. — 
 
 Say Muses, say, who now in those rich fields 
 Where silver Tibris swims in golden sands. 
 
 Who now, ye Muses, that great sce[itre wields. 
 Which once swayed all the earth in servile bands ? 
 
 Who now those Babel towers, once fallen, builds? 
 Say, say, how first it fell, how now it stands ? 
 
 How, and by what degrees that city sunk ? 
 
 Oh ! are those haughty sp'rits so basely shrunk, 
 
 Caesars to change for friars, — a monarch for a monk? 
 
 Upon the ruins of those marble towers, 
 
 Founded, and rais'd, with skill and great expence 
 Of ancient kings, great lords, and emperors. 
 
 He* builds his Babel up to heaven, and thence 
 Thunders through all the world ; on sandy floors 
 
 The ground-work slightly floats, the walls to sense 
 Seem porphyr fair, which blood of martyrs taints ; 
 But was base loam, mixed with strawey saints ; 
 Daub'd with untempered lime, which glittering tinfoil 
 
 paints. 
 
 »-■■• " ' ' 
 
 « The Pope .
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 331 
 
 Tlie 4th Canto describes a conclave at the Vatican. — 
 The pontiff addresses his assembled dignitaries, in a 
 long and violent speecli, describing the ancient glory 
 of the papacy, — its absolute dominion over the opinions 
 and actions of mankind, — and the late defections in the 
 Protestant states of Europe, particularly England. 
 This speech is answered by the chief of the Jesuits, 
 who proposes a plan for the destruction of the English 
 heretics, in a summary manner. 
 
 That blessed Isle, so often cursed in vain, 
 
 Triumphing in our loss and idle spight. 
 Of force shall shortly stoop to Rome and Spain ; 
 
 I'll take a way ne'er known to man or spright. 
 To kill a king is stale, and I disdain : 
 
 That fits a secular, not a jesuite. 
 Kings, nobles, clergy, commons, high and low, 
 The flower of England in one hour I'll mow, 
 And head all th' isle with one unseen, unfenced blow ! 
 
 In short, he projects the famous plot for blowing up 
 the Parliament House and all its assembled inmates, 
 with gunpowder; which is hailed with acclamation, and 
 the assembly disperses. 
 
 The 5th Canto brings forward the subordinate agents 
 in the plot, busy in their operations in the " celerage," 
 disposing their mine, and laying their trains. Guy 
 Faux is thus described : — 
 
 Among them all, none so impatient 
 
 Of stay, as fiery Faux, whose grisly feature 
 
 Adorn'd with colours of hell's regiment, 
 
 Soot black, and fiery red, betrays his nature. 
 
 His frighted mother, when her time she went, 
 Oft dream'd she bore a strange and monstrous creature, 
 
 A brand of hell sweltering in fire and smoke,
 
 332 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Who all, anJ's mother's self would bum and choke; 
 So dream'd she iu her sleep, so found she when she 
 Voke. 
 
 Rome was his nurse, and Spain his tutor; she 
 With wolfish milk fleshed hira in deadly lies. 
 
 In hate of truth and stubborn error : he 
 
 Fats him with human blood, inures his eyes. 
 
 Dashed brains, torn limbs, and trembling hearts to see. 
 And tunes his ear with groans and shrieking cries. 
 
 Thus nurs'd, bred, grown a cannibal, now prest 
 
 To be the leader of this troop, he blest 
 
 His bloody maw with thought of such a royal feast. 
 
 Meanwhile the " eye" of providence surveys the 
 diabolical preparations, and summoning 
 
 That mounting eagle, which beneath his throne. 
 
 His sapphire throne, fixed in chrystal base. 
 Broadly dispreads his heaven-wide pinion, 
 
 On whom, when sinful earth he strikes with 'maze. 
 He wide displays his black pavilion. 
 
 And thundering, fires high towers with flashing blaze : 
 Dark waters draw their sable curtains o'er him, 
 With flaming wings the burning angels shore him, 
 The clouds and guilty heavens for fear fly fast before 
 
 him. 
 
 The winged messenger is sent to warn the " great 
 peace-maker" and his " council" of the impending dan- 
 ger, and the king receives a special intimation of the plot. 
 
 that learned royal mind, 
 
 Lio^hted from heaven, soon the knot and plot untwined. 
 
 The action of the poem terminates with the disco- 
 very of the mine, and the apprehension of the traitor
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 333 
 
 Faux. The poem itself concludes with an address of 
 praise and thanksgiving to the protecting deity, and 
 three monitory si anzas acklressed to King Charles the 
 First. Of this part, we can only afford room for a 
 short specimen. 
 
 Oh ! thou great shepherd, earth's, heaven's sovereign, 
 Whom we, thy pastu e-sheep admire, adore; 
 
 See all thy flock prostrate on Britain's plain. 
 
 Plucked f oni the slaughter ; fill their mouth with store 
 
 Of incens'd praise ; oh ! see, see, every swain 
 
 'Maz'd with thy tvorks ; much 'maz'd, but ravish'd 
 . more, 
 
 Pour out their hearts thy glorious name to raise ; 
 
 Fire thou our zealous lips with thankful lays. 
 
 Make this sav'd isle to burn in love, to smoke in praise ! 
 
 Thou bid'st the sun piece out the ling'ring day. 
 
 Glittering in golden fleece : the lovely spring 
 Comes dancing on, the primrose strews her way. 
 
 And sattin violet: lambs wantoning 
 Bound o'er the hillocks in their sportful play ; 
 
 The wood-musicians chaunt and cheerly sing, 
 The world seems new, yet old by youth's acruin^. 
 Ah ! wretched man ! so wretched world pursuing. 
 Which still grows worse with age, and older by re^ 
 
 newing! 
 
 This last stanza may be considered as a fair speci men 
 of P. Fletcher's best manner, which has seldom been 
 excelled by any Fnghsh poet. 
 
 if
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 Born about 1588. — Died 1623. 
 
 But thou, my sister muse, mays't well go higher ! 
 
 But thou, — most near, most dear, — in this of thin* 
 Hast proved the muses not to Venus hound : 
 
 Such as thy matter, such thy muse, divine : 
 
 Or thou such grace ivith mercy's self hast found. 
 
 That she herself deigns in thy leaves to shine : 
 
 IVhile all the muses to thy song decree. 
 
 Victorious triumph, triuinphunt victory. 
 
 (PHINEAS FtETCHER.) 
 
 All that is known of the personal history of Giles 
 Tletcher, may be included in one short sentence. — 
 He was the younger brother of Phineas, — of Trinity 
 College Cambridge, where he took the degree of B. D. 
 patronised early in life by Dean Neville, — in holy orders 
 and beneficed at Alderton in Suffolk, where he died 
 prematurely in the thirty-fifth year of his age. 
 
 He published one poem only ; this was printed at 
 Cambridge In 1610, in 4to. with the title of " Christ's 
 Victory and Triumph, in Heaven and Earth, over and 
 after Death." Another edition appeared in 1632, and 
 again in 1640 with engravings. It was reprinted, 
 together with the " Purple Island" of Phineas, with 
 many alterations in the text, according to the absurd 
 recommendation of Hervey in 1783, London Bvo 
 Finally it was inserted in a collection of English 
 poetry by Dr. Anderson who made use of the last 
 genuine edition, that of 1640.
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 836 
 
 United as these tuneful brothers assuredly were iu 
 blood, in affection, in talent, and in station, — favourites 
 of the same muse, occupied with the same pursuits, and 
 employing their talents upon similar subjects, — it would 
 have been perhaps consistent if we had spoken of them 
 as Kentish poets in conjunction also, and classed them 
 together in one article. As it is, the few general re- 
 marks we have already ventured to make upon their 
 poetry, together with what follows, apply with equal 
 justice to both. 
 
 Superior in all the higher attributes of poetry, the 
 Fletchers may with confidence assert their claim to 
 precedence, in the order of merit, over all the native 
 bards of Kent. To originality and invention, they have 
 however but slender pretensions. Spenser was their 
 master, who himself copied his style, his subjects, and 
 even his incidents from the modern bards of Italy. — 
 The subjects of their poems, — the form and structure 
 of their verse, — its harmony and modulation, — the 
 sweet and tender sentiment in which they delighted to 
 indulge, — the glowing pictures of nature scattered 
 throughout their woks, and finished with the utmost 
 perfection of their art, — the apt and beautiful metaphors, 
 taken for the most part from nature also, introduced at 
 due intervals, and with the happiest effect, — their fond- 
 ness for personification carried even beyond the bounds 
 of propriety, — their prolixity, quaintness, and disposi- 
 tion to seek for antithesis, for the purpose of effect, — 
 are so many proofs of the diligence with which they had 
 studied the manner of this admirable poet. 
 
 In the harmonious flow and moduiatiou of their stan- 
 zas, and in the mechanical part of the;r structure, the 
 Fletchers are equal to their great master : in the beauty
 
 336 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 and fitness of their metaphors they are even superior to 
 him, and will bear a comparison with any poets, how- 
 ever eminent, and of whatever time. In tender and 
 lovely sentiment, in that exalted strain of charity, which 
 at the same time that it identifies the possessor with his 
 fellow men, exalts him above humanity, which flowing 
 from the purest source has been seldom given to 
 highly favoured mortals, and to none more amply than 
 to the bard of " Faery," they fall short of the object 
 of their imitation, for few indeed can equal him. 
 
 The Fletchers composed their poems when very 
 young men. The "Christ's Victory" of Giles was 
 printed when he was only twenty- two years of age, — ' 
 and at that time, from the evidence of the concluding 
 stanzas addressed to his brother, Phineas had compo- 
 sed his largest work, " The Purple Island." The age 
 in v/hich they wrote, though it produced some of the 
 very finest specimens of poetry in the English language, 
 was that of the imagination rather than of the judg- 
 ment, — taste was in great measure unknown, and criti- 
 cism absolutely so, — the poets rarely corrected their 
 works, and the greatest beauties are blended with th'e 
 grossest faults. Poetry, like a healthy plant in a vir^ 
 gin soil, throve luxuriantly, it rooted deep and spread 
 its branches wide, but its fruit was frequently harsh and 
 crude; it demanded the assiduous care of the cultiva- 
 tor, and the fearless application of the pruning hook. 
 The Fletchers partook largely both of the faults and of 
 the beauties of the age they lived m. That they were 
 capable of writing correctly and well is proved by pas- 
 sages where it is evident iheji put out their slrength, and 
 employed diligence. I*..ineas, in particular, wrote 
 early, and published late in life, when he was proba biy
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 337 
 
 occupied with more important cares, and the spirit ot 
 poetry which had inspired his youth had in great mea- 
 sure deserted him. That he bestowed Httle care in 
 correcting or revising his labours is plain from frequent 
 passages where he has repeated the same thought in 
 almost the same words ; this even extends to repeating 
 whole stanzas. It may be remarked that this poet was 
 capable of correct application when his subject required 
 it. In the scientiiic part of his poem, where precision 
 was absolutely necessary, he describes minutely and 
 correctly, and a student of anatomy might learn the 
 state of that science in the 16th century from the " Pur- 
 ple Island" aloue, without the chance of being mistaken. 
 Eut when he embarks in the boundless ocean of the 
 intellectual faculties, he at once assumes all the privi- 
 leges of the poet, revels in a creation of his own, and 
 resigns himself to the guidance of his imagination. — 
 He calls up in long array, a host of personifications, 
 blends or misapplies the attributes he assigns to them, 
 becomes obscure, pedantic, and at times tediously 
 prolix. But it is in this part that we must seek for his 
 brilliant metaphors, his glowing pictures of nature, 
 touched with a master's hand, his sweetest sentiments, 
 his richest harmony, and above all, his finest concep- 
 tions. Had his genius been under the guidance of 
 taste, his poem would have been one of the grandest 
 pictures of allegorical painting in the national gallery 
 of British poetry. 
 
 The very strong resemblance in the manner of these 
 brother bards is so obvious as almost to lead to 
 an opinion that they wrote in conjunction, and mutually 
 corrected and finished each other's compositions. A 
 few examples taken from each will serve to exhibit this 
 
 1>2
 
 338 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 peculiarity, and we shall select our instances from the 
 most finished portions of their works, where they evi- 
 dently put out their entire stnmgth : — 
 
 But now the second morning from her bower 
 Began to glisten with its beams; and now 
 
 The roses of the day began to flower 
 
 In th' eastern garden ! for heav'ns smiling brow 
 Half insolent for joy began to show: 
 
 The early sun came lively dancing out. 
 
 And the brag lambs ran merrily about, 
 
 Thatheav'n and earth appear'd in triumph both to shout. 
 
 (Giles.) 
 
 The bridegroom sun, who late the earth espous'd, 
 
 Leaves his star-chamber early in the east; 
 
 He shook his sparkling locks, head lively rous'd, 
 
 While morn his couch with blushing roses drest ; 
 
 His shines the earth soon catch'd to gild her flowers : 
 
 Phosphor his gold-fleec'd drove folds in their bowers, 
 
 WWch all the night had graz'd about th' Olympic 
 
 towers* 
 
 (Phineas.) 
 
 So have I seen a rock's heroic breast, 
 
 Against proud Neptune, that his ruin threats. 
 
 When all his waves he hath to battle prest, — 
 And with a thousand sweUing billows beals 
 The stubborn stone, and foams, and chafes, and frets. 
 
 To tear him from his root, — tlieir force withstand; 
 
 And though in heaps the threat'ning" stirges band, 
 
 Yet broken th«y retire, and wash the yielding strand. 
 
 (Giles.)
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 339 
 
 But like a mighty rock whose unmov'd sides 
 The hostile sea assaults with furious wave, 
 
 And 'gainst his head the boist'rous north-wind rides ; 
 Both tight, and storm, and swell, and roar, and rave ; 
 
 Hoarse surges drum, loud blasts their trumpets strain ; 
 
 The heroic clifF laughs at their frustrate pain. 
 
 Waves scatter'd drop in tears, winds broken whining 
 
 plain ! 
 
 (Phineas.) 
 
 The gladden'd spring, forgetting now to weep, 
 
 Began to blazon from her leafy bed ; 
 The waking swallow broke her half-year's sleep. 
 And ev'ry bush was deeply purpured 
 With violets ; — the wood's late wintry head. 
 Wide flaming primroses set all on fire ; 
 And the bald trees put on their green attire. 
 Among whose infant leaves the joyous birds conspire. 
 
 (Giles.) 
 Soon at this sight the Knights revive again, 
 
 As fresh as when the flowers from winter's tomb, — 
 When now the sun brings back his nearer wain, — 
 Peep out again from their fresh mother's womb : 
 The primrose lighted new, her flame disp|^ays. 
 And frights the neighbour hedge with fiery rays ; 
 And all the world renew the mirth and sportive plays. 
 
 (Phineas.) 
 
 So down the silver stream of Eridan, 
 On either side bank'd with a lily wall. 
 
 Whiter than both, rides the triumphant swan, 
 And sings his dirge, and prophecies his fall, 
 Diving into his watry funeral ! (Giles.)
 
 340 GILES FLETCHER, 
 
 So by fair Thames, or silver Medway's flood, 
 The dying swan when years her temples pierce. 
 In music's strains breathes out her life and verse, 
 And chanting her own dirge rides on her wat'ry hearse. 
 
 (Phineas.) 
 
 As when the planets with unkind aspect. 
 
 Call from her caves the meagre pestilence ; 
 The poisonous vapour, eager to infect. 
 Obeys the voice of the sad influence, 
 And spreads abroad a thousand noisome scents : 
 The fount of life, flaming his golden flood 
 With the sick air, fevers the boiling blood. 
 And poisons all the body with contagions food. 
 
 The bold physician, too incautious. 
 
 By those he cures, himself is murdered; 
 
 Kindness infects,— pity is dangerous : 
 And the poor infant yet not fully bred. 
 There, where he should be born, lies buried ! 
 
 * "7^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 (Giles.) 
 
 As when blood-guilty earth for vengeance cries, — 
 If greatest things with less we may compare, — 
 
 The mighty thunderer through the air flies. 
 
 While rushing whirlwinds open ways prepare : 
 
 Dark clouds spread out their sable curtains o'er him; 
 
 And angels on their flaming wings upbore him; 
 
 Meantime the guilty heavens for fear fly fast before him. 
 
 There while he on the wind's proud pinions rides, 
 Down with his fire some lofty mount he throws, 
 And fills the low vale with its ruin'd sides;-
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 341 
 
 Or on some fane his three-fork'd dart bestows, 
 
 Down falls the spire, the body fearful quakes, 
 
 Nor sure to fall or stand, vvith doubtful tremblings 
 
 shakes. 
 
 (Phincas.) 
 
 So when the lark, poor bird ! afar espi'th 
 
 Her yet unfeather'd children — whom to save 
 She strives in vain — slain by the cruel scythe; 
 
 Which from the meadow its green locks doth shave, 
 That their warm nest is now become their grave : 
 The woful mother up to heaven springs, 
 And all about her plaintive notes she flings. 
 And their untimely fate most pitifully sings. 
 
 (Giks.) 
 
 All so a lily press'd with heavy rain, 
 
 Which fills her cup with showers up to the brinks ; 
 The weary stalk no longer can sustain 
 
 The head, but low beneath the burthen sinks : 
 Or as a virgin rose her leaves displays. 
 Which too hot scorching beams quite disarrays; 
 Down falls her double rufl", and all her sweets decays. 
 
 (Phineas.) 
 
 See how the sun in day-time clouds his face ; 
 
 And lagging Vesper loosing his late team. 
 Forgets in heaven to run his nightly race, 
 
 But, sleejjin^- on bright Oeta's op, doth dream 
 
 The world a chaos is, — no joyfiJ beam 
 Looks from his starry bower; he heavens do moan; 
 And thus drop tears lest we should grieve alone; 
 The winds have learnt to sigh, and waters hoarsely 
 groan. (Giles.)
 
 342 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 So oft the South with civil enmity 
 
 Musters his watry forces 'gainst the West, 
 The rolling clouds come tumbling up the sky. 
 
 In dark folds wrapping up their awgry guest : 
 At length the flame breaks from the impvis'ning cold, 
 Witli horrid noise tearing the limber mould. 
 While down in liquid tears the broken vapour's roll'd. 
 
 (Phmeas.) 
 
 So may we oft a tender father see. 
 
 To please his wanton son, his only joy, 
 Coast all about to catch the roving bee; 
 And stung himself his busy hands employ 
 To save the honey for the gamesome boy : 
 Or from the snake her ranc'rous fangs erase, 
 Making his child the toothless serpent chase. 
 Or will) his Uttle bands her swelling crest embrace. 
 
 (Giles.) 
 
 As when a youth bound for the Belgic war, 
 
 Takes leave of friends upon the Kentish shore; 
 Xow are they parted, and he sails so far 
 
 They see not now, — and now are seen no more : 
 Yet far off viewing the white trembling sails, 
 The tender mother soon plucks off her veils. 
 And shaking them aloft, unto her son she hails. 
 
 (Phineas.) 
 
 Like to s, ship in which no ballast lies, 
 Without a pilot on the sleeping waves, 
 
 Tairly ^long wdth wind and water flies, 
 
 With painted mast which silken sail embraves;
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 343 
 
 That Neptune's self the bragging vessel saves 
 To laugh awhile at her so proud array : 
 Her vpaving streamers loosely she lets play, 
 That with their colours shine as bright as smiling day. 
 
 (Git'es.)^ 
 
 As when the powerful wind and adverse tide 
 
 Strive which should most command the subject main ; 
 The scornful waves swelling with angry pride 
 Yielding to neither, all their force disdain : 
 Meantime the shaking vessel doubtful plays, 
 And ou the stagg'ring billow trembling plays. 
 And would obey them both, yet neither she obeys. 
 
 (Phineas.) 
 
 The garden like a lady fair was cut. 
 
 That lay as if she sluraber'd in delight, 
 And to the open skies her eyes did shut : 
 
 The azure field of heaven, in semblance right 
 Was a large circle set with flowers of light; 
 The flower-de-luce, and the bright drops of dew 
 That hung upon the azure leaves, all shew 
 Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the heav'ns so blue. 
 
 Upon a lofty bank her head she cast, 
 
 On which was built the bower of Vain-delight; 
 White and red roses for her face were plac'd, 
 And for her tresses marigolds so bright, 
 AVhich broadly she display'd t' attract the sight, 
 'Till in the ocean the glad day was drown'd : 
 Then up again her yellow locks she wound, 
 That with green fillets in their pretty cauls were bouud. 
 
 (Giles.)
 
 344 GILES ELETCHER. 
 
 The flowers that frighted with sharp winter's dread. 
 
 Retire into their mother Tellus' womb, 
 Yet in the spring in troops new mustered 
 
 Peep out again from their unfrozen tomb : 
 The early violet will fresh arise, 
 Av.d spreading his flowr'd purple to the skies. 
 Boldly the little elf the winter's spite defies. 
 
 The hedge, green satin prick'd and cut, arrays; 
 
 The heliotrope, to cloth of gold aspires ; 
 In hundred-colour'd silks the tulip plays; 
 
 Th' imperial flower, his neck with pearl attires ; 
 'i'he HI}', high her silver grogram rears; 
 The pansy, her wrought velvet garment bears ; 
 The red rose, scarlet, and the provence, damask wears. 
 
 (Phineas.) 
 
 So Philomel, perch'd on an aspen sprig 
 Weeps all the night her lost virginity ; 
 
 Aud sings her sad tale to the restless twig, 
 That dances at such joyful misery : 
 Nor ever lets sweet sleep invade her eye. 
 
 But leaning on a thorn her dainty chest. 
 
 For fear soft sleep should steal into her breast. 
 
 Expresses in her song grief not to be exprest. 
 
 (Giks.) 
 The cheerful lark, mounting from early bed, 
 
 With sweet salutes awakes the drowsy light; 
 The earth she leaves, and up to heaven is fled; 
 
 There chants her maker's praises out of sight. 
 Earth seems a mole-hill, men but ants to be; 
 Teaching vain men, that soar to high degree. 
 The further up they climb, ihe less they seem and see. 
 
 1 I (^Phineas.)
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 345 
 
 That heavenly voice I more dehght to hear, 
 
 Than gentle airs that breathe ; or swelling waves 
 
 That 'gainst the sounding rocks their bosoms tear; 
 Or whistling reeds that Jordan's river laves, 
 And with their verdure his white head embraves ; 
 
 Than chiding winds ; or roving bees that fly 
 
 About the laughing blooms of sallowy, 
 
 Rocking asleep the lazy drones that thereon lie. 
 
 (Giles.) 
 
 Great power of love ! with what commanding fire 
 Dost thou inflame the world's wide regiment, 
 
 And kindly heat in every heart inspire ! 
 
 Nothing is free f.ora thy sweet government : 
 
 Fish burn in seas ; beasts, birds, thy weapons prove ; 
 
 By thee dead elements and heavens move ; 
 
 Which void of sense themselves, yet are not void of 
 
 love. 
 
 (Phineas.) 
 
 Non nostrum inter vos tantas componere lites, 
 Et viiula tu dignus, et hie ! 
 
 We fear our readers may be cloyed with these sweets, 
 but it is a duty we have undertaken to exhibit the 
 native poets of Kent to advantage, and notwithstanding 
 the restrictions we had thought right formerly to impose 
 on ourselves, repeated perusal of the longer poem of 
 Phineas, forbids us to leave it without further ex- 
 tending our selections. The "Purple Island" is but 
 little visited by poetic ramblers : it has a forbitlding 
 aspect, and few will be tempted to seek for flowers 
 among its frowning rocks and rugged promontoiies. 
 Yet does it aboimd with the choicest specimens, and if 
 we may venture to anticipate judgment, we predict that 
 by oft'ering to them the following garland, we shall be 
 entitled to the thanks of all true lovers of the muse.
 
 346 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 Day-hreak. 
 The morning fresh, dappling her horns with roses, — 
 
 Vex'd at the ling'ring shades that long had left her 
 In Tithon's freezing arms, — the light discloses ; 
 
 And chasing night, of rule and heaven bereft her : 
 The sun with gentle beams his rage disguises. 
 And like aspiring tyrants temporises, 
 Never to be endur'd, but when he falls or rises. 
 
 The hours had now unlock'd the gates of day. 
 When fair Aurora leaves her frosty bed. 
 
 Hasting with youthful Cephalus to play, 
 
 Unmask'd her face, and rosy beauties spread : 
 
 Tithonus' silver age was much despis'd, — 
 
 Ah ! who in love that cruel law devis'd. 
 
 That old love's little worth, and new too highly priz'd. 
 
 Evening. 
 But see, the smoke mounting in village nigh. 
 
 With folded wreaths steals through the quiet air ; 
 And mix'd with dusky shades in eastern sky. 
 
 Begins the night, and warns us home repair : 
 Bright vesper now hath chang'd his name and place. 
 And twinkles in the heaven with doubtful face ; 
 Home then, my full fed lambs ; the night comes, home 
 apace ! 
 
 See Phlegon drenched in the liquid main, 
 Allays his thirst, and cools his flaming car ! 
 
 Vesper fair Cynthia ushers, and her train : 
 See, th' apish earth hath lighted many a star, 
 
 Sparkling in dewy globes!— all home invite. 
 
 Home then my flocks, home shepherds, home, 'tis night
 
 «ILES FLETCHER. 347 
 
 But see the stealing night with softest pace. 
 To fly the western sun creeps up the east : 
 
 •Cold Hesper 'gins unmask his ev'ning face. 
 And calls the winking stars from drowsy rest. 
 
 Home then my lambs ; — the falling drops eschew, 
 
 To-raorrow shall ye feast in pastures new. 
 
 The Medway joining Thames. 
 So where fair Medway down the Kentish dales 
 
 To many towns her pleasant waters dealing. 
 Lading her banks into wide Tliamis falls, 
 
 The big swolnniain with foamy billows swelling, 
 Stops there the sudden stream : her steady race 
 Staggers awhile, at length flows back apace. 
 And to the parent fount returns its fearful pace. 
 
 A Flower fainting %viih heat. 
 So have I often seen a purple flow'r 
 
 Fainting with heat, hang down her drooping bead, 
 But soon refreshed with a welcome show'r, 
 
 Begin again her lively beauties spread. 
 And with new pride her silken leaves display ; 
 And while the sun doth now more gently play. 
 Lay out her swelling bosom to the smiling day. 
 
 Storm in Summer. 
 So when the sun shines in bright Taurus' bead, 
 
 Returning tempests all with winter fill ; 
 And still successive storms fresh mustered. 
 The timely year in his iirst springing kill : 
 And oft it breaches awhile, — thi;n strait again 
 Doubly pours out his spite in smoking rain : 
 The country's vows and hopes swim on the drowned 
 plain !
 
 348 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 Duration of Poetic Fame. 
 
 Thrice happy wits ! which in the springing May, 
 Warm with the sun of well-deserved favours. 
 
 Disclose your buds, and your fair blooms display. 
 Perfume the air with your rich fragrant savours ! 
 
 Nor may, nor ever shall, these honour'd flowers 
 
 Be spoil'd by summer's heat, or winter's show'rs ; 
 
 But last when time shall have decay'd the proudest 
 towers. 
 
 t 
 
 The Golden Age. 
 
 Thrice happy was the world's first infancy, 
 Not knowing yet, nor curious, ill to know; 
 
 Joy without grief; — love without jealousy ; 
 
 None felt hard labour or the sweating plough ; 
 
 The willing earth brought tribute to her king ; 
 
 Bacchus unborn lay hidden in the cling 
 
 Of big swoU'n grapes;— then drink was every silver 
 spring. 
 
 Of all the winds there was no difference. 
 
 None knew mild Zephyr from cold Eurus' mouth ; 
 
 Nor Orithya's lover's violence 
 
 Distinguished from the ever dropping south : 
 
 None knew the sea ; oh, blessed ignorance ! 
 
 None nam'd the stars, the north car's constant race, 
 Taurus' bright horns, or Fishes' happy chance : 
 
 Astrea yet changed not her name or place, 
 Her well pois'd balance, heav'n yet never tried : 
 None sought new coasts, nor foreign lands descried : 
 But in their own they liv'd, and in their own they died.
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 349 
 
 But ah! what liveth long in happiness? 
 
 Grief of a lieavy nature, steady Hes, 
 And cannot be removed for weightiaess; 
 
 But joy, of ligiiter presence, quickly flies. 
 And seldom comes, and soon away will go : 
 Some secret power here all things orders so. 
 That for a sunshine day follows an age of woe ! 
 
 The Symplegadcs. 
 
 So by the Bosphorus' streights, in Euxene seas, 
 
 Not far from old Byzantium, closely stand 
 Two sister islands, call'd Symplegades, 
 
 Which sometimes seem but one combined land : 
 For often meeting on the wat'ry plain, 
 And parting oft, tost by the boisl'rous main. 
 They now are join'd in one, and now disjohi'd again. 
 
 A Storm. 
 So when a sable cloud with swelling sail 
 
 Coraes swimming through calm skies, the silent air — 
 While fierce winds sleep in ^^ol's rocky jail, — 
 
 With spangled beams emb.oider'd, glitters fair; 
 But soon 'gins low'r : — straight clattering hail is bretl. 
 Scattering cold shot ; light hides his golden head. 
 And with untimely winter, earth is silvered. 
 
 Cha^^if'j. 
 
 With her, her sister went, a warlike maid 
 
 Parthenia, ail in steel and gilded arras} 
 And in her hand a mighty spear she sway'd, 
 
 VYith which in bloody fields and tierce alarms, 
 The boldest champion she aown would bear ; 
 And like a tluinde bolt wide passage tear, 
 riinging all to the earth with her enchanted spear. 
 
 e2
 
 350 GILES FLETCHER* 
 
 Her goodly armour seemed a garden green, 
 Where thousand spotless lilies freshly blew; 
 
 And on her shield the lone bird might be seen, 
 Th' Arabian bird, shining in colours new; 
 
 Itself unto itself was only mate. 
 
 Ever the same, but new in newest date; 
 
 And undernea)h was writ — " Such is chaste single state." 
 
 Thus hid in arms she seem'd a goodly knight, 
 
 And fit for any warlike exercise: 
 But when she list lay down her armour bright, 
 
 And back resume her peaceful maiden guise. 
 The fairest maid she was that ever yet, 
 Prison'd her locks within a golden net, 
 Or let them waving hang, with roses all beset. 
 
 Justice and Mercy, before the throne of Deit^. 
 
 Porth stept the just Diciea full of rage; 
 
 The first born daughter of th' Almighty King, — 
 Ah, sacred maid ! thy kindhng ire assuage ; 
 
 "Who dare abide thy dreadful thundering? — 
 Soon as her voice but " Pather" only spake, 
 The faultless heav'ns like leaves in autumn shake. 
 And all the glorious throng with horrid palsys quake! 
 
 Heard you not late with what loud trumpets' sound. 
 
 Her breath awak'd her father's sleeping ire? 
 The heav'nly armies flam'd, earth shook, heaven 
 frown 'd. 
 And heaven's dread king called for his forked fire ! 
 Hark! how the poweiful words strike through the ear; 
 The frighted sense shoots up the limber hair, 
 Aud shakes the trembling soul with awe and shudd'ring 
 fear.
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 351 
 
 So have I seen the earth, strong winds detaining 
 
 In prison close, they scorning to be under 
 Her dull subjection, and her power disdaining, 
 
 With horrid st''uggiings tear their bonds asunder ; 
 Meanwhile the wounded earth, that forc'd their stay 
 With terror reels, — the hills run far away ; — 
 The frighted world fears hell breaks loose upon the day. 
 
 But see how 'twixt her sister and her sire, 
 Soft-hearted Mercy sweetly interposing, 
 Settles her panting breast against his fire. 
 
 Pleading for grace, and chains of death unloosing ; 
 Hark! from her lips the melting honey flows, 
 Tlie striking thunderer suspends his blows. 
 And every armed soldier down his weapon throws. 
 
 So when the day, wrapt in a cloudy night. 
 Puts out the sun ; anon the rat'ling hail 
 
 On earth pours down his shot with fell despite ; 
 His power spent, the sun pu'^s oft" his veil. 
 
 And fair his flaming beauties now unsteeps ; 
 
 The ploughman from his bushes gladly peeps ; 
 
 And hidden traveller out of his covert creeps. 
 
 Ah! fairest maid ! — best essence of thy father, 
 
 Equal unto thy never equall'd sire ! 
 How in low verse shall thy poor shepherd gather 
 
 What all the world can ne'er enough admire? 
 When thy sweet eyes sparkle in cheerful light. 
 The brightest day grows pale as leaden night. 
 And heav'ns bright burning eye loses his blinded 
 sight.
 
 352 <SHLES FLETCHER. 
 
 Wlio then those sacred strains can understamd. 
 
 Which calm'd thy father, and our desperate fears^ 
 And charra'd the nimble lightning from his hand. 
 
 That unawares it dropt in melting tears ? 
 Thou, thou, dear swain ! thy heav'niy load unfraught, 
 For she herself hath thee her speeches taught, 
 So near her heav'a they be, so far from human thought. 
 
 Twice, in the course of this beautiful passage, did 
 the affectionate bard refer in notes, " to that sweet 
 poem entitled Christ's Victory," to which, bidding- him 
 finally and lelactantiy farewell, we now address our- 
 selves. 
 
 The " Christ's Victory and Triumph" of Giles Fletch- 
 er, as it is ceilainly the first poem on a sacred subject 
 ifi the English language worthy of notice, so is it even 
 now one of the best, — which is not perhaps very esalted 
 praise, for with one or two exceptions every subsequent 
 attempt of the same kind has been little better than a 
 complete failure. Fletcher's poem is conceived in a 
 spirit of genuine piety, and composed in a corres- 
 ponding strain of elevated poetry; the personifications 
 are equal to the best of Sackville's or Spenser's ; the 
 metaphors, most of which have been given, are beau- 
 tiful and approi)riate ; there are passages of great sub- 
 limity, and the general tone of the whole is worthy of 
 the sacred muse. Notwithstanding this the poem fails 
 to create interest, or excite sympathy, and most read- 
 ers who take it up to be gratified with the perusal, will 
 probably lay it down with feelings of disappointment. 
 It will be read only with pleasure by the poetic stu- 
 dent, and by those who having been long familiar with
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 353 
 
 the peculiarities of the age in which it was composed, 
 are prepared to make tlue allowance for defective taste, 
 and can distinguish merit amidst every kind of blemish 
 and defect. 
 
 The faults of Fletcher's poem are partly of the sub- 
 ject, and partly of the writer. If Phineas was unfor- 
 tunate in selecting anatomy as the ground-work of his 
 poem, his brother was not happy in making choice of 
 the mysterious facts connected with the establishment 
 of (he Christian faith. Much talent has been wasted 
 in all ages in the attempt to decorate the mysteries of 
 religion with the flowers of verse ; it is one of those 
 errors in judgment which modern poets have borrowed 
 from their masters of old, and they have applied it to 
 the doctrines of Christianity without duly considering 
 how much less capable they are of poetic embellish- 
 ment than the absurdities of the ancient polytheism. — 
 The gods of Greece interest us only, when used as 
 poetic agents, by the close resemblance they bear to 
 men in all the incidents which poets have chosen to 
 adopt; for assuredly the only legitima.e fountain of 
 poetry is man, in his present state of enjoyment and 
 suffering. Even the beauties and sublimities of exter- 
 nal nature require to be connected with the destinies of 
 mankind to tit them for the poet's use. The perfume 
 of the violet, the song of the nightingale, the beauty 
 of the landscape, are poetical only in association with 
 human enjoyment : with the sublimity of the storm, 
 we connect the horrors of the ^hipwreck ; with incle- 
 ment seasons, the sufferings of the exposed and indi- 
 gent; with the grandeur of Alpine scenery, the dan- 
 gers of the traveller, and the emotions it excites ia 
 the mind of the spectator. This connection, to be
 
 354 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 poetical, must be immediate and certain, — not remote, 
 or conting-ent. The mysteries of religion, as they ap- 
 ply to man, are connected only with a future state of his 
 existence; they are designed by the great author of our 
 being, as exercises of our faith, not as subjects of our 
 comprehension ; they are definite, not liable to change, 
 or capable of embellishment; and consequently, they 
 fail to produce poetic interest, — by being placed out of 
 the pale of human sutfering or enjoyment, — by being 
 incomprehensible to human reasoning, — and by being 
 already familiar to the mind, and known as far as a 
 knowledge of them can be attained. 
 
 Nothing but the undue influence of authority, and 
 the example of great names, could have produced or 
 tolerated the poetic licenses which have been taken 
 with the sacred records. All that we are permitted to 
 know of the divine agents in the Christian system of 
 religion, is confined to the letter of revelation, and it 
 is nothing short of profanation to invest them with 
 poetic ornaments, or apply them to the irreverend crea- 
 tions of poetic fiction. The time will come, nay per- 
 haps now is, when this will be no more permitted.— 
 They are unfit for poetry by their essence, and should 
 have been secured from it by the sanctity of their 
 character. 
 
 The great fault of Giles Pletcher's poem is its ob- 
 scurity ; it is even difficult without a reference to the 
 argument prefixed, to comprehend at all times the 
 pott's meaning. The minor faults are those peculiar to 
 his time ; he seeks eagerly for antithesis ; overloads his 
 subject with ornaments and comparisons,— is not suffi- 
 ciently select in his choice of words and phrases,— -19 
 pedantic and prolix,— and occasionally, but not gene- 
 rally, barsh and inharmonious.
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 355 
 
 The first part entitl' d " Cluist's Victory in Heaven," 
 commences with proposing the subject, and invoking" 
 the assistance of the Holy Spirit. The judgment scatot" 
 God is then shortly described in the following stanza : — 
 
 There is a place beyond that flaming hill. 
 
 From whence the stars their thin appearance shed, 
 
 A place beyond all place, where never ill, 
 Nor impure thought was ever harboured ; 
 But saintly heroes are for ever said 
 
 To keep an everlasting sabbath's rest! 
 
 Still wishing that of which they are possess'd ; 
 
 Enjoying but one joy, but of all joys the best ! 
 
 Slight allusion is then made to the fallen state of 
 man, and Mercy is described as interceding with God 
 for his forbearance : — 
 
 But Justice had no sooner Mercy seen 
 
 Smoothing the wrinkles of her father's brow, 
 Than up she starts, and throws herself between ; 
 As when a vapour from a moory slough 
 Meeting with fresh Eous, that but now 
 Open'd the world which all in darkness lay. 
 Doth heav'ns bright face of his rays disarray, 
 Aud sads the smiling orient of the springing day. 
 
 She was a virgin of austere regard : 
 
 Not as the world esteems her, deaf and blind ; 
 But as the eagle that hath oft compar'd 
 
 Her eye wi^th heav'n, so, and more brightly shin'^ 
 Her lamping sight; for she the same could wind 
 Into the solid heart, and with her ears 
 The silence of the thought loud speaking hears : 
 And in one hand a pair of even scales she bears.
 
 356 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 No riot of affection revel kept 
 
 Within her breast, but a still apathy 
 Possessed all her soul, which softly slept 
 Secuiely without tempest; no sad cry 
 Awakes her pity, but wrong'd poverty, 
 Sending his eyes to heav'n swimming in tears, 
 With liideous clamours ever struck her ears, 
 Whetting the blazing sword which in her hand she bears. 
 
 The winged Ughtningis her jNIercury, 
 
 And round about her mighty thunders sound : 
 Impatient of himself, lies pining by 
 
 Pale Sickness with his kercher'd head upbound ; 
 And thousand noisome plagues attend her round : 
 But if her cloudy brow but once grow foul. 
 The flints do melt, and rocks to waters roll, 
 And airy mountains shake, and frighted shaddws howl. 
 
 Famine, and bloodless Care, and bloody War, 
 Want, and the knowledge duely how to use 
 
 Abundance, Age, and Fear that runs afar 
 Before his fellow Grief, that aye pursues 
 His winged step; for who would not refuse 
 
 Grief's company, a dull and raw-bon'd spright. 
 
 That lanks the cheeks, and pales the freshest sight,. 
 
 Unbosoming the cheerful breast of all delight. 
 
 Upon two stony tables plac'd before her 
 
 She lean'd her bosom, more than stony hard ; 
 
 There slept the impartial judge, and strict restorer 
 Of wrong or right, with pain, or with reward; 
 There hung the score of all our debts; the card 
 
 Where good and bad, and life and death were painted : 
 
 Was never heart of mortal so untainted, 
 
 But when that scroll was read, with thousand terrors 
 fainted.
 
 GILES FLETCHER. SSTI 
 
 Witness the tbunder that Mount Sinai heard, 
 When all the hill with fiery clouds did flame, 
 
 And wandering Israel with the sound afeard. 
 Blinded with seeing, durst not touch the same, 
 But like a wood of shaking leaves became : 
 
 On this dread Justice, to the living law 
 
 Bowing herself with a majestic awe, 
 
 All heaven to hear her speech, did into silence draw. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The speech of Justice occupies twenty stanzas. 
 
 She ended, and the heavenly hierarchies 
 
 Burning with zeal, now quickly marshall'd were; 
 
 Like to an array that alarum cries, 
 
 When every one doth shake his dreadful spear ; 
 And the Almighty's self, as he would tear 
 
 The earth from her firm basis quite asunder, 
 
 Flames all in just revenge, and mighty thunder ; 
 
 Heaven stole itself from earth by clouds that gather'd 
 under. 
 
 As when the cheerful sun, clamping wide. 
 Glads all the world with his ditfusive ray. 
 
 And woos the widovv'd earth afresh to pride 
 And paint her bosom with the flovv'ry May, 
 His silent sister steals liim quite away ; 
 
 Wrapt in a sable cloud from mortal eyes. 
 
 The hasty stars at noon begin to rise. 
 
 And headlong to his eai ly roost the sparrow flies. 
 
 But soon as he unclouded is again, 
 
 Restoring the blind world his ravish'd sight, 
 
 As though another day was now begun, 
 
 The cozeu'd birds industrious take their flight, 
 
 And wonder at the shortness of the night : —
 
 369 GILIS FLETCHER. 
 
 So Mercy once again herself displays 
 Out from her sister's cloud, and open lays 
 Those sunshine looks, would dim a thousand days. 
 
 How may a worm that crawls along the dust. 
 Ascend the azure mountains thrown so high. 
 
 And bring from thence thy fair idea just, 
 
 That in those bright abodes doth hidden lie, 
 Cloth'd with such light as blinds an angel's eye I 
 
 How may weak mortal ever hope to file 
 
 His unsmooth tongue, and his so uncouth style? 
 
 O ! raise thou from his corpse thy now entomb'd 
 exile ! 
 
 If any ask why roses please the sight? 
 
 Because their leaves upon thy cheeks do bower 1 
 If any ask why lilies are so white ? 
 
 Because their blossoms in thy hand do flow'r ! 
 
 Or why sweet plants such grateful odours show'r ? 
 It is because thy breath so like they be ! 
 Or why the orient sun so bright we see ? 
 What reason can we give, but from thine eyes and 
 thee ! 
 
 Ros'd all in lively crimson are thy cheeks, 
 Where beauties ever flourishing abide ; 
 And as to pass his fellow either seeks, 
 
 Both seem to blush at one another's pride : 
 And on thine eye-lids waiting thee beside, 
 Ten thousand graces sit, and when they move 
 To earth their amorous belguards from above, 
 They fly from heav'n, and on their wings convey thy 
 love.
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 869 
 
 As melting honey dropping from the comb, 
 Distil the words that spring between thy lips ; 
 
 Thy lips, where smiling sweetness keeps her home, 
 And heav'nly eloquence pure manna sips : 
 He that his pen but in that fountain dips, 
 
 How nimbly will the golden phrases fly ; 
 
 And send forth strains of choicest poetry, 
 
 That captivate the ear with their sweet harmony ! 
 
 like as the thirsty land in summer's heat, 
 
 Calls to the clouds, and opes at every showV, 
 As though her hungry clefts all heaven would eat ; 
 Which if high God into her bosom pour, 
 Though much refresh'd, yet more she could devour : 
 So angels gladly hear those words so sweet, 
 And ev'ry breath a thousand longings meet, 
 Some flying in, some out, and all about her fleet. 
 
 Upon her breast delight doth softly sleep. 
 And with eternal joy is nourished ; 
 
 Those snowy mountainets, through which do creep 
 The milky rivers that are inly bred 
 In silver cisterns, and themselves do shed 
 
 On weary travellers in heat of day. 
 
 To quench their tiery thirst, and to allay 
 
 With dropping nectar floods, the hardships of their 
 way. 
 
 Hp w •*? t? ^ w ^ 
 
 The poet proceeds to describe the dress and accom- 
 paniments of this delightful personification, too much 
 atlenjith for insertion, and ihe descripiion list if is rather 
 overwrought. He assigns her ivvo attendants, Re- 
 pentance and Faith ; the latter is thus characterized : —
 
 36© GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 Bnt Faith was quick, and swift as is the heav'n, 
 As if of love and life she all had been ; 
 
 And though of present sight she was bereav'n. 
 Yet could she see the things could not be seen : 
 Beyond the stars, as nothing were between, 
 
 She fix'd her sight, disdaining things below ; 
 
 Into the sea she could a mountain throw. 
 
 And make the sun to stand, and waters backward flow. 
 
 The speech of Mercy, in reply to her sister's charge, 
 occupies fourteen stanzas, and relates the birth of 
 Christ, and the commencement of the mediatorial office. 
 
 With that the mighty thunder dropt away 
 
 From God's outstretched arm ; now milder grown 
 And melted into tears, as if to pray 
 For pardon and for pity it had known. 
 Which should have been for sacred vengeance thrown. 
 There too th' angelic armies all had vow'd 
 Their former rage : but all to Mercy bow'd. 
 And broken weapons at her feet they gladly thvow'd. 
 
 Bring, bring ye graces all your silver flaskets. 
 Painted with ev'ry choicest flow'r that grows. 
 
 That I may soon unload your fragrant baskets, 
 To strew the paths with odours vphere he goes ; 
 Let whatsoe'er he treads on be a rose ! 
 
 So down she let her eye-lids fall, to shine 
 
 Upon the rivers of bright Palestine ; 
 
 Whose woods drop honey, and her rivers flow with wine. 
 
 The second part bears the title of " Christ's Victory 
 on Earth," and is occupied with the incidents relating 
 to the temptation in the wilderness. The tempter is 
 arrayed in a palmer's garb, and conducts the Saviour 
 in the first place to the cavern of Despair : —
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 3t>l 
 
 E'er long- they came near to a baleful bow'r 
 Much like the mouth of the infernal cave, 
 "Which gaping stootl all comers to devour; 
 Dark, doleful, dreary, like a greedy grave. 
 That still for can ion carcases doth crave. 
 The ground no herbs but venomous did bear, 
 The trees all leafless stood, — and every whore, 
 Dead bones and skulls were cast, and bodies hanged were 
 
 Upon the roof the bird of sorrow Sat, 
 Elonging joyless day with her sad note; 
 
 And through tlie shady air the fluttering bat 
 Did wave her leathern sails and blindly float ; 
 While with her wings the fatal screech-owl smote 
 
 Th' unblessed house : — there on a craggy stone 
 
 CelaiHO hung and made a dismal moan ; 
 
 And all about themurder'd ghosts did shriek and groan. 
 
 Like cloudy moonshine in some shadowy grove. 
 
 Such was the light in which Despair didd^ell; 
 But he himself with night for darkness strove : 
 His black uncombed locks dishevell'd fell 
 About his face, through which as brands of hell 
 Sunk in his skull, his staring eyes did glow, 
 "Which made him deadly look, — their glimpses s!:o\v 
 Like cockatrice's eyes, that sparks of poison throw ! 
 
 His clothes were ragged clouts, with thorns pinn'd fast. 
 And as he musing lay, into a fright 
 
 A thousand wild chimeras would liim cast : 
 So when a fearful dream in midst of night 
 Disturbs the mind, and to ih' astoni.di'd sight 
 
 f^ornt! pl-.antom brings. — straight doth the hasty foot 
 
 Assay to flee, but can't itself up-voot, 
 
 I'he voice dies on the tongue, the mouth gapes without " 
 
 boot! 
 
 f2
 
 362 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 From thence he is led to the residence of Presump- 
 tion : — 
 
 Here did Presumption her pavilion spread. 
 Over the temple the bright stars among; — 
 
 Ah ! that her feet should trample on the head 
 Of that revered place; — and a lewd throng 
 Of wanton boys sung her a pleasant song 
 
 Of love, long life, of mercy, and of grace. 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Her tent with sunny clouds w^as ceil'd aloft. 
 And so exceeding shone with a false light. 
 
 That heav'n itself" it seemed to her oft, 
 
 Heav'n without clouds to her deluded sight; 
 But clouds without a heav'n it was aright : 
 
 And as her house was built, so would her braia 
 
 Build castles in the air with idle pain : 
 
 But heart she never had, in all her body vain. 
 
 The court and garden of Vain-Glory succeed, and 
 here the poet had his master, Stpenser, diiectly in his 
 eye, who was himself litlle better than a copyist from 
 Tasso. The descriptions of all these poets are over- 
 wrought, and not in the purest taste. The presiding 
 genius is thus depicted : — 
 
 High over all Pangiory's blazing throne, 
 
 In her bright turret, all of chrystal wrought. 
 Like Phoebus' lamp in midst of heaven shone : 
 Whose starry top, with pride infernal fraught. 
 Self-arching columns to upiiold were taught: 
 In which her image still reflected was 
 By the smooth chrystal, which like her own glass, 
 In beauty and in frailty, did all others pass.
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 363 
 
 A silver wand the sorceress did sway, 
 
 And for a crown of gold her hair she wore ; 
 
 Only a gailand of rose-buds did play 
 
 About her locks ; and in her hand she bore 
 A hollow globe of glass, which long before 
 
 With her own hand she wholely emptied ; 
 
 And all the world therein had pictured ; 
 
 Whose colours, like the rainbow, ever vanished. 
 
 ^ TP tF * TP JJF ^ 
 
 To enchant her sacred visitor. Pan glory is made to 
 sing the following lines : — 
 
 'Tis love that makes the heav'ns to move ; 
 And the sun doth burn in love ! 
 Love the strong and weak doth yoke, 
 And makes the ivy climb the oak ; 
 Under whose shadow, lions wild, 
 Soften'd by love, grow tame and mild. 
 Love no med'cine can appease ; 
 He burns the fishes in the seas ; 
 Not the most skili'd his wounds can stench; 
 Not all the sea his fire can quench ! 
 Love did make the bloody spear. 
 Once a leafy coat to wear; 
 Whilst in his leaves there shrouded lay 
 Sweet birds, for love that sing and play : 
 And of all love's joyful flame, 
 I the bud and blossom am. 
 
 Only bend thy knee to me ; 
 
 Thy wooing shall thy winning be ! 
 
 See, see the flowers that below, 
 Now as fresh as morning blow ;
 
 364 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 And of all, the virgin rose 
 
 Like to bright Aurora shows ; 
 
 How they all do leafless die. 
 
 Losing their virginity : 
 
 Like unto a summer shade. 
 
 But now born, and now they fade. 
 
 Every thing doth pass away, 
 
 There is danger in delay. 
 
 Come, come, gather then the rose. 
 
 Gather it, or it you lose ! 
 
 All the sand of Tagus' shore. 
 
 Into my bosom casts his ore. 
 
 .All the valley's ripen'd corn, 
 
 To my house is yearly borne. 
 
 Every grape of every vine. 
 
 Is gladly bruis'd to make me wine. 
 
 AVhilst ten thousand kings, as proud 
 
 To carry up my train have bow'd : 
 
 And the stars in heav'u that shine. 
 
 With ten thousand more, are mine ! 
 
 Only bend thy knee to me ; 
 
 Thy wooing shall thy winning be ! 
 
 In this passage our poet has fairly drawn the bow of 
 Spenser, and it will afford us a good opportunity to 
 exhibit a comparison between them. 
 
 Lay, in the Bower of Bliss. 
 
 The whiles, some one did chant this lovely lay: — 
 " Ah, see !— whoso doth fain fair thing to see, — 
 
 In springing flow'r the image of thy day! 
 Ah see the virgin rose, how sweetly she 
 Doth first peep forth with bashful modesty, 
 
 Tliat fairer setnis the less ye see her may ; 
 Lo, see soon after how more bold and tree. 
 
 Her bared bosom slie doth broad display ; 
 
 Lo, see soon after, how she fades aud falls away !
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 365 
 
 *' So passcth ill the passing of a day, 
 
 Of mortal life, tlie leaf, tlie btui, the flow'r ; 
 Nor more doth flourish after iirst decay, 
 
 That erst was sought to deck both bed and bovv'r, 
 
 Of many a lady, many a paramour: — 
 Gather tiierefore tlie rose wiiiie yet is time, 
 
 For soon comes age that will her pride deflow'r ; 
 Gather the rose of love, whilst yet is prime, 
 * Whilst loving, thou may'st loved be, with equal crime !" 
 
 (Faery Queen, Book 2, Canto V2.) 
 
 Tliis part ends with the ministration of the angels, 
 and the following stanza : — 
 
 The birds' sweet notes, to sonnet out their joys, 
 
 Attemper'd to t!ie lay angelical ; 
 And to the birds the winds attune their noise ; 
 
 And to the winds the waters softly call. 
 
 And echo back again returned all, 
 That the whole valley rung with victory: — 
 But now our Lord to rest doth homeward fly ; 
 For lo, the night comes hast'ning frona the moimtains 
 nigh ! 
 
 This passage is also copied from Spenser : — 
 
 " The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful shades, 
 
 Their notes unco the voice attemper'd sweet ; 
 Th' angelical soft trembling voices made 
 
 To th' instruments divine respondence meet ; 
 
 The silver sounding instruments did meet 
 With the base murmurs of the waterfall ; 
 
 The waterfall with difference discreet, 
 Now soft, now loud, unto the winds did call; 
 The gently warbling winds, low answered to all !" 
 
 The third part of Fletcher's poem is called '* Christ's 
 Triumph over Death." From this part we have before 
 selected some very fine stanzas, aud it does not afford 
 any detached passage of length.
 
 366 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 The fourth and concluding part has the title of 
 *' Christ's Triumph after Death," and is throughout 
 beautiful, and in parts sublime. The triumphal entry 
 of Christ into his kingdom is thus celebrated — 
 
 ** Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates, 
 
 And let the Prince of Glory enter in ! 
 A t whose high paean 'mongst siderial states, 
 
 The sun did blush, the stars all dim were seen ; 
 
 When springing first from earth he did begin 
 To soar on angel's wings : — then open hang 
 Your chrystal doors :" — so all the chorus sang 
 Of heavenly birds, as to the skies they nimbly sprang ! 
 
 Hark ! how the floods clap their applauding hands ; 
 
 The pleasant vallies singing for delight; 
 And lofty mountains dance about the lands ; 
 
 The while the fields, struck with the heav'nly light, 
 Set all their flowers a smiling at the sight; 
 The trees laugh with their blossoms, — and the sound 
 Of the triumphant shout of praise that crown'd 
 The Lamb of God rising to heav'n, hath passage found. 
 
 Forth sprang the ancient Patriarchs, all in haste, 
 To see the powers of hell in triumph led. 
 
 And with small stars a garland interlac'd 
 
 Of olive leaves they bore to crown his head, 
 That was before with thorns so injured. 
 
 After them flew the Prophets, brightly stol'd 
 
 In shining lawn with foldings manifold, 
 
 Striking their ivory harps, all strung with chords of 
 gold. 
 
 ******
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 367 
 
 Gaze but upon the house where man doth live, 
 With flow'rs and verdure to adorn his way ; 
 
 Where all the creatures due obedience give ; 
 The winds to sweep his chambers every day. 
 And clouds that wash his rooms ; the cieling gay 
 
 With glitt'ring stars that night's dark empire brave :— 
 
 If such a house God to another gave. 
 
 How shine those splendid courts, he for himself will 
 have I 
 
 And if a heavy cloud opaque as night. 
 
 In which the sun may seem embodied, 
 Depur'd of all his dregs, we see so white, 
 Burning in liquid gold his wat'ry head. 
 Or round with ivory edges silvered : — 
 What lustre supereminent will he 
 Lighten on those who shall his sunshine see. 
 In that all glorious court, in which all glories be ! 
 
 If but one sun with his diffusive fires. 
 
 Can fill the stars, and the whole world with light. 
 
 And joy, and life, into each heart inspires ; 
 And every saint shall shine in heav'n as bright. 
 As doth the sun in his transcendent might. 
 
 As faith may well believe what truth once says; — 
 
 What shall so many suns' united rays. 
 
 But dazzle all the eyes that now in heav'n we praise I 
 
 Here may the band that now in triumph shines. 
 And who before they were invested thus, 
 
 In earthly bodies carried heav'nly minds ; 
 Pitch round about in order glorious. 
 Their sunny tents, and houses luminous :
 
 SG8 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 All tlieir eternal day in songs employing ; 
 
 Joy is their end, without end of their joying: 
 
 While their Almighty Prince destruction is destroying. 
 
 Full, yet without satiety, of that 
 
 Which whets and quiets greedy appetite; 
 
 Where never sun tirose, nor ever sat; 
 But one eternal day, and endless light. 
 Gives time to those whose time is infinite* 
 
 Speaking with thought, obtaining without fee ; 
 
 Beholding him whom never eye could see; 
 
 And magnifying him who cannot greater be. 
 
 For things that pass are pass'd ; and in this field; 
 
 The spring indefinite, no winter fears; 
 The trees together fruit and blossom yield ; 
 
 Th' unfading lily leaves of silver bears ; 
 
 The crimson rose a scarlet garment wears : 
 ****** 
 
 About the holy city rolls a flood 
 
 Of molten chrystal, like a sea of glass; 
 On which bright stream a strong foundation stood. 
 Of living diamonds the building was, 
 Thar, all things else it wholly did surpass: 
 Her streets, the stars instead of stones did pave. 
 And little pearls for dust it seems to have. 
 On which soft streaming manna like pure snow did 
 wave. 
 
 In midst of this city celestial. 
 
 Where the eternal temple should have rose, 
 
 Lighten'd th' idea beatifical. 
 
 End and beginning of each thing that grows. 
 Whose self no end nor yet beginning knows;
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 3(J9 
 
 That hath no eyes to see, nor ears to hear. 
 
 Yet sees and hears, and is all eye and ear. 
 
 That no where is contain'd, and yet is every where. 
 
 Changer of all things, yet immutable ; 
 Before and after all, yet fust and last ; 
 
 "Who moving all, is yet immoveable ; 
 
 Great without quantity : in whose forecast 
 Things past are present, things to come are past; 
 
 Swift without motion ; — unto whose broad eye 
 
 The hearts of wicked men all open lie ; 
 
 At once absent and present to them, far and nigh. 
 
 It is no flaming lustre, made of light; 
 
 No sweet content ; or well-turned harmony ; 
 Ambrosia for to feast the appetite ; 
 
 Or flowery odour, mixed with spicery ; 
 
 No soft embrace, nor pleasures bodily; 
 And yet it is a kind of inward feast ; 
 A harmony that sounds within the breast. 
 An odour, light, embrace in which the soul doth rest, 
 
 A heav'nly feast, no hunger can consume ; 
 
 A light unseen, yet shines in every place; 
 A sound no time can steal ; a sweet perfume 
 
 No winds can scatter ; an entire embrace 
 
 That no satiety can e'er debase : 
 Receiv'd into so high a favour, there 
 The saints, with their compeers, whole worlds outwear ; 
 
 And things unseen do see, and things unheard do hear. 
 
 » * * * * » 
 
 Ah foolish shepherds ! who were wont t'esteem. 
 Your God all rough and shaggy hair'd to be; 
 
 And yet far wiser shepherds than ye deem. 
 For who so poor, though who so rich as he !
 
 370 (JrLES FlEtCtlER. 
 
 When sojourning with us in low degree, 
 He wash'd his flock in Jordan's spotless tide ; 
 And that his dear remembrance might abide, 
 Did to us come, and with us liv'd, and for us died ! 
 
 But now such lively colours did embeam 
 
 His sparkhng forehead, and such shining rays 
 
 Kindled his flamiug locks, that down did stream 
 In curls along his neck, where sweetly plays, — 
 Singing his wounds of love in sacred lays, — 
 
 His dearest Spouse, Spouse of the dearest lover, 
 
 Knitting a thousand knots over and over, 
 
 And dying still for love, but they her still recover. 
 
 Fairest of fairs, that at his eyes doth dress 
 
 Her glorious face ; those eyes from whence are shed 
 Attractions infinite ; where to express 
 
 His love, high God all heav'n as captive leads 
 And all the banners of his grace dispreads ; 
 And in those windows doth his arms englaze, 
 And on those eyes the angels all do gaze. 
 And from those eyes, the lights of heav'n obtain their 
 blaze. 
 
 But let the Kentish lad that lately taught 
 
 His oaten reed the trumpet's silver sound. 
 Young Thyrsilis ; — and for his music brought 
 The willing spheres from heaven to lead around 
 The dancing nymphs and swains, that sung and 
 crown'd 
 Eclectas* hymen with ten thousand flow'rs 
 Of choicest praise ; and hung her heavenly bow'rs 
 With saffron garlands, dress'd for nuptial paramours : — 
 
 * The human soul.
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 871 
 
 Let his shrill trumpet with its silver blast. 
 Of fair Eclecta, and her spousal bed. 
 
 Be the sweet pipe and smooth encomiast : — 
 But my green muse, hiding her younger head, 
 Under old Camus' flaggy banks, that" spread 
 
 Their willow locks abroad, and all the day 
 
 With their own wat'ry shadows wanton play ; 
 
 Dares not these high amours, and love-sick songs assay. 
 
 Impotent words ; weak lines ; that strive in vain. 
 
 In vain alas ! to tell so heavenly sight ! 
 So heavenly sight, as none can greater feign. 
 
 Feign what he can, that seems of greatest might ! 
 
 Could any yet compare with infinite? 
 Infinite sure those joys ! — my words but light : 
 Light as the palace where he dwells,— O then how bright ! 
 
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