THE 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
WOULD I HAD FALL'n UPON THOSE HAPPIER DAYS, 
 THAT POETS CELEBRATE, THOSE GOLDEN TIMES, 
 AND THOSE ARCADIAN SCENES, THAT MARO SINGS, 
 AND SIDNEY, WARBLER OF POETIC PROSE. 
 
 Convpers Task. 
 

SIR PHILIP SIDNKY. 
 OB. 1686. 
 
 L .iKli.iiiMAi. "f .Tif; ANT." MuRF. li^. mil. ._.,lll 
 HIS GRACE THE DUKE; OF BEDFORD 
 
THE 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS WORKS 
 
 Sir |31)ilip Sitmeu, Init 
 
 WITH A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR AND 
 ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES 
 
 By WILLIAM GRAY, Esq. 
 
 OF MAGDALEN COLLEGE, AND THE INNER TEMPLE. 
 
 " Live ever, siveet book! he tuho 'wrote thee ivas the secretary 
 of eloquence, the breath of the Muses, and the honey-bee of the dain- 
 tiest flonuers ofivit and art.'''' 
 
 Gabriel Harvey. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY T. O. H. P. BURNHAM, 
 
 AT THE ANTIQUARIAN BOOKSTORE, 
 
 143 Washington Street. 
 MDCCCLX. 
 
Riverside, Cambridge : 
 Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. 
 

 EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 N presenting Sir Philip Sidney's 
 Miscellaneous Works to the 
 world, it will be unnecessary to 
 trouble the reader with many 
 prefatory remarks. It is enough 
 for us to state that all our Author's published 
 writings, with the exception of the Arcadia and 
 the Psalms, have been collecfted from various 
 quarters and embodied in this volume ; and that 
 several of his MS. letters now make their ap- 
 pearance for the first time, from the originals 
 preserved in the British Museum. 
 
 We have assiduously compared the text of 
 the different editions of Sidney's productions, 
 and have in innumerable instances been able 
 to corredt the gross inaccuracies of preceding 
 copies. On this head we would particularly 
 
vi Preface. 
 
 dired our censure against the reprint of the 
 Defence of Poesy superintended by Dr. Joseph 
 Warton, which, though it abounds in the most 
 grotesque and inexcusable blunders, seems to 
 have been implicitly followed in a more recent 
 publication. 
 
 We have not presumed to introduce into 
 our volume any portion of the Version of the 
 Psalms, which is commonly attributed to the 
 united labours of Sir P. Sidney and the Coun- 
 tess of Pembroke ; since it is impossible to 
 decide, with any degree of certainty, what part 
 of this paraphrase belongs to Sir Philip, and 
 what to his accomplished sister : and besides, a 
 beautiful edition of these interesting compo- 
 sitions was published only a few years ago, by 
 Mr. Weller Singer, in his " Seledl Early English 
 Poets." 
 
 For a reason which we have stated at p. 326, 
 we have printed the sixteen letters, placed at 
 the end of this volume, without making the 
 slightest alteration in their orthography ; but in 
 all the other writings of our Author, we have 
 taken the liberty of adapting the spelling to the 
 standard now in use : and, though we may en- 
 
Preface. vii 
 
 counter some little blame on this account from 
 the rigid lovers of antiquity, we are persuaded 
 that we have rendered a service to the general 
 reader. The orthography of the fathers of our 
 literature was invariably most whimsical and 
 uncertain. Sir John Fenn has mentioned an 
 instance in , the Paston Letters, where the same 
 word is spelt three different ways within the 
 short space of two lines; and many other ex- 
 amples of similar caprice might be produced, 
 were it necessary. " Every writer," says Dr. 
 Henry, " contented himself with putting to- 
 gether any combination of letters that occurred 
 to him at the time, which he imagined would 
 suggest the word he intended to his readers, 
 without ever reflecting what letters others used, 
 on former occasions, for that purpose." 
 
 It is perhaps superfluous to add more, but 
 we cannot resist making a short quotation from 
 Dr. Johnson's Preface to his Didionary, where 
 he says, " If the language of theology were 
 extrafted from Hooker and the translation of 
 the Bible ; the terms of natural knowledge from 
 Bacon ; the phrases of policy, war, and naviga- 
 tion from Raleigh ; the dialed of poetry and 
 
viii Preface. 
 
 fiftion from Spencer and Sidney ; and the dic- 
 tion of common life from Shakespeare, few 
 ideas would be lost to mankind, for want of 
 English words in which they might be ex- 
 pressed." 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Life i 
 
 Defence of Poesy j^ 
 
 Astrophel and Stella 125 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems 211 
 
 The Lady of May 263 
 
 Valour Anatomized in a Fancy 281 
 
 ].etter to Queen Elizabeth 287 
 
 A Discourse in Defence of the Earl of Leicester .... 305 
 Letters reprinted from the Sidney Papers, Seward's Bio- 
 
 graphiana, etc 325 
 
 Letters from the Unpublished Originals in the British Museum 343 
 
THE LIFE 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
[iriiTSRsiTr] 
 

THE LIFE 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 HE life of Sir Philip Sidney is one of the 
 most faultless and interesting of which our 
 history can boast. His ancient lineage, and 
 varied acquirements, his gallant bearing in 
 the field, and the melancholy close of his career while 
 yet in the very blaze of his glory, have all contributed 
 to endear his name, and to throw a halo around his 
 memory. By his contemporaries he appears to have 
 been regarded as the " glass of fashion and the mould of 
 form," as the- Bayard of England " sans peur et sans 
 reproche," the mirror of the knighthood, and the flower 
 of chivalry. Whether he betook himself, accordingly, 
 to the camp, the court, or the grove, he never failed to 
 become " the cynosure of all neighbouring eyes," the 
 paragon whom the warrior sought to rival in the bril- 
 liancy of his exploits, and the fair to bind with love- 
 knots to the triumphal car of beauty. 
 
 This accomplished person was born on the 29th of 
 November, 1554, at Penshurst, in West Kent, a seat 
 which had been granted to his ancestors by the munifi- 
 
2 r/:€ Life of 
 
 cence of Edward the Sixth. The mansion, and the 
 beautiful and romantic scenery with which it is sur- 
 rounded ; " the broad beech, and the chestnut shade ;" 
 and 
 
 That taller tree, which of a nut was set 
 
 At his great birth, where all the muses met ;* 
 
 have each been rendered classic by Ben Jonson, in the 
 celebrated lines of his Forest, where he has taken occa- 
 sion to introduce them. It has been supposed that the 
 Sidney family were originally of French extra6lion, and 
 that they came over into England about the reign of 
 Henry the Second, to whom William de Sidney was 
 chamberlain. At all events, the grandfather of Sir 
 Philip, who was cousin, through his mother, to Charles 
 Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, held some offices of dignity 
 and importance in the household of Henry the Eighth, 
 and had the honour of being celebrated among the com- 
 manders who were present at the bloody fight of Flod- 
 den. He left an only son, Henry, the parent of our 
 author, who received the honour of knighthood, and was 
 subsequently appointed Ambassador to France by his 
 amiable sovereign, Edward the Sixth, with whom he 
 was conneded by the closest ties of early intimacy and 
 regard. The chara6lers of Sir Henry and his consort, 
 who was eldest daughter to the ambitious and unfortu- 
 nate John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, have been 
 thus delineated by Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke, who 
 was the kinsman, companion, and biographer of their 
 son. " Sir Henry Sidney," he says, " was a man of 
 
 * This " sacred mark," as Waller reverently denominates it, 
 was cut down in 1768 ; but it will ever " live in description, and 
 look green in song." 
 
 i 
 
Sir PLilip Sidney. 3 
 
 excellent natural wit, large heart, sweet conversation, 
 and such a governor as sought not to make an end of 
 the state in himself, but to plant his own ends in the 
 prosperity of his country. On the other side. Lady 
 Mary Sidney, as she was a woman by descent of great 
 nobility, so was she by nature of a large ingenious spirit. 
 Whence as it were even racked with native strengths, 
 she chose rather to hide herself from the curious eyes 
 of a delicate time, than come upon the stage of the 
 world with any manner of disparagement, the mischance 
 of sickness having cast such a veil over her excellent 
 beauty, as the modesty of that sex doth many times 
 upon their native and heroical spirits." 
 
 On the death of his royal master and patron, who 
 breathed his last in his arms, Sir Henry Sidney with- 
 drew from the court to his paternal residence at Pens- 
 hurst, and thus escaped the complicated miseries in 
 which his father-in-law was involved, by his fruitless 
 attempt to place the Lady Jane Grey upon the throne. 1 
 It was during this retirement from public life that the 
 subjeft of our memoir first saw the light ; and he re- 
 ceived the name of Philip out of compliment to the 
 lately married husband of Queen Mary, by whom Sir 
 Henry was appointed her vice-treasurer, and advanced 
 to other high preferments. He was afterwards nomi- 
 nated President of Wales in the beginning of Elizabeth's 
 golden reign, and thence translated to the embarrassing 
 situation of Lord Deputy of Ireland ; important trusts 
 which he discharged with the greatest ability and mod- 
 eration. " What Tacitus observes of Agricola's excel- 
 lent condu6l in Britain," says Arthur Collins, " is 
 matched by Sir Henry Sidney's in Ireland. In his 
 military capacity also, considered as a Roman, he ob- 
 
4 Tke Life of 
 
 tained the ' opima spolia,' in killing, with his own hand, 
 James Macconnel, the principal leader of the Scots ; an 
 honour snatched but by three in that state, greedy oi 
 glory, viz : Romulus, Cassius, and Marcellus ; and lastly, 
 as a thorough-paced Roman, he consumed his patri- 
 mony in the nation's service, and was on his death 
 buried, like Valerius, at the public expense." 
 
 The early years of his son Philip were singularly 
 indicative of his future eminence, and were illustrated 
 by many traits of natural genius and industry. " Of 
 his youth," observes Lord Brooke, " I will report no 
 other wonder but this, that though I lived with him, 
 and knew him from a child, yet I never knew him other 
 than a man ; with such staidness of mind, lovely and 
 familiar gravity, as carried grace and reverence above 
 greater years. His talk ever of knowledge, and his 
 very play tending to enrich his mind ; so as even his 
 teachers found something in him to observe, and learn, 
 above that which they had usually read or taught. 
 Which eminence by nature, and industry, made his 
 worthy father style Sir Philip, in my hearing, (though I 
 unseen,) ' lumen familias suae.' " 
 
 After having remained some considerable time, and 
 made unwonted progress in ancient learning, at the 
 grammar-school of Shrewsbury, young Sidney was re- 
 moved to Oxford, of which his maternal uncle, the 
 famous Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, then held 
 the office of chancellor ; and he was entered at Christ 
 Church in 1569, under the tuition of Dr. Thomas 
 Thornton,* an elegant and accomplished scholar. Here 
 
 * This amiable divine had it recorded upon his tomb, that he 
 /as " the tutor of Sir Philip Sidney." Lord Brooke, also, had 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 5 
 
 again, as formerly, his assiduity and acuteness more than 
 justified the exalted estimate of his talents which his 
 juvenile precocity had excited. " He cultivated," we 
 are informed, " not one art, or one science, but the 
 whole circle of arts and sciences ; his capacious and 
 comprehensive mind aspiring to preeminence in every 
 part of knowledge attainable by human genius or in- 
 dustry." And, not satisfied with the liberal opportuni- 
 ties of adding to his acquirements which his present 
 alma mater afforded, he appears at a later period to have 
 transferred his residence to the sister seminary of Cam- 
 bridge, where he continued to prosecute his studies with 
 unabated ardour and success. 
 
 During his abode at the university, a matrimonial 
 alliance seems to have been proposed by Lord Leicester, 
 between his nephew, young as he was, and the eldest 
 daughter of Sir William Cecil, by his second wife, 
 Mildred Coke. But it appears soon afterwards to have 
 been broken off, by the wily old treasurer, on account 
 of certain reasons and misunderstandings to which no 
 clue can now be found ; and this gifted lady was, in 
 consequence, most unhappily espoused to Edward de 
 Vere, Earl of Oxford. 
 
 In the month of May, 1572, Mr. Sidney obtained a 
 license from the Queen to travel beyond the seas, in 
 order that he might perfect his knowledge of the conti- 
 nental tongues. The period of his absence was limited 
 to two years ; and he set out on his journey, with sev- 
 eral others of distinguished rank, in the train of the Earl 
 of Lincoln, then Lord Admiral of England, and Am- 
 
 the following inscription placed over his grave : " Fulke Greville, 
 servant to Queen Elizabeth, counsellor to King James, and friend 
 to Sir Philip Sidney." 
 
6 rZv Life of 
 
 bassador Extraordinary to the Court of France. Whilst 
 he sojourned at Paris, his deportment attradled the 
 marked attention and approval of the reigning monarch, 
 Charles the Ninth, who honoured him with the appoint- 
 ment of Gentleman in Ordinary of his chamber ; but 
 whatever regard our traveller might have entertained 
 for this inhuman and perfidious sovereign was, we pre- 
 sume, sufficiently extinguished, after a very short dura- 
 tion, by having witnessed, and nearly suffered in, that 
 most savage ail of religious bigotry, the fiendlike mas- 
 sacre of St. Bartholomew. At the same time a far 
 more grateful and flattering acquisition was made by 
 him in the friendship and sincere respect of the gallant 
 Henry of Navarre, which he was then so fortunate as 
 to secure by his winning manners and address. 
 
 The disturbed and infuriated condition of the French 
 empire at this epoch, and more particularly the danger 
 to which all of Hugonot principles were exposed by 
 attempting to remain within its territories, induced Mr. 
 Sidney to hurry onwards into less perilous lands ; and 
 he therefore now passed successively through Germany, 
 Hungary, Italy, and Belgium. He appears, from the 
 accounts of his biographers, to have uniformly acquired 
 the afFeclion and permanent esteem of the many vir- 
 tuous and learned persons whom he happened to en- 
 counter in the course of his journeyings ; and, from 
 among the number of these literati, he entered into the 
 stridlest bonds of amity at Frankfort, with the cele- 
 brated Hubert Languet, minister of the Ele6tor of Sax- 
 ony, and the admired companion of Melan6f:hon, who 
 chanced to lodge under the same roof where he had 
 taken up his temporary abode. From this invaluable 
 associate Sidney derived much important information 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 7 
 
 relative to the government, the usages, and the laws of 
 different nations ; not to mention the various other 
 branches of erudition in which that universai_scholar 
 was so exa6lly versed, a circumstance to which our 
 author has very feelingly alluded in one of the poems to 
 be found in the " Arcadia." We have it, moreover, on 
 the authority of Lord Brooke, that Languet a6lually 
 quitted his several functions, without prosped of hire 
 or reward, for the purpose of becoming, as he quaintly 
 expresses it, " a nurse of knowledge to this hopeful 
 young gentleman," and the attached companion of the 
 greater portion of his travels. A regular correspond- 
 ence was kept up by the friends after their unavoidable 
 separation ; and the Latin epistles of the sage, which 
 were first published at Frankfort and subsequently at 
 Edinburgh, have received the highest encomiums for 
 their classic purity and elegance. 
 
 Sir Philip negle6led no opportunity that was offered 
 to him on his route of increasing his stock of accom- • 
 plishments, which was already so extraordinary. At 
 Vienna he received lessons in horsemanship, and the 
 several martial exercises of the age ; at Venice he held 
 intercourse with all the brightest spirits of the proud 
 republic, then in the zenith of its magnificence ; and 
 at Padua he again applied himself, with all his early 
 assiduity, to the acquisition of geometry, astronomy,* 
 and the other branches of study usually prosecuted in 
 that yet flourishing university. Here, also, he had the 
 singular felicity of forming an acquaintance with Tasso, 
 who had been for some time known to the world as a 
 distinguished cultivator of the Muses, and whose splen- 
 did and immortal effort, the " Gierusalemme Liberata," 
 was then partly executed, and rapidly advancing towards 
 
8 rhe Life of 
 
 its completion. It would be unfair, however, not to 
 mention that this acquaintance between Sidney and the 
 Italian bard has been entirely discredited by a rigid 
 critic, inasmuch as Tasso appears to have been residing 
 at Ferrara and Venice during the year in which Sir 
 Philip was studying at Padua. But we may be par- 
 doned, perhaps, for following Dr. Zouch in stating an 
 incident in our author's biography which has been gen- 
 erally received as true. 
 
 Sidney was prevented from visiting Rome by the 
 earnest dissuasions of his mentor, Languet — who seems 
 to have been sadly alarmed lest the religious principles 
 of his young correspondent should suffer any serious 
 injury from a near intercourse with the scarlet lady, her 
 abominations, and her a6live emissaries — and our au- 
 thor, accordingly, returned to his native country in 1575, 
 
 'after a separation from his relatives of exactly three 
 years' duration. 
 
 Soon after his arrival he made his debut in fashion- 
 able life, and straightway became the delight of every 
 circle that was favoured with his acquaintance and 
 familiar intercourse. Indeed, " he was so essential," 
 if we may believe Fuller, " to the English court, that 
 it seemed maimed without his company, being a com- 
 plete master both- of matter and language." Queen 
 
 ' Elizabeth herself received him with the most flattering 
 civilities ; " and called him," says Zouch, '•'■her Philip, 
 in opposition, it is alleged, to Philip of Spain, her sis- 
 ter's husband." Perhaps our au'thor was in no small 
 degree indebted for this last mark of condescension and 
 endearment to his close relationship, and confidential 
 union, with the haughty favourite Leicester. But, be 
 that as it may, Sir Philip was nominated Ambassador to 
 
Sir Pkilip Sidney. 9 
 
 Vienna in 1576, to condole with the Emperor Rodolph 
 on the demise of his father, Maximilian the Second ; 
 and we are farther informed, that this distinguished 
 appointment proceeded dire6lly from the discernment 
 and personal suggestion of his royal mistress. 
 
 In the discharge of his diplomatic duties, which like- 
 wise embraced the formation of an alliance between all 
 the Protestant states of Europe against the increase of 
 Romish power, and the cruel tyranny of the Spaniards, 
 Mr. Sidney acquitted himself with adroitness, and to 
 the entire satisfacStion of his employers ; and he returned 
 once more to England in 1577, crowned with additional 
 laurels, and furnished with a deeper knowledge of man- 
 kind. Among the number of his new admirers, and 
 warm congratulators on his success, he had the pleasure 
 of enumerating Lord Burleigh, the political enemy of 
 his family, and the experienced Sir Francis Walsingham, 
 to whom he had been previously known in private life, 
 and with whom friendship was ultimately cemented by 
 the still dearer ties of kindred. 
 
 Though in the commencement of 1576, Sir Philip's 
 connection and influence had been materially increased 
 by the marriage of his sole surviving sister* with Henry, 
 Earl of Pembroke ; yet for several years subsequent to 
 his return from his German embassy he appears neither 
 
 * This accomplished lady evinced no inconsiderable poetic ca- 
 pacity, and is well known as the subjeft of Ben Jonson's famous 
 epitaph ; beginning, 
 
 Underneath this sable herse 
 
 Lies the subjefl of all verse ; 
 
 Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother : 
 
 Death, ere thou hast killed another 
 
 Fair, and learn'd, and good as she. 
 
 Time shall throw a dart at thee. 
 
 
lo The Life of 
 
 to have made any advance in his public career, nor to 
 have held any office of trust or honor in the state, ex- 
 cept the trifling and merely nominal one of the Royal 
 Cupbearer. It is possible, hov^^ever, and indeed w^e 
 gather as much from the letters of Languet, that this 
 may have proceeded from his ov^^n temporary disinclina- 
 tion to aftive labour, and that he preferred devoting his 
 leisure to the happy privacy w^hich he celebrates in his 
 poems, and to the literary exercises in which he never 
 relaxed, or conceived for a moment that he had attained 
 the goal of his ambition. But we must admit, at the 
 same time, that we think it still more probable his pro- 
 motion may have been retarded from the machinations 
 of Lord Burleigh, part of whose policy it was, as we 
 are informed by Lord Bacon, in the Cabala, that " able 
 men should be by design and of purpose suppressed." 
 
 About the period in question, Sidney stood manfully 
 ■forward to defend the character of his father, who had 
 been charged with some a6l of arbitrary authority in his 
 government of Ireland ; and he not only succeeded in 
 conciliating the Queen, over whom the enemies of his 
 house had gained much influence, but also completely 
 reinstated his parent in the good opinion of the virtuous 
 and the impartial. This affair had nearly involved him 
 in a dangerous quarrel with Thomas, Earl of Ormond, 
 to whom he imputed the insidious practices by which 
 her majesty's aflre6lions had been alienated ; but, for- 
 tunately, the dispute terminated, when the first excite- 
 ment had a little subsided, by the intervention of friends, 
 and the mutual concessions of the parties. The danger, 
 however, to which his father was still exposed, from 
 the a(Slive malice of his adversaries, prevented Sidney 
 from accepting a flattering invitation, which he received 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. ii 
 
 in 1578, from John Casimir, the Count Palatine of the 
 Rhine,* to join him in his meditated warfare against 
 the King of Spain in the Netherlands. The venerable 
 Lord Deputy fully appreciated the afFeilionate solicitude 
 which had induced his beloved defender to remain in 
 England ; and he thus speaks of Sir Philip in a letter 
 to his second son, Robert, with all that fondness and 
 pride which the possession of such an offspring might 
 well excite and justify. " Follow the advice," he says, 
 '* of your most loving brother, who, in loving you, is 
 comparable with me, or exceedeth me. Imitate his 
 virtues, exercises, studies, and a6lions ; he is a rare 
 ornament of his age, the very formular that all well- 
 disposed young gentlemen of our court do form also 
 their manners and life by. In truth, I speak it without 
 flattery of him or myself, he hath the most virtues that 
 ever I found in any man. I saw him not these six 
 months, little to my comfort. You may hear from him 
 with more ease than from me. In your travels, these 
 documents I will give you, not as mine, but his prac- 
 tices. Seek the knowledge of the estate of every prince, 
 court, and city, that you pass through. Address your- 
 self to the company, to learn this of the elder sort, and 
 yet neglect not the younger. By the one you shall 
 gather learning, wisdom, and knowledge ; by the other, 
 acquaintance, languages, and exercise. Once again I 
 say, imitate him." 
 
 * This prince visited England in the autumn of 1378, for the 
 purpose of gaining supporters to his hitherto unfortunate cause, 
 the defence of the United Provinces. He was accompanied on this 
 occasion by Hubert Languet, who was principally induced to take 
 the journey, that he might once more enjoy the society and conver- 
 sation of his friend Sidney. 
 
12 The Life of 
 
 It is pleasing to remark that Robert Sidney did not 
 derogate from his illustrious parentage, or show himself 
 unworthy of his brother's regard. He was an able 
 envoy, and a gallant soldier. His bravery at the battle 
 of Zutphen procured him the honour of knighthood from 
 his uncle Leicester, on the 7th of October, 1386. He 
 was advanced to the dignity of Lord Sidney, Baron of 
 Penshurst, on the accession of James the First to the 
 English throne ; and was subsequently created Viscount 
 L'Isle in 1605 j and elevated to the earldom of Leices- 
 ter in 1618.* 
 
 In 1572, Catherine de Medicis had proposed joining 
 England to France, by forming a matrimonial union 
 between Elizabeth and her son Henry, the Duke of 
 Anjou. This projecSl, however, was for the time coun- 
 teraifted by the zealous efforts of the Hugonot chiefs ; 
 but it was not long afterwards revived by the emissaries 
 of France, though a new suitor was now brought for- 
 ward in the person of the Duke of Alen^on, the 
 youngest son of Catherine, who subsequently succeeded 
 to the title of Anjou, on the elevation of his brother to 
 the throne of Poland. To this match Elizabeth her- 
 self, whether from policy or inclination, at first lent no 
 unwilling ear ; and the circumstance filled the realm 
 with undisguised alarm and distress. The Protestant 
 party in the kingdom, how discordant soever on other 
 topics, unanimously combined in a strenuous opposition 
 to the scheme. Both Burleigh and Leicester covertly, 
 and Sir Walter Mildmay, Sir Ralph Sadler, and nu- 
 merous influential persons openly, lent their cordial 
 
 * There was also another brother, Thomas, who rose to the 
 rank of colonel, and whose name is handed down as being a very 
 \aliant commander. 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 13 
 
 endeavours to break off the treaty, and to bring dis- 
 grace upon its supporters ; and Sir Philip Sidney ad-' 
 dressed a remonstrance to the powerful and " throned 
 vestal," in which he ably pointed out the evils that 
 were likely to arise from a conne6tion with the unpopu- 
 lar house of Valois. This produ6tion, bearing the date 
 1580, which is alleged to have had the effe6l of divert- 
 ing the Queen from her intentions, has received a very 
 lofty meed of praise from Mr. Hume, and has been 
 more recently characterized by that delightful writer. 
 Miss Lucy Aiken, as " at once the most eloquent and 
 the most courageous piece of that nature which the age 
 can boast. Every important view of the subjecSl," she 
 adds, " is comprised in this letter, which is long, but 
 at the same time so condensed in style, and so skilfully 
 compadled as to matter, that it well deserves to be read 
 entire ; and must lose materially either by abridgment 
 or omission." 
 
 The next affair of consequence that our hero became 
 engaged in, was one in which he was eminently qualified 
 to gain the noblest distin6lions. A joust with sword 
 and lance was celebrated in 1580, in the presence of 
 Elizabeth, and all the retainers of her court. Philip, 
 Earl of Arundel, and Sir William Drury were the chal- 
 lengers ; Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford, Frederick, the 
 fourth Lord Windsor, Mr. Philip Sidney, and fourteen 
 other gallants, the defenders. What farther part Sidney 
 took in this great trial of skill has been nowhere re- 
 corded J but we may easily imagine that he would not 
 pass unnoticed in the tilt-yard, who has been described 
 by his contemporary, Spenser, as 
 
 • the president 
 
 Of nobleness and chevalree. 
 
H The Life of 
 
 All we can learn, however, relative to the conclusion 
 of the combat is, that the vi6lory was adjudged, by her 
 majesty, to the Earl of Oxford. 
 
 With this haughty peer, who has been already men- 
 tioned as having become the husband of Sir Philip's 
 destined bride, Anne Cecil, our author was about this 
 time involved in a quarrel which attra6led the deepest 
 attention, not only over England, but likewise in every 
 court in Europe. The story is thus circumstantially 
 related in the scarce and curious volume of Lord Brooke, 
 and is a remarkable instance of the aristocratic priv- 
 ileges, and pride of place, that were then conceded to 
 our magnates. 
 
 "Sidney," says his lordship, " being one day at tennis, 
 a peer of this realm, born great, greater by alliance, and 
 superlative in the prince's favour, abruptly came into the 
 tennis-court, and, speaking out of these three paramount 
 authorities, he forgot to intreat that which he could not 
 legally command. When, by the encounter of a steady 
 objecSl, finding unrespe6liveness in himself (though a 
 great lord) not respedled by this princely spirit, he grew 
 to expostulate more roughly. The returns of which 
 style coming still from an understanding heart, that 
 knew what was due to itself, and what it ought to 
 others, seemed (through the mist of my lord's passions, 
 swollen with the wind of his fa6tion then reigning) to 
 provoke in yielding. Whereby the less amazement or 
 confusion of thoughts he stirred up in Sir Philip, the 
 more shadows this great lord's own mind was possessed 
 with ; till at last with rage (which is ever ill-disciplined) 
 he commands them to depart the court. To this Sir 
 Philip temperately answers, that if his lordship had 
 been pleased to express desire in milder chara6lers, per- 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 15 
 
 chance he might have led out those, that he should now 
 find would not be driven out with any scourge of fury. 
 This answer (like a bellows) blowing up the sparks of 
 excess already kindled, made my lord scornfully call Sir 
 Philip by the name of puppy. In which progress of 
 heat, as the tempest grew more and more vehement 
 within, so did their hearts breathe out their perturba- 
 tions in more loud and shrill accent. The French com- 
 missioners, unfortunately, had that day audience in those 
 private galleries whose windows looked into the tennis- 
 court. They instantly drew all to this tumult ; every 
 sort of quarrels sorting well with their humours, espe- 
 cially this. Which Sir Philip perceiving, and rising 
 with inward strength, by the prospe6l of a mighty 
 faction against him, asked my lord, with a loud voice, 
 that which he heard clearly enough before. Who (like 
 an echo, that still multiplies by reflexions) repeated this 
 epithet of puppy the second time. Sir Philip resolving 
 in one answer to conclude both the attentive hearers, 
 and passionate a6lor, gave my lord a lie impossible (as 
 he averred) to be retorted ; in respecSt all the world 
 knows, puppies are gotten by dogs, and children by 
 men. Hereupon those glorious inequalities of fortune 
 in his lordship were put to a kind of pause, by a precious 
 inequality of nature in this gentleman. So that they 
 both stood silent a while, like a dumb show in a tragedy, 
 till Sir Philip, sensible of his own wrong, the foreign 
 and factious spirits that attended, and yet, even in this 
 question between him and his superior, tender to his 
 country's honour, with some words of sharp accent, led 
 the way abruptly out of the tennis-court, as if so unex- 
 pe6led an accident were not fit to be decided any further 
 in that place. Whereof the great lord making another 
 
1 6 The Life of 
 
 sense, continues his play, without any advantage of 
 reputation, as by the standard of humours in those 
 times it was conceived. — A day Sir Philip remains in 
 suspense, when hearing nothing of, or from the lord, 
 he sends a gentleman of worth to awake him out of his 
 trance ; wherein the French would assuredly think any 
 pause, if not death, yet a lethargy of true honour in 
 both. This stirred a resolution in his lordship to send 
 Sir Philip a challenge. Notwithstanding, these thoughts 
 in the great lord wandered so long between glory, anger, 
 and inequality of state, that the lords of her majesty's 
 council took notice of the differences, commanded 
 peace, and laboured a reconciliation between them. But 
 needlessly in one respe£l:, and bootlessly in another. 
 The great lord being (as it should seem) either not 
 hasty to adventure many inequalities against one, or in- 
 wardly satisfied with the progress of his own a6ls ; Sir 
 Philip, on the other side, confident he neither had nor 
 would lose, or let fall, any thing of his right. Which 
 her majesty's council quickly perceiving, recommended 
 this work to herself. — The Queen, who saw that by 
 the loss or disgrace of either she could gain nothing, 
 presently undertakes Sir Philip ; and, like an excellent 
 monarch, lays before him the diff^erence in degree be- 
 tween earls and gentlemen ; the respe6f inferiors owed 
 to their superiors ; and the necessity in princes to main- 
 tain their own creations, as the degrees descending 
 between the people's licentiousness, and the anointed 
 sovereignty of crowns ; how the gentleman's neglect of 
 the nobility taught the peasant to insult upon both. — 
 Whereunto Sir Philip, with such reverence as became 
 him, replied : first, that place was never intended for 
 privilege to wrong; witness herself, who, how sovereign 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 17 
 
 soever she were by throne, birth, education, and nature, 
 yet was she content to cast her own afFecSions into the 
 same moulds her subjects did, and govern all her rights 
 by their laws. Again, he besought her majesty to con- 
 sider that although he [Oxford] were a great lord by 
 birth, alliance, and grace, yet he was no lord over him 
 [Sir Philip] ; and, therefore, the difference of degrees 
 betw^n free-men, could not challenge any other homage 
 than precedency. And by her father's zSt (to make a 
 princely wisdom become the more familiar) he did in- 
 stance the government of King Henry the Eighth, who 
 gave the gentry free and unreserved appeal to his feet, 
 against the oppression of the grandees ; and found it 
 wisdom,' by the stronger corporation in number, to keep 
 down the greater in power ; inferring else, that if they 
 should unite, the over-grown might be tempted, by still 
 coveting more, to fall, as the angels did, by affecting 
 equality with their Maker." 
 
 In this spirited manner did our author exhibit his 
 sense of his own dignity, and vindicate the rights and 
 indepelidence of an English commoner. Neither was ^ 
 her majesty offended by the bold truths which he ut- 
 tered ; ^and we are further informed by Collins, the 
 editor of the Sidney Papers, that Sir Philip did not think 
 it proper to obey her commands, but rather retired for 
 a season to the abode of the Countess of Pembroke at 
 Wilton, where he whiled away his time in planning and 
 composing the Arcadia. This work, however, was not 
 completed, nor made public, during his life ; but was 
 colle£led together, after his decease, and given to the 
 press, by his sister, and hence it obtained the name of 
 the Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia. It has even been 
 stated, that, had he survived, " his design v/as to have 
 
1 8 The Life of 
 
 arranged the whole anew ; and it is asserted on the 
 authority of Ben Jonson, in his conversation with Mr. 
 Drummond of Hawthornden in Scotland, in the year 
 1619, that he intended to change the subje6l by cele- 
 brating the prowess and military deeds of King Ar- 
 thur." * Whatever truth there may be in the latter 
 part of this anecdote, there can be no doubt that the 
 Arcadia suffered severely in being deprived of the finish- 
 ing touches and corrections of its author j and, indeed, 
 it is not a little wonderful, considering all the disadvan- 
 tages under which it laboured, that we find it so perfe6t 
 and so comparatively faultless as it now appears ; for he 
 tells us himself, in his dedication to the Countess, that it 
 was written on loose sheets of paper, most of it in her 
 presence, and the rest sent to her in the same way as 
 fast as it was done ; and he is alleged to have requested, 
 with considerable earnestness, on his death-bed, that 
 this " charm of ages," as Dr. Young rightly calls it, 
 might be committed wholly to the flames. f 
 
 * Both Milton and Dryden also intended to have made the 
 achievements of King Arthur and his heroes, the first great theme 
 of their song. These mighty warriors, therefore, must be consid- 
 ered as peculiarly unfortunate in having become the viftims of Sir 
 Richard Blackmore's graceless muse. 
 
 + " They that knew him well," says Lord Brooke, " will truly 
 confess this Arcadia of his to be, both in form and matter, as much 
 inferior to that unbounded spirit of his, as the industry and images 
 of other men's works are many times raised above the writers' 
 capacities ; and besides acknowledge, that howsoever he could not 
 choose but give them aspersions of spirit and learning from the 
 father, yet that they were scribbled rather as pamphlets, for the 
 entertainment of time and friends, than any account of himself to 
 the world. Because if his purpose had been to leave his memory 
 in books, I am confident, in the right use of logick, philosophy, 
 history, and poesie, nay even in the most ingenious of mechanical 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 19 
 
 Such was the origin and history of a produ6lion which 
 was received, at the epoch that gave it birth, with the 
 most inordinate favour; but which has since been sub- 
 jected to much contradictory, and some sneering and 
 unamiable, criticism. This is partly to be attributed to 
 the peculiar nature of the work itself, and partly to the 
 exaggerated expectations of the individuals who have 
 undertaken to examine it. Yet it is proper to mention, 
 that while on the side of praise we find arrayed nearly 
 all the brightest ornaments of our literature, on the other 
 we discover Horace Walpole,* and Mr. Hazlitt, almost 
 unsupported and alone. This is a powerful faCt ; and, 
 perhaps, exhibits as much unanimity as can reasonably 
 be expected in lauding the merits of any author, how- 
 ever distinguished and deserving. 
 
 arts, he would have shewed such trafts of a searching and judicious 
 spirit, as the professors of every faculty would have striven no less 
 for him than the seven cities did to have Homer of their sept. But 
 the truth is, his end was not writing, even while he wrote, nor 
 his knowledge moulded for tables and schools ; but both his wit and 
 understanding bent upon his heart, to make himself, and others, not 
 in words or opinion, but in life and a6lion, good and great." 
 
 * The Quarterly reviewer of Dr. Zouch's Memoirs of Sidney 
 gives this peevish " catcher of passing ridicules," as he describes 
 himself, the following severe and richly-merited chastisement. 
 " The universal favourite of this age," says the writer referred to, 
 " was Sir Philip Sidney, the most accomplished charafter in our 
 history, till Lord Orford startled the world by paradoxes, which 
 attacked the fame established by two centuries. Singularity of 
 opinion, vivacity of ridicule, and polished epigrams in prose, were 
 the means by which this nobleman sought distinftion ; but he had 
 something in his composition more predominant than his wit ; a cold 
 unfeeling disposition, which contemned literary men at the moment 
 that his heart secretly panted to share their fame ; while his peculiar 
 habits of society deadened every impression of grandeur in the 
 human charafter." 
 
20 T/:e Life of 
 
 The Arcadia, with some admixture of the heroic, 
 was an imitation of the pastoral romance ; one of the 
 earliest forms of prose fidlion which was cultivated by 
 the ancients. Even the stones of chivalry, exquisitely 
 described by Ben Jonson, as " niches filled with statues 
 to invite young valours forth," amid all the rough tur- 
 moil and warlike prowess in which they revel, were not 
 devoid of stray scenes, in which rural beauty and inno- 
 cence were duly appreciated and represented. The 
 Eclogues of Virgil, of which the darkest eras were not 
 ignorant, are supposed by Mr. Dunlop to have been 
 mainly instrumental in fostering this taste ; and his idea 
 is materially corroborated by the circumstance that the 
 pastoral compositions of the middle ages usually ap- 
 peared under a similar form with the work of the Au- 
 gustan poet. The Troubadours and Trouveurs, how- 
 ever, were by no means successful in this style of writ- 
 ing ; their love adventures were full of sameness, and 
 their delineations of nature were generally pointless and 
 afFeited. It was, therefore, an enterprise of small difH- 
 culty for Boccaccio to excel their feeble attempts in his 
 prose Idilium of Ameto, which the historian of fi6lion 
 conceives to have been the prototype of the Arcadia of 
 Sannazzaro, "written towards the end of the fifteenth 
 century, and which, though it cannot be itself consid- 
 ered as a pastoral romance, yet appears to have first 
 opened the field to that species of composition." This 
 production, it would seem, was, like the Consolations 
 of Boethius, a combination of prose and verse ; and, 
 similar in that respe6l, became the form of all succeed- 
 ing narratives of the same class. But, as this early 
 model was totally destitute of any fable that could create 
 an interest for the charadlers introduced, much room 
 
S/r Philip Sidtiey. 
 
 was left for the improvements and perfecSling ingenuity 
 of later authors. This desideratum, accordingly, was in 
 part supplied by George of Montemayor in his Diana, 
 one of the few precious tomes spared by the curate in 
 the friendly conflagration of Don Quixote's library, 
 and from certain incidents in which, Shakespeare most 
 probably borrowed his plot of the Twelfth Night, and 
 the story of Proteus and Julia in the Two Gentlemen 
 of Verona. Beaumont and Fletcher are likewise imag- 
 ined to have derived from the same source, the first 
 conceptions which they wrought up into the celebrated 
 drama of Philaster. By Gaspard Gil Polo, Cervantes 
 in his Galetea, and numerous other continuators and 
 imitators of Montemayor, the pastoral romance was con- 
 siderably advanced in point of consistency and keeping ; 
 while Honre d'Urfe* in France, and Sir Philip Sidney 
 in England, contributed many additional charms, and 
 extended its popularity still more widely by the novel 
 attra6lions with which they adorned it. 
 
 The Arcadia of the latter, with all the imperfedtions 
 that can be laid to its charge, is a rich mint of deep 
 feeling and of varied excellence. It displays a fancy, it is 
 
 * D'Urfe's book, according to Boileau, was an accurate recital of 
 the author's personal gallantries and adventures in love, the various 
 real charafters being disguised under the names of shepherds and 
 shepherdesses. " The style," he adds, " was florid and animated, 
 and the charafters imagined with skill, and admirably diversified 
 and sustained. The popularity of this publication gave rise to 
 many imitations. Tales were rapidly produced, consisting of ten 
 or twelve bulky volumes apiece. The most popular were those of 
 Gomberville, Calprenade, Desmarais, and Scuderi. But endeavour- 
 ing to improve upon their original, and to elevate their charafters, 
 these writers fell into the most inconceivable puerility. The world, 
 however, ran mad after these absurdities." 
 
22 T^he Life of 
 
 true, which often ran riot amid the diversity of its crea- 
 tions, and a taste that sometimes erred from the infinite 
 sedu6lions to which it was exposed. But the work 
 invariably makes atonement by the stately eloquence of 
 its descriptions, and by the delicious incense which it 
 offered up to the cause of virtue and true heroism. 
 
 " Against the criticisms of its detrailors," says an 
 elegant and enthusiastic writer in the Retrospective 
 Review, " the best defence will be found in the pro- 
 duclion itself, to which we confidently refer our readers. 
 That it has many faults we do not deny ; but they are 
 faults to which all the writers of his time were subje61:, 
 and generally in a greater degree. It has been said that 
 his language is very quaint ; but we may safely ask, 
 what author is there of his age in whose language there 
 is in reality so little of quaintness ? Let us remember 
 a work which the Arcadia contributed more than any 
 thing else to consign to oblivion ; a work which for a 
 long time was in high fashion and celebrity ; and the 
 style of which is, perhaps, more elaborately and sys- 
 tematically bad, than that of any work in the whole 
 extent of literature. We mean Lilly's Euphues. With 
 it let us compare Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia — the style 
 he introduced, with the style he contributed to banish — 
 and we shall then regard him as the restorer of the 
 purity of our language, and as meriting our eternal 
 gratitude and respeil. The language of the Arcadia is, 
 indeed, as much superior to that of the Euphues, as is 
 the varied melody of the nightingale to the monstrous 
 harshness of the jay. — Another radical fault in the 
 Arcadia, is the defe6l of the species of writing of which 
 it is a part — the heroic and pastoral romance, either 
 disjunctively or commixed. But, so far from lowering. 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 23 
 
 this primary disadvantage ought rather to increase our 
 admiration of his genius, who has been able to give 
 attraction to so preposterous a kind of composition. 
 Who would not applaud the ingenuity of him, who 
 could engraft with success the apricot on the sloe, or 
 the nectarine on the crab ? When we see a stru6lure 
 irregular and clumsy, but built of massy gold ; however 
 we may censure its defeilive plan, yet surely we must 
 
 admire the richness of its materials. The feeling 
 
 which the perusal of the Arcadia excites, is a calm an(f^ 
 pensive pleasure, at once full, tranquil, and exquisite. 
 The satisfaction we experience is not unsimilar to that 
 of meditation by moonlight, v/hen the burning fervor of 
 the day has subsided, and every thing which might con- 
 fuse or disorder our contemplation is at rest. All is 
 peaceful and quiet, and clear as a transparency. The 
 silvery glittering of the language, the unearthly loftiness 
 of its heroes, the etheriality of their aspirations, and the 
 sweet tones of genuine and unstudied feeling which it 
 sounds forth, all combine to imbue our souls with a soft 
 and pleasing melancholy. We feel ourselves under the 
 spell of an enchanter, in the toils of a witchery, too grati- 
 fying to our senses to be willingly shaken off, and there- 
 fore resign ourselves without resistance to its influence. 
 By it we are removed to other and more delightful 
 climes ; by it we are transported to the shady groves 
 of Arcady and the bowery recesses of Tempe ; to those 
 heavenly retreats, where music and melody were wafted 
 with every sighing of the breeze along their cool and 
 translucid streams. We find ourselves in the midst of \ 
 the golden age, with glimpses of the armed grandeur of 
 the age of chivalry. We find ourselves in a period of 
 conflicting sights and emotions, when all that was lovely 
 
24 "The Life of 
 
 in the primitive simplicity of the one, and all that was 
 fascinating in the fantastic magnificence of the other, 
 were united and mingled together ; where the rustic 
 festivity of the shepherd was succeeded by the imposing 
 splendour of the tournament, and the voice of the pas- 
 toral pipe and oaten reed were joined with the sound of 
 the trumpet and the clashing of the lance." 
 
 The least defensible blemishes of the Arcadia are the 
 flatness of its comic humour, and the truly mediocre 
 chara6ter of the poetry with which it is interspersed. 
 The latter fault, however, as may very easily be per- 
 ceived, proceeded less from a want of talent or a de- 
 ficiency in poetic temperament, than from the inveterate 
 and studied affetSlation of the author. Sidney was too 
 fond of imitating the Italian conceits, and the extrava- 
 gant devices with regard to versification, which were 
 then so much in vogue ; and in his attempts to intro- 
 duce the Greek and Latin measures into our language, 
 in which, by the way, he was countenanced by no less a 
 personage than Sir Walter Raleigh, he was not a whit 
 more successful than a recent experimentalist in the 
 same line. His poems of this sort seem throughout, to 
 borrow a pifturesque description of Spenser's, " either 
 like a lame gosling that draweth one leg after her, or 
 like a lame dog that holdeth one leg up." 
 
 Yet these, his weakest points, are not to be judged 
 with the correct severity of modern criticism, but are 
 rather to be palliated and excused as the common foibles 
 of the age in which he lived. We learn from Dr. 
 Farmer's excellent Essay on Shakespeare, that "Gabriel 
 Harvey* desired only to be epitaphed, the inventor of 
 
 * Gabriel Harvey was " the most special friend " of both Sidney 
 and Spenser, and is supposed to have been the medium through 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 25 
 
 the English hexameter^ and for a while every one would 
 be halting on Roman feet ; but the ridicule of Joseph 
 Hall, in one of his satires, and the reasoning of Daniel 
 in his Defence of Rhyme, against Campion, presently 
 reduced us to our old Gothic."* Even Spenser was 
 seriously afFeded by the prevailing mania for dadiyles 
 and spondees after the manner of the ancients. " I am 
 of late," he says in one of his letters to Harvey, " more 
 in love with my English versifying than with rhyming." 
 By versifying he means here adapting English verse to 
 Latin prosody ; and he takes occasion, in the same 
 epistle, to pass a high encomium on the unmelodious 
 numbers of his friend. 
 
 The very passages in Sir Philip's volumes, accord- 
 ingly, which we now reprobate most severely, were, 
 perhaps, those which attracted the greatest amount of 
 contemporary admiration j and this conje6lure, indeed, 
 is pretty clearly established by the faft, that we find Sir 
 W. Temple, in an age far more scrupulous and ad- 
 vanced, declaring, without qualification, our author to 
 be " the greatest poet and the noblest genius of any 
 that have left writings behind them, or published in 
 
 which these two great men first became acquainted. He was a 
 fellow of Trinity Hall, Cambridge, and took a Doctor of Law's 
 degree in 1585. 
 
 * This absurd innovation was also humorously exposed by Nash 
 in his Four Letters confuted, 1592. " The hexameter verse," he 
 says, " I grant to be a gentleman of an ancient house, (so is many 
 an English beggar,) yet this clime of ours he cannot thrive in ; our 
 speech is too craggy for him to set his plough in ; he goes twitching 
 and hopping in our language like a man running upon quagmires, 
 up the hill in one syllable, and down the dale in another ; retaining 
 no part of that stately smooth gait, which he vaunts himself amongst 
 the Greeks and Latins." 
 
 4 
 
26 rhe Life of 
 
 our's or any other language ; a person born capable not 
 only of forming the greatest idea, but leaving the noblest 
 example, if the length of his life had been equal to the 
 excellence of his wit and his virtues." Such was the 
 calm decision of a man of genius when all the fleeting 
 prejudices in Sidney's favour must have entirely passed 
 away. To this we may add that the critics of his own 
 time undertook to illustrate the whole art of rhetoric 
 from his pages ; and that from a perusal of them, both 
 our elder and our modern poets have derived many of 
 their happiest and their sweetest conceptions. 
 
 " The Arcadia," says Mr. Dunlop, " was much read 
 and admired by Waller and Cowley, and has been ob- 
 viously imitated in many instances by our early drama- 
 tists. The story of Plangus in the Arcadia is the origin 
 of Shirley's Andromana, or Merchant's Wife. That 
 part of the pastoral where Pyrocles agrees to command 
 the Helots, seems to have suggested those scenes of the 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, in which Valentine leagues 
 himself with the outlaws. An episode in the second 
 book of the Arcadia, where a king of Paphlagonia, 
 whose eyes had been put out by a bastard son, is de- 
 scribed as led by his rightful heir, whom he had cruelly 
 used for the sake of his wicked brother, has furnished 
 Shakespeare with the underplot concerning Gloster and 
 his two sons, in King Lear. There are in the romance 
 the same description of a bitter storm, and the same 
 request of the father that he might be led to the sum- 
 mit of a clifF, which occur in that pathetic tragedy. — 
 The Arcadia was also, as we learn from Milton, the 
 companion of the prison hours of Charles the First, 
 whom that poet, in his Iconoclastes, reproaches with 
 having stolen the prayer of Pamela, to insert in his 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 27 
 
 Ikon Basilike. But whether the King aftually fell into 
 this inadvertence, or whether his antagonist procured 
 the interpolation of the passage, that he might enjoy an 
 opportunity of reviling his sovereign for impiety, and of 
 taunting him with literary plagiarism, has been the sub- 
 ject of much controversy among the biographers of the 
 English bard." 
 
 In 158 1, the assistance of Mr. Sidney was warmly 
 solicited by Don Antonio, Prior of Crato, who had laid 
 claim, not long previously, to the contested crown of 
 Portugal, and actually assumed the vacant title of King; 
 but his application was disregarded, though couched in 
 terms the most flattering, and our author preferred sit- 
 ting in Parliament for his native county of Kent. His 
 name appears at this period as a member of a com- 
 mittee to frame such lav/s as would secure the kingdom 
 against the Pope and his adherents. 
 
 He was engaged, during the same year, in a splendid 
 military spedtacle, which was exhibited in compliment 
 to the ambassadors of the Duke of Anjou, who had 
 perseverance enough again to cross the Channel, that 
 they might renew their royal master's earnest overtures 
 of marriage. On this occasion the Earl of Arundel, 
 Lord Windsor, Mr. Philip Sidney, and Mr. Fulke Grev- 
 ille, presented themselves as champions, and challenged 
 all comers to the combat. The equipments of our hero, 
 and his associates, have been minutely described in 
 Stow's continuation of Old Hollinshed, and are well 
 worthy of a perusal by all those who take delight in the 
 antique splendour of the tournament, or whose fancy 
 loves to dwell on the forgotten usages of chivalry. 
 
 The gaiety of the English court was soon after in- 
 creased by a personal visit from the amatory French 
 
28 The Life of 
 
 grandee ; but, though he was received by the Queen 
 with the most gracious condescension, he experienced 
 in the end a decisive refusal of his offers, which, per- 
 haps, proceeded considerably more from the advisers of 
 Elizabeth, than from her own heart. There can cer- 
 tainly be no doubt that her vanity, at the least, would 
 have derived its dearest gratification from a longer con- 
 tinuance of her princely suitor's assiduities ; for her 
 highness's charafteristics appear to have been thor- 
 oughly understood, and summed up, by Thuanus, when 
 he remarks, " ambiri, coli ob formam, et amoribus, etiam 
 inclinata jam aetate, videri voluit." The reasons of 
 state, however, were too manifold and too urgent to 
 permit her coquetry the unlimited indulgence which it 
 craved ; and the Duke was attended on his return to the 
 Netherlands, in the course of a iev/ months, by the Earl 
 of Leicester, Lord Hunsdon, Mr. Philip Sidney, Sir 
 Walter Raleigh, and a numerous and illustrious train of 
 nobles and gentlemen, who accompanied him the length 
 of Antwerp, by the special command of her majesty. 
 
 It is supposed, that for a season immediately follow- 
 ing the stirring events which we have just been re- 
 cording. Sir Philip Sidney devoted himself to a life of 
 contemplative retirement. Part of the fruits of his 
 meditation was his much celebrated Defence of Poesy, 
 one of the noblest tributes ever offered to the allure- 
 ments of the Muse. It belongs, in fa6l, to the small 
 number of those happy creations which he alone could 
 either have produced or devised, who has been touched 
 and purified with the sacred fire of true genius. Orig- 
 inally designed as an answer to certain diatribes of the f 
 Puritans — a se6l which was then springing rapidly into | 
 notice, and beginning to signalize itself by an austere 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 29 
 
 and fierce aversion to all the elegant recreations of 
 society and of mind — it remains an imperishable mon- 
 ument of the digested learning of its author, and of the 
 engaging facility with which he could turn his talents to 
 account. It has been aptly described, in his own words, 
 as the " sweet food of sweetly uttered knowledge ; " as 
 the outpouring and register of those " high-ere6led 
 thoughts " which are solely to be found seated in their 
 purity "in a heart of courtesy." At the same time it 
 contains ^QVf of those mannerisms, and studied afFe6la- 
 tions of his day, with which, it must be confessed, his 
 larger work is often deformed. This is, on the con- 
 trary, a plain and pradical treatise, seeking above all 
 things to carry conviction by its illustrations and its 
 arguments, and making fancy and ornament entirely 
 subservient to the cause of persuasion and of truth. 
 Yet the imaginative genius of the author frequently 
 bursts forth in all its splendour, and strews his dida6lic 
 path v/ith a galaxy of the most brilliant conceptions. 
 He seems here to follow religiously the memorable 
 advice with which his muse favoured him on another 
 occasion — "look in thy heart and write." 
 
 Viewing this produdtion in a different light, it acquires 
 an additional interest. It was, as it were, the flourish 
 of trumpets, or the richly varied overture " in linked 
 beauties long drawn out," which preceded the appear- 
 ance of Shakespeare, and his fellow bards, on the dra- 
 matic scene.* It smoothed down the asperities of feel- 
 
 * Though the first edition of the Defence did not issue from the 
 press till 1593, there is every reason to suppose, as Mr. Collier has 
 remarked, that the Arcadia, and all Sir Philip's other productions, 
 were handed about in manuscript long before their formal publica- 
 tion ; since we find in Puttenham's Art of Poetry, which was 
 
30 Tke Life of 
 
 ing with which their performances might have been 
 assailed by a powerful religious party in the state, and 
 prepared the way for those magnificent effusions of hu- 
 man intellect which have secured to the reign of Eliza- 
 beth one of the most glorious pages in the records of 
 immortality. Previous to its publication, if we may 
 implicitly credit Sidney's account, both poetry and its 
 professors had been reduced to the lowest form of degra- 
 dation in the popular esteem ; and some efficient auxil- 
 iary was required to secure them a patient and unbiassed 
 audience, and to elevate them into that estimation which 
 was necessary to give them a chance of success. This 
 our author achieved for them by the convincing elo- 
 quence of his discourse,* and he has reaped his reward 
 in the imperishable renown of ages. To quote, indeed, 
 
 printed in 1589, a reference to the Arcadia, which was not printed 
 till the year following ; and we have Sir John Harrington com- 
 plaining, in his translation of the Orlando Fnrioso, of a sonnet 
 which had been " left out in the printed book." 
 
 * Thomas Churchyard published, in 1595, a performance which 
 he entitled " A praise of poetrie : some notes thereof drawen out of 
 the Apologie," (Sidney's Defence was originally so called,) " the 
 noble-minded knight, Sir Philip Sidney, wrate." This tractate has 
 been reprinted in the Censura Literaria, vols. 3 and 4 ; and contains 
 the following lines in allusion to the effefts which our author's rea- 
 sonings had produced. 
 
 Good poets were in high esteem 
 
 When learning grew in price ; 
 Their virtue and their verse did seem 
 
 A great rebuke to vice. 
 
 With blunt, base people, of small sense. 
 
 They fall now in disdain ; 
 But Sidney's book in their defence. 
 
 Did raise them up again : 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 3^ 
 
 the several eulogies of this Defence's merits, would be 
 to cite every author who has mentioned it since its 
 gifted composer lived. Even Walpole, the most invet- 
 erate detradlor from Sir Philip's deserts, found nothing 
 in it against which to level his ever-ready sarcasm. 
 The scholar and the critic have been equally animated 
 in its praises ; and while the one has recommended it 
 as being replete with Greek and Roman erudition, the 
 other has held it up as a perfed: model, at once of ex- 
 pression, and of logical method. " It is a work of 
 love," says a reviewer in the first number of the Quar- 
 terly, " and the luminous order of criticism is embel- 
 lished by all the graces of poetry." " As an essay on 
 the nature, obje6ls, and effedis of poetry as an art," 
 declares an able journal — the Retrospe6live, "it is 
 beyond comparison the most complete work of the kind 
 which we possess, even up to the present day. The 
 truth is, that the Defence of Poesy has formed the sta- 
 ple of all the thousand and one dissertations on that art, 
 with which our magazines and reviews have teemed 
 during the last twenty years." " There are itw rules 
 and few excellencies of poetry, especially epic and dra- 
 matic," observes Dr. Joseph Warton, " but what Sir 
 Philip Sidney, who had diligently read the best Latin 
 and Italian commentaries on Aristotle's poetics, has here 
 pointed out and illustrated with true taste and judg- 
 ment." 
 
 Neither was the contemporary applause which at- 
 tended the appearance of this tra6late, less fervent than 
 
 And sets them next divines in rank, 
 
 As members meet and fit 
 To strike the world's blind boldness blank, 
 
 And whet the bluntest wit. 
 
32 The Life of 
 
 the effusions of more modern panegyric. Ben Jonson 
 has coupled Sidney's name with that of the eloquent 
 Hooker, as " great masters of wit and language, in 
 whom all vigour of invention, and strength of judgment, 
 met;" and the Defence is thus particularly alluded to 
 in the Cambridge Lacrymae, a series of elegies which 
 the untimely death of Sir Philip called forth from that 
 learned retreat of poesy and science. — 
 
 Te Musa excoluit, finxit tibi peftora Virtus, 
 O decus, 6 patrise Stella (Philippe) tuse. 
 
 Quid Musis poteras, docuit Defensio Musje, 
 Arcadia docuit fabrica texta novse. 
 
 To these may be subjoined a few perhaps not unjustly 
 forgotten verses by George Wither, in the same lauda- 
 tory strain, — 
 
 This in Defence of Poesie to say 
 I am compel'd, because that at this day 
 Weakness and ignorance have wrong'd it sore : 
 But what need any man therein speak more 
 Than divine Sidney hath already done ? 
 For whom (though he deceas'd ere I begun) 
 I have oft sighed, and bewail'd my fate 
 That brought me forth so many years too late 
 To view that worthy. — 
 
 Mr. Sidney applied by letter to Lord Burleigh, in the 
 month of January, 1582, to be conjoined in the master- 
 ship of the ordnance with his gallant uncle, the Earl of 
 Warwick ; but we are informed that his solicitation in 
 this instance was devoid of success, even although her 
 majesty yielded " a gracious hearing unto it." It is by 
 no means improbable, as we have already surmised, that 
 the very uncommon abilities and accomplishments which 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 33 
 
 our author possessed, may have been pleaded as a reason 
 for not granting him any appointment whatever under 
 the crown ; at least we find these very matters seriously 
 stated by Elizabeth, as a cause why Lord Bacon had 
 been impeded in his professional advancement.* 
 
 In the course of the same year, overtures were made 
 to his father by the persons at the helm of affairs, to 
 undertake once more the administration of government 
 
 * " She did acknowledge," says the Earl of Essex in a letter to 
 Mr. Francis Bacon, " you had a great wit, and an excellent gift of 
 speech, and much other good learning. But in law, she rather 
 thought you could make show, to the utmost of your knowledge, 
 than that you were deep." — " If it be asked," observes Bishop 
 Hurd, in remarking on this passage, " how the Qu^een came to form 
 this conclusion, the answer is plain? It was from Mr. Bacon's hav- 
 ing a great wit, an excellent gift of speech, and much other good 
 learning." — Speaking of his friend Sidney, Lord Brooke has the 
 following observations : " Nature guiding his eyes to his native 
 country, he found greatness of worth and place, counterpoised there 
 by the arts of power and favour ; the stirring spirits sent abroad, as 
 fuel to keep the flame far off, and the effeminate made judges of 
 danger which they fear, and honour which they understand not." 
 Spenser has also described the situation of a court suitor in the reign 
 of Elizabeth, in stanzas which are too vivid not to have been the 
 result of a harassing personal experience. 
 
 Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried, 
 What hell it Is In suing long to bide. 
 To lose good days that might be better spent. 
 To waste long nights In pensive discontent. 
 To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow, 
 To feed In hope, to pine with fear and sorrow ; 
 To have thy prince's grace, yet want her peers. 
 To have thy asking, yet wait many years ; 
 To fret thy soul with crosses and with care ; 
 To eat thy heart through comfortless despair ; 
 To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run. 
 To spend, to give, to want, — to be undone. 
 
34 The Life of 
 
 in Ireland, which he had formerly discharged with such 
 prudence and ability ; and that venerable worthy would 
 have had no objection again to burthen his advanced age 
 with the irksome toils of office, provided his son would 
 have consented to accompany him as an assistant, and 
 put himself in the way of obtaining some reversionary 
 advantage from the appointment. Yet, though the 
 ofFer appears to have been increased in attracSlion by 
 prospedls of peerages and grants, it does not seem to 
 have inspired Sir Philip with any inclination to em- 
 brace it. 
 
 During the subsequent year, our author became united 
 in marriage to the only surviving daughter of his old 
 friend Sir Francis Walsingham. She is mentioned as 
 being a lady possessed of many amiable qualities, and as 
 distinguished besides by " extraordinary handsomeness." 
 It is probable, however, that she never acquired much 
 more than the respe6l of her husband. His affe6lions 
 were long previously devoted to the Lady Penelope 
 Devereux, the daughter of Walter, Earl of Essex ; and 
 a matrimonial treaty had at one time proceeded so far 
 between their parents, as to lead Sir Edward Water- 
 house, the common friend of the two families, to say, 
 in a letter to Sir Henry Sidney, that " the breaking ofF 
 of this match, if the default be on your parts, will turn 
 to more dishonour than can be repaired with any other 
 marriage in England." Notwithstanding this expostu- 
 lation, however, broken ofF most certainly it was ; but 
 on which side the blame lay, if any really existed, it is 
 utterly impossible, at this distance of time, to ascertain. 
 One thing is pretty evident, that Sir Henry Sidney could 
 never have been cordially disposed to the alliance ; for 
 v/e find him declaring, in a private communication to 
 
 I 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 35 
 
 Lord Leicester, where he has occasion to allude to 
 Essex and the Earl of Ormond, that his correspondent 
 should have found the former " as violent an enemy as 
 his heart, power, and cunning would have served him 
 to have been ; and for their malice, I take God to re- 
 cord, I could brook neither of them both." 
 
 The Lady Devereux was afterwards married to Rob- 
 ert, Lord Rich ; and it was she whom our author 
 sought to commemorate under the feigned names of 
 Philoclea in the Arcadia, and Stella in his poems of 
 Astrophel. For the mode in which he has acquitted 
 himself of his task in this latter instance, as far as 
 moral feeling and propriety are concerned, Sidney has 
 incurred the indignation and severe censure of Mr. God- 
 win, who, while he maintains that the series of songs 
 and sonnets embodies " some of the finest examples in 
 this species of composition that the world can produce,'* 
 cannot tolerate the " making a public exhibition of such 
 addresses to a married female, speaking contemptuously 
 of the husband, and employing all the arts of poetical 
 sedudion to contaminate the mind, of the woman he 
 adores." Mr. Godwin refers particularly to the fifty- 
 second sonnet, and to the second and tenth songs, for 
 the most flagrant specimens of the " grossness and 
 carnality " which he considers himself bound to repre- 
 hend. These stanzas we have read over again and 
 again, and though we imagine we may arrogate to our- 
 selves as acute moral perceptions as belong to the apol- 
 ogist of Mary Wolstonecraft, we cannot perceive any 
 of that shocking sensuality against which his virtuous 
 fervour has been aroused and directed. No criminal 
 intercourse was ever imputed to the parties ; neither did 
 their condu6l or flirtations excite any sentiments of re- 
 
36 T/)f Life of 
 
 proof in the age when they occurred. Nay, Sir Philip 
 himself declares, that he *' cannot brag of word, much 
 less of deed," by which his charmer could be construed 
 to have encouraged his flame ; and the unhappy course 
 of their loves, and the notoriously brutal chara6ler of 
 Lord Rich, may be received as some excuse, if not as 
 a perfe6l justification of the passionate, yet rarely in- 
 decorous, regard, which Sidney continued to express in 
 his verses for the object of his earliest and most vehe- 
 ment attachment.* 
 
 But, though we cannot admit for a moment that the 
 poetry of Sidney is debased by the vile alloy of licen- 
 tiousness and pruriency, we are not blind to many other 
 vices with which it may most justly be charged. Our 
 author was styled, by Raleigh, the English Petrarch ; 
 and without doubt he derived many of his faults as well 
 as excellencies from the bard of Arezzo, whom he fre- 
 quently imitated both in his manner and in his exag- 
 gerated turn of expression. It was from this foreign 
 prototype that he was probably smitten with the love of 
 antithesis and conceit, and the other fashionable absurdi- 
 ties in which our best writers of sonnets then abounded. 
 In seeking to embellish their essays by the choicest 
 gems of thought, they were caught by far-fetched allu- 
 sions and incongruous metaphors. As Sir Philip himself 
 has felicitously enough described it, "Invention, Nature's 
 child, fled step-dame Study's blows," and those who 
 were thus deserted, strove to remedy their misfortune by 
 
 Ennobling new-found tropes with problems old ; 
 Or, with strange similes enriched each line, 
 Of herbs, or beasts, which Ind' or Afric hold. 
 
 * Lady Rich was married to a second husband, Charles Blount, 
 Earl of Devonshire. 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 37 
 
 In this way they completely destroyed the chasteness 
 and simplicity of their compositions, without adding 
 aught of value to their brilliancy and efFe6l ; for one 
 may almost apply to these conceits what Lord Bacon 
 has observed of the discourses of philosophers on gov- 
 ernment, that "they are as the stars, which give little 
 light because they are so high." But our author lib- 
 erally compensated for his occasional aberrations from 
 true taste, by frequent displays of a degree of elegance 
 and facility to which few of his contemporaries, in the 
 same species of writing, have succeeded in establishing 
 any claim. At the same time he uniformly speaks of 
 his own proficiency in the exalted art of song, with a 
 modesty no less amiable than it is disarming to critical 
 severity. And, if his sonnets possessed no other merit, 
 it is in them that his various feelings, as they arose in 
 his heart, are distin6lly to be traced, and that we learn 
 the little peculiarities by which his heroic character was 
 discriminated and shaded. It is there that we are told 
 of his constitutional melancholy, inherited in all likeli- 
 hood from his mother ; and of the " abstra6led guise " 
 which he was wont unconsciously to fall into in the 
 largest companies, whereby many had been induced to 
 suppose that he was wholly possessed by egotism and 
 " bubbling pride" — a charge which he takes the oppor- 
 tunity most pointedly to deny, while he pleads guilty to 
 a headlong ambition that made him " oft his best friends 
 overpass." 
 
 On the 13th of January, 1583, our author received 
 the honour of knighthood, at Windsor, as proxy to his 
 acquaintance and admirer, John Casimir, the Prince 
 Palatine of the Rhine, who was then invested with 
 the most noble Order of the Garter. 
 
 
38 ri-e Life of 
 
 We find Sidney engaged in 1584, in defending his 
 uncle Leicester against one of the most inveterate and 
 scurrilous libels which the religious dissensions of the 
 times, prolific of animosity as they were, had produced. 
 This was the famous tracfl entitled, " A Dialogue be- 
 tween a Scholar, a Gentleman, and a Lawyer ; " and 
 familiarly denominated " Father Parson's Green Coat," 
 from the peculiar colour of its leaves ; but afterwards 
 still more generally known and circulated under the 
 name of" Leicester's Commonwealth." It was under- 
 stood to be the composition of Robert Parsons, a big- 
 oted and intriguing Jesuit, and met with an immense 
 popularity, both in England and abroad, among the nu- 
 merous religious enemies and political rivals of the 
 supercilious favourite. In its pages everything was 
 raked together which the tongue of scandal had uttered 
 to the disparagement of the exalted statesman whom it 
 strove to overwhelm with obloquy;* and where that 
 was silent, the imagination of the ecclesiastic was not 
 slow in filling up the void, and in supplying materials 
 which were chara6lerized by all the venom and rancour 
 that the most ruthless hatred could suggest. 
 
 Sir Philip's answer breathes far too much of the fierce 
 and implacable spirit of his opponent. It is rather a 
 cartel of defiance to his adversary, than a cool, deliber- 
 ate refutation of the calumnies which had been advanced 
 against the honour and fair fame of his relative. His 
 wrath will not allow him to examine and repel the va- 
 
 * It was here that the story of the murder of his first wife was 
 originally published, which Sir W. Scott has made the subject of 
 his delightful tale of Kenil worth. The novelist has adhered strictly 
 to the fafts as they are stated in the annals of the times, and in 
 Ashmole's Berkshire, and Lyson's Magna Britannia. 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 39 
 
 rious charges as they present themselves in detail ; and 
 nearly the whole of his eloquence is lavished on a topic 
 in which general readers cannot now be supposed to 
 take a very lively interest : the vindication of the an- 
 cient lineage of his maternal ancestors, the Dudleys. 
 It was pretended, as we are told, that the Duke of 
 Northumberland's father was not the son of John Dud- 
 ley, a younger son of John Sutton, Lord Dudley ; but 
 of a totally different person of the same name, who was 
 a Sussex mechanic ; and this falsehood had sufficient 
 currency and credit, at a later period, to impose upon 
 the experience and accurate genealogical learning of Sir 
 William Dugdale, though he ultimately discovered and 
 corre61:ed his mistake. When this is taken into ac- 
 count, and when we further recolleil the strong preju- 
 dices of his age in favour of unsullied descent, we may 
 pardon our author much of the diffuseness and acrimony 
 into which his wounded feelings have here betrayed him. 
 It was, in fa(5l, assailing him on the. very point from 
 which his pride of birth derived its principal delight, and 
 towards which he seems to have looked back as the 
 surest support of his pretensions to hereditary distinc- 
 tion. "I am a Dudley in blood," he exclaims, " the 
 Duke's daughter's son — my chiefest honour is, to be 
 a Dudley." But it is to be regretted that he did not 
 apply himself with more minuteness and patience to 
 Lord Leicester's exculpation, and that he contented 
 himself with pointing out a few of the inconsistencies 
 and contradidions into which the libeller had fallen. 
 
 About the crisis of Sidney's life at which we have 
 now arrived, he was inspired by an ardent desire to as- 
 sociate himself in a voyage of discovery with those hardy 
 adventurers who were just beginning to exhibit that reck- 
 
40 The Life of 
 
 less intrepidity and skill, through which the navy of our 
 country has since covered itself with glory. His aftive 
 mind had long led him to take a warm interest in the 
 discoveries and projects of Sir Martin Frobisher and 
 his comrades. We see him withal expressing in a let- 
 ter to Sir Edward Stafford, dated July 21, 1584, a sort 
 of half inclination to join his fortunes with those of Sir 
 Humphrey Gilbert, in a design, which the latter had 
 for a considerable while meditated, of planting a colony 
 in some unknown country ; and in 1585, Sir Philip con- 
 ceived the idea of condu6ling an expedition to attack the 
 Spanish settlements in South America, conjointly with 
 Sir Francis Drake, who had previously circumnavigated 
 the globe, and acquired considerable riches and great 
 celebrity from his achievements. In the present" in- 
 stance, however, Sidney had undertaken to equip the 
 necessary armament with the assistance of thirty gentle- 
 men "• of great blood and state," whom he had won 
 over to his cause, each having agreed to contribute the 
 sum of one hundred pounds. He had likewise deter- 
 mined to take upon himself a principal share in the 
 command as soon as the fleet should have quitted the 
 shores of England, an office for which we should imag- 
 ine his habits and acquirements hitherto could have done 
 little to qualify him. Fulke Greville was the confidant, 
 and had consented to become the companion, of his en- 
 terprise ; and all their measures were concerted with 
 the utmost secrecy and circumspection. Yet their 
 preparations did not escape the prying eyes of Elizabeth ; 
 and her acuteness was probably assisted by private in- 
 formation from Drake, who appears to have become 
 dissatisfied with the division of power to which, at the 
 outset of the business, he had most cordially acceded. 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 41 
 
 A peremptory despatch, accordingly came down from 
 the court to Plymouth, whither Sir Philip had conveyed 
 himself to be in readiness for sailing, forbidding his de- 
 parture, and commanding his immediate return to his 
 family. But so determined was he to carry his designs 
 into effeft, that he caused the government messenger 
 to be forcibly deprived, on his journey, by two soldiers 
 in disguise, of the letters of recall with which he had 
 been entrusted. This violent measure, however, was 
 attended with no advantage to our author's schemes ; 
 for an order was delivered to him personally, by a peer 
 of the realm, holding out, on the one hand, the most 
 severe threats of displeasure if he continued to persist in 
 executing his projects ; and, on the other, promising 
 him an employment under his uncle in the Low Coun- 
 tries, provided he yielded a dutiful and instant obedience 
 to the mandate of his sovereign. In such circumstan- 
 ces, therefore, no expedient was left for his adoption, 
 but to pursue, quietly, the course thus chalked out by 
 the higher powers. 
 
 The Queen certainly now owed him some distin- 
 guished appointment ; especially, if it should be true, as 
 has been often asserted, that she also prevented him, at 
 this epoch, from being advanced to the regal dignity by 
 the people of Poland. The crown of that kingdom, in 
 which the monarchy was ele6live, had become vacant 
 by the death of Stephen Bathori, the Prince of Tran- 
 sylvania ; and it is related that Sir Philip Sidney was put 
 in nomination by the States, and might have possessed a 
 fair chance of success, had I^lizabeth condescended to 
 further or support his pretensions. But, according to 
 Sir Robert Naunton, she was indisposed to the measure 
 "not only out of emulation, but out of fear to lose the 
 
42 The Life of 
 
 jewel of her times ; " and, if Fuller may be believed to 
 report more than the empty language of courtesy, our 
 author was infinitely better pleased to be a subject of 
 his present mistress " than a sovereign beyond the seas." 
 
 Her majesty having taken the Protestants of the 
 Netherlands under her prote6lion in 1585, and prom- 
 ised to dispatch a military force to their succour. Sir 
 Philip Sidney was in that year nominated the Governor 
 of Flushing. This place, from its advantageous posi- 
 tion close to the mouth of the Scheld, was then consid- 
 ered to be one of the most important posts in the whole 
 range of the United Provinces. Our author set out to 
 enter upon the duties of his new situation, adtuated by 
 an anxious zeal for the interests which had been com- 
 mitted to his charge ; and on the iBth of November he 
 arrived at his destination, and was received with the 
 respedl to which his eniinence and chara6ler entitled 
 him. He was instantly declared colonel of all the 
 Dutch regiments ; and captain of two hundred English 
 foot, and one hundred cavalry. He was soon after- 
 wards followed by Lord Leicester, in command of a 
 numerous reinforcement of auxiliary troops ; and Sidney 
 was straightway promoted to the rank of general of the 
 horse under his uncle. 
 
 The Earl was very inadequate to fulfil the important 
 offices which he had undertaken ; and his operations 
 were therefore conducted with singular indiscreetness 
 and want of success. He was indebted, however, to 
 his nephew for many prudent and salutary counsels 5 
 and for several instances of skilful and fortunate enter- 
 prise. It was by Sidney that the town of Axell was 
 surprised and escaladed without the loss of so much as 
 a single man ; and if he failed, as he did, in seizing 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 43 
 
 Steenburg and Graveling, he was baffled by accidents 
 which no degree of foresight could have anticipated. In 
 the one case a sudden thaw occasioned the miscarriage 
 of his assault ; and in the other he was overreached by 
 the treachery of the governor of the town, who had 
 promised to deliver it up to him, as soon as the allied 
 army should advance to the attack. 
 
 Sir Philip's father died on the 5th of May, and his 
 mother on the 9th of August, 1586. But these domes- 
 tic calamities he was not suffered long to deplore ; for 
 the premature termination of his own brilliant career 
 was now close at hand. On the twenty-second of the 
 succeeding September a small detachment of the Eng- 
 lish, consisting of little more than five hundred men, 
 encountered a convoy of the enemy, amounting to three 
 thousand troops, who were on their march to relieve 
 Zutphen, a town in Guelderland, situated on the banks 
 of the River Issel. A fierce and obstinate engagement, 
 under the very walls of this fortress, was the result. 
 The English, notwithstanding their great disparity in 
 point of numbers, were completely vi6lorious ; but theyi 
 considered their triumph was dearly purchased by the^ 
 death of Sir Philip Sidney, the most distinguished hero 
 of that hard-fought field. Early in the battle he had a 
 horse killed under him, and had mounted another ; he 
 had, with daring intrepidity, rescued Lord Willoughby 
 from the most imminent peril, and gallantly charged his 
 opponents three times in one skirmish ; when he re- 
 ceived a musket-shot from the trenches, a little above 
 his left knee, which " so brake and rifted the bone, and 
 so entered the thigh upward, as the bullet could not be 
 found before the body was opened," An eccentric feel- 
 ing of emulation, caused by his having met the marshal 
 
44 The Life of 
 
 of the camp only lightly armed, had induced Sir Philip 
 to throw off his cuisses before going into adion, and 
 thus to leave exposed the parts of his frame which they 
 protected, and where the ball from which he suffered 
 unhappily took effe6t.* 
 
 While he was retiring from the place of combat a 
 circumstance occurred that strongly evinced the natural 
 excellence of his disposition, and which the late Presi- 
 dent West made the subjeft of a celebrated historical 
 painting. It is recorded as follows by the affe6lionate 
 pen of Lord Brooke. " The horse he rode upon," he 
 says, " was rather furiously choleric, than bravely proud, 
 and so forced him to forsake the field, but not his back, 
 as the noblest and fittest bier to carry a martial com- 
 mander to his grave. In which sad progress, passing 
 
 * George Whetstone, a sonneteer of the age, who had served in 
 the Low Countries, and was eyewitness of Sir Philip's fall before 
 Zutphen, has described the event in the following inharmonious, 
 though by no means ungraphic stanzas, for which we are indebted 
 to that learned and entertaining miscellany, the Poetical Decam- 
 eron. 
 
 But oh ! to shade his glory with our woe, 
 Hardy Sidney, much like to Mars in view, 
 With furious charge did break upon the foe ; 
 A musket-shot his stately horse then slew ; 
 He horst again, the fight did soon renew : 
 But fortune, that at his renown did spight, 
 A billet sent that in his thigh did light. 
 
 The wound was deep and shivered to the bone, 
 His heart was good, and manly bare the cross ; 
 W^ith courage stout he did suppress the moan. 
 That many made that did behold his loss. 
 Udall then lite, softly to lead his horse ; 
 " Let go," quoth he, " till I fall to the ground 
 The foe shall mi;s the glory of my wound." 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 45 
 
 along by the rest of the army where his uncle the General 
 was, and being thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called 
 for drink, which was presently brought him ; but as 
 he was putting the bottle to his mouth, he saw a poor 
 soldier carried along, who had eaten his last at the same 
 feast, ghastly casting up his eyes at the bottle. Which 
 Sir Philip perceiving, took it from his head before he 
 drank, and delivered it to the poor man, with these 
 words, ' Thy necessity is yet greater than mine.'" 
 
 The Earl of Leicester's grief, on account of the 
 catastrophe which had befallen his nephew, was of the 
 most passionate description. A letter of his to Sir 
 Thomas Heneage, dated 23rd September, the day after 
 the engagement, has been preserved and printed in the 
 noble lord's memoirs, prefixed to the Sidney Papers. 
 In it he details the mode in which our author received 
 his fatal injury ; and then proceeds to declare that this 
 young man was his greatest comfort, next her majesty, 
 of all the world ; and, that if he could buy his life with 
 all he had, to his shirt, he would give it. " How God 
 will dispose of him," he continues, " I know not ; but 
 fear I must needs, greatly, the worst ; the blow in so 
 dangerous a place and so great ; yet did I never hear 
 of any man that did abide the dressing and setting his 
 bones better than he did ; and he was carried afterwards 
 in my barge to Arnheim, and I hear this day, he is still 
 of good heart, and comforteth all about him as much as 
 may be. God of his mercy grant him his life, which I 
 cannot but doubt of greatly. I was abroad that time in 
 the field, giving some order to supply that business, 
 which did endure almost two hours in continual fight ; 
 and meeting Philip coming upon his horseback, not a 
 little to my grief. But I would you had stood by to 
 
46 Ihe Life of 
 
 hear his most loyal speeches to her majesty ; his con- 
 stant mind to the cause, his loving care over me, and 
 his most resolute determination for death, not a jot 
 appalled for his blow, v^^hich is the most grievous that 
 ever I S2lw with such a bullet ; riding so long, a mile 
 and a half, upon his horse, ere he came to the camp ; 
 not ceasing to speak still of her majesty ; being glad if 
 his hurt and death might any way honour her ; for her's 
 he was whilst he lived, and God's he was sure to be if 
 he died ; prayed all men to think that the cause was as 
 well her majesty's as the country's ; and not to be dis- 
 couraged, ' for you have seen such success as may 
 encourage us all ; and this my hurt is the ordinance of 
 God by the hap of the war.' Well, I pray God, if it 
 be his will, save me his life ; even as well for her 
 majesty's service sake, as for mine own comfort." 
 
 His lordship's affe61:ionate entreaties to the throne of 
 mercy were unavailing. It is supposed that the bullet 
 from which Sidney suffered had been poisoned. After 
 lingering sixteen days in severe and unceasing pain, 
 which he endured with all the fortitude and resignation 
 of a Christian, symptoms of mortification, the certain 
 forerunner of death, at length appeared, and Sir Philip 
 then prepared, with undiminished and cheerful serenity, 
 for his approaching dissolution. Though he was him- 
 self the first to perceive the fatal indications which the 
 seat of his disease had begun to exhibit, he was able to 
 amuse his sick-bed by composing an ode, unfortunately 
 now lost, on the nature of his wound, which he caused 
 to be sung to solemn music, as an entertainment that 
 might soothe and divert his mind from his torments. 
 Everything was done for him that medical skill could 
 suggest, or the solicitude of his friends and the tender- 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 47 
 
 ness of his amiable wife, who had accompanied him 
 into Zealand, could supply; but on the i6th day of 
 October his complaints reached their crisis, and his 
 gentle spirit took its flight to a world more worthy of 
 its virtues. He breathed his last sigh in the arms of 
 one whom he had long loved, his faithful secretary and 
 bosom companion, Mr. William Temple. 
 
 His address to his brother, when he bade him a final 
 adieu, is a noble outpouring of the heart, and is charac- 
 terized by those many amiable sentiments and qualities 
 which had dignified his conduit through life, and en- 
 deared him to society wherever it had been his fortune 
 to wander. " Love my memory," he said, " cherish 
 my friends ; their faith to me may assure you they are 
 honest. But above all, govern your will and affedions 
 by the will and word of your Creator ; in me beholding 
 the end of this world with all her vanities." 
 
 Thus perished, in the very prime of his days, and the 
 zenith of his hopes, the man who was above all others 
 the idol of his times, — "the soldier's, scholar's, cour- 
 tier's, eye, tongue, sword," He was in many respe6ls 
 at once the Marcellus and the Mecaenas of the English 
 nation. He was the intimate friend, and most liberal 
 benefadlor of Spenser ;* and that preeminent bard repaid 
 
 * The patient investigation of Mr. Todd, has proved that Spen- 
 ser and Sidney were acquainted previously to the publication of the 
 Shepherd's Calendar, in 1579, and of course long before the Fairy 
 Queen appeared, or was, perhaps, so much as thought of. The 
 common story, therefore, that this splendid poem was the first occa- 
 sion of their intimacy, is utterly untrue. The anecdote also has 
 been considered equally apocryphal, which describes Sir Philip as 
 being so highly delighted with reading Spenser's delineation of the 
 Cave of Despair, as to order him, after perusing a few stanzas, a 
 payment of £^0 ; " and that a continuation of the reading extended 
 
48 The Life of 
 
 his debt of gratitude and affe6lion, by composing a pa- 
 thetic elegy, wherein he bewailed his patron under Sid- 
 ney's favourite and celebrated appellation of Astrophel. 
 The two Universities, also, poured forth three volumes* 
 of learned lamentation, on account of the loss of him 
 whom they considered as being their brightest orna- 
 ment ; and indeed so far was the public regret, on this 
 occasion, carried, that, for the first time in the case of a 
 private individual, the whole kingdom went into mourn- 
 ing, and no gentleman of quality, during several months, 
 ventured to appear in a light-coloured or gaudy dress, 
 either in the resorts of business or of fashion. Cer- 
 tainly public affli6tion never did honour to a more amiable 
 obje£t ; nor did the Muses ever shed their tears over 
 the hearse of one who was more fervently devoted to 
 their service ; for his whole life, as it has been beauti- 
 fully remarked by Campbell, was poetry put into a£tion. 
 "Gentle Sir Philip Sidney," says Tom Nash in two 
 sweetly-flowing sentences of his Pierce Penniless, " thou 
 
 Sir Philip's bounty to <f 200, which he direfted his steward to pay 
 the poet immediately, lest he should bestow the whole of his estate 
 on the writer of such verses." There seems, however, to be some 
 better foundation for the assertion, that the death of Sidney pre- 
 vented the completion of the Fairy Queen, by depriving its author 
 of both the means and the spirit to complete his design. It has 
 been pretty generally adinitted that he intended to represent our 
 hero under the chara£ler of Prince Arthur. 
 
 * The several titles of these produ61:ions were, — 
 
 1. Academic Cantabrigiensis Lacrymse, tumulo nobilissimi Equi- 
 tis D. Philippi Sidneii sacrata; per Alexandrum Nevilkim, Lond. 
 1587- 
 
 2. Peplus illustrissimi viri D. Sidnasi supremis honoribus dicatus, 
 Oxon. 15S7. 
 
 3. ExequiK illustrissimi Equitis D. Philippi Sidnsei gratissims 
 memori;\; ac nomini impensa;, Oxon. 1589. 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 49 
 
 knewest what belonged to a scholar ; thou knewest 
 what pains, what toil, what travel, condu6l to perfec- 
 tion ; well could'st thou give every virtue his encour- 
 agement, every art his due, every writer his desert, 
 cause none more virtuous, witty, or learned than thy- 
 self. But thou art dead in thy grave, and hast left too 
 few successors of thy glory, too few to cherish the sons 
 of the Muses, or water those budding hopes with their 
 plenty, which thy bounty erst planted." 
 
 "Indeed," observes Lord Brooke, "he was a true 
 model of worth ; a man fit for conquest, plantation, 
 reformation, or what adlion soever is greatest and hard- 
 est amongst men : withal such a lover of mankind, and 
 goodness, that whosoever had any real parts, in him 
 found comfort, participation, and prote6lion to the utter- 
 most of his power ; like Zephyrus, he giving life where 
 he blew. The universities abroad, and at home, ac- 
 
 King James the First, likewise, honoured Sir Philip with an epi- 
 taph of his own composition, in English and Latin, of which we 
 here subjoin the former version. 
 
 Thou mighty Mars, the lord of soldiers brave, 
 And thou Minerve, that does in wit excel. 
 And thou Apollo, who does knowledge have 
 Of ev'ry art that from Parnassus fell, 
 With all your sisters that thereon do dwell, 
 Lament for him who duly serv'd you all. 
 Whom in you wisely all your arts did mell, 
 Bewail, I say, his unexpefted fall ; 
 I need not in remembrance for to call 
 His race, his youth, the hope had of him ay. 
 Since that in him doth cruel death appal 
 Both manhood, wit, and learning every way ; 
 But yet he doth in bed of honour rest. 
 And evermore of him shall live the best. 
 7 
 
50 Tke Life of 
 
 counted him a general Mecaenas of learning ; dedicated 
 their books to him ; and communicated every invention 
 or improvement of knovi^ledge with him. Soldiers hon- 
 oured him, and were so honoured by him, as no man 
 thought he marched under the true banner of Mars, that 
 had not obtained Sir Philip Sidney's approbation. Men 
 of afFairs, in most parts of Christendom, entertained cor- 
 respondency with him. But what speak I of these, 
 with whom his own ways and ends did concur ? since, 
 to descend, his heart and capacity were so large, that 
 there was not a cunning painter, a skilful engineer, an 
 excellent musician, or any other artificer of extraordi- 
 nary fame, that made not himself known to this famous 
 spirit, and found him his true friend without hire, and 
 
 the common rendezvous of worth in his time. 
 
 Besides, the ingenuity of his nature did spread itself so 
 freely abroad, as who lives that can say he ever did him 
 harm ; whereas there be many living that may thank- 
 fully acknowledge he did them good. Neither was this 
 in him a private, but a public afFeition ; his chief ends 
 being, not friends, wife, children, and himself, but above 
 all things the honour of his Maker, and the service of his 
 prince or country." 
 
 " This is that Sidney," observes the venerable Camb- 
 den, " who as Providence seems to have sent him into 
 the world to give the present age a specimen of the 
 ancients ; so did it, on a sudden, recall him, and snatch 
 him from us, as more worthy of heaven than earth ; 
 thus where virtue comes to perfection it is gone in a 
 trice, and the best things are never lasting. Rest then 
 in peace, O Sidney, (if I may be allowed this address,) 
 we will not celebrate your memory with tears, but ad- 
 miration ; whatever we loved in you, (as the best of 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 51 
 
 authors speaks of that best governor of Britain,*) what- 
 ever we admired in you, still continues, and will con- 
 tinue, in the memories of men, the revolutions of ages, 
 and the annals of time. Many, as inglorious and igno- 
 ble, are buried in oblivion ; but Sidney shall live to all 
 posterity. For, as the Grecian poet has it, virtue's be- 
 yond the reach of fate." 
 
 " He was not only of an excellent wit," relates, in his 
 own confused and rambling way, the eminent antiqua- 
 rian, John Aubrey, who was born not more than forty 
 years after Sidney's decease, "but extremely beautiful ; 
 he much resembled his sister, but his hair was not red, 
 but a little inclining ; viz : a dark amber colour. If I 
 were to find a fault in it, methinks 'tis not masculine 
 enough ; yet he was a person of great courage. He 
 was much at Wilton with his sister, and at Ivy Church, 
 (anciently a pleasant monastery, which adjoins to the 
 park pale of Clarendon Park,) situated on a hill that 
 overlooks all the country westwards and north, over Sa- 
 rum and the plains, and into that delicious park (which 
 was accounted the best of England) eastwards. It was, 
 heretofore, a monastery ; the cloisters remain still ; 'twas 
 called 'Caenobium Edrosium.' My great-uncle, Mr. T. 
 Browne, remembered him ; and said that he was wont 
 to take his table-book out of his pocket, and write down 
 his notions as they came into his head, when he was 
 writing his Arcadia, (which was never finished by him,) 
 as he was hunting on our pleasant plains. He was the 
 reviver of poetry in those dark times, which was then 
 at a very low ebb, — e. g. 'The pleasant Comedie of 
 Jacob and Esau,' adled before King Henry Eighth's 
 
 * Tacitus of Agricola. 
 
52 The Life of 
 
 grace, where, I remember, is this expression, * that the 
 pottage was so good, that God Almighty might have put 
 his fingers in't ;' — ' Gammer Gurton's Needle, etc. , ' 
 and in these plays there are not three lines but there is 
 ' by God,' or, ' by God's wounds.' He was of a very 
 munificent spirit, and liberal to all lovers of learning, and 
 to those that pretended to any acquaintance with Par- 
 nassus ; insomuch that he was cloyed and surfeited with 
 the poetasters of those days." 
 
 *' He was, if ever there was one," says the eloquent 
 writer in the Retrospeftive already quoted, " a gentle- 
 man finished and complete, in whom mildness was asso- 
 ciated with courage, erudition mollified by refinement, 
 and courtliness dignified by truth. He is a specimen of 
 what the English charader was capable of producing, 
 when foreign admixtures had not destroyed its simplic- 
 ity, or politeness debased its honour. The very stiffness 
 it then possessed had a noble oiiginal ; it was the nat- 
 ural consequence of that state of society, when the de- 
 grees of order and subordination were universally ob- 
 served and understood, when the social relations were 
 not broken down by the encroaching pov/er of innova- 
 tion, and when each was as ready to pay as to exacSl his 
 tribute of observance and respect. No lax discipline in 
 morals had then interwoven itself with the manners of 
 the great, nor was the court, as in the reign of Charles 
 the Second, converted into a painted sepulchre, where 
 the spirit, the gaiety, and the gilding without, could ill 
 disguise the darkness and rottenness within : it was not, 
 as in that court, a general national reservoir of iniquity, 
 where all the degrees of order, and all the barriers of prin- 
 ciple, were levelled and overthrown. The most accom- 
 plished members of the court of Queen Elizabeth were 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 53 
 
 not less distinguished for the stri6tness of their moral 
 principles, than for their polish and address as courtiers. 
 Of such a stamp was Sir Philip Sidney, and such as he 
 was, every Englishman has reason to be proud of him. 
 He exalted his country in the eyes of other nations, and 
 the country he honoured will not be ungrateful. England 
 will ever place him amongst the noblest of her sons, 
 and the light of chivalry, which was his guide and beacon, 
 will ever lend its radiance to illuminate his tombstone, 
 
 and consecrate his memory. Let us remember that 
 
 he died at the age of thirty-two ; and, if the lives of 
 Milton and Dryden had not been prolonged beyond that 
 period, where would have been their renown, or where 
 the poetical renown of their country."* 
 
 Sir Philip's body was brought to London and interred 
 in St. Paul's Cathedral, notwithstanding the subjects of 
 his late government entreated with the utmost earnest- 
 ness that it might be suffered to remain among them, 
 and, according to the continuator of Hollinshed, even 
 offered, should their request be granted, " to erect for 
 him as fair a monument as any prince had in Christen- 
 dom, yea, though the same should cost half a ton of gold 
 the building." His funeral was performed with great 
 circumstance and pomp, the seven United Provinces 
 sending each a representative to testify respe6t for his 
 memory by their vicaiious presence at his obsequies. A 
 
 * Had we not looked upon it as somewhat like " gilding refined 
 gold," we might have extended these extrafts from distinguished 
 writers in commendation of the subjeft of our memoir to a much 
 greater length. According to Mr. Todd, Oldys asserts, in his 
 manuscript additions to Winstanley's Lives of the Poets, that he 
 could muster up tu'o hundred authors who had spoken in praise of 
 Sir Philip Sidney. 
 
54 The Life of 
 
 simple tablet, which has long been removed, was put up 
 in the choir of St. Paul's, bearing the subjoined inscrip- 
 tion, imitated from the French of Isaac du Bellay. 
 
 England, Netherlands, the heavens, and the arts. 
 The soldiers, and the world, have made six parts 
 Of the noble Sidney : for none will suppose. 
 That a small heap of stones can Sidney enclose. 
 His body hath England, for she it bred ; 
 Netherlands his blood, in her defence shed ; 
 The heavens have his soul, the arts his fame '. 
 All soldiers the grief, the v\'orld his good name. 
 
 Our author left behind him an only child, Eliza- 
 beth,* who was born in 1585, and became the wife 
 of Roger Manners, the fihh Earl of Rutland, She 
 died, however, in 1615, without leaving any issue, and 
 was succeeded in her possessions by her uncle Robert, 
 Viscount L'Isle, and Lord Sidney of Penshurst. 
 
 * It would appear by the following extracts from the Harl. MSS. 
 1 64 1, with which we have been favoured through the kindness of 
 that learned and assiduous antiquarian, Nicholas Harris Nicolas, 
 Esq., that Queen Elizabeth honoured the christening of Sir P. Sid- 
 ney's daughter with her presence. 
 
 Item. Paid to Richard Brakin.burie one of thordinarye gent' 
 Usshers of her Ma** Chamber, to be by him distributed and geven 
 by waie of Her Ma''= reward to the Nurse and Midwife, at the 
 Cristeninge of S^ Philipp Sydney his doughter, to whom her 
 Maiestie was Godmother, the some of c. shillings. 
 
 Item. Paid to Richard Brakinbiirye or.e of thordinary gent' 
 Usshers of her Mqiie Chamber, for thallowance of himself, one 
 grome of the Chamber, and one grome of the Wardrobe, for ryd- 
 inge from the Court at Richmond to I ondon, to make redie for 
 Her Ma"^ against the Cristininge of S"^. Philipp Sydney his doughter, 
 by the space of iiij'"' dales Mens' Novem' 1585, as appeareth by a 
 bill signed by the I o. Chamberlain, 'xvj.r, viiijr/. 
 
Sir Philip Sichiey. 55 
 
 Her mother, Lady Sidney, survived her husband for 
 a great many years ; and entered into the married state 
 a second time with the accomplished Robert Devereux, 
 the famed Earl of Essex ; by whom she had three chil- 
 dren, a son and two daughters. After the brief career 
 of her ill-fated lord had terminated on the scaffold in the 
 year 1600, she embraced the Popish religion, and was 
 espoused to a third husband, Richard de Burgh, fourth 
 Earl of Clanricard in Ireland, a man of elegance and 
 courage, who was created Earl of St. Albans in 1628. 
 By him she became the mother of Honora, second wife 
 of John, Marquis of Winchester ; and of Ulric de 
 Burgh, a zealous supporter of Charles the First, and 
 the immediate successor of the Marquis of Ormond in 
 his lieutenancy. 
 
 [We are induced to reprint the four following sonnets, addressed, 
 in the quaint style of the times, to Sir Philip Sidney's soul, chiefly 
 because they were prefixed to the first edition of the Defence, then 
 called the" Apologie of Poetrie," which has now become extremely 
 scarce, and also because they have hitherto been omitted in every 
 subsequent republication of that treatise. They were the composi- 
 tion of Henry Constable, the author of the Diana, and various 
 minor poems, of whom Antony Wood has said, borrowing the 
 remark from Bolton's Hypercritica, that " No gentleman of our 
 nation had a more pure, quick, and higher delivery of conceit." 
 The subjoined specimen of his talents will not discredit this enco- 
 mium.] 
 
 FOUR SONNETS 
 
 VlTvITTEN BY HENRY CONSTABLE TO SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S SOUL. 
 
 Give pardon, blessed soul, to my bold cries, 
 If they, importunate, interrupt thy song. 
 
5^ Sonnets. 
 
 Which now, with joyful notes, thou sing'st amon^ 
 The angel-quirister's of heav'nly skies : 
 Give pardon eke (sweet soul) to my slow cries, 
 That since I saw thee now it is so long. 
 And yet the tears that unto thee belong 
 To thee as yet they did not sacrifice ; 
 I did not know that thou wert dead before, 
 I did not feel the grief I did sustain. 
 The greater stroke astonisheth the more. 
 Astonishment takes from us sense of pain ; 
 I stood amaz'd, when others' tears begun. 
 And now begin to weep when they have done. 
 
 Sweet soul, which now with heav'nly songs do'st tell 
 Thy dear Redeemer's glory and his praise. 
 No marvel though thy skilful Muse essays 
 The songs of other souls there to excel ; 
 
 For thou didst learn to sing divinely well. 
 Long time before thy fair and glittering rays 
 Increas'd the light of heav'n, for even thy lays 
 Most heavenly were when thou on earth didst dwell 
 
 When thou didst on the earth sing poet-wise, 
 Angels in heav'n pray'd for thy company. 
 And now thou sing'st with angels in the skies. 
 Shall not all poets praise thy memory ? 
 
 And to thy name shall not their works give fame. 
 
 Whereas their works be sweetened by thy name ? 
 
 3- 
 
 Even as when great men's heirs cannot agree. 
 So ev'ry virtue now for part of thee doth sue, 
 
Sonnets. 57 
 
 Courage proves by thy death thy heart to be his due. 
 Eloquence claims thy tongue, and so doth courtesy ; 
 
 Invention knowledge sues, judgment sues memory, 
 Each saith thy head is his, and what end shall ensue 
 Of this strife know I not, but this I know for true, 
 That whosoever gains the suit, the loss have we ; 
 
 We ! I mean all the world, the loss to all pertaineth. 
 Yea they which gain do lose, and only thy soul gaineth, 
 For losing of one life, two lives are gained then : 
 Honour thy courage mov'd, courage thy death did 
 give. 
 
 Death, courage, honour makes thy soul to live, 
 
 Thy soul to live in heav'n, thy name in tongues of men. 
 
 Great Alexander then did well declare 
 
 How great was his united kingdom's might, 
 When ev'ry captain of his army might, 
 After his death, with mighty kings compare : 
 
 So now we see, after thy death, how far 
 
 Thou do'st in worth surpass each other knight. 
 When we admire him as no mortal wight. 
 In whom the least of all thy virtues are : 
 
 One did of Macedon the king become, 
 Another sat on the Egyptian throne. 
 But only Alexander's self had ail : 
 So courteous some, and some be liberal, 
 
 Some witty, wise, valiant, and learned some, 
 
 But king of all the virtues thou alone. 
 
THE 
 
 DEFENCE OF POESY. 
 
The Defence of Poesy was most probably written about 158 1. 
 The first edition of it was printed in 4to. in 1595 ; and it was an- 
 nexed to the third edition of the Arcadia in 1598. In 1787 it was 
 reprinted separately by Dr. Joseph Warton, with observations on 
 poetry and eloquence from Ben Jonson's Discoveries : and again in 
 18 10 by Lord Thurlow. When Shakespeare's first play was com- 
 posed, is a point which has exercised the ingenuity, rather than 
 rewarded the diligence, of his numerous commentators. But it is 
 pretty clearly ascertained that nothing of his was printed before 
 1597, when Romeo and Juliet, and Richard the Second and Third 
 appeared. Spenser is conjeftured to have begun his Fairy Queen 
 about 1580. 
 
THE 
 DEFENCE OF POESY. 
 
 HEN the right virtuous E. W.* and I were 
 at the Emperor's court together, we gave 
 ourselves to learn horsemanship of Gio. 
 Pietro Pugliano ; one that, with great com- 
 mendation, had the place of an esquire in his stable ; 
 and he, according to the fertileness of the Italian wit, 
 did not only afford us the demonstration of his practice, 
 but sought to enrich our minds with the contemplation 
 therein, which he thought most precious. But with 
 none, I remember, mine ears were at any time more 
 laden, than when (either ahgred with slow payment, or 
 moved with our learner-like admiration) he exercised 
 his speech in the praise of his faculty. f 
 
 * This was Edward, the elder brother of Sir Henry Wotton. 
 His name appeared at full length in the first edition of the Defence, 
 and the initials were only substituted in the second, which accom- 
 panied the Arcadia. By Queen Elizabeth he was knighted in 1592, 
 and nominated comptroller of her household; besides being hon- 
 oured with various diplomatic employments at foreign courts. By 
 James the First he was created Lord Wotton, Baron of Maherly in 
 Kent, and appointed Lord Lieutenant of that county. 
 
 t The management of the horse is finely described by Sir Philip 
 in the second book of the Arcadia. 
 
62 'The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 He said, soldiers were the noblest estate of mankind, 
 and horsemen the noblest of soldiers. He said, they 
 were the masters of war, and ornaments of peace, 
 speedy goers, and strong abiders, triumphers both in 
 camps and courts ; nay, to so unbelieved a point he 
 proceeded, as that no earthly thing bred such wonder to 
 a prince, as to be a good horseman ; skill of govern- 
 ment was but a " pedanteria " in comparison. Then 
 would he add certain praises, by telling what a peerless 
 beast the horse was, the only serviceable courtier, with- 
 out flattery, the beast of most beauty, faithfulness, 
 courage, and such more, that if I had not been a piece 
 of a logician before I came to him, 1 think he would 
 have persuaded me to have wished myself a horse. 
 But thus much, at least, with his no iew words, he 
 drove into me, that self love is better than any gilding, 
 to make that seem gorgeous wherein ourselves' be par- 
 ties. 
 
 Wherein, if Pugliano's strong affedlion and weak 
 arguments will not satisfy you, I will give you a nearer 
 example of myself, who, I know not by what mis- 
 chance, in these my not old years and idlest times, hav- 
 ing slipped into the title of a poet, am provoked to say 
 something unto you in the defence of that my unele6led 
 vocation ; which if I handle with more good will than 
 good reasons, bear with me, since the scholar is to be 
 pardoned that followeth the steps of his master. 
 
 And yet I must say, that as 1 have more just cause 
 to make a pitiful defence of poor poetry, which, from 
 almost the highest estimation of learning, is fallen to be 
 the laughing-stock of children ; so have I need to bring 
 some more available proofs, since the former is by no 
 man barred of his deserved credit, whereas the silly 
 
T^ke Defence of Poesy. 63 
 
 latter hath had even the names of philosophers used to 
 the defacing of it, with great danger of civil war among 
 the Muses. 
 
 And first, truly, to all them that, professing learning, 
 inveigh against poetry, may justly be obje6led, that they 
 go very near to ungratefulness to seek to deface that, 
 which, in the noblest nations and languages that are 
 known, hath been the first light-giver to ignorance, and 
 first nurse, whose milk by little and little enabled them 
 to feed afterwards of tougher knowledges. And will 
 you play the hedge-hog, that being received into the 
 den, drove out his host ? or rather the vipers, that with 
 their birth kill their parents ? 
 
 Let learned Greece, in any of her manifold sciences, 
 be able to show me one book before Musaeus, Homer, 
 and Hesiod, all three nothing else but poets. Nay, let 
 any history be brought, that can say any writers were 
 there before them, if they were not men of the same 
 skill, as Orpheus, Linus, and some others are named, 
 who having been the first of that country that made 
 pens deliverers of their knowledge to posterity, may 
 justly challenge to be called their fathers in learning. 
 For not only in time they had this priority (although in 
 itself antiquity be venerable) but went before them, as 
 causes to draw, with their charming sweetness, the wild 
 untamed wits to an admiration of knowledge. So as 
 Amphion was said to move stones with his poetry to 
 build Thebes, and Orpheus to be listened to by beasts ; 
 indeed stony and beastly people j so among the Romans 
 were Livius, Andronicus, and Ennius ; so in the Italian 
 language, the first that made it to aspire to be a treasure- 
 house of science, were the poets Dante, Boccace, and 
 Petrarch ; so in our English were Gower and Chaucer ; 
 
64 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 after whom, encouraged and delighted with their excel- 
 lent foregoing, others have followed to beautify our 
 mother-tongue, as well in the same kind, as other arts. 
 
 This did so notably show itself, that the philosophers 
 of Greece durst not a long firne appear to the world but 
 under the mask of poets ; so Thales, Empedocles, and 
 Parmenides sang their natural philosophy in verses ; so 
 did Pythagoras and Phocylides their moral counsels ; so 
 did Tyrtaeus in war matters ; and Solon in matters of 
 policy ; or rather they, being poets, did exercise their 
 delightful vein in those points of highest knowledge, 
 which before them lay hidden to the world ; for that 
 wise Solon was direftly a poet, it is manifest, having 
 written, in verse, the notable fable of the Atlantic 
 Island, which was continued by Plato. And, truly, even 
 Plato, whosoever well considereth, shall find, that in the 
 body of his work, though the inside and strength were 
 philosophy, the skin, as it were, and beauty, depended 
 most of poetry. For all stands upon dialogues ; wherein 
 he feigns many honest burgesses of Athens speaking of 
 such matters, that if they had been set on the rack, they 
 would never have confessed them ; besides, his poetical 
 describing the circumstances of their meetings, as the 
 well-ordering of a banquet, the delicacy of a walk, with 
 interlacing mere tales, as Gyges's Ring, and others ; 
 which, who knows not to be flowers of poetry, did 
 never walk into Apollo's garden. 
 
 And even historiographers, although their lips sound 
 of things done, and verity be written in their foreheads, 
 have been glad to borrow both fashion and, perchance, 
 weight of the poets ; so Herodotus entitled the books of 
 his history by the names of the Nine Muses ; and both 
 he, and all the rest that followed him, either stole or 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 65 
 
 usurped, of poetry, their passionate describing of pas- 
 sions, the many particularities of battles which no man 
 could affirm ; or, if that be denied me, long orations, 
 put in the mouths of great kings and captains, which, it 
 is certain, they never pronounced. 
 
 So that, truly, neither philosopher nor historiographer 
 could, at the first, have entered into the gates of popu- 
 lar judgments, if they had not taken a great disport of 
 poetry ; which in all nations, at this day, where learning 
 flourisheth not, is plain to be seen ; in all which they 
 have some feeling of poetry. In Turkey, besides their 
 lawgiving divines they have no other writers but poets. 
 In our neighbour-country Ireland, where, too, learning 
 goes very bare, yet are their poets held in a devout rev- 
 erence. Even among the most barbarous and simple 
 Indians, where no writing is, yet have they their poets, 
 who make and sing songs, which they call " Arentos," 
 both of their ancestors' deeds and praises of their gods. 
 A sufficient probability, that if ever learning come 
 among them, it must be by having their hard dull wits 
 softened and sharpened with the sweet delight of poetry ; 
 for until they find a pleasure in the exercise of the mind, 
 great promises of much knowledge will little persuade 
 them that know not the fruits of knowledge. In Wales, 
 the true remnant of the ancient Britons, as there are 
 good authorities to show the long time they had poets, 
 which they called bards, so through all the conquests of 
 Romans, Saxons, Danes, and Normans, some of whom 
 did seek to ruin all memory of learning from among 
 them, yet do their poets, even to this day, last ; so as it 
 is not more notable in the soon beginning, than in long 
 continuing. 
 
 But since the authors of most of our sciences were 
 9 
 
66 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 the Romans, and, before them, the Greeks, let us, a 
 little, stand upon their authorities ; but even so far, as 
 to see what names they have given unto this now- 
 scorned skill. Among the Romans, a poet was called 
 " vates," which is as much as a diviner, foreseer, or 
 prophet, as by his conjoined words " vaticinium," and 
 " vaticinari," is manifest ; so heavenly a title did that 
 excellent people bestow upon this heart-ravishing knowl- 
 edge ! And so far were they carried into the admira- 
 tion thereof, that they thought in the changeable hitting 
 upon any such verses, great foretokens of their following 
 fortunes were placed. Whereupon grew the word of 
 sortes Virgilianae ; when, by sudden opening Virgil's 
 book, they lighted upon some verse, as it is reported by 
 many, whereof the histories of the emperors' lives are 
 full. As of Albinus, the governor of our island, who, 
 in his childhood, 'met with this verse, 
 
 Anna amens caplo, nee sat rationis in armis ; 
 
 and in his age performed it. Although it were a very 
 vain and godless superstition ; as also it was, to think 
 spirits were commanded by such verses ; whereupon 
 this word charms, derived of " carmina," cometh, so 
 yet serveth it to show the great reverence those wits 
 were held in ; and altogether not without ground, since 
 both the oracles of Delphi and the Sibyl's prophecies 
 were wholly delivered in verses ; for that same exqui- 
 site observing of number and measure in the words, and 
 that high-flying liberty of conceit proper to the poet, did 
 seem to have some divine force in it. 
 
 And may not I presume a little farther, to show the 
 reasonableness of this word " vates," and say, that the 
 holy David's Psalms are a divine Poem ? U I do, I 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 67 
 
 shall not do it without the testimony of great learned 
 men, both ancient and modern. But even the name of 
 Psalms will speak for me, which, being interpreted, is 
 nothing but Songs ; then, that it is fully written in me- 
 tre, as all learned Hebricians agree, although the rules 
 be not yet fully found. Lastly, and principally, his 
 handling his prophecy, which is merely poetical. For 
 what else is the awaking his musical instruments ; the 
 often and free changing of persons ; his notable proso- 
 popoeias, when he maketh you, as it were, see God com- 
 ing in his majesty ; his telling of the beasts' joyfulness, 
 and hills leaping, but a heavenly poesy ; wherein, almost, 
 he showeth himself a passionate lover of that unspeak- 
 able and everlasting beauty, to be seen by the eyes of 
 the mind, only cleared by faith ? But, truly, now, hav- 
 ing named him, I fear I seem to profane that holy name, 
 applying it to poetry, which is, among us, thrown down 
 to so ridiculous an estimation. But they that, with 
 quiet judgments, will look a little deeper into it, shall 
 find the end and working of it such, as, being rightly 
 applied, deserveth not to be scourged out of the church 
 of God. 
 
 But now let us see how the Greeks have named it, 
 and how they deemed of it. The Greeks named him 
 noivrf/v, which name hath, as the most excellent, gone 
 through other languages ; it cometh of this word tzoieIv^ 
 which is to make ; wherein, I know not whether by luck 
 or wisdom, we Englishmen have met with the Greeks 
 in calling him " a maker," which name, how high and 
 incomparable a title it is, I had rather were known by 
 marking the scope of other sciences, than by any partial 
 allegation. There is no art delivered unto mankind, 
 that hath not the works of nature for his principal ob- 
 
68 'The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 je6l, without which they could not consist, and on 
 which they so depend, as they become a6lors and play- 
 ers, as it were, of what nature will have set forth. So 
 doth the astronomer look upon the stars, and by that he 
 seeth set down what order nature hath taken therein. 
 So doth the geometrician and arithmetician, in their 
 diverse sorts of quantities. So doth the musician, in 
 times, tell you, which by nature agree, which not. The 
 natural philosopher thereon hath his name ; and the 
 moral philosopher standeth upon the natural virtues, 
 vices, or passions of man ; and follow nature, saith he, 
 therein, and thou shalt not err. The lawyer saith what 
 men have determined. The historian, what men have 
 done. The grammarian speaketh only of the rules of 
 speech ; and the rhetorician and logician, considering 
 what in nature will soonest prove and persuade, thereon 
 give artificial rules, which still are compassed within the 
 circle of a question, according to the proposed matter. 
 The physician weigheth the nature of man's body, and 
 the nature of things helpful and hurtful unto it. And 
 the metaphysic, though it be in the second and abstract 
 notions, and therefore be counted supernatural, yet doth 
 he, indeed, build upon the depth of nature. Only the 
 poet, disdaining to be tied to any such subje6lion, lifted 
 up with the vigour of his own invention, doth grow, in 
 efFecl, into another nature ; in making things either 
 better than nature bringeth forth, or quite anew ; forms 
 such as never were in nature, as the heroes, demi-gods, 
 Cyclops, chimeras, furies, and such like ; so as he goeth 
 hand in hand with nature, not enclosed within the nar- 
 row warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging within the 
 zodiac of his own wit. f Nature never set forth the 
 earth in so rich tapestry as divers poets have done ; 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 69 
 
 neither with so pleasant rivers, fruitful trees, sweet- 
 smelling flowers, nor whatsoever else may make the 
 too-much-loved earth more lovely j her world is brazen, 
 the poets only deliver a golden. 
 
 But let those things alone, and go to man ; for whom 
 as the other things are, so it seemeth in him her utter- 
 most cunning is employed ; and know, whether she 
 have brought forth so true a lover as Theagenes ; so 
 constant a friend as Pylades ; so valiant a man as Or- 
 lando ; so right a prince as Xenophon's Cyrus ; and so 
 excellent a man everyway as Virgil's iEneas ? Neither 
 let this be jestingly conceived, because the works of 
 the one be essential, the other in imitation or fi6tion ; 
 for every understanding knoweth the skill of each arti- 
 ficer standeth in that idea, or fore-conceit of the work, 
 and not in the work itself. And that the poet hath that 
 idea, is manifest, by the delivering them forth in such 
 excellency as he had imagined them ; which delivering 
 forth, also, is not wholly imaginative, as we are wont to 
 say by them that build castles in the air ; but so far sub- 
 stantially it worketh, not only to make a Cyrus, which 
 had been but a particular excellency, as nature might 
 have done ; but to bestow a Cyrus upon the world to 
 make many Cyruses ; if they will learn aright, why, and 
 how, that maker made him. Neither let it be deemed 
 too saucy a comparison, to balance the highest point of 
 man's wit with the efficacy of nature ; but rather give 
 right honour to the heavenly Maker of that maker, who 
 having made man to his own likeness, set him beyond 
 and over all the works of that second nature ; which in 
 nothing he showeth so much as in poetry ; when, with 
 the force of a divine breath, he bringeth things forth 
 surpassing her doings, with no small arguments to the 
 
70 T^he Defence of Poesy. 
 
 incredulous of that first accursed fall of Adam; since 
 our erefted wit maketh us know what perfection is, and 
 yet our infedled will keepeth us from reaching unto it. 
 But these arguments will by few be understood, and by 
 fewer granted ; thus much I hope will be given me, 
 that the Greeks, with some probability of reason, gave 
 him the name above all names of learning. 
 
 Now let us go to a more ordinary opening of him, 
 that the truth may be the more palpable ; and so, I 
 hope, though we get not so unmatched a praise as the 
 etymology of his names will grant, yet his very descrip- 
 tion, which no man will deny, shall not justly be barred 
 from a principal commendation. 
 
 Poesy, therefore, is an art of imitation ; for so Aris- 
 totle termeth it in the word /x«>7?OTf ; that is to say, a rep- 
 resenting, counterfeiting, or figuring forth : to speak 
 metaphorically, a speaking pidlure ; with this end, ,to_ 
 -teach and^ delight. 
 
 Of this have been three general kinds : the chief both 
 in antiquity and excellency, were they that did imitate 
 the inconceivable excellences of God ; such were David 
 in his Psalms ; Solomon in his Song of Songs, in his Ec- 
 clesiastes, and Proverbs ; Moses and Deborah in their 
 hymns ; and the writer of Job ; which, beside others, 
 the learned Emanuel Tremellius and Fr. Junius do en- 
 title the poetical part of the scripture ; against these 
 none will speak that hath the Holy Ghost in due holy 
 reverence. In this kind, though in a wrong divinity, 
 were Orpheus, Amphion, Homer in his Hymns, and 
 many others, both Greeks and Romans. And this poesy 
 must be used by whosoever will follow St. Paul's coun- 
 sel, in singing psalms when they are merry ; and I know 
 is used with the fruit of comfort by some, when, in 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 7^ 
 
 sorrowful pangs of their death-bringing sins, they find 
 the consolation of the never-leaving goodness. 
 
 The second kind is of them that deal with matter 
 philosophical ; either moral, as Tyrtaeus, Phocylides, 
 Cato ; or natural, as Lucretius, Virgil's Georgics ; or 
 astronomical, as Manilius and Pontanus ; or historical, 
 as Lucan ; which who mislike, the fault is in their judg- 
 ment, quite out of taste, and not in the sweet food of 
 sweetly uttered knowledge. 
 
 But because this second sort is wrapped within the 
 fold of the proposed subje6l, and takes not th-e free 
 course of his own invention ; whether they properly be 
 poets, or no, let grammarians dispute, and go to the 
 third^ indeed right poets, of whom 'chiefly this question 
 ariseth ; betwixt whom and these second is such a kind 
 of difference, as betwixt the meaner sort of painters, 
 who counterfeit only such faces as are set before them ; 
 and the more excellent, who having no law but wit, 
 bestow that in colours upon you which is fittest for the 
 eye to see ; as the constant, though lamenting look of 
 Lucretia, when she punished in herself another's fault ; 
 wherein he painteth not Lucretia, whom he never saw, 
 but painteth the outward beauty of such a virtue. For 
 these three be they which most properly do imitate to 
 teach and delight ; and to imitate, borrow nothing of 
 what is, hath been, or shall be ; but range only, reined 
 with learned discretion, into the divine consideration of 
 what may be, and should be. These be they, that, as 
 the first and most noble sort, may justly be termed 
 " vates ; " so these are waited on in the excellentest 
 languages and best understandings, with the fore- 
 described name of poets. For these, indeed, do merely 
 make to imitate, and imitate both to delight and teach. 
 
72 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 and delight to move men to take that goodness in hand, 
 which, without dehght, they would fly as from a stran- 
 ger ; and teach to make them know that goodness 
 whereunto they are moved ; which being the noblest 
 scope to which ever any learning was dire6led, yet want 
 there not idle tongues to bark at them. 
 
 These be subdivided into sundry more special denom- 
 inations ; the most notable be the heroic, lyric, tragic, 
 comic, satyric, iambic, elegiac, pastoral, and certain 
 others j some of these being termed according to the 
 matter they deal with ; some by the sort of verse they 
 liked best to write in ; for indeed the greatest part of 
 poets have apparelled their poetical inventions in that 
 numerous kind of writing which is called verse. In- 
 deed but apparelled verse, being but an ornament, and 
 no cause to poetry, since there have been many most 
 excellent poets that never versified, and now swarm 
 many versifiers that need never answer to the name of 
 poets. For Xenophon, who did imitate so excellently 
 as to give us ejffigiem justi imperii^ the portraiture of a 
 just empire, under the name of Cyrus, as Cicero saith 
 of him, made therein an absolute heroical poem. So 
 did Heliodorus, in his sugared invention of that piilure 
 of love in Theagenes and Chariclea ; and yet both 
 these wrote in prose ; which I speak to show, tha^ it 
 is not rhyming and versing that maketh a poet j) (no 
 more than a long gown maketh an advocate, who, 
 though he pleaded in armour, should be an advocate 
 and no soldier ;) but it is, that feigning notable images 
 of virtues, vices, or what else, with that delightful 
 teaching, which must be the right describing note to 
 know a poet by. Although indeed the senate of poets 
 have chosen verse as their fittest raiment ; meaning, as 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 73 
 
 in matter they passed all in all, so in manner to go 
 beyond them ; not speaking, table-talk fashion, or like 
 men in a dream, words as they chanceably fall from the 
 mouth, but piecing each syllable of each word by just 
 proportion, according to the dignity of the subject. 
 
 Now, therefore, it shall not be amiss, first, to weigh 
 this latter sort of poetry by his works^ and then, by his 
 parts ; and if in neither of these anatomies he be com- 
 mendable, I hope we shall receive a more favourable 
 sentence. This purifying of wit, this enriching of mem- 
 ory, enabling of judgment, and enlarging of conceit, 
 which commonly we call learning,"^ under what name 
 soever it come forth, or to what immediate end soever 
 it be dire6led ; the final end is, to lead and draw us 50 
 as high a perfedlion as our degenerate souls, made worse 
 ^^.^their. clay lodgings, can be capable of; this, accord- 
 ing to the inclination of man, bred many formed im- 
 pressions ; for some that thought this felicity principally 
 to be gotten by knowledge, and no knowledge to be so 
 high or heavenly as to be acquainted with the stars, gave 
 themselves to astronomy ; others, persuading themselves 
 to be demi-gods, if they knew the causes of things, 
 became natural and supernatural philosophers. Some 
 an admirable delight drew to music ; and some the cer- 
 tainty of demonstrations to the mathematics ; but all, 
 one and other, having this scope, to know, and by 
 knowledge to lift up the mind from the dungeon of the 
 body to the enjoying his own divine essence. But 
 when, by the balance of experience, it was found that 
 the astronomer, looking to the stars, might fall in a 
 ditch ; that the enquiring philosopher might be blind in 
 himself; and the mathematician might draw forth a 
 straight line with a crooked heart ; then lo ! did proof, 
 
74 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 the overruler of opinions, make manifest, that all these 
 are but serving sciences, which, as they have a private 
 end in themselves, so yet are they all diredled to the 
 highest end of the mistress knowledge, by the Greeks 
 called upxiTEKTovLKf)^ which stands, as I think, in the knowl- 
 edge of a man's self; in the ethic and politic considera- 
 tion, with the end of well doing, and not of well 
 knowing only ; even as the saddler's next end is to 
 make a good saddle, but his farther end, to serve a 
 nobler faculty, which is horsemanship ; so the horse- 
 man's to soldiery ; and the soldier not only to have the 
 skill, but to perform the pra^lice of a soldier. ' So that 
 the ending end of all earthly learning being virtuous 
 a6lion, those skills that most serve to bring fortlT'that, 
 have a most just title to be princes over all the rest ; 
 wherein, if we can show it rightly, the poet is worthy 
 to have it before any other competitors. "; 
 
 Among whom principally to challenge it, step forth 
 the moral philosophers ; whom, methinks, I see coming 
 toward me with a sullen gravity, (as though they could 
 not abide vice by daylight,) rudely clothed, for to wit- 
 ness outwardly their contempt of outward things, with 
 books in their hands against glory, whereto they set 
 their names ; sophistically speaking against subtlety, and 
 angry with any man in whom they see the foul fault of 
 anger. These men, casting largesses as they go, of 
 definitions, divisions, and distinctions, with a scornful 
 interrogative do soberly ask : Whether it be possible to 
 find any path so ready to lead a man to virtue, as that 
 which teacheth what virtue is ; and teacheth it not only 
 by delivering forth his very being, his cau^s and effe6ls; 
 but also by making known his enemy, vice, which must 
 be destroyed ; and his cumbersome jpervant, passion. 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 75 
 
 which must be mastered, by showing the generalities 
 that contain it, and the specialities that are derived from 
 it : lastly, by plain setting down how it extends itself 
 out of the limits of a man's own little world, to the 
 government of families, and maintaining of public so- 
 cieties ? 
 
 The historian scarcely gives leisure to the moralist 
 to say so much, but that he, (ladened with old mouse- 
 eaten records, authorizing himself, for the most part, 
 upon other histories, whose greatest authorities are built 
 upon the notable foundation of hearsay, having much 
 ado to accord differing writers, and to pick truth out of 
 partiality ; better acquainted with a thousand years ago 
 than with the present age, and yet better knowing how 
 this world goes than how his own wit runs ; curious for 
 antiquities, and inquisitive of novelties, a wonder to young 
 folks, and a tyrant in table-talk,) denieth, in a great chafe, 
 that any man for teaching of virtue and virtuous ac- 
 tions, is comparable to him. I am "Testis temporum, 
 lux veritatis, vita memoriae, magistra vitas, nuncia ve- 
 tustatis." The philosopher, saith he, teacheth a disputa- 
 tive virtue, but I do an a6live ; his virtue is excellent in 
 the dangerless academy of Plato, but mine showeth forth 
 her honourable face in the battles of Marathon, Pharsalia, 
 Poi6liers, and Agincourt : he teacheth virtue by certain 
 abstract considerations ; but I only bid you follow the 
 footing of them that have gone before you : old-aged 
 experience goeth beyond the fine-witted philosopher j 
 but I give the experience of many ages : lastly, if he 
 make the song book, I put the learner's hand to the 
 lute ; and if he be the guide, I am the light. Then 
 would he allege you innumerable examples, confirming 
 story by stories, how much the wisest senators and prin- 
 
76 l^he Defence of Poesy. 
 
 ces have been dire6led by the credit of history, as Bru- 
 tus, Alphonsus of Aragon, (and who not? if need be.) 
 At length, the long line of their disputation makes a 
 point in this, that the one giveth the precept, and the 
 other the example. 
 
 Now whom shall we find, since the question stand- 
 eth for the highest form in the school of learning, to be 
 moderator ? Truly, as me seemeth, the poet ; and if 
 not a moderator, even the man that ought to carry the 
 title from them both, and much more from all other 
 serving sciences. Therefore compare we the poet with 
 the historian, and with the moral philosopher ; and if 
 he go beyond them both, no other human skill can 
 match him : for as for the Divine, with all reverence, he 
 is ever to be excepted, not only for having his scope as 
 far beyond any of these, as eternity exceedeth a moment, 
 but even for passing each of these in themselves : and 
 for the lawyer, though " Jus" be the daughter of Jus- 
 tice, the chief of virtues, yet because he seeks to make 
 men good rather " formidine poenas" than " virtutis 
 amore," or, to say righter, doth not endeavour to make 
 men good, but that their evil hurt not others, having no 
 care, so he be a good citizen, how bad a man he be : 
 therefore, as our wickedness maketh him necessary, and 
 necessity maketh him honourable, so is he not in the 
 deepest truth to stand in rank with these, who all en- 
 deavour to take naughtiness away, and plant goodness 
 even in the secretest cabinet of our souls. And these 
 four are all that any way deal in the consideration of 
 men's manners, which being the supreme knowledge, 
 they that best breed it deserve the best commendation. 
 
 The philosopher, therefore, and the historian are 
 they which would win the goal, the one by precept. 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 77 
 
 the other by example ; but both, not having both, do 
 both halt. For the philosopher, setting down with 
 thorny arguments the bare rule, is so hard of utterance, 
 and so misty to be conceived, that one that hath no 
 other guide hut him shall wade in him until he be old, 
 before he shall find sufficient cause to be honest. For 
 his knowledge standeth so upon the abstra6l and general, 
 that happy is that man who may understand him, and 
 more happy, that can apply what he doth understand. 
 On the other side the historian, wanting the precept, is 
 so tied, not to what should be, but to what is ; to the 
 particular truth of things, and not to the general reason 
 of things ; that his example draweth no necessary con- 
 sequence, and therefore a less fruitful doclrine. 
 
 Now doth the peerless poet perform both ; for what- 
 soever the philosopher saith should be done, he giveth a 
 perfecSl pi6lure of it, by some one by whom he presup- 
 poseth it v/as done, so as he coupleth the general notion 
 with the particular example. A perfed piilure, I say ; 
 for he yieldeth to the powers of the mind an image of 
 that whereof the philosopher bestoweth but a wordish 
 description, which doth neither strike, pierce, nor pos- 
 sess the sight of the soul, so much as that other doth. 
 For as, in outward things, to a man that had never seen 
 an elephant, or a rhinoceros, who should tell him most 
 exquisitely all their shape, colour, bigness, and particular 
 marks ? or of a gorgeous palace, an architect, who, de- 
 claring the full beauties, might well make the hearer 
 able to repeat, as it were, by rote, all he had heard, yet 
 should never satisfy his inward conceit, with being wit- 
 ness to itself of a true living knowledge ; but the same 
 man, as soon as he might see those beasts well painted, 
 or that house well in model, should straightway grow, 
 
 ^ OF TEB*^!^ 
 
78 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 without need of any description, to a judicial compre- 
 hending of them ; so, no doubt, the philosopher, with 
 his learned definitions, be it of virtues or vices, matters 
 of public policy or private government, replenisheth the 
 memory with many infallible grounds of wisdom, which, 
 notwithstanding, lie dark before the imaginative and 
 judging power, if they be not illuminated or figured forth 
 by the speaking pidlure of poesy. 
 
 Tully taketh much pains, and many times not with- 
 out poetical helps, to make us know the force love of 
 our country hath in us. Let us but hear old Anchises, 
 speaking in the midst of Troy's flames, or see Ulysses, 
 in the fulness of all Calypso's delights, bewail his ab- 
 sence from barren and beggarly Ithaca. Anger, the 
 Stoics said, was a short madness ; let but Sophocles 
 bring you Ajax on a stage, killing or whipping sheep 
 and oxen, thinking them the army of Greeks, with their 
 chieftains Agamemnon and Menelaus ; and tell me, If 
 you have not a more familiar insight into anger, than 
 finding in the schoolmen his genus and difference ? See 
 whether wisdom and temperance in Ulysses and Dio- 
 medes, valour in Achilles, friendship in Nisus and Eury- 
 alus, even to an ignorant man, carry not an apparent 
 shining ; and, contrarily, the remorse of conscience in 
 CEdipus ; the soon-repenting pride in Agamemnon ; the 
 self-devouring cruelty in his father Atreus ; the violence 
 of ambition in the two Theban brothers ; the sour 
 sweetness of revenge in Medea ; and, to fall lower, the 
 Terentian Gnatho, and our Chaucer's Pandar, so ex- 
 pressed, that we now use their names to signify their 
 trades ; and finally, all virtues, vices, and passions so in 
 their own natural states laid to the view, that we seem 
 not to hear of them, but clearly to see through them ? 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 79 
 
 But even in the most excellent determination of good- 
 ness, what philosopher's counsel can so readily dire6l a 
 prince as the feigned Cyrus in Xenophon ? Or a vir- 
 tuous man in all fortunes, as ^neas in Virgil ? Or a 
 whole commonwealth, as the way of Sir Thomas More's 
 Utopia ? I say the way, because where Sir Thomas 
 More erred, it was the fault of the man, and not of the 
 poet ; for that way of patterning a commonwealth was 
 most absolute, though he, perchance, hath not so abso- 
 lutely performed it. For the question is, whether the 
 feigned image of poetry, or the regular instruction of 
 philosophy, hath the more force in teaching. Wherein, 
 if the philosophers have more rightly showed themselves 
 philosophers, than the poets have attained to the high 
 top of their profession, (as in truth, 
 
 Mediocribus esse poetis 
 Non Dii, non homines, non concessere columnse,) 
 
 it is, I say again, not the fault of the art, but that by 
 few men that art can be accomplished. Certainly, even 
 our Saviour Christ could as well have given the moral 
 common-places of uncharitableness and humbleness, as 
 the divine narration of Dives and Lazarus ; or of dis- 
 obedience and mercy, as the heavenly discourse of the 
 lost child and the gracious father ; but that his thorough 
 searching wisdom knew the estate of Dives burning in 
 hell, and of Lazarus in Abraham's bosom, would more 
 constantly, as it were, inhabit both the memory and 
 judgment. Truly, for myself, (me seems,) I see before 
 mine eyes the lost child's disdainful prodigality turned to 
 envy a swine's dinner; which, by the learned divines, 
 are thought not historical a6ls, but instructing parables. 
 For conclusion, I say the philosopher teacheth, but 
 
8o The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 he teacheth obscurely, so as the learned only can under- 
 stand him ; that is to say, he teacheth them that are 
 already taught. But the poet is the food for the ten- 
 derest stomachs ; the poet is, indeed, the right popular 
 philosopher. Whereof ^sop's tales give good proof; 
 whose pretty allegories, stealing under the formal tales 
 of beasts, make many, more beastly than beasts, begin 
 to hear the sound of virtue from those dumb speakers. 
 
 But now may it be alleged, that if this managing of 
 matters be so fit for the imagination, then must the 
 historian needs surpass, who brings you images of true 
 matters, such as, indeed, were done, and not such as 
 fantastically or falsely may be suggested to have been 
 done. Truly, Aristotle himself, in his Discourse of 
 Poesy, plainly determineth this question, saying, that 
 poetry is <^Lloao^uTepov KoX OTTOvdaioTepov^ that IS to Say, It IS 
 more philosophical and more ingenious than history. 
 His reason is, because poesy dealeth with koMIov^ that is 
 to say, with the universal consideration, and the history 
 Ka-&' maoTov^ the particular. " Now," saith he, " the uni- 
 versal weighs what is fit to be said or done, either in 
 likelihood or necessity ; which the poesy considereth in 
 his imposed names ; and the particular only marks, 
 whether Alcibiades did, or suffered, this or that ; " thus 
 far Aristotle. Which reason of his, as all his, is most 
 full of reason. For, indeed, if the question were, 
 whether it were better to have a particular aft truly or 
 falsely set down ? there is no doubt which is to be 
 chosen, no more than whether you had rather have 
 Vespasian's pi6ture right as he was, or, at the painter's 
 pleasure, nothing resembling ? But if the question be, 
 for your own use and learning, whether it be better to 
 have it set down as it should be, or as it was ? then, 
 
Tke Defence of Poesy. 8i 
 
 certainly, is more do6lrinable the feigned Cyrus in 
 Xenophon, than the true Cyrus in Justin ; and the 
 feigned ^neas in Virgil, than the right iEneas in Dares 
 Phrygius ; as to a lady that desired to fashion her coun- 
 tenance to the best grace, a painter should more benefit 
 her, to portrait a most sweet face, writing Canidia upon 
 it, than to paint Canidia as she was, who, Horace swear- 
 eth, was full ill favoured. If the poet do his part aright, 
 he will show you in Tantalus, Atreus, and such like, 
 nothing that is not to be shunned ; in Cyrus, iEneas, 
 Ulysses, each thing to be followed ; where the historian, 
 bound to tell things as things were, cannot be liberal, 
 without he will be poetical, of a perfect pattern ; but, 
 as in Alexander, or Scipio himself, show doings, some 
 to be liked, some to be misliked ; and then how will 
 you discern what to follow, but by your own discretion, 
 which you had, without reading Q^ Curtius ? And 
 whereas, a man may say, though in universal consider- 
 ation of doctrine, the poet prevaileth, yet that the his- 
 tory, in his saying such a thing was done, doth warrant 
 a man more in that he shall follow ; the answer is mani- 
 fest : that if he stand upon that was.^ as if he should 
 argue, because it rained yesterday therefore it should 
 rain to-day ; then, indeed, hath it some advantage to a 
 gross conceit. But if he know an example only enforms 
 a conjedlured likelihood, and so go by reason, the poet 
 doth so far exceed him, as he is to frame his example to 
 that which is most reasonable, be it in warlike, politic, 
 or private matters ; where the historian in his bare was 
 hath many times that which we call fortune to overrule 
 the best wisdom. Many times he must tell events 
 whereof he can yield no cause ; or if he do, it must be 
 poetically. 
 
82 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 For, that a feigned example hath as much force to 
 teach as a true example, (for as for to move, it is clear, 
 since the feigned may be tuned to the highest key of 
 passion,) let us take one example wherein an historian 
 and a poet did concur. Herodotus and Justin do both 
 testify, that Zopyrus, King Darius's faithful servant, 
 seeing his master long resisted by the rebellious Baby- 
 lonians, feigned himself in extreme disgrace of his King; 
 for verifying of which, he caused his own nose and ears 
 to be cut off, and so flying to the Babylonians, was 
 received ; and, for his known valour, so far credited, 
 that he did find means to deliver them over to Darius. 
 Much-like matters doth Livy record of Tarquinius and 
 his son. Xenophon excellently feigned such another 
 stratagem, performed by Abradatus in Cyrus's behalf. 
 Now would I fain know, if occasion be presented unto 
 you, to serve your prince by such an honest dissimula- 
 tion, why do you not as well learn it of Xenophon's 
 fi6lion as of the other's verity ? and, truly, so much the 
 better, as you shall save your nose by the bargain ; for 
 Abradatus did not counterfeit so far. So, then, the best 
 of the historians is subje£l to the poet ; for, whatsoever 
 a6lion or faction, whatsoever counsel, policy, or war- 
 stratagem the historian is bound to recite, that may the 
 poet, if he list, with his imitation, make his own, beau- 
 tifying it both for farther teaching, and more delighting, 
 as it please him ; having all, from Dante's heaven to his 
 hell, under the authority of his pen. Which if I be 
 asked. What poets have done so ? as I might well name 
 some, so yet, say I, and say again, I speak of the art, 
 and not of the artificer. 
 
 Now, to that which commonly is attributed to the 
 praise of history, in respe6l of the notable learning 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 83 
 
 which is got by marking the success, as though therein 
 a man should see virtue exalted, and vice punished : 
 truly, that commendation is peculiar to poetry, and far 
 off from history ; for, indeed, poetry ever sets virtue so 
 out in her best colours, making fortune her well-waiting 
 handmaid, that one must needs be enamoured of her. 
 Well may you see Ulysses in a storm, and in other hard 
 plights ; but they are but exercises of patience and mag- 
 nanimity, to make them shine the more in the near fol- 
 lowing prosperity. And, on the contrary part, if evil 
 men come to the stage, they ever go out (as the tragedy 
 writer answered to one that misliked the show of such 
 persons) so manacled, as they little animate folks to 
 follow them. But history being captived to the truth 
 of a foolish world, is many times a terror from well- 
 doing, and an encouragement to unbridled wickedness. 
 For see we not valiant Miltiades rot in his fetters ? 
 The just Phocion and the accomplished Socrates put to 
 death like traitors ? The cruel Severus live prosper- 
 ously ? The excellent Severus miserably murdered ? 
 Sylla and Marius dying in their beds ? Pompey and 
 Cicero slain then when they would have thought exile a 
 happiness ? See we not virtuous Cato driven to kill 
 himself, and rebel Czesar so advanced, that his name 
 yet, after sixteen hundred years, lasteth in the highest 
 honour ? And mark but even Caesar's own words of 
 the forenamed Sylla, (who in that only did honestly, to 
 put down his dishonest tyranny,) " literas nescivit : " as 
 if want of learning caused him to do well. He meant 
 it not by poetry, which, not content with earthly 
 plagues, deviseth new punishments in hell for tyrants : 
 nor yet by philosophy, which teacheth " occidentes 
 esse ; " but, no doubt, by skill in history ; for that, in- 
 
84 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 deed, can afFord you Cypselus, Periander, Phalaris, 
 Dionvsius, and I know not how many more of the same 
 kennel, that speed well enough in their abominable in- 
 justice of usurpation. 
 
 I conclude, therefore, that he excelleth history, not 
 only in furnishing the mind with knowledge, but in set- 
 ting it forward to that which deserves to be called and 
 accounted good : which setting forward, and moving to 
 well-doing, indeed, setteth the laurel crown upon the 
 poets as victorious ; not only of the historian, but over 
 the philosopher, howsoever, in teaching, it may be ques- 
 tionable. For suppose it be granted, that which I sup- 
 pose, with great reason, may be denied, that the philoso- 
 pher, in respe6t of his methodical proceeding, teach 
 more perfe6lly than the poet, yet do I think, that no 
 man is so much 6i?M(i>i?Maooog^ as to compare the philoso- 
 pher in moving with the poet. And that moving is of 
 a higher degree than teaching, it may by this appear, 
 that it is well nigh both the cause and efFe£t of teach- 
 ing ; for who will be taught, if he be not moved with 
 desire to be taught ? And what so much good doth 
 that teaching bring forth (I speak still of moral do6trine) 
 as that it moveth one to do that which it doth teach. 
 For, as Aristotle saith, it is not yvuctc but Trpd^ig must be 
 the fruit : and how rrpa^ic can be, without being moved 
 to practise, it is no hard matter to consider. The 
 philosopher showeth you the way, he informeth you of 
 the particularities, as well of the tediousness of the way 
 and of the pleasant lodging you shall have when your 
 journey is ended, as of the many by-turnings that may 
 divert you from your way ; but this is to no man, but to 
 him that will read him, and read him with attentive, 
 studious painfulness ; which constant desire whosoever 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 85 
 
 hath in him, hath already passed half the hardness of the 
 way, and therefore is beholden to the philsopher but for 
 the other half. Nay, truly, learned men have learnedly 
 thought, that where once reason hath so much over- 
 mastered passion, as that the mind hath a free desire to 
 do well, the inward light each mind hath in itself is as good 
 as a philosopher's book : since in nature we know it is 
 well to do well, and what is well and what is evil, although 
 not in the words of art which philosophers bestow upon 
 us ; for out of natural conceit the philosophers drew it ; 
 but to be moved to do that which we know, or to be 
 moved with desire to know, " hoc opus, hie labor est." 
 
 Now, therein, of all sciences, (I speak still of human, 
 and according to the human conceit,) is our poet the 
 monarch. For he doth not only show the way, but 
 giveth so sweet a prospe6l into the way, as will entice 
 any man to enter into it ; nay he doth, as if your jour- 
 ney should lie through a fair vineyard, at the very first 
 give you a cluster of grapes, that full of that taste you 
 may long to pass farther. He beginneth not with ob- 
 scure definitions, which must blur the margin with 
 interpretations, and load the memory with doubtfulness, 
 but he Cometh to you with words set in delightful pro- 
 portion, either accompanied with, or prepared for, the 
 well-enchanting skill of music ; and with a tale, for- 
 sooth, he Cometh unto you with a tale which holdeth chil- 
 dren from play, and old men from the chimney-corner;* 
 
 * This is conceived to have suggested Shakespeare's exquisite 
 description, — 
 
 That elder ears played truant at his tale, 
 And younger hearings were quite ravished, — 
 So sweet and voluble was his discourse, etc. 
 
86 'T^he Defence of Poesy. 
 
 and, pretending no more, doth intend the winning of the 
 mind from wickedness to virtue ; even as the child is 
 often brought to take most wholesome things, by hiding 
 them in such other as have a pleasant taste ; which, if 
 one should begin to tell them the nature of the aloes or 
 rhubarbarum they should receive, would sooner take 
 their physic at their ears than at their mouth ; so it is in 
 men ; (most of whom are childish in the best things, 
 till they be cradled in their graves ;) glad they will be to 
 hear the tales of Hercules, Achilles, Cyrus, ^neas ; 
 and hearing them, must needs hear the right description 
 of wisdom, valour, and justice ; which, if they had been 
 barely (that is to say, philosophically) set out, they 
 would swear they be brought to school again. That 
 imitation whereof poetry is, hath the most conveniency 
 to nature of all other ; insomuch that, as Aristotle saith, 
 those things which in themselves are horrible, as cruel 
 battles, unnatural monsters, are made, in poetical imita- 
 tion, delightful. Truly, I have known men, that even 
 with reading Amadis de Gaule, which, God knoweth, 
 wanteth much of a perfe£l poesy, have found their 
 hearts moved to the exercise of courtesy, liberality, 
 and especially courage. Who readeth ^neas carrying 
 old Anchises on his back, that wisheth not it were his 
 fortune to perform so excellent an zSt ? Whom doth 
 not those words of Turnus move (the tale of Turnus 
 having planted his image in the imagination) 
 
 fugientem Hjec terra videbit ? 
 Usque adeone mori miserum est ? — ViRGiL. 
 
 Where the philosophers (as they think) scorn to delight, 
 so much they be content little to move, saving wrang- 
 ling whether " virtus " be the chief or the only good ; 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 87 
 
 whether the contemplative or the adlive life do excel ; 
 which Plato and Boetius well knew ; and therefore 
 made mistress Philosophy very often borrow the mask- 
 ing raiment of poesy. For even those hard-hearted evil 
 men, who think virtue a school-name, and know no 
 other good but " indulgere genio," and therefore despise 
 the austere admonitions of the philosopher, and feel not 
 the inward reason they stand upon ; yet will be content 
 to be delighted, which is all the good-fellow poet seems 
 to promise ; and so steal to see the form of goodness, 
 which seen, they cannot but love, ere themselves be 
 aware, as if they took a medicine of cherries. 
 
 Infinite proofs of the strange effe6ls of this poetical 
 invention might be alleged"; onljf two shall serve, which 
 are so often remembered, as, I think, all men know 
 them. The one of Menenius Agrippa, who, when the 
 whole people of Rome had resolutely divided themselves 
 from the senate, with apparent show of utter ruin, 
 though he were, for that time, an excellent orator, came 
 not among them upon trust, either of figurative speeches, 
 or cunning insinuations, and much less with far-fetched 
 maxims of philosophy, which, especially if they were 
 Platonic, they must have learned geometry before they 
 could have conceived ; but, forsooth, he behaveth him- 
 self like a homely and famihar poet. He telleth them a 
 tale, that there was a time, when all the parts of the 
 body made a mutinous conspiracy against the belly, 
 which they thought devoured the fruits of each other's 
 labour ; they concluded, they would let so unprofitable 
 a spender starve. In the end, to be short, (for the tale 
 is notorious, and as notorious that it was a tale,) with 
 punishing the belly they plagued themselves. This, 
 applied by him, wrought such efFe6t in the people, as I 
 
88 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 never read that only words brought forth ; but then so 
 sudden, and so good an alteration, for upon reasonable 
 conditions a perfect reconcilement ensued. 
 
 The other is of Nathan the prophet, who, when the 
 holy David had so far forsaken God, as to confirm adul- 
 tery with murder, when he was to do the tenderest 
 office of a friend, in laying his own shame before his 
 eyes, being sent by God to call again so chosen a ser- 
 vant, how doth he it ? but by telling of a man whose 
 beloved lamb was ungratefully taken from his bosom. 
 The application most divinely true, but the discourse 
 itself feigned ; which made David (I speak of the sec- 
 ond and instrumental cause) as in a glass see his own 
 filthiness, as that heavenly psalm of mercy well testi- 
 fieth. 
 
 By these, therefore, examples and reasons, I think it 
 may be manifest, that the poet, with that same hand of 
 delight, doth draw the mind more efFe6lually than any 
 other art doth. And so a conclusion not unfitly ensues ; 
 that as virtue is the most excellent resting-place for all 
 worldly learning to make his end of, so poetry, being 
 the most familiar to teach it, and most princely to move 
 towards it, in the most excellent work is the most excel- 
 lent workman. 
 
 But I am content not only to decipher him by his 
 works, (although works in commendation and dispraise 
 must ever hold a high authority,) but more narrowly 
 will examine his parts ; so that (as in a man) though 
 all together may carry a presence full of majesty and 
 beauty, perchance in some one defeiluous piece we may 
 find blemish. 
 
 Now, in his parts, kinds, or species, as you list to 
 term them, it is to be noted, that some poesies have 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 89 
 
 coupled together two or three kinds ; as the tragical and 
 comical, whereupon is risen, the tragi-comical ; some, 
 in the manner, have mingled prose and verse, as Sanna- 
 zaro and Boetius ; some have mingled matters heroical 
 and pastoral ; but that cometh all to one in this ques- 
 tion ; for, if severed they be good, the conjunilion can- 
 not be hurtful. Therefore, perchance, forgetting some, 
 and leaving some as needless to be remembered, it shall 
 not be amiss, in a word, to cite the special kinds, to see 
 what faults may be found in the right use of them. 
 
 Is it then the pastoral poem which is misliked ? (For, 
 perchance, where the hedge is lowest, they will soonest 
 leap over.) Is the poor pipe disdained, which some- 
 times, out of Maslibeus's mouth, can show the misery 
 of people under hard lords and ravening soldiers ? And 
 again, by Tityrus, what blessedness is derived to them 
 that lie lowest from the goodness of them that sit high- 
 est ? Sometimes under the pretty tales of wolves and 
 sheep, can include the whole considerations of wrong 
 doing and patience ; sometimes show, that contentions 
 for trifles can get but a trifling vi6lory ; where, per- 
 chance, a man may see, that even Alexander and Darius, 
 when they strove who should be cock of this world's 
 dunghill, the benefit they got was, that the after-livers 
 may say, 
 
 Hcec memini et viftum frustra contendere Thyrsim ; 
 Ex illo Corydon, Corydon est tempore nobis. — Virgil. 
 
 Or is it the lamenting elegiac, which, in a kind heart, 
 would move rather pity than blame ; who bewaileth, 
 with the great philosopher Heraclitus, the weakness of 
 mankind, and the wretchedness of the world ; who, 
 surely, is to be praised, either for compassionately ac- 
 
90 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 companying just causes of lamentations, or for rightly 
 painting out how weak be the passions of wofulness ? 
 
 Is it the bitter, but wholesome iambick, who rubs the 
 galled mind, making shame the trumpet of villany, with 
 bold and open crying out against naughtiness ? 
 
 Or, the satiric ? who, 
 
 Omne vafer vitium ridenti tangit Amico ; 
 
 who sportingly never leaveth, until he make a man 
 laugh at folly, and, at length, ashamed to laugh at him- 
 self, which he cannot avoid without avoiding the folly ; 
 who, while " circum prascordia ludit," giveth us to feel 
 how many headaches a passionate life bringeth us to ; 
 who when all is done. 
 
 Est Ulubris, animus si nos non deficit a^quus. 
 
 No, perchance it is the comic ; whom naughty play- 
 makers and stage-keepers have justly made odious. To 
 the arguments of abuse I will after answer j only thus 
 much now is to be said, that the comedy is an imitation 
 of the common errors of our life, which he representeth 
 in the most ridiculous and scornful sort that may be ; 
 so as it is impossible that any beholder can be content 
 to be such a one. Now, as in geometry, the oblique 
 must be known as well as the right, and in arithmetic, 
 the odd as well as the even ; so in the actions of our 
 life, who seeth not the filthiness of evil, wanteth a great 
 foil to perceive the beauty of virtue. This doth the 
 comedy handle so, in our private and domestical matters, 
 as, with hearing it, we get, as it were, an experience of 
 what is to be looked for, of a niggardly Demea, of a 
 crafty Davus, of a flattering Gnatho, of a vain-glorious 
 Thraso ; and not only to know what efFedls are to be 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 91 
 
 expe6led, but to know who be such, by the signifyhig 
 badge given them by the comedian. And little reason 
 hath any man to say, that men learn the evil by seeing 
 it so set out ; since, as I said before, there is no man 
 living, but by the force truth hath in nature, no sooner 
 seeth these men play their parts, but wisheth them in 
 " pistrinum ; " although perchance the sack of his own 
 faults lie so behind his back, that he seeth not himself 
 to dance the same measure, whereto yet nothing can 
 more open his eyes than to see his own a6lions con- 
 temptibly set forth ; so that the right use of comedy 
 will, I think, by nobody be blamed. 
 
 And much less of the high and excellent tragedy, that 
 openeth the greatest wounds, and showeth forth the 
 ulcers that are covered with tissue ; that maketh kings 
 fear to be tyrants, and tyrants to manifest their tyranni- 
 cal humours \ that with stirring the effe61:s of admiration 
 and commiseration, teacheth the uncertainty of this 
 world, and upon how weak foundations gilded roofs are 
 builded ; that maketh us know, " qui sceptra saevus duro 
 imperio regit, timet timentes, metus in authorem redit." 
 But how much it can move, Plutarch yieldeth a notable 
 testimony of the abominable tyrant Alexander Pheraeus ; 
 from whose eyes a tragedy, well made and represented, 
 drew abundance of tears, who without all pity had mur- 
 dered infinite numbers, and some of his own blood ; so 
 as he that was not ashamed to make matters for trage- 
 dies, yet could not resist the sweet violence of a tragedy. 
 And if it wrought no farther good in him, it was that 
 he, in despite of himself, withdrew himself from heark- 
 ening to that which might mollify his hardened heart. 
 But it is not the tragedy they do mislike, for it were too 
 
92 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 absurd to cast out so excellent a representation of what- 
 soever is most worthy to be learned. 
 
 Is it the lyric that most displeaseth, who with his 
 tuned lyre and well accorded voice, giveth praise, the 
 reward of virtue, to virtuous acts ? who giveth moral 
 precepts and natural problems ? who sometimes raiseth 
 up his voice to the height of the heavens, in singing the 
 lauds of the immortal God ? Certainly, I must confess 
 mine own barbarousness ; I never heard the old song of 
 Percy and Douglas,* that I found not my heart moved 
 more than with a trumpet ; and yet it is sung but by 
 some blind crowder, with no rougher voice than rude 
 style; which being so evil apparelled in. the dust and 
 cobweb of that uncivil age, what would it work, trim- 
 med in the gorgeous eloquence of Pindar ? In Hungary 
 I have seen it the manner at all feasts, and all other 
 such-like meetings, to have songs of their ancestors' 
 valour, which that right soldier-like nation think one of 
 the chiefest kindlers of brave courage. The incompa- 
 rable Lacedaemonians did not only carry that kind of 
 music ever with them to the field, but even at home, as 
 such songs were made, so were they all content to be 
 singers of them ; when the lusty men were to tell what 
 they did, the old men what they had done, and the 
 
 * Ben Jonson, charmed with the beauties of this old song of 
 Chevy Chace, in which the battle of Otterburn, in 1388, is sup- 
 posed to have been celebrated, was wont to say, that he would 
 rather have been the author of that little poem, than of all his own 
 works. The ballad, on which there is a beautiful critique in The 
 Spe6lator, Nos. 70 and 74, is conjectured to have been written 
 after this eulogium of Mr. Sidney, who probably had in contempla- 
 tion a poem of an older date, which is inserted in Percy's Reliques 
 of Ancient English Poetry. — Dji. Zouch. 
 
'The Defence of Poesy. 93 
 
 young what they would do. And where a man may 
 sav, that Pindar many times praiseth highly victories of 
 small moment, rather matters of sport than virtue ; as it 
 may be answered, it was the fault of the poet, and not 
 of the poetry, so, indeed, the chief fault was in the time 
 and custom of the Greeks, who set those toys at so high 
 a price, that Philip of Macedon reckoned a horse-race 
 won at Olympus among his three fearful felicities. But 
 as the inimitable Pindar often did, so is that kind most 
 capable, and most fit, to awake the thoughts from the 
 sleep of idleness, to embrace honourable enterprises. 
 
 There rests the heroical, whose very name, I think, 
 should daunt all backbiters. For by what conceit can 
 a tongue be dire6led to speak evil of that which draw- 
 eth with him no less champions than Achilles, Cyrus, 
 ^neas, Turnus, Tydeus, Rinaldo ? who doth not only 
 teach and move to truth, but teacheth and moveth to 
 the most high and excellent truth : who maketh mag- 
 nanimity and justice shine through all misty fearful- 
 ness and foggy desires ? who, if the saying of Plato and 
 Tully be true, that who could see virtue, would be 
 wonderfully ravished with the love of her beauty ; this 
 man setteth her out to make her more lovely, in her 
 holiday apparel, to the eye of any that will deign not 
 to disdain until they understand. But if any thing be 
 already said in the defence of sweet poetry, all concur- 
 reth to the maintaining the heroical, which is not only 
 a kind, but the best and most accomplished kind, of 
 poetry. For, as the image of each a6tion stirreth and 
 instrucleth the mind, so the lofty image of such wor- 
 thies most inflameth the mind with desire to be worthy, 
 and informs with counsel how to be worthy. Only let 
 JEnQa.s be worn in the tablet of your memory, how he 
 
94 'The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 governeth himself in the ruin of his country ; in the 
 preserving his old father, and carrying away his relig- 
 ious ceremonies ; in obeying God's commandments, to 
 leave Dido, though not only passionate kindness, but 
 even the human consideration of virtuous gratefulness, 
 would have craved other of him ; how in storms, how 
 in sports, how in war, how in peace, how a fugitive, 
 how victorious, how besieged, how besieging, how to 
 strangers, how to allies, how to enemies ; how to his 
 own, lastly, how in his inward self, and how in his out- 
 ward government ; and I think, in a mind most prej- 
 udiced with a prejudicating humour, he will be found 
 in excellency fruitful. Yea, as Horace saith, " me- 
 lius, Chrysippo, et Crantore : " but, truly, I imagine it 
 falleth out with these poet-whippers as with some good 
 women who often are sick, but in faith they cannot tell 
 where. So the name of poetry is odious to them, but 
 neither his cause nor effe6ls, neither the sum that con- 
 tains him, nor the particularities descending from him, 
 give any fast handle to their carping dispraise. 
 
 Since, then, poetry is of all human learnings the most 
 ancient, and of most fatherly antiquity, as from whence 
 other learnings have taken their beginnings ; since it is 
 so universal that no learned nation doth despise it, nor 
 barbarous nation is without it ; since both Roman and 
 Greek gave such divine names unto it, the one of 
 prophesying, the other of making, and that indeed that 
 name of making is fit for him, considering, that where 
 all other arts retain themselves within their subjecSl, and 
 receive, as it were, their being from it, the poet only, 
 only bringeth his own stuff, and doth not learn a conceit 
 out of a matter, but maketh matter for a conceit ; since 
 neither his description nor end containeth any evil, the 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 95 
 
 thing described cannot be evil ; since his efFe6ls be so 
 good as to teach goodness, and delight the learners of 
 it; since therein (namely, in moral doftrine, the chief 
 of all knowledges) he doth not only far pass the histo- 
 rian, but, for instructing, is well nigh comparable to the 
 philosopher ; for moving, leaveth him behind him ; since 
 the Holy Scripture (wherein there is no uncleanness) 
 hath whole parts in it poetical, and that even our Saviour 
 Christ vouchsafed to use the flowers of it ; since all his 
 kinds are not only in their united forms, but in their 
 severed disse6fions fully commendable ; I think, and 
 think I think rightly, the laurel crown appointed for 
 triumphant captains, doth worthily, of all other learn- 
 ings, honour the poet's triumph. 
 
 But because we have ears as well as tongues, and that 
 the lightest reasons that may be, will seem to weigh 
 greatly, if nothing be put in the counter-balance, let us 
 hear, and, as well as we can, ponder what obje6fions be 
 made against this art, which may be worthy either of 
 yielding or answering. 
 
 First, truly, I note, not only in these [iiaoixovaoc^ poet- 
 haters, but in all that kind of people who seek a praise 
 by dispraising others, that they do prodigally spend a 
 great many wandering words in quips and scoffs, carp- 
 ing and taunting at each thing, which, by stirring the 
 spleen, may stay the brain from a thorough beholding the 
 worthiness of the subjecfl. Those kind of objedlions, as 
 they are full of a very idle easiness, (since there is noth- 
 ing of so sacred a majesty, but that an itching tongue 
 may rub itself upon it,) so deserve they no other answer, 
 but, instead of laughing at the jest, to laugh at the jester. 
 We know a playing wit can praise the discretion of an 
 ass, the comfortableness of being in debt, and the jolly 
 
96 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 commodities of being sick of the plague; so, of the con- 
 trary side, if we will turn Ovid's verse, 
 
 "" Ut lateat virtus proximitate mali, 
 
 " That good lies hid in nearness of the evil," Agrippa 
 will be as merry in the showing the vanity of science, as 
 Erasmus was in the commending of folly ; neither shall 
 any man or matter escape some touch of these smiling 
 railers. But for Erasmus and Agrippa, they had another 
 foundation than the superficial part would promise. 
 Marry, these other pleasant fault-finders, who will cor- 
 rect the verb before they understand the noun, and con- 
 fute others' knowledge before they confirm their own ; 
 I would have them only remember, that scoffing cometh 
 not of wisdom ; so as the best title in true English they 
 get with their merriments, is to be called good fools ; 
 for so have our grave forefathers ever termed that hu- 
 morous kind of jesters. 
 
 But that which giveth greatest scope to their scorning 
 humour, is rhyming and versing. It is already said, and, 
 as I think, truly said, it is not rhyming and versing that 
 maketh poesy ; one may be a poet without versing, and 
 a versifier without poetry. But yet, presuppose it were 
 inseparable, as, indeed, it seemeth Scaliger judgeth truly, 
 it were an inseparable commendation ; for if " oratio " 
 next to " ratio," speech next to reason, be the greatest 
 gift bestowed upon mortality, that cannot be praiseless 
 which doth most polish that blessing of speech ; which 
 considereth each word, not only as a man may say by 
 his forcible quality, but by his best measured quantity ; 
 carrying even in themselves a harmony ; without, per- 
 chance, number, measure, order, proportion be in our 
 time grown odious. 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 97 
 
 But lay aside the just praise it hath, by being the only 
 fit speech for music — music, I say, the most divine 
 striker of the senses : thus much is undoubtedly true, 
 that if reading be foolish without, remembering, memory 
 bei ng the only treasure of knowledge, those words which 
 are fittest for memory, are likewise most convenient for 
 *TciTow!e3ge7""' Now, that verse far exceedeth prose Jn 
 the knitting up of^tTie memory, the reason is manifest : 
 -tte'-iJ^^ords, besides their delight, which hath a great 
 affinity to memory, being so set, as one cannot be lost, 
 but the whole work fails : which accusing itself, calleth 
 the remembrance back to itself, and so most strongly 
 confirmeth it. ^Besides, one word so, as it were, beget- 
 ting another, as, be it in rhyme or measured verse, by 
 the former a man shall have a near guess to the fol- 
 lower. Lastly, even they that have taught the art of 
 memory, have showed nothing so apt for it as a certain 
 room divided into many places, well and thoroughly 
 known : now that hath the verse in efFe£t perfedly, 
 every word 'having his natural seat, which seat must 
 needs make the word remembered. But what needs 
 more in a thing so known to all men ? Who is it, that 
 ever was a scholar that doth not carry away some verses 
 of Virgil, Horace, or Cato, which in his youth he 
 learned ; and even to his old age serve him for hourly 
 lessons ? as, 
 
 Percontatorem fuglto : nam garrulus idem est. 
 Dum sibl quisque placet credula turba sumus. 
 
 But the fitness it hath for memory is notably proved by 
 all delivery of arts, wherein, for the most part, from 
 grammar to logic, mathematics, physic, and the rest, the 
 rules chiefly necessary to be borne away, are compiled 
 13 
 
98 The Defe?ice of Poesy. 
 
 in verses. So that verse being in itself sweet and 
 orderly, and being best for memory, the only handle of 
 knowledge, it must be in jest that any man can speak 
 against it. 
 
 Now then go we to the most important imputations 
 laid to the poor poets ; for aught I can yet learn, they 
 are these. 
 
 First, that there being many other more fruitful 
 knowledges, a man might better spend his time in 
 them, than in this. 
 
 Secondly, that it is the mother of lies. 
 
 Thirdly, that it is the nurse of abuse, infecting us 
 with many pestilent desires, with a syren sweetness, 
 drawing the mind to the serpent's tail of sinful fancies ; 
 and herein especially, comedies give the largest field to 
 ear,* as Chaucer saith ; how, both in other nations and 
 ours, before poets did soften us, we were full of courage, 
 given to martial exercises, the pillars of manlike lib- 
 erty, and not lulled asleep in shady idleness with poets' 
 pastimes. 
 
 And lastly, and chiefly, they cry out with open mouth, 
 as if they had overshot Robin Hood, that Plato banished 
 them out of his commonwealth. Truly, this is much, 
 if there be much truth in it. 
 
 First, to the first, that a man might better spend his 
 time, is a reason indeed ; but it doth, as they say, but 
 
 * " To ear " or " ere," is " to till " or " plow," and is a verb 
 sometimes used by Shakespeare, Fletcher, and many others of our 
 old writers. In the present case, the expres^fc " comedies give 
 the largest field to ear," probably means, that-.Mly afford the largest 
 matter for discourse. It is in this sense, accorjKng to Urry, that the 
 phrase is employed by Chaucer in the passage referred to. Ch. 
 Frol. V. 888. 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 99 
 
 " petere principium." For if it be, as I affirm, that no 
 learning is so good as that which teacheth and moveth 
 to virtue, and that none can both teach and move 
 thereto so much as poesy, then is the conclusion mani- 
 fest, that ink and paper cannot be to a more profitable 
 purpose employed. And certainly, though a man should 
 grant their first assumption, it should follow, methinks, 
 very unwillingly, that good is not good, because better 
 is better. But I still and utterly deny, that there is 
 sprung out of earth a more fruitful knowledge. 
 
 To the second, therefore, that they should be the 
 principal liars, I answer paradoxically, but truly, I think 
 truly, that of all writers under the sun, the poet is the 
 least liar ; and though he would, as a poet, can scarcely be 
 a liar. The astronomer, with his cousin the geometrician, 
 can hardly escape when they take upon them to measure 
 the height of the stars. How often, think you, do the 
 physicians lie, when they aver things good for sicknesses, 
 which afterwards send Charon a great number of souls 
 drowned in a potion before they come to his ferry. 
 And no less of the rest which take upon them to affirm. 
 Now for the poet, he nothing affirmeth, and therefore 
 never lieth ; for, as I take it, to lie is to affirm that to 
 be true which is false : so as the other artists, and 
 especially the historian, affirming many things, can, in 
 the cloudy knowledge of mankind, hardly escape from 
 many lies : but the poet, as I said before, never affirm- 
 eth ; the poet never maketh any circles about your 
 imagination, to conjure you to believe for true what he 
 writeth : he citeth not authorities of other histories, but 
 even for his entry, calleth the sweet Muses to inspire 
 into him a good invention j in troth, not labouring to 
 tell you what is, or is not, but what should, or should 
 
100 'The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 not be. And, therefore, though he recount things not 
 true, yet because he telleth them not for true, he Heth 
 not ; without we will say, that Nathan lied in his 
 speech, before alleged, to David ; which, as a wicked 
 man durst scarce say, so think I none so simple would 
 say, that i^sop lied in the tales of his beasts ; for who 
 thinketh that ^^sop wrote it for a6lually true, were well 
 worthy to have his name chronicled among the beasts 
 he writeth of. What child is there, that cometh to a 
 play, and seeing Thebes written in great letters upon 
 an old door, doth believe that it is Thebes ? If then a 
 man can arrive to the child's age, to know that the 
 poets' persons and doings are but pi6lures what should 
 be, and not stories what have been, they will never give 
 the lie to things not affirmatively, but allegorically and 
 figuratively written ; and therefore, as in history, look- 
 ing for truth, they may go away full fraught with false- 
 hood, so in poesy, looking but for fiction, they shall use 
 the narration but as an imaginative ground-plot of a 
 profitable invention. 
 
 But hereto is replied, that the poets give names to 
 men they write of, which argueth a conceit of an actual 
 truth, and so, not being true, proveth a falsehood. And 
 doth the lawyer lie then, when, under the names of 
 John of the Stile, and John of the Nokes, he putteth 
 his case ? But that is easily answered, their naming of 
 men is but to make their pifture the more lively, and 
 not to build any history. Painting men, they cannot 
 leave men nameless : we see we cannot play at chess, 
 but that we must give names to our chess-men ; and 
 yet, methinks, he were a very partial champion of 
 truth, that would say we lied for giving a piece of wood 
 the reverend title of a bishop. The poet nameth Cyrus 
 
The Defence of Poesy: ''''''' ^'' ''io^' 
 
 and JEnens no other way than to show what men of 
 their fames, fortunes, and estates should do. 
 
 Their third is, how much it abuseth men's wit, training 
 it to a wanton sinfulness, and lustful love. For, indeed, 
 that is the principal if not only abuse I can hear alleged. 
 They say the comedies rather teach, than reprehend, 
 amorous conceits ; they say the lyric is larded with pas- 
 sionate sonnets ; the elegiac weeps the want of his mis- 
 tress ; and that even to the heroical, Cupid hath ambi- 
 tiously climbed. Alas ! Love, I would thou couldst as 
 well defend thyself, as thou canst offend others ! I 
 would those on whom thou dost attend, could either put 
 thee away, or yield good reason why they keep thee ! 
 But grant love of beauty to be a beastly fault, although 
 it be very hard, since only man, and no beast, hath that 
 gift to discern beauty ; grant that lovely name of love to 
 deserve all hateful reproaches, although even some of 
 my masters the philosophers spent a good deal of their 
 lamp oil in setting forth the excellency of it ; grant, I 
 say, what they will have granted, that not only love, but 
 lust, but vanity, but, if they list, scurrility, possess many 
 leaves of the poets' books ; yet, think I, when this is 
 granted, they will find their sentence may, with good 
 manners, put the last words foremost ; and not say that 
 poetry abuseth man's wit, but that man's wit abuseth 
 poetry. For I will not deny, but that man's wit may 
 make poesy, which should be fpaauK?)^ which some 
 learned have defined, figuring forth good things, to be 
 (pavraoTiK^ ; which doth Contrariwise infect the fancy 
 with unworthy obje6ls ; as the painter, who should 
 give to the eye either some excellent perspective, or 
 some fine pi6lure fit for building or fortification, or con- 
 taining in it some notable example, as Abraham sacri- 
 
132 ~ihe Defence of Poesy. 
 
 ficing his son Isaac, Judith killing Holofemes, David 
 fighting with Goliath, may leave those, and please an 
 ill-pleased eye with wanton shows of better-hidden 
 matters. 
 
 But, what ! shall the abuse of a thing make the right 
 use odious ? Nay, truly, though I yield that poesy may 
 not only be abused, but that being abused, by the reason 
 of his sweet charming force, it can do more hurt than 
 any other army of words, yet shall it be so far from con- 
 cluding, that the abuse shall give reproach to the abused, 
 that, contrariwise, it is a good reason, that whatsoever 
 being abused, doth most harm, being rightlv used (and 
 upon the right use, each thing receives his title) doth 
 most good. Do we not see skill of physic, the best 
 rampire to our often-assaulted bodies, being abused, 
 teach poison, the most violent destroyer ? Doth not 
 knowledge of law, whose end is to even and right all 
 things, being abused, grow the crooked fosterer of hor- 
 rible injuries ? Doth not (to go in the highest) God*s 
 word abused, breed heresy, and his name abused, be- 
 come blasphemy r Truly, a needle cannot do much 
 hurt, and as truly (with leave of ladies be it spoken) it 
 cannot do much good. ^Vith a sword thou mayest kill 
 thy father, and with a sword thou mayest defend thy 
 prince and country ; so that, as in their calling poets 
 fathers of lies, they said nothing, so in this their argu- 
 ment of abuse, thev prove the commendadon. 
 
 They allege herewith, that before poets began to be 
 in price, our nation had set their heart's delight upon 
 action, and not imagination ; rather doing things worthy 
 to be written, than writing things fit to be done. What 
 that before time was, I think scarcely Sphynx can tell ; 
 since no memorv is so ancient that gives not the prece- 
 
l^ke Defence of Poesy. 103 
 
 dence to poetry. And certain it is, that, in our plainest 
 homeliness, yet never was the Albion nation without 
 poetry. Alarry, this argument, though it be levelled 
 against poetry, yet is it indeed a chain-shot against all 
 learning or bookishness, as they commonly term it. Of 
 such mind were certain Goths, of whom it is written, 
 that having in the spoil of a famous city taken a fair 
 library, one hangman, belike fit to execute the fruits of 
 their wits, who had murdered a great number of bodies, 
 would have set fire in it. " No," said another, very 
 gravely, " take heed what you do, for while they are 
 busy about those toys, we shall with more leisure con- 
 quer their countries." This, indeed, is the ordinary 
 doctrine of ignorance, and many words sometimes I have 
 heard spent in it ; but because this reason is generally 
 against all learning, as well as poetry, or rather all learn- 
 ing but poetry ; because it were too large a digression 
 to handle it, or at least too superfluous, since it is man- 
 ifest that all government of a6lion is to be gotten 
 by knowledge, and knowledge best by gathering many 
 knowledges, which is reading ; I only say with Horace, 
 to him that is of that opinion, 
 
 Jubeo stultum esse libenter 
 
 for as for poetry itself, it is the freest from this objec- 
 tion, for poetry is the companion of camps. I dare 
 undertake, Orlando Furioso, or honest King Arthur, 
 will never displease a soldier: but the quiddity of " ens" 
 and " prima materia," will hardly agree with a corselet. 
 And, therefore, as I said in the beginning, even Turks 
 and Tartars are delighted with poets. Homer, a Greek, 
 flourished before Greece flourished ; and if to a slight 
 conjecture a conjecture may be opposed, truly it may 
 
104 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 seem, that as by him their learned men took almost their 
 first light of knowledge, so their a6live men receive 
 their first motions of courage. Only Alexander's ex- 
 ample may serve, who by Plutarch is accounted of such 
 virtue, that fortune was not his guide, but his footstool ; 
 whose a6ls speak for him, though Plutarch did not : in- 
 deed the phoenix of warlike princes. This Alexander 
 left his schoolmaster, living Aristotle, behind him, but 
 took dead Homer with him. He put the philosopher 
 Callisthenes to death, for his seeming philosophical, in- 
 deed mutinous, stubbornness ; but the chief thing he 
 was ever heard to wish for, was, that Homer had been 
 alive. He well found he received more bravery of 
 mind by the pattern of Achilles, than by hearing the 
 definition of fortitude. And, therefore, if Cato misliked 
 Fulvius for carrying Ennius with him to the field, it 
 may be answered, that if Cato misliked it, the noble 
 Fulvius liked it, or else he had not done it ; for it was 
 not the excellent Cato Uticensis, whose authority I 
 would much more have reverenced ; but it was the for- 
 mer, in truth a bitter punisher of faults, but else a man 
 that had never sacrificed to the Graces. He misliked 
 and cried out against all Greek learning ; and yet, being 
 fourscore years old, began to learn it, belike fearing that 
 Pluto understood not Latin. Indeed, the Roman laws 
 allowed no person to be carried to the wars, but he that 
 was in the soldiers' roll. And, therefore, though Cato 
 misliked his unmustered person, he misliked not his 
 work. And if he had, Scipio Nasica (judged by com- 
 mon consent the best Roman) loved him : both the 
 other Scipio brothers, who had by their virtues no less 
 surnames than of Asia and Afric, so loved him, that 
 thev caused his body to be buried in their sepulture. 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 105 
 
 So, as Cato's authority being but against his person, and 
 that answered with so far greater than himself, is herein 
 of no validity. 
 
 But now, indeed, my burthen is great, that Plato's 
 name is laid upon me, whom I must confess of all phi- 
 losophers, I have ever esteemed most worthy of rever- 
 ence ; and with good reason, since of all philosophers he 
 is the most poetical ; yet if he will defile the fountain 
 out of which his flowing streams have proceeded, let 
 us boldly examine with what reason he did it. 
 
 First, truly, a man might maliciously obje£l:, that 
 Plato, being a philosopher, was a natural enemy of 
 poets. For, indeed, after the philosophers had picked 
 out of the sweet mysteries of poetry, the right discerning 
 true points of knowledge, they forthwith, putting it in 
 method, and making a school art of that which the 
 poets did only teach by a divine delightfulness, begin- 
 ning to spurn at their guides, like ungrateful appren- 
 tices, were not content to set up shop for themselves, 
 but sought by all means to discredit their masters ; 
 which, by the force of delight being barred them, the 
 less they could overthrow them, the more they hated 
 them. For, indeed, they found for Homer seven cities 
 strove who should have him for their citizen, where 
 many cities banished philosophers, as not fit members 
 to live among them. For only repeating certain of Eu- 
 ripides' verses, many Athenians had their lives saved 
 of the Syracusans, where the Athenians themselves 
 thought many philosophers unworthy to live. Certain 
 poets, as Simonides and Pindar, had so prevailed with 
 Hiero the first, that of a tyrant they made him a just 
 king : where Plato could do so little with Dionysius, 
 that he himself, of a philosopher, was made a slave, 
 •4 
 
io6 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 But who should do thus, I confess, should requite the 
 obje6lions made against poets, with like cavillations 
 against philosophers ; as likewise one should do, that 
 should bid one read Phaedrus or Symposium in Plato, 
 or the discourse of love in Plutarch, and see whether 
 any poet do authorise abominable filthiness as they do. 
 
 Again, a man might ask, out of what commonwealth 
 Plato doth banish them ? In sooth, thence where he 
 himself alloweth community of women. So, as belike 
 this banishment grew not for effeminate wantonness, 
 since little should poetical sonnets be hurtful, when 
 a man might have what woman he listed. But I hon- 
 our philosophical instru6fions, and bless the wits which 
 bred them, so as they be not abused, which is likewise 
 stretched to poetry. Saint Paul himself sets a watch- 
 yv'ord upon philosophy, indeed upon the abuse. So doth 
 Plato upon the abuse, not upon poetry. Plato found 
 fault that the poets of his time filled the world with 
 wrong opinions of the gods, making light tales of that 
 unspotted essence, and, therefore, would not have the 
 youth depraved with such opinions. Herein may much 
 be said, let this suffice : the poets did not induce such 
 opinions, but did imitate those opinions already induced. 
 For all the Greek stories can well testify, that the very 
 religion of that time stood upon many and many-fash- 
 ioned gods j not taught so by poets, but followed ac- 
 cording to their nature of imitation. Who list may 
 read in Plutarch, the discourses of Isis and Osiris, of 
 the cause why oracles ceased, of the Divine providence, 
 and see whether the theology of that nation stood not 
 upon such dreams, which the poets indeed supersti- 
 tiously observed. And truly, since they had not the 
 light of Christ, did much better in it than the philoso- 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 107 
 
 phers, who, shaking off superstition, brought in athe- 
 ism. 
 
 Plato, therefore, whose authority I had much rather 
 justly construe, than unjustly resist, meant not in gen- 
 eral of poets, in those words of which Julius Scaliger 
 saith, "qua authoritate, barbari quidam atque insipidi, 
 abuti velint ad poetas e republica exigendos : " but only 
 meant to drive out those wrong opinions of the Deity, 
 whereof now, without farther law, Christianity hath 
 taken away all the hurtful belief, perchance as he 
 thought, nourished by then esteemed poets. And a 
 man need go no farther than to Plato himself to know 
 his meaning ; who, in his dialogue called Ion, giveth 
 high, and rightly, divine commendation unto poetry. 
 So as Plato, banishing the abuse, not the thing, not ban- 
 ishing it, but giving due honour to it, shall be our patron, 
 and not our adversary. For, indeed, I had much rather, 
 since truly I may do it, show their mistaking of Plato, 
 under whose lion's skin they would make an ass-like 
 braying against poesy, than go about to overthrow his 
 authority ; whom, the wiser a man is, the more just 
 cause he shall find to have in admiration ; especially 
 since he attributeth unto poesy more than myself do, 
 namely, to be a very inspiring of a divine force, far 
 above man's wit, as in the forenamed dialogue is ap- 
 parent. 
 
 Of the other side, who would show the honours have 
 been by the best sort of judgments granted them, a 
 whole sea of examples would present themselves ; 
 Alexanders, Caesars, Scipios, all favourers of poets ; 
 Laslius, called the Roman Socrates, himself a poet ; so 
 as part of Heautontimeroumenos, in Terence, was sup- 
 posed to be made by him. And even the Greek 
 
io8 'T;he Defence of Poesy. 
 
 Socrates, whom Apollo confirmed to be the only wise 
 man, is said to have spent part of his old time in putting 
 iEsop's Fables into verse : and, therefore, full evil 
 should it become his scholar Plato, to put such words 
 in his master's mouth against poets. But what needs 
 more ? Aristotle writes the Art of Poesy ; and why, if 
 it should not be written ? Plutarch teacheth the use to 
 be gathered of them ; and how, if they should not be 
 read ? And who reads Plutarch's either history or phil- 
 osophy, shall find he trimmeth both their garments with 
 gards of poesy. 
 
 But I list not to defend poesy with the help of his 
 underling historiographer. Let it suffice to have showed, 
 it is a fit soil for praise to dwell upon ; and what dis- 
 praise may be set upon it, is either easily overcome, or 
 transformed into just commendation. So, that since 
 the excellencies of it may be so easily and so justly con- 
 firmed, and the low creeping objections so soon trodden 
 down ; it not being an art of lies, but of true do£trine ; 
 not of efFeminateness, but of notable stirring of cour- 
 age ; not of abusing man's wit, but of strengthening 
 man's wit ; not banished, but honoured by Plato j let us 
 rather plant more laurels for to ingarland the poets' 
 heads (which honour of being laureate, as besides them 
 only triumphant captains were, is a sufficient authority 
 to show the price they ought to be held in) than suffer 
 the ill-favoured breath of such wrong speakers once to 
 blow upon the clear springs of poesy. 
 
 But since I have run so long a career in this matter, 
 methinks, before I give my pen a full stop, it shall be 
 but a little more lost time to enquire, why England, the 
 mother of excellent minds, should be grown so hard a 
 step-mother to poets ; who, certainly, in wit ought to 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 109 
 
 pass all others, since all only proceeds from their wit, 
 being, indeed, makers of themselves, not takers of 
 others. How can I but exclaim, 
 
 Musa mihi causas memora quo numine Iseso ! 
 
 Sweet poesy ! that hath anciently had kings, emperors, 
 senators, great captains, such as, besides a thousand 
 others, David, Adrian, Sophocles, Germanicus, not only 
 to favour poets, but to be poets : and of our nearer 
 times, can present for her patrons, a Robert, King of 
 Sicily ; the great King Francis of France ; King James 
 of Scotland ; such cardinals as Bembus and Bibiena ; 
 such famous preachers and teachers as Beza and Me- 
 lan6lhon ; so learned philosophers as Fracastorius and 
 Scaliger ; so great orators as Pontanus and Muretus ; so 
 piercing wits as George Buchanan ; so grave counsel- 
 lors as, besides many, but before all, that Hospital of 
 France ; than whom, I think, that realm never brought 
 forth a more accomplished judgment more firmly build- 
 ed upon virtue ; I say, these, with numbers of others, 
 not only to read others' poesies, but to poetise for others' 
 reading : that poesy, thus embraced in all other places, 
 should only find, in our time, a hard welcome in Eng- 
 land, I think the very earth laments it, and therefore 
 decks our soil with fewer laurels than it was accus- 
 tomed. For heretofore poets have in England also 
 flourished ; and, which is to be noted, even in those 
 times when the trumpet of Mars did sound loudest. 
 And now, that an over-faint quietness should seem to 
 strew the house for poets, they are almost in as good 
 reputation as the mountebanks at Venice. Truly, even 
 that, as of the one side it giveth great praise to poesy, 
 which, like Venus, (but to better purpose,) had rather 
 
no TZf Defojce of Poesy. 
 
 be troubled in the net with Mars, than enjoy the homely- 
 quiet of Vulcan ; so serveth it for a piece of a reason 
 why they are less grateful to idle England, which now 
 can scarce endure the pain of a pen. Upon this neces- 
 sarily followeth, that base men, with servile wits, under- 
 take it, who think it enough if they can be rewarded of 
 the printer : and so as Epaminondas is said, with the 
 honour of his virtue, to have made an office, by his ex- 
 ercising it, which before was contemptible, to become 
 highly respected ; so these men, no more but setting 
 their names to it, by their own disgracefulness, disgrace 
 the most graceful poesy. For now, as if all the Muses 
 were got with child, to bring forth bastard poets, without 
 any commission, they do post over the banks of Heli- 
 con, until they make their readers more weary than 
 post-horses ; while, in the mean time, they, 
 
 Quels meliore luto finxit prcecordia Titan, 
 
 are better content to suppress the outflowings of their 
 wit, than by publishing them to be accounted knights of 
 the same order. 
 
 But I that, before ever I durst aspire unto the dignity, 
 am admitted into the company of the paper-blurrers, do 
 find the very true cause of our wanting estimation, is 
 want of desert, taking upon us to be poets in despite of 
 Pallas. Now, wherein we want desert, were a thank- 
 worthy labour to express. But if 1 knew, I should 
 have mended myself j but as I never desired the title, 
 so have I negleded the means to come by it ; only, 
 overmastered by some thoughts, I yielded an inky tribute 
 unto them. Marry, they that delight in poesy itself, 
 should seek to know what they do ; and how they do. 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 1 1 1 
 
 especially, look themselves in an unflattering glass of 
 reason, if they be inclinable unto it. 
 
 For poesy must not be drawn by the ears, it must be 
 gently led, or rather it must lead ; which was partly the 
 cause that made the ancient learned affirm, it was a 
 divine, and no human skill, since all other knowledges 
 lie ready for any that have strength of wit : a poet no 
 industry can make, if his own genius be not carried into 
 it. And therefore is an old proverb, " Orator fit, poeta 
 nascitur." Yet confess I always, that as the fertilest 
 ground must be manured, so must the highest flying 
 wit have a Daedalus to guide him. That Daedalus, they 
 say, both in this and in other, hath three wings to bear 
 itself up into the air of due commendation ; that is, art, 
 imitation, and exercise. But these, neither artificial 
 rules, nor imitative patterns, we much cumber ourselves 
 withal. Exercise, indeed, we do, but that very fore- 
 batkwardly ; for where we should exercise to know, we 
 exercise as having known ; and so is our brain delivered 
 of much matter, which never was begotten by knowl- 
 edge. For there being two principal parts, matter to 
 be expressed by words, and words to express the matter, 
 in neither we use art or imitation rightly. Our matter 
 is " quodlibet," indeed, although wrongly, performing 
 Ovid's verse, 
 
 Quicquid conabor dicere, versus erit ; 
 
 never marshalling it into any assured rank, that almost 
 the readers cannot tell where to find themselves. 
 
 Chaucer, undoubtedly, did excellently in his Troilus 
 and Cressida ; of whom, truly, I know not whether to 
 marvel more, either that he, in that misty time, could 
 see so clearly, or that we, in this clear age, go so stum- 
 
112 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 blingly after him. Yet had he great wants, fit to be 
 forgiven in so reverend antiquity. I account the Mirror 
 of Magistrates,* meetly furnished of beautiful parts. 
 And in the Earl of Surrey's Lyrics,! many things tast- 
 ing of a noble birth, and worthy of a noble mind. The 
 Shepherds' Kalendar,J hath much poesy in his eclogues, 
 indeed, worthy the reading, if I be not deceived. That 
 same framing of his style to an old rustic language, I 
 dare not allow ; since neither Theocritus in Greek, Vir- 
 gil in Latin, nor Sannazaro in Italian, did affe6l it. Be- 
 sides these, I do not remember to have seen but itw (to 
 speak boldly) printed that have poetical sinews in them. 
 For proof whereof, let but most of the verses be put in 
 prose, and then ask the meaning, and it will be found, 
 that one verse did but beget another, without ordering, 
 at the first, what should be at the last ; which becomes 
 a confused mass of words, with a tinkling sound of 
 rhyme, barely accompanied with reason. 
 
 Our tragedies and comedies, not without cause, are 
 cried out against, observing rules neither of honest civil- 
 
 * The Mirror for Magistrates was the joint produ6lion of 
 Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst and Earl of Dorset, and other 
 ingenious persons of less note, his contemporaries and friends. It 
 first appeared in print in 1559. Buckhurst contributed the induc- 
 tion, which has ever been esteemed one of the most vigorous rem- 
 nants of our ancient poetry. Walpole styles him " the patriarch of 
 a race of genius and wit." 
 
 t Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, was the son of Thomas, Duke 
 of Norfolk. He was the author of several minor poems, of much 
 elegance and spirit ; and he afforded the earliest specimen of blank 
 verse in our language, in his translation of the fourth book of the 
 ^neid. The jealousy of Henry the Eighth brought him to the 
 scaffold in 1546-7. 
 
 + By Spenser, and dedicated to Mr. P. Sidney. 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 113 
 
 ity nor skilful poetry. Excepting Gorboduc* (again I 
 say of those that I have seen) which notwithstanding, 
 as it is full of stately speeches, and well-sounding 
 phrases, climbing to the height of Seneca his style, and 
 as full of notable morality, which it doth most delight- 
 fully teach, and so obtain the very end of poesy ; yet, in 
 truth, it is very defe6luous in the circumstances, which 
 grieves me, because it might not remain as an exa6l 
 model of all tragedies. For it is faulty both in place 
 and time, the two necessary companions of all corporal 
 actions. For where the stage should alway represent 
 but one place ; and the uttermost time presupposed in it, 
 should be, both by Aristotle's precept, and common rea- 
 son, but one day ; there is both many days and many 
 places inartificially imagined. 
 
 But if it be so in Gorboduc, how much more in all 
 the rest t where you shall have Asia of the one side, and 
 Afric of the other, and so many other under kingdoms, 
 that the player, when he comes in, must ever begin 
 with telling where he is, or else the tale will not be con- 
 ceived. Now shall you have three ladies walk to gather 
 flowers, and then we must believe the stage to be a gar- 
 den. By and by, we hear news of shipwreck in the 
 same place, then we are to blame if we accept it not for 
 a rock. Upon the back of that comes out a hideous 
 monster with fire and smoke, and then the miserable 
 
 * This play was written by Lord Buckhurst and Mr. Thomas 
 Norton. It was first printed in the year 1565, under the title of 
 Ferrex and Porrex ; but in 159O, its name was changed to that of 
 the " Tragedy of Gorboduc." It was represented before Queen 
 Elizabeth by the gentlemen of the Inner Temple The first three 
 a6ls were the composition of Morton ; and the fourth and fifth of 
 Loid Buckhurst. 
 
 15 
 
114 'T^he Defence of Poesy. \ 
 
 beholders are bound to take it for a cave ; while, in the j 
 mean time, two armies fly in, represented with four I 
 swords and bucklers, and then, what hard heart will not j 
 receive it for a pitched field ? 
 
 Now of time they are much more liberal ; for ordi- 
 nary it is, that two young princes fall in love ; after 
 many traverses she is got with child ; delivered of a fair 
 boy j he is lost, groweth a man, falleth in love, and is 
 ready to get another child ; and all this in two hours' 
 space ; which, how absurd it is in sense, even sense 
 may imagine j and art hath taught and all ancient exam- 
 ples justified, and at this day the ordinary players in 
 Italy will not err in. Yet will some bring in an exam- I 
 pie of the Eunuch in Terence, that containeth matter 
 of two days, yet far short of twenty years. True it is, 
 and so was it to be played in two days, and so fitted to ! 
 the time it set forth. And though Plautus have in one i 
 place done amiss, let us hit it with him, and not miss 
 with him. But they will say. How then shall we set 
 forth a story which contains both many places and many 
 times ? And do they not know, that a tragedy is tied 
 to the laws of poesy, and not of history ; not bound to 
 follow the story, but having liberty either to feign a 
 quite new matter, or to frame the history to the most 
 tragical convenience .? Again, many things may be told, 
 which cannot be showed ; if they know the difference 
 betwixt reporting and representing. As for example, 
 I may speak, though I am here, of Peru, and in speech 
 digress from that to the description of Calicut ; but in 
 adlion I cannot represent it without Pacolet's horse. 
 And so was the manner the ancients took by some 
 " Nuntius," to recount things done in former time, 
 or other place. 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 115 
 
 Lastly, if they will represent an history, they must 
 not, as Horace saith, begin " ab ovo," but they must 
 come to the principal point of that one a6lion which 
 they will represent. By example this will be best ex- 
 pressed ; I have a story of young Polydorus, delivered, 
 for safety's sake, with great riches, by his father Priamus 
 to Polymnestor, King of Thrace, in the Trojan war 
 time. He, after some years, hearing of the overthrow 
 of Priamus, for to make the treasure his own, murder- 
 eth the child ; the body of the child is taken up ; Hecu- 
 ba, she, the same day, findeth a sleight to be revenged 
 most cruelly of the tyrant. Where, now, would one of 
 our tragedy-writers begin, but with the delivery of the 
 child ? Then should he sail over into Thrace, and so 
 spend I know not how many years, and travel numbers 
 of places. But where doth Euripides ? Even with the 
 finding of the body ; leaving the rest to be told by the 
 spirit of Polydorus. This needs no farther to be en- 
 larged ; the dullest wit may conceive it. 
 
 But, besides these gross absurdities, how all their 
 plays be neither right tragedies nor right comedies, 
 mingling kings and clowns, not because the matter so 
 carrieth it, but thrust in the clown by head and shoulders 
 to play a part in majestical matters, with neither de- 
 cency nor discretion ; so as neither the admiration and 
 commiseration, nor the right sportfulness, is by their 
 mongrel tragi-comedy obtained. I know Apuleius did 
 somewhat so, but that is a thing recounted with space 
 of time, not represented in one moment : and I know 
 the ancients have one or two examples of tragi-comedies 
 as Plautus hath Amphytrio. But, if we mark them 
 well, we shall find, that they never, or very daintily, „ 
 match hornpipes and funerals. So falleth it out, that'^ 
 
ii6 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 having indeed no right comedy in that comical part of 
 our tragedy, we have nothing but scurrility, unworthy of 
 any chaste ears ; or some extreme show of doltishness, 
 indeed fit to lift up a loud laughter, and nothing else : 
 where the whole trail of a comedy should be full of 
 delight ; as the tragedy should be still maintained in a 
 well-raised admiration. 
 
 But our comedians think there is no delight without 
 laughter, which is very wrong ; for though laughter 
 may come with delight, yet cometh it not of delight, as 
 though delight should be the cause of laughter ; but 
 well may one thing breed both together. Nay, in 
 themselves, they have, as it were, a kind of contrariety. 
 For delight we scarcely do, but in things that have a 
 conveniency to ourselves, or to the general nature. 
 Laughter almost ever cometh of things most dispropor- 
 tioned to ourselves and nature : delight hath a joy in it 
 either permanent or present ; laughter hath only a scorn- 
 ful tickling. For example ; we are ravished with de- 
 light to see a fair woman, and yet are far from being 
 moved to laughter : we laugh at deformed creatures, 
 wherein certainly we cannot delight : we delight in 
 good chances : we laugh at mischances : we delight to 
 hear the happiness of our friends and country, at which 
 he were worthy to be laughed at that would laugh : we 
 shall, contrarily, sometimes laugh to find a matter quite 
 mistaken, and go down the hill against the bias, in the 
 mouth of some such men, as for the respe6t of them, 
 one shall be heartily sorry he cannot choose but laugh, 
 and so is rather pained than delighted with laughter. 
 Yet deny I not, but that they may go well together ; 
 for, as in Alexander's piilure well set out, we delight 
 without laughter, and in twenty mad antics we laugh 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 117 
 
 without delight : so in Hercules, painted with his great 
 beard and furious countenance, in a woman's attire, 
 spinning at Omphale's commandment, it breeds both 
 delight and laughter ; for the representing of so strange 
 a power in love, procures delight, and the scornfulness 
 of the action stirreth laughter. 
 
 But I speak to this purpose, that all the end of the 
 comical part be not upon such scornful matters as stir 
 laughter only, but mix with it that delightful teaching 
 which is the end of poesy. And the great fault, even 
 in that point of laughter, and forbidden plainly by Aris- 
 totle, is, that they stir laughter in sinful things, which 
 are rather execrable than ridiculous ; or in miserable, 
 which are rather to be pitied than scorned. For what 
 is it to make folks gape at a wretched beggar, and a 
 beggarly clown j or against the law of hospitality, to 
 jest at strangers, because they speak not English ^o well 
 as we do ? what do we learn, since it is certain. 
 
 Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se, 
 Quam quod ridiculos homines facit ? 
 
 But rather a busy loving courtier, and a heartless threat- 
 ening Thraso ; a self-wise seeming schoolmaster ; a 
 wry-transformed traveller : these, if we saw walk in 
 stage names, which we play naturally, therein were de- 
 lightful laughter, and teaching delightfulness : as in the 
 other, the tragedies of Buchanan do justly bring forth a 
 divine admiration. 
 
 But I have lavished out too many words of this play 
 matter ; I do it, because, as they are excelling parts of 
 poesy, so is there none so much used in England, and 
 none can be more pitifully abused ; which, like an un- 
 
ii8 The 'Defence of Poesy. 
 
 mannerly daughter, showing a bad education, causeth 
 her mother Poesy's honesty to be called in question. 
 
 Other sorts of poetry, almost, have we none, but 
 that lyrical kind of songs and sonnets,* which, if the 
 Lord gave us so good minds, how well it might be em- 
 ployed, and with how heavenly fruits, both private and 
 public, in singing the praises of the immortal beauty, the 
 immortal goodness of that God, who giveth us hands to 
 write, and wits to conceive ; of which we might well 
 want words, but never matter ; of which we could turn 
 our eyes to nothing, but we should ever have new bud- 
 ding occasions. 
 
 But, truly, many of such writings as come under the 
 banner of unresistible love, if I were a mistress, would 
 never persuade me they were in love ; so coldly they 
 apply fiery speeches, as men that had rather read lov- 
 er's writings, and so caught up certain swelling phrases, 
 which hang together like a man that once told me, 
 " the wind was at north-west and by south ; " because 
 he would be sure to name winds enough ; than that, 
 in truth, they feel those passions, which easily, as I 
 think, may be bewrayed by that same forcibleness, or 
 " energia," (as the Greeks call it) of the writer. But 
 let this be a sufficient, though short note, that we miss 
 the right use of the material point of poesy. 
 
 Now for the outside of it, which is words, or (as I 
 may term it) diction, it is even well worse ; so is that 
 honey-flowing matron eloquence, apparelled, or rather 
 disguised, in a courtezan-like painted afFe6lation. One 
 time with so far-fetched words, that many seem mon- 
 sters, but most seem strangers to any poor Englishman : 
 
 * The Psalms of David. 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 119 
 
 another time with coursing of a letter, as if they were 
 bound to follow the method of a dictionary : another 
 time with figures and flowers, extremely winter-starved. 
 
 But I would this fault were only peculiar to versifiers, 
 and had not as large possession among prose-printers : 
 and, which is to be marvelled, among many scholars, 
 and, which is to be pitied, among some preachers. Tru- 
 ly, I could wish (if at least I might be so bold to wish, 
 in a thing beyond the reach of my capacity) the diligent 
 imitators of Tullv and Demosthenes, most worthy to be 
 imitated, did not so much keep Nizolian paper-books of 
 their figures and phrases, as by attentive translation, as 
 it were, devour them whole, and make them wholly 
 theirs. For now they cast sugar and spice upon every 
 dish that is served at the table : like those Indians, not 
 content to wear ear-rings at the fit and natural place of 
 the ears, but they will thrust jewels through their nose 
 and lips, because they will be sure to be fine. TuUy, 
 when he was to drive out Cataline, as it were with 
 a thunderbolt of eloquence, often useth the figure of 
 repetition, as " vivit et vincit, imo in senatum venit, 
 imo in senatum venit," etc. Indeed, inflamed with a 
 well-grounded rage, he would have his words, as it were, 
 double out of his mouth ; and so do that artificially, 
 which we see men in choler do naturally. And we, 
 having noted the grace of those words, hale them in 
 sometimes to a familiar epistle, when it were too much 
 choler to be choleric. 
 
 How well, store of " similiter cadences " doth sound 
 with the gravity of the pulpit, I would but invoke De- 
 mosthenes' soul to tell, who with a rare daintiness 
 useth them. Truly, they have made me think of the 
 sophister, that with too much subtlety would prove two 
 
120 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 eggs three, and though he might be counted a sophister, 
 had none for his labour. So these men bringing in such 
 a kind of eloquence, well may they obtain an opinion 
 of a seeming fineness, but persuade hw^ which should 
 be the end of their fineness. 
 
 Now for similitudes in certain printed discourses, I 
 think all herbalists, all stories of beasts, fowls, and fishes 
 are rifled up, that they may come in multitudes to wait 
 upon any of our conceits, which certainly is as absurd a 
 surfeit to the ears as is possible. For the force of a 
 similitude not being to prove any thing to a contrary 
 disputer, but only to explain to a willing hearer ; when 
 that is done, the rest is a most tedious prattling, rather 
 overswaying the memory from the purpose whereto they 
 were applied, than any whit informing the judgment, 
 already either satisfied, or by similitudes not to be 
 satisfied. 
 
 For my part, I do not doubt, when Antonius and 
 Crassus, the great forefathers of Cicero in eloquence, 
 the one (as Cicero testifieth of them) pretended not to 
 know art, the other not to set by it, because with a 
 plain sensibleness they might win credit of popular ears, 
 which credit is the nearest step to persuasion (which 
 ■persuasion is the chief mark of oratory) I do not doubt, 
 I say, but that they used these knacks very sparingly ; 
 which who doth generally use, any man may see, doth 
 dance to his own music ; and so to be noted by the 
 audience, more careful to speak curiously than truly. 
 Undoubtedly (at least to my opinion undoubtedly) I 
 have found in divers small-learned courtiers a more 
 sound style, than in some professors of learning ; of 
 which I can guess no other cause, but that the courtier 
 following that which by pra6lice he findeth fittest to 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 121 
 
 nature, therein (though he know it not) doth according 
 to art, though not by art : where the other, using art 
 to show art, and not hide art (as in these cases he 
 should do) flieth from nature, and indeed abuseth art. 
 
 But what ! methinks I deserve to be pounded for 
 straying from poetry to oratory : but both have such an 
 affinity in the wordish considerations, that I think this 
 digression will make my meaning receive the fuller un- 
 derstanding : which is not to take upon me to teach 
 poets how they should do, but only finding myself sick 
 among the rest, to show some one or two spots of the 
 common infeftion grown among the most part of 
 writers ; that, acknowledging ourselves somewhat awry, 
 we may bend to the right use both of matter and man- 
 ner : whereto our language giveth us great occasion, 
 being, indeed, capable of any excellent exercising of it. 
 I know some will say, it is a mingled language : and 
 why not so much the better, taking the best of both the 
 other P Another will say, it wanteth grammar. Nay, 
 truly, it hath that praise, that it wants not grammar ; 
 for grammar it might have, but needs it not ; being so 
 easy in itself, and so void of those cumbersome differ- 
 ences of cases, genders, moods, and tenses ; which, I 
 think, was a piece of the tower of Babylon's curse, 
 that a man should be put to school to learn his mother 
 tongue. But for the uttering sweetly and properly the 
 conceit of the mind, which is the end of speech, that 
 hath it equally with any other tongue in the world, and 
 is particularly happy in compositions of two or three 
 words together, near the Greek, far beyond the Latin ; 
 which is one of the greatest beauties can be in a 
 language. 
 
 Now, of versifying there are two sorts, the one an- 
 
122 The Defence of Poesy. 
 
 cient, the other modern ; the ancient marked the quan- 
 tity of each syllable, and according to that framed his 
 verse ; the modern, observing only number, v^'ixh some 
 regard of the accent, the chief life of it standeth in that 
 like sounding of the words, which we call rhyme. 
 Whether of these be the more excellent, would bear 
 many speeches ; the ancient, no doubt, more fit for 
 music, both words and time observing quantity ; and 
 more fit lively to express divers passions, by the low or 
 lofty sound of the well-weighed syllable. The latter, 
 likewise, with his rhyme striketh a certain music to the 
 ear ; and, in fine, since it doth delight, though by an- 
 other way, it obtaineth the same purpose ; there being 
 in either, sweetness, and wanting in neither, majesty. 
 Truly the English, before any vulgar language I know, 
 is fit for both sorts ; for, for the ancient, the Italian is 
 so full of vowels, that it must ever be cumbered with 
 elisions. The Dutch so, of the other side, with conso- 
 nants, that they cannot yield the sweet sliding fit for a 
 verse. The French, in his whole language, hath not 
 one word that hath his accent in the last syllable, saving 
 two, called antepenultima ; and little more hath the 
 Spanish ; and therefore very gracelessly may they use 
 da6liles. The English is subje6l to none of these de- 
 fers. 
 
 Now for rhyme, though we do not observe quantity, 
 we observe the accent very precisely, which other lan- 
 guages either cannot do, or will not do so absolutely. 
 That " c^sura," or breathing-place, in the midst of the 
 verse, neither Italian nor Spanish have, the French and 
 we never almost fail of. Lastly, even the very rhyme 
 itself the Italian cannot put in the last syllable, by the 
 French named the masculine rhyme, but still in the next 
 
The Defence of Poesy. 123 
 
 to the last, which the French call the female ; or the 
 next before that, which the Italian calls " sdrucciola ;"* 
 the example of the former is, " buono," " suono ; " of 
 the sdrucciola is, " femina," ^'semina." The French, 
 of the other side, hath both the male, as " bon," "son," 
 and the female, as " plaise," " taise ; " but the " sdruc- 
 ciola " he hath not ; where the English hath all three, 
 as "due," "true," "father," "rather," "motion," 
 " potion ; " with much more which might be said, but 
 that already I find the trifling of this discourse is much 
 too much enlarged. 
 
 So that since the ever praiseworthy poesy is full of 
 virtue, breeding delightfulness, and void of no gift that 
 ought to be in the noble name of learning ; since the 
 blames laid against it are either false or feeble ; since the 
 cause why it is not esteemed in England, is the fault of 
 poet-apes, not poets ; since, lastly, our tongue is most 
 fit to honour poesy, and to be honoured by poesy ; I 
 conjure you all that have had the evil luck to read this 
 ink-wasting toy of mine, even in the name of the Nine 
 Muses, no more to scorn the sacred mysteries of poesy ; 
 no more to laugh at the name of poets, as though they 
 were next inheritors to fools ; no more to jest at the 
 reverend title of " a rhymer ; " but to believe, with 
 Aristotle, that they were the ancient treasurers of the 
 Grecians' divinity ; to believe, with Bembus, that they 
 were the first bringers in of all civility ; to believe, with 
 Scaliger, that no philosopher's precepts can sooner make 
 you an honest man, than the reading of Virgil ; to be- 
 lieve, with Clauserus, the translator of Cornutus, that it 
 pleased the heavenly deity by Hesiod and Homer, under 
 
 * That is, the easy sliding of words of three or more syllables. 
 
J 24 rhe Defence of Poesy. 
 
 the veil of fables, to give us all knowledge, logic, rheto- 
 ric philosophy natural and moral, and " quid non ? " to 
 beheve, with me, that there are many mysteries con- 
 tained m poetry, which of purpose were written darkly, 
 ^ by profane wits it should be abused; to bdieve 
 with Landm that they are so beloved of the gods, tha 
 whatsoever they write, proceeds of a divine fury' Lastly, 
 to beheve themseves, when they tell you, they wH 
 make you immortal by their verses. 
 
 Thus doing, your names shall flourish in the printers' 
 shops : thus domg, you shall be of kin to many a poeti- 
 cal preface : thus doing, you shall be most fair, most 
 rich, most wise, most all : you shall dwell upon super- 
 Iatives:^thus doing, though you be "Libertino patre 
 natus, , you shall suddenly grow " Herculea proles," 
 Si quid mea Carmina possunt : 
 
 -thus doing, your soul shall be placed with Dante's Bea- 
 trix, or Virgil's Anchises. 
 
 But if (fie of such a but !) you be born so near the 
 dull-making cataraft of Nilus, that you cannot hear the 
 planet-hke music of poetry ; if you have so earth- 
 creeping a mmd, that it cannot lift itself up to look to 
 the sky of poetry, or rather, by a certain rustical disdain, 
 will become such a Mome, as to be a Momus of poetry • 
 then, though I will not wish unto you the ass's ears of 
 Midas, nor to be driven by a poet's verses, as Bubonax 
 was, to hang himself; nor to be rhymed to death, as is 
 said to be done in Ireland ; yet thus much curse I must 
 send you m the behalf of all poets ; that while you live 
 you live m love, and never get favour, for lacking skill 
 of a sonnet ; and when you die, your memory die from 
 the earth, for want of an epitaph. 
 
ASTROPHEL AND STELLA. 
 
The succeeding collection of sonnets and songs was originally 
 published under the following title : " Sir P. S. his Astrophel and 
 Stella, wherein the excellence of true poetry is concluded. To the 
 end of which are added sundry- other rare sonnets of divers noble- 
 men and gentlemen:" printed for T. Newman, 1591, 4to. It 
 was annexed to the second edition of the Arcadia, in 1593, and to 
 all later editions. Sidney meant to designate himself by the name 
 of Astrophel, and his "load-star of delight," the Lady Rich, by 
 that of Stella. Spenser, in his Eleg\- on Sir Philip's death, has 
 converted the stor)- of these lovers into a most beautiful and imag- 
 inative fiftion. 
 
ASTROPHEL AND STELLA. 
 
 OVING in truth, and fain in verse my love 
 to show, 
 That she, dear she ! might take some 
 pleasure of my pain ; 
 Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her 
 know, 
 Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain : 
 I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe. 
 
 Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain : 
 Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow 
 Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burn'd 
 brain. 
 
 But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay ; 
 Inve ntion,_Trature's child, fled step-dame Study^s' 
 „JalQWS, 
 And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way. 
 Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my 
 jjiroes. 
 Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite. 
 Fool J s_aid my Muse to me, look in thy heart, and write. 
 
^ 
 
 128 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 II. 
 
 Not at first sight, nor with a dribbed shot, 
 Love gave the vi^ound, which, while I breathe, will bleed ; 
 But'knov/n worth did in mine of time proceed, 
 
 'Till, by degrees, it had full conquest got. 
 I saw, and lik'd ; I lik'd, but loved not ; 
 
 I lov'd, but straight did not what Love decreed : 
 
 At length, to Love's decrees, I, forc'd, agreed. 
 Yet with repining at so partial lot. 
 
 Now, ev'n, that footstep of lost liberty 
 Is gone, and now, like slave-born Muscovit', 
 
 I call it praise to suffer tyranny ; 
 And now employ the remnant of my wit, 
 
 To make myself believe that all is well. 
 
 While, with a feeling skill, I paint my hell. 
 
 III. 
 
 Let daLUl;y_^wits cry on the sisters nine. 
 That, bravely mask'd, their fancies may be told : 
 
 Or,^PiiKlar's apes^ flaunt they in phj:ases-frne, 
 Enam'ling, with py'd flowers, their thoughts of gold. 
 
 Or else, let them in statelier glory shine, 
 Ennobling new-found tropes, with problems old : 
 
 Or, with strange similes enrich eafJxJine,, 
 
 ^Of herbs, or beasts, which Ind' or Afric^hold. 
 
 For me, in sooth, no Muse but one I k;now, 
 Phrases and problems from my reach do grow. 
 
 And strange things cost too dear for my poor sp'rits. 
 How then .? even thus, in Stella's face I read, 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 129 
 
 Wha t, love and beauty be, then all my deed \ 
 But copying is, what in her Nature writes. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Virtue, alas ! now let me take some rest, '^ ' 
 Thou sett'st a bait betwixt my will and wit, -^ 
 
 If vain love have my simple soul oppress'd, ^' 
 Leave what thou likest not, deal not thou with it. 
 
 Thy sceptre use in some old Cato's breast ; c^ 
 Churches, or schools, are for thy seat more fit :^ 
 
 I do confess, pardon a fault confess'd, ''^ 
 
 My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit.'--'" 
 
 But, if that needs thou wilt usurping be 
 The little reason that is left in me, ,-. , 
 
 And still th' efFeft of thy persuasions prove, • 
 I swear, my heart such one shall show to thee, 
 That shrines in flesh so true a deity, 
 
 That, Virtue, thou thyself shalt be in love. 
 
 It is most true, that eyes are form'd to serve j 
 The inward light ; and, that the heav'nly part ' 
 
 Ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve, 
 Rebels to nature, strive for their own smart. 
 
 It is most true, what we call Cupid's dart. 
 An image is, which for ourselves we carve ; 
 
 And, fools, adore in temple of our heart, 
 'Till that good god make church and churchmen starve. 
 17 
 
130 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 True, that true beauty virtue is, indeed. 
 Whereof this beauty can be but a shade, 
 
 Which, elements, with mortal mixture breed : 
 True, that, on earth, we are but pilgrims made, 
 
 And should, in soul up to our country move ; 
 
 True, and yet true ! that I must Stella love. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Some lovers speak, when they their muses entertain. 
 Of hopes begot by fear, of wot not what desires. 
 
 Of force of heav'nly beams, infusing hellish pain. 
 Of living deaths, dear wounds, fair storms, and freezing 
 fires j 
 Some one his song in Jove, and Jove's strange tales 
 attires, 
 Border'd with bulls and swans, powder'd 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 style affords. 
 While tears pour out his ink, and sighs breathe out his 
 words ; 
 His paper pale despair, and pain his pen doth move : 
 I 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 1 do Stella 
 love. 
 
 VII. 
 When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes. 
 In colour black, why wrapp'd she beams so bright ? 
 
Astrophel and Stella. 131 
 
 Would she, in beamy black, like painter wise, 
 Frame daintiest lustre, mix'd of shades and light ? 
 
 Or, did she, else, that sober hue devise, 
 In obje6t best, to knit and strength our sight, 
 
 Lest, if no veil these brave gleams did disguise, 
 They, sun-like, should more dazzle than delight ? 
 
 Or, would she her mirac'lous power show, 
 That, whereas black seems beauty's contrary. 
 
 She ! even in black, doth make all beauty flow ? 
 Both so, and thus, she, minding Love should be 
 
 Plac'd ever there, gave him this mourning weed, 
 
 To honour all their deaths, who for her bleed. 
 
 VIII. 
 Love, born in Greece, of late fled from his native 
 place, 
 Forc'd, by a tedious proof, that Turkish harden'd heart 
 Is no fit mark to pierce with his fine pointed dart ; 
 
 And, pleas'd with our soft peace, staid here his flying 
 
 race : 
 But, finding these north climes do coldly him embrace. 
 Not us'd to frozen clips, he strove to find some part. 
 Where, with most ease and warmth, he might employ 
 his dart ; 
 At length, he perch'd himself in Stella's joyful face ; 
 
 Whose fliir skin, beamy eyes, like morning sun on n 
 snow, • 
 
 Deceiv'd the quaking boy, who thought, from so pure 
 light. 
 Effects of lively heat, must needs in nature grow : 
 
132 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 But she! most fair, most cold, made him thence take 
 his flight 
 To my close heart, where, while some firebrands he 
 
 did lay, 
 He burnt un'wares his wings, and cannot fly away. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Queen Virtue's court, which some call Stella's face, 
 Prepar'd by Nature's choicest furniture. 
 Hath his front built of alabaster pure ; 
 
 Gold is the covering of that stately place. 
 The door, by which, sometimes, comes forth her grace. 
 
 Red porphyr is, which lock of pearl makes sure ; 
 
 Whose porches rich (which name of cheeks en- 
 dure) 
 Marble, mix'd red, and white, do interlace. 
 
 The windows now, thro' which this heav'nly guest 
 Looks o'er the world, and can find nothing such. 
 
 Which dare claim from those lights the name of 
 best. 
 Of touch they are, that, without touch, doth touch, 
 -7 Which Caipid^-selfjHTTrnT- Beauty^ TTiind did draw : 
 
 ^ Of touch they are, and, poor I ! am their straw. 
 
 X. 
 
 Reason ! in faith, thou art well serv'd, that still 
 Would'st brabbling be with sense and love in me ; 
 
 I rather wish'd thee climb the Muses' hill ; 
 Or reach the fruit of Nature's choicest tree ; 
 
Jsirophel and Stella. i33 
 
 Or seek heav'ns course, or heav'ns inside to see : 
 
 to tu 
 
 Why shouldst thou toil our thorny soil 
 
 Leave sense, and those which senses objecSls be. 
 Deal thou with powers of thoughts, leave love to will. 
 
 But thou wouldst needs fight, both with bve and 
 sense, 
 With sword of wit, giving wounds of dispraise, 
 
 'Till downright blows did foil thy cunning fence ; 
 For soon as they struck thee with Stella's rays, . ^^ 
 
 Reason, thou kneel'dst, and ofFered'st straight to prove, ^^-"^ 
 
 By reason good, good reason her to love. 
 
 XI. 
 
 jLiLimth^__0 Love, with what a boyish kind 
 Thoudoat_pi.Q£££d, in thy most serious ways. 
 That when the heav'n to thee his best displays. 
 
 Yet of that best, thou leav'st the best behind ? 
 
 For, like a child, that some fair book doth find. 
 With gilded leaves, or colour'd vellum plays, 
 Or, at the most, on some fine pi6lure stays. 
 
 But never heeds the fruit of writer's mind : 
 
 So when thou saw'st, in Nature's cabinet, 
 Stella, thou straight look'dst babies in her eyes. 
 
 In her cheeks' pit, thou did'st thy pitfold set. 
 And in her breast, bo-peep, or couching, lies, 
 
 Playing, and shining in each outward part ; 
 
 But, fool ! seek'st not to get into her heart. 
 
34 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Cupid, because thou shin'st in Stella's eyes, 
 That from her looks, thy dances none scapes free. 
 That those lips swell'd, so full of thee they be, 
 
 That her sweet breath, makes oft thy flames to rise. 
 
 That in her breast thy pap well sugar'd lies. 
 That her grace, gracious makes thy wrongs, that she. 
 What words soe'er she speak, persuades for thee, 
 
 That her clear voice lifts thy fame to the skies. 
 
 Thou countest Stella thine, like those whose powers 
 Having got up a breach by fighting well. 
 
 Cry, Victory ! this fair day all is ours ! 
 O no, her heart is such a citadel, 
 
 So fortified with wit, stor'd with disdain. 
 
 That to win it, is all the skill and pain. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Phoebus was judge between Jove, Mars, and Love, 
 Of those three gods, whose arms the fairest were : 
 Jove's golden shield did eagle sables bear. 
 
 Whose talons held young Ganymede above : 
 But in vert field Mars bore a golden spear. 
 
 Which through a bleeding heart his point did shove. 
 
 Each had his crest. Mars carried Venus' glove, 
 Jove, on his helm, the thunderbolt did rear. 
 
 Cupid then smiles, for on his crest there lies 
 Stella's fair hair, her face he makes his shield. 
 Where roses gules are borne in silver field. 
 
 Phoebus drew wide the curtains of the skies. 
 
Aitrophel and Stella. i35 
 
 To blaze these last, and sware devoutly then, 
 The first, thus match'd, were scantly gentlemen. 
 
 \ 
 
 XIV. ^^^ 
 
 Alas ! have I not pain enough, my friend. 
 Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire, 
 Than did on him who first stole down the fire. 
 
 While Love on me doth all his quiver spend \ 
 But with your rJhubarb_jwQrds ye must contend. 
 
 To grieve me worse, in saying, that desire 
 
 Doth plunge my well form'd soul even in the mire 
 Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end. 
 
 If that be sin which doth the manners frame. 
 Well staid with truth in word, and faith of deed, 
 
 Ready of wit, and fearing nought but shame ; 
 If that be sin, which in fix'd hearts doth breed 
 
 A loathing of all loose unchastity. 
 
 Then love is sin, and let me sinful be. 
 
 XV. 
 
 You that do search for every purling spring. 
 Which from the ribs of old. Parnassus flows. 
 And ev'ry flower, not sweet, perhaps, which grows 
 
 Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring. 
 You that do dictionary's method bring 
 ^_Into^our rhymes, running in rattling rows ; 
 
 _^ou^that poor Petrarch's long deceased woes. 
 With new-born sighs, and denizen'd wit do sing : 
 
 _Youjtakejvvrong ways ; those far-fetch'd helps be such. 
 _JAs.,4o bewray a want'bf'iinWard roactr: ' 
 
136 Jstrophel a?id Stella. 
 
 And sure, at length, stol'n goods do come to light 
 But if (both for your love and skill) your name 
 You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of fame, 
 
 Stella behold, and then begin t' indite. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 In Nature, apt to like, when I did see 
 Beauties, which were of many carats fine, 
 My boiling sp'rits, did thither soon incline ; 
 
 And, Love ! I thought, that I was full of thee ; 
 But, finding not those restless flames in me. 
 
 Which others said did make their souls to pine, 
 
 I thought those babes of some pin's hurt did whine, 
 By my soul judging what love's pain might be : 
 
 But while I, fool ! thus with this lion play'd. 
 Mine eyes (shall I say curst, or blest ?) beheld 
 
 Stella ; now she is nam'4, need more be said ? 
 In her sight, I a lesson new have spell'd 5 
 
 I now have learn'd love right, and learn'd ev'n so. 
 
 As who, by being poison'd, doth poison know. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 His mother dear, Cupid offended late. 
 Because that Mars, grown slacker in her love, 
 With pricking shot he did not throughly move. 
 
 To keep the pace of their first loving state. 
 The boy refus'd for fear of Mars's hate. 
 
 Who threaten'd stripes, if he his wrath did prove j 
 
 But she, in chafe, him from her lap did shove, 
 Brake bow, brake shafts, while Cupid weeping sat ; 
 
Atrophel and Stella. 137 
 
 'Till that his grandame Nature, pitying it, 
 Of Stella's brows, made him two better bows. 
 
 And in her eyes of arrows infinite : 
 O how for joy he leaps ! O how he crows ! 
 
 And straight therewith, like wags new got to play. 
 
 Falls to shrewd turns, and I was in his way. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 With what sharp checks I in myself am shent, 
 When into reason's audit I do go : 
 And by just 'compts myself a bankrupt know 
 
 Of all those goods, which heav'n to me hath lent : 
 Unable quite to pay even Nature's rent, 
 
 Which unto it by birthright I do owe : 
 
 And, which is worse, no good excuse can show, 
 But that my wealth I have most idly spent ? 
 
 My youth doth waste, my knowledge brings forth toys, 
 My wit doth strive those passions to defend. 
 
 Which, for reward, spoil it with vain annoys. 
 I see, my course to lose myself doth bend : 
 
 I see and yet no greater sorrow take. 
 
 Than that I lose no more for Stella's sake. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 On Cupid's bow how are my heart-strings bent, 
 That see my wrack, and yet embrace the same ! 
 When most I glory, then I feel most shame ; 
 
 I willing run, yet while I run, repent ; 
 
 My best wits still their own disgrace invent : 
 My very ink turns straight to Stella's name ; 
 
138 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 And yet my words, as them my pen doth frame, 
 Avise themselves that they are vainly spent. 
 
 For though she pass all things, yet what is all 
 That unto me, who fare like him that both 
 
 Looks to the skies, and in a ditch doth fall ! 
 O ! let me prop my mind, yet in his growth, 
 
 And not in nature, for best fruits unfit : 
 
 Scholar, saith Love, bend hitherward your wit. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Fly, fly, my friends, I have my death's wound ! fly, 
 See there that boy, that murdering boy, I say, 
 
 Who, like a thief, hid in dark bush, doth lie. 
 Till bloody bullet get him wrongful prey. 
 
 So, tyrant he, no fitter place could spy. 
 Nor so fair level in so secret stay. 
 
 As that sweet black which veils the heavenly eye ; 
 There himself with his shot he close doth lay. 
 
 Poor passenger ! pass now thereby I did ; 
 And staid, pleas'd with the prospecSl of the place ; 
 
 While that black hue from me the bad guest hid : 
 But straight I saw motions of lightning grace; 
 
 And then descried the glistering of his dart, 
 
 But, ere I could fly thence, it pierc'd my heart. 
 
 XXI. 
 Your words, my friend, (right healthful caustics,) 
 blame 
 My young mind marr'd, whom Love doth windlass so 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 139 
 
 That mine own writings, like bad servants, show 
 My wits quick in vain thoughts, in virtue lame ; 
 That PlatoT te^d foi^^nought ; but if he tame 
 Such coltish years, that to my birth I owe 
 Nobler desires, lest else that friendly foe, "Z 
 
 Great expe6lation, were a train of shame. 
 
 For since mad March great promise made of me, 
 If now the May of my years much decline, 
 
 What can be hop'd my harvest-time will be ? 
 Sure, you say well, your. wisdom's golden mine. 
 
 Dig deep with learning's spade, now tell me this, 
 
 Hath this world aught so fair as Stella is ? 
 
 xxir. 
 
 In highest way of heav'n the sun did ride. 
 Progressing then from fair twins' golden place ; 
 Having no scarf of clouds before his face. 
 
 But shining forth of heat in his chief pride ; 
 
 When some fair ladies, by hard promise tied. 
 On horseback met him in his furious race. 
 Yet each prepar'd with fan's well-shading grace. 
 
 From that foe's wounds their tender skins to hide : 
 
 Stella, alone, with face unarmed, march'd 
 Either to do like him which open shone ; 
 Or, careless of the wealth, because her own ; 
 
 Yet were the hid and meaner beauties parch'd, 
 
 Her daintiest, bare, went free ; the cause was this. 
 The sun, which others burn'd, did her but kiss. 
 
140 Astrophel and Stella, 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness 
 Bewray itself in my long-settled eyes, 
 Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise. 
 
 With idle pains, and missing aim, do guess. 
 
 Some that know how my spring I did address, 
 Deem that my muse some fruit of knowledge plies 
 Others, because the prince my service tries. 
 
 Think that I think state errors to redress. 
 
 But harder judges judge ambition's rage. 
 
 Scourge of itself, still climbing slipp'ry place. 
 
 Holds my young brain captiv'd in golden cage. 
 O fools, or over-wise, alas ! the race 
 
 Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start, 
 
 But only Stella's eyes, and Stella's heart. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Rich fools there be, whose base and filthy heart, 
 Lies hatching still the goods wherein they flow : 
 
 And damning their own selves to Tantal's smart. 
 Wealth breeding want, more blest, more wretched grow , 
 
 Yet to those fools heav'n doth such wit impart, 
 As what their hands do hold, their heads do know, 
 
 And knowing love, and loving lay apart. 
 As sacred things, far from all dangers show. 
 
 JBjut__that Rich fool, vyho 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, 
 
Jstropbel and Stella. 141 
 
 (Exil'd for aye from those high treasures, which 
 He knows not) grow in only folly Rich.* 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The wisest scholar of the wight most wise, 
 By Phoebus' doom, with sugar'd sentence says, 
 
 That virtue, if it once met with our eyes, 
 Strange flames of love it in our souls would raise. 
 
 But for that man with pain this truth descries, 
 Whilst he each thing in sense's balance weighs. 
 
 And so, nor will, nor can, behold those skies. 
 Which inward sun t' heroic mind displays. 
 
 Virtue of late, with virtuous care to stir 
 Love of herself, took Stella's shape, that she 
 
 To mortal eyes might sweetly shine in her : 
 It is most true, for since I her did see. 
 
 Virtue's great beauty in that face I prove. 
 
 And find th' effe6l, for I do burn in love. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Though dusty wits dare scorn astrology. 
 And fools can think those lamps of purest light. 
 
 Whose numbers weigh greatness, eternity. 
 Promising wonders, wonder do invite. 
 
 To have, for no cause, birthright in the sky. 
 But for to spangle the black weeds of night : 
 
 Or for some brawl, which in that chamber high, 
 They should still dance to please a gazer's sight. 
 
 * Lord Rich, to whom Sidney very evidently makes allusion in 
 this sonnet, was notoriously a person of a low and brutal chara6ler. 
 
142 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 For me, I do nature unidle know, 
 And know, great causes great effects procure ; 
 
 And know, those bodies high reign on the low. 
 And if these rules did fail, proof makes me sure, 
 
 Who oft fore-judge my after-following race. 
 
 By only those two stars in Stella's face. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Because I oft, in dark abstracted guise. 
 Seem most alone in greatest company ; 
 With dearth of words, or answers quite awry. 
 
 To them that would make speech of speech arise 
 
 They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies. 
 That poison foul of bubbling pride doth lie 
 So in my swelling breast, that only I 
 
 Fawn on myself, and others do despise : 
 
 Yet pride, I think, doth not my soul possess. 
 Which looks too oft in his unflatt'ring glass : 
 
 But one worse fault, amixitien, I confess. 
 
 That makes me oft my best friends overpass. 
 
 Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place 
 Bends all his power, even unto Stella's grace. 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 You that with allegory's curious frame. 
 Of others' children changelings use to make. 
 With me those pains, for God's sake, do not take 
 
 I list not dig so deep for brazen fame. 
 When I say Stella, I do mean the same 
 
 Princess of beauty, for whose only sake. 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. i43 
 
 The reins of Love I love, though never slack, 
 And joy therein, though nations count it shame. 
 
 I beg no subjeft to use eloquence, 
 Nor in hid wzys do guide philosophy i 
 
 Look at my hands for no such quintessence ; 
 But know, that I, in pure simplicity. 
 
 Breathe out the flames which burn within my heart. 
 
 Love only reading unto me this art. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Like some weak lords, neighbour'd by mighty kings. 
 To keep themselves and their chief cities free. 
 Do eas'ly yield, that all their coasts may be 
 
 Ready to store their camps of needful things : 
 So Stella's heart, finding what power Love brings. 
 
 To keep itself in life and liberty. 
 
 Doth willing grant, that in the frontiers he 
 Use all to help his other conquerings : 
 
 And thus her heart escapes, but thus her eyes. 
 Serve him with shot, her lips his heralds are ; 
 Her breasts his tents, legs his triumphal car ; 
 Her flesh his food, her skin his armour brave. 
 
 And I, but for because my prospeil lies 
 Upon that coast, am giv'n up for a slave. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Whether the Turkish new moon minded be 
 To fill his horns this year on Christian coast ? 
 How Poles' right king means, without leave of host, 
 
144 Jstrophcl and Stella. 
 
 To warm, with ill-made fire, cold Muscovy ? 
 If French can yet three parts in one agree ? 
 
 What now the Dutch in their full diets boast ? 
 
 How Holland hearts, now so good towns be lost, 
 Trust in the shade of pleasant Orange-tree ? 
 
 How Ulster likes of that same golden bit, 
 Wherewith my father once made it half tame ? 
 
 If in the Scotch court be no welt'ring yet ? 
 These questions busy wits to me do frame ; 
 
 I, cumber'd with good manners, answer do. 
 
 But know not how, for still I think of you. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies ! 
 
 How silently, and with how wan a face ! 
 
 What ! may it be, that ev'n in heav'nly place 
 That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ? 
 
 Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes 
 Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case ; 
 
 I read it in thy looks, thy languish'd grace 
 To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 
 
 Then, ev'n of fellowship, O moon, tell me. 
 Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit ? 
 
 Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? 
 Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet 
 
 Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess ? 
 
 Do they call virtue there ungratefulness ? 
 
Astropkel and Stella. 145 
 
 XXXII. 
 -- Morpheus, the lively son of deadly Sleep, 
 Witness of life to them that living die ; 
 A prophet oft, and oft an history, 
 
 A poet eke, as humours fly or creep : 
 Since thou in me so sure a power dost keep, 
 That never I with close-up sense do lie, 
 But by thy work, my Stella, I descry. 
 
 Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weep : 
 
 Vouchsafe, of all acquaintance, this to tell. 
 
 Whence hast thou ivory, rubies, pearl, and gold, 
 
 To show her skin, lips, teeth, and head so well ? 
 Fool ! answers he, no Inds such treasure hold, 
 
 But from thy heart, while my fire charmeth thee. 
 
 Sweet Stella's image I do steal to me. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 I might, unhappy word I 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 heav'nly day, wretch ! I did miss. 
 
 Heart ! rent thyself, thou dost thyself but right. 
 No lovely Paris made thy Helen his : 
 
 No force, no fraud, robb'd 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 respefts for both our sakes must show : 
 And yet could not, by rising morn, foresee 
 19 
 
[46 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 How fair a day was near, O punlsh'd eyes ! 
 That I had been more foolish, or more wise ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Come, let me write, and to what end ? to ease 
 A burthen'd heart j how can words ease, which are 
 The glasses of the daily vexing care ? 
 
 Oft cruel fights, well pid:ur'd forth, do please ; 
 
 Art not asham'd to publish thy disease ? 
 Nay, that may breed my fame, it is so rare : 
 But will not wise men think thy words fond ware ? 
 
 Then be they close, and so none shall displease. 
 
 What idler thing, than speak, and not be heard ? 
 What harder thing, than smart, and not to speak ? 
 
 Peace, foolish wit, with wit my wit is marr'd. 
 Thus write I, while I doubt to write, and wreak 
 
 My harms on ink's poor loss, perhaps some find 
 
 Stella's great powers, that so confuse my mind. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 What may words say, or what may words not say, 
 Where truth itself must speak like flattery .? 
 Within what bounds can one his liking stay. 
 
 Where Nature doth with infinite agree ? 
 What Nestor's counsel can my flames allay. 
 
 Since Reason's self doth blow the coal in me .'' 
 And, ah ! what hope, that hope should once see day, 
 
 Where Cupid is sworn page to chastity ? 
 
 Honour is honour'd, that thou dost possess 
 Him as thy slave, and now long needy fame 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 147 
 
 Doth even grow rich, naming my Stella's name. 
 Wit learns in thee perfe6lion to express, 
 
 Not thou by praise, but praise in thee is rais'd : 
 It is a praise to praise, when thou art prais'd. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Stella, whence doth this new assault arise, 
 
 A conquer'd golden ransack'd heart to win ? 
 Whereto long since, through my long batter'd eyes. 
 
 Whole armies of thy beauties ent'red in. 
 
 And there, long since, Love, thy lieutenant, lies, 
 My forces raz'd, thy banners rais'd within : 
 
 Of conquest, do not these effects suffice, 
 But wilt now war upon thine own begin ? 
 
 With so sweet voice, and by sweet nature so 
 In sweetest strength, so sweetly skill'd withal, 
 
 In all sweet stratagems, sweet art can show. 
 That not my soul, which at thy foot did fall, 
 
 Long since, forc'd by thy beams, but stone nor tree, 
 
 By Sense's privilege, can scape from thee. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 My mouth doth water, and my breast doth swell. 
 My tongue doth itch, my thoughts in labour be ; 
 Listen then, lordings, with good ear to me. 
 
 For of my life I must a riddle tell : 
 
 Toward Aurora's court a nymph doth dwell. 
 Rich in all beauties which man's eye can see ; 
 Beauties so far from reach of words, that we, 
 
 Abase her praise, saying she doth excel : 
 
148 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 Rich in the treasure of deserv'd renown ; 
 
 Rich in the riches of a royal heart ; 
 Rich in those gifts which give th' eternal crown : 
 
 Who, tho' most rich in these and ev'ry part 
 Which make the patents of true worldly bliss, 
 Hath no misfortune, but that Rich * she is. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 This night, while sleep begins, with heavy wings. 
 To hatch mine eyes, and that unbitted thought 
 Doth fall to stray, and my chief powers are brought 
 
 To leave the sceptre of all subject things ; 
 
 The first that straight my fancy's error brings 
 Unto my mind, is Stella's image, wrought 
 By Love's own self, but, with so curious draught. 
 
 That she, methinks, not only shines, but sings : 
 
 I start, look, hark, but what in clos'd-up sense 
 Was held, in open'd sense it flies away. 
 
 Leaving me nought but wailing eloquence f 
 I, seeing better sights in sights decay, 
 
 Call'd it anew, and wooed sleep again ; 
 
 But him, her host, that unkind guest had slain. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Come, Sleep : O Sleep ! the certain knot of peace. 
 The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe. 
 
 The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
 
 * A play upon his mistress's name, and an allusion to the source 
 of his misery — her marriage to another. The same conceit has 
 been already remarked in the xxiv. sonnet. 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 149 
 
 Th' indifferent judge between the high and low ; 
 
 With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease 
 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. 
 
 XL. 
 
 As good to write, as for to lie and groan, 
 O Stella dear ! how much thy power hath wrought, 
 Thou hast my mind, none of the basest, brought 
 
 My 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 j 
 
 Weigh then, how I by thee am overthrown : 
 
 And then, think thus, although thy beauty be 
 Made manifest by such a viftory. 
 
 Yet noble conquerors do wrecks avoid : 
 Since then thou hast so far subdued me. 
 That, in my heart, I offer still to thee, 
 
 O do not let thy temple be destroy'd. 
 
150 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance, 
 Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize. 
 Both by the judgment of the English eyes, 
 
 And of some sent from that sweet en'my France ; 
 
 Horsemen, my skill in horsemanship advance ; 
 Town-folks my strength ; a daintier judge applies 
 His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise 
 
 Some lucky wits impute it but to chance : 
 
 Others, because of both sides I do take 
 
 My blood from them who did excel in this, 
 
 Think Nature me a man of arms did make ; 
 How far they shot awry ! the true cause is, 
 
 Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face. 
 
 Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 O eyes ! which do the spheres of beauty move, 
 Whose beams be joys, whose joys all virtues be, 
 
 Who, while they make Love conquer, conquer love, 
 The schools where Venus hath learn'd chastity. 
 
 O eyes ! where humble looks most glorious prove. 
 Only, lov'd tyrants, just in cruelty. 
 
 Do not, O do not, from poor me remove, 
 Keep still my zenith, ever shine on me : 
 
 For though I never see them, but straightways 
 My life forgets to nourish languish'd sp'rits. 
 
 Yet still on me, O eyes, dart down your rays ; 
 And if, from majesty of sacred lights 
 
Jitrophel and Stella. 151 
 
 Oppressing mortal sense, my death proceed, 
 Wracks triumphs be, which love, high set, doth breed. 
 
 XLIII. 
 Fair eyes, sweet lips, dear heart, that foolish I, 
 Could hope, by Cupid's help, on you to prey, 
 
 Since to himself he doth your gifts apply, 
 As his main force, choice sport, and easeful stay : 
 
 For when he will see who dare him gainsay. 
 Then with those eyes he looks ; lo ! by and by. 
 Each soul doth at Love's feet his weapon lay, 
 Glad if for her he give them leave to die. 
 
 When he will play, then in her lips he is. 
 Where blushing red, that Love's self them doth love. 
 
 With either lip he doth the other kiss ; 
 But when he will, for quiet-sake, remove 
 
 From all the world, her heart is then his rome. 
 
 Where, well he knows, no man to him can come. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 My words, I know, do well set forth my mind, 
 My mind bemoans his sense of inward smart, 
 Such smart may pity claim of any heart, 
 
 Her heart, sweet heart ! is of no tiger's kind : 
 
 And yet she hears, yet I no pity find ; 
 But more I cry, less grace she doth impart, 
 Alas ! what cause is there so overthwart. 
 
 That nobleness itself makes thus unkind ? 
 
152 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 I much do guess, yet find no truth, save this. 
 
 That when the breath of my complaints doth touch 
 Those dainty doors unto the court of bhss, 
 
 The heav'nly nature of that place is such. 
 
 That, once come there, the sobs of mine annoys 
 Are metamorphos'd straight to tunes of joys. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Stella oft sees the very face of woe 
 Painted in my beclouded stormy face ; 
 But cannot skill to pity my disgrace. 
 
 Not though thereof the cause herself she knov/. 
 
 Yet hearing late a fable, v/hich did show, 
 Of lovers, never known, a grievous case, 
 Pity thereof, 'gat in her breast such place. 
 
 That, from that sea deriv'd, tears' spring did flow. 
 
 Alas ! if fancy, drawn by imag'd things, 
 
 Tho' false, yet, with free scope, more grace doth breed 
 Than servants' wreck, where new doubts honour brings ; 
 
 Then think, my dear, that you in me do read. 
 Of lover's ruin, some sad tragedy : 
 I am not I ; pity the tale of me. 
 
 XLVr. 
 
 I curst thee oft ; I pity now thy case. 
 Blind-hitting boy, since she, that thee and me 
 Rules with a beck, so tyranniseth thee. 
 
 That thou must want or food or dwelling-place ; 
 
 For she protests to banish thee her face ; 
 Her face ? O Love ! a rogue thou then shouldst be ! 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. i53 
 
 If Love learn not alone to love and see, 
 Without desire to feed of farther grace. 
 
 Alas ! poor wag, that now a scholar art. 
 
 To such a schoolmistress, whose lessons new 
 
 Thou needs must miss, and so thou needs must smart. 
 Yet, dear, let me his pardon get of you. 
 
 So long (tho' he from book to miche * desire) 
 Till without fuel you can make hot fire. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 What ! have I thus betray'd my liberty ? 
 Can those black beams such burning marks engrave 
 In my free side ? or am I born a slave. 
 
 Whose neck becomes such yoke of tyranny ? 
 
 Or want I sense to feel my misery ? 
 Or sp'rit, disdain of such disdain to have ? 
 Who for long faith, tho' daily help I crave, 
 
 May get no alms, but scorn of beggary. 
 
 Virtue, awake j beauty, but beauty is, 
 
 I may, I must, I can, I will, I do 
 Leave following that which it is gain to miss. 
 
 Let her do — Soft ! but here she comes ! go to ; 
 Unkind ! I love you not : — O me ! that eye 
 Doth make my heart to give my tongue the lie. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 Soul's joy, bend not those morning stars from me. 
 Where virtue is made strong by beauty's might ; 
 
 * That is, to play truant. 
 
154 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 Where love is chasteness, pain doth learn delight, 
 And humbleness grows one 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 ! O let me die, and see ! 
 
 For though I oft myself of them bemoan. 
 
 That through my heart their beamy darts be gone : 
 
 Whose cureless wounds, e'en now, most freshly 
 bleed : 
 Yet, since my death-wound is already got. 
 Dear killer, spare not thy sweet cruel shot, 
 
 A kind of grace it is to slay with speed. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 I on my horse, and Love on me, doth try 
 Our hoi^mansKTps, while, by strange work, I prove 
 A liorseman to my horse, a horse to Love ; 
 
 And now man's wrongs in me, poor beast, descry. 
 
 The rein wherewith my rider doth me tie. 
 Are humbled thoughts, which bit of rev'rence move, 
 Curb'd in with fear, but with gilt boss above 
 
 Of hope, which makes it seem fair to the eye. 
 
 The wand is Will j thou, Fancy, saddle art, 
 Girt fast by Memory ; and while I spur 
 
 My horse, he spurs, with sharp desire, my heart : 
 He sits me fast, however I do stir. 
 
 And now hath made me to his hand so right, 
 
 That in the menage myself takes delight. 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 155 
 
 Stella ! the fulness of my thoughts of thee 
 Cannot be stay'd within my panting breast ; 
 
 But they do swell and struggle forth of me, 
 Till that in words thy figure be exprest ; 
 
 And yet, as soon as they so formed be. 
 According to my lord Love's own behest. 
 
 With sad eyes I their weak proportion see. 
 To portrait that which in this world is best ; 
 
 So that I cannot choose but write my mind. 
 And cannot choose but put out what I write, 
 
 While these poor babes their death in birth do find 
 And now my pen these lines had dashed quite ; 
 
 But that they stopp'd his fury from the same. 
 
 Because their fore-front bare sweet Stella's name. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Pardon mine ears, both I and they do pray. 
 So may your tongue still fluently 'proceed. 
 To them that do such entertainment need ; 
 
 So may you still have somewhat new to say. 
 
 On silly me do not the burthen lay 
 Of all the grave conceits your brain doth breed. 
 But find some Hercules to bear, instead 
 
 Of Atlas tir'd, your wisdom's heav'nly sway. 
 
 For me, while you discourse of courtly tides. 
 Of cunning fishers in most troubled streams. 
 
 Of straying ways, when valiant error guides ; 
 
 Meanwhile my heart confers with Stella's beams, 
 
156 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 And is e'en irk'd that so sweet comedy, 
 By such unsuited speech should hinder'd be. 
 
 LII. 
 
 A strife is grown between Virtue and Love, 
 While each pretends that Stella must be his : 
 Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love, do this 
 
 (Since they do wear his badge) most firmly prove ; 
 
 But Virtue thus that title doth disprove. 
 That Stella, O dear name I that Stella is 
 That virtuous soul, sure heir of heav'nly bliss : 
 
 Not this fair outside, which our hearts doth move 
 
 And, therefore, tho' her beauty and her grace 
 Be Love's, indeed, in Stella's self he may. 
 
 By no pretence, claim any manner place. 
 
 Well, Love, since this demur our suit doth stay. 
 
 Let Virtue have that Stella's self; yet thus, 
 
 That Virtue but that body grant to us. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 In martial sports I had my cunning tried. 
 And yet to break more staves did me address, 
 While, with the people's shouts, I must confess. 
 
 Youth, luck, and praise e'en fill'd my veins with pride 
 
 When 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 look'd, and Stella spied ; 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 157 
 
 Who, hard by, made a window send forth light : 
 
 My heart then quak'd, then dazzled were mine eyes, 
 
 One hand forgot 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. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Because I breathe not love to ev'ry one, "^ 
 
 Nor do not use set colours for to wear ; 
 Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair ; 
 
 Nor give each speech a 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 dare 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 true shall find. 
 That his right badge is but worn in the heart : 
 
 Dumb swans, not chatt'ring pies, do lovers prove, 
 
 They love indeed who quake to say they love. 
 
 Muses, I oft invok'd your holy aid, V 
 
 With choicest flowers, my speech t' engarland so. 
 That it, despis'd in true but naked show, 
 
 Might win some grace in your sweet grace array'd ; 
 
 And oft whole troops of saddest words I stay'd. 
 Striving abroad a foraging to go. 
 
158 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 Until, by your inspiring, I might know, 
 
 How their black banner might be best display'd ; 
 
 But now I mean no more your help to try, 
 Nor other sug'ring of my speech to prove, 
 
 But on her name incessantly to cry ; 
 
 For let me but name her whom I do love. 
 
 So sweet sounds straight mine ear and heart do hit, 
 
 That I well find no eloquence like it. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Fie, school of Patience, fie, your lesson is 
 Far, far too long to learn it without book : 
 What ! a whole week without one piece of look. 
 
 And think I should not your large precepts miss ? 
 
 When I might read those letters fair of bliss. 
 Which in her face teach virtue, I could brook 
 Somewhat thy leaden counsels, which I took. 
 
 As of a friend that meant not much amiss ; 
 
 But now, that I, alas ! do want her sight. 
 What ! dost thou think that I can ever take 
 
 In thy cold stufF a phlegmatic delight ? 
 
 No, Patience, if thou wilt my good, then make 
 
 Her come and hear with patience my desire. 
 
 And then with patience bid me bear my fire. 
 
 LVII. 
 Woe having made, with many fights, his own, 
 Each sense of mine, each gift, each power of mind. 
 Grown now his slaves, he forc'd them out to find 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. i59 
 
 The thoroughest words, fit for Woe's self to groan, 
 Hoping, that when they might find Stella alone, 
 Before she could prepare to be unkind. 
 Her soul, arm'd but with such a dainty rind. 
 
 Should soon be pierc'd with sharpness of the moan : 
 
 She heard my plaints, and did not only hear, 
 But them (so sweet is she) most sweetly sing. 
 
 With that fair breast, making Woe's darkness clear : 
 A pretty case ; I hoped her to bring 
 
 To feel my griefs, and she, with face and voice. 
 
 So sweets my pains, that my pains me rejoice. 
 
 LVIII. " / .v-<^^5U^ 
 
 Doubt there hath been, when, with his golden chain, 
 The orator so far men's hearts doth bind, 
 That no pace else their guided steps can find. 
 
 But as he them more short or slack doth rein ; 
 
 Whether with words this sovereignty he gain, 
 Cloth'd with fine tropes, with strongest reasons lin'd ? 
 Or else, pronouncing grace, wherewith his mind 
 
 Prints his own lively form in rudest brain ? 
 
 Now judge by this, in piercing phrases late, 
 Th' anatomy of all my woes I wrate : 
 
 Stella's sweet breath the same to me did read : 
 O voice ! O face ! maugre my speech's might. 
 Which wooed woe, most ravishing delight 
 
 Ev'n those sad words, ev'n in sad me did breed. 
 
i6o Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Dear! wh y make you more of a dog than me.? 
 If he do love, I burn, I burn in love ; 
 If he wait well, I never thence would move : 
 
 If he be fair, yet but a dog can be : 
 
 Little he is, so little worth is he ; 
 He barks, my songs thine own voice oft doth prov 
 Bidden, perhaps, he fetcheth thee a glove, 
 
 But I, unhid, fetch ev'n my soul to thee. 
 
 Yet, while I languish, him that bosom clips, 
 That lap doth lap, nay lets, in spite of spite, 
 
 This sour-breath'd mate taste of those sugar'd lips 
 Alas ! if you grant only such delight 
 
 To witless things, then Love, I hope, (since wit 
 
 Becomes a clog,) will soon ease me of it. 
 
 LX. 
 
 When my good angel guides me to the place 
 Where all my good I do in Stella see. 
 That heav'n of joys throws only down on me, 
 
 Thund'ring disdains, and lightnings of disgrace 
 
 But when the rugged'st step of Fortune's race 
 Makes me fall from her sight, then, sweetly, she 
 With words, wherein the Muse's treasures be, 
 
 Shows love and pity to my absent case. 
 
 Now I, wit-beaten long by hardest fate, 
 So dull am, that I cannot look into 
 
 The ground of this fierce love, and lovely hate ; 
 Then, some good body, tell me how I do, 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. i6i 
 
 Whose presence absence, absence presence is ; 
 Bliss'd in my curse, and cursed in my bliss ? 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Oft with true sighs, oft with uncalled tears, 
 Now with slow words, now with dumb eloquence, 
 
 I Stella's eyes assay'd, invade her ears ; 
 But this, at last, is her sweet-breath'd defence : 
 
 That who, indeed, in-felt afFe6lion bears, 
 So captives to his saint both soul and sense ; 
 
 That, wholly her's, all selfness he forbears. 
 Then his desires he learns his life's course thence. 
 
 Nov/, since her chaste mind hates this love in me. 
 With chasten'd mind, I straight must show, that she 
 
 Shall quickly me, from what she hates, remove. 
 O Doctor Cupid ! thou for me reply, 
 Driv'n, else, to grant, by angels' sophistry. 
 
 That I love not, without I leave to love. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Late, tir'd with woe, ev'n ready for to pine 
 With rage of love, I call'd my love unkind ; 
 
 She in whose eyes love, tho' unfelt, doth shine, 
 Sweet said, that I true love in her should find ; 
 
 I joy'd, but straight thus water'd was my wine. 
 That love she did, but lov'd a love not blind. 
 
 Which would not let me, whom she lov'd, decline 
 From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind : 
 
low, 
 
 162 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 And therefore, by her love's authority, 
 Will'd me these tempests of vain love to fly. 
 
 And anchor fast myself on Virtue's shore. 
 Alas ! if this the only metal be 
 Of love, new coin'd to help my beggary. 
 
 Dear ! love me not, that you may love me more. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 O grammar rules ! O now your virtues show I 
 So children still read you with awful eyes. 
 As my young dove may, in your precepts wise. 
 
 Her grant to me by her own virtue know ; 
 
 For late, with heart most high, with eyes most Ic 
 I crav'd the thing which ever she denies : 
 She, light'ning Love, displaying Venus' skies. 
 
 Lest once should not be heard, twice said. No, no. 
 
 Sing then, my Muse, now lo Paean sing ; 
 Heav'ns, envy not at my high triumphing ; 
 
 But grammar's force with sweet success confirm : 
 For grammar says, (O this, dear Stella, say !) 
 For grammar says, (to grammar who says nay ?) 
 
 That in one speech two negatives affirm. 
 
 FIRST SONG. 
 
 Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, 
 Which now my breast, o'ercharg'd, to music lendeth ? 
 
 To you, to you, all song of praise is due. 
 Only in you my song begins and endeth. 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 163 
 
 Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure ? 
 Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure ? 
 
 To you, to you, all song of praise is due. 
 Only for you the heav'n forgot all measure. 
 
 Who hath the lips, where wit in fairness reigneth ? 
 Who womankind at once both decks and staineth ? 
 
 To you, to you, all song of praise is due, 
 Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth. 
 
 Who hath the feet, whose step of sweetness planteth ? 
 Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth ? 
 
 To you, to you, all song of praise is due. 
 Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth. 
 
 Who hath the breast, whose milk doth passions nourish ? 
 Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish? 
 
 To you, to you, all song of praise is due. 
 Only through you the tree of life doth flourish. 
 
 Who hath the hand which, without stroke, subdueth ? 
 Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth ? 
 
 To you, to you, all song of praise is due. 
 Only at you all envy hopeless rueth. 
 
 Who hath the hair, which loosest, fasteth tieth .? 
 Who makes a man live, then glad when he dieth .'' 
 
 To you, to you, all song of praise is due. 
 Only of you the flatterer never lieth. 
 
 Who hath the voice, which soul from senses sunders ? 
 Whose force, but yours, the bolts of beauty thunders ? 
 
 To you, to you, all song of praise is due. 
 Only with you not miracles are wonders. 
 
164 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 Doubt you, to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, 
 Which now my breast, o'ercharged, to music lendeth ? 
 
 To you, to you, all song of praise is due : 
 Only in you my song begins and endeth. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 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 clouds bedim my face, break, in mine eye ; 
 Let me no steps but of lost labour trace ; 
 Let all the earth with scorn recount my case : 
 
 But do not will me from my love to fly. 
 
 I do not envy Aristotle's wit. 
 Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame ; 
 
 Nor aught do care, though some above me sit : 
 Nor hope, nor with another course to frame. 
 
 But that which once may win thy cruel heart : 
 
 Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Love, by sure proof, I may call thee unkind. 
 That giv'st no better ear to my just cries : 
 
 Thou whom to me such my good turns should bind. 
 As I may well recount, but none can prize : 
 
 For when, nak'd boy, thou couldst no harbour find 
 In this old world, grown now so too too wise : 
 
 I lodg'd thee in my heart, and being blind 
 By nature born, T gave to thee mine eyes. 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 165 
 
 A4ine eyes, my light, my heart, my life, alas ! 
 If so great services may scorned be : 
 
 Yet let this thought thy tig'rish courage pass, 
 That I perhaps am somewhat kin to thee ; 
 
 Since in thine arms, if learn'd fame truth had spread, 
 
 Thou bear'st the arrow, I the arrow head. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 And do I see some cause a hope to feed. 
 Or doth the tedious burthen of long woe 
 
 In weaken'd minds, quick apprehending breed. 
 Of every image which may comfort show ? 
 
 I cannot brag of word, much less of deed. 
 Fortune's wheels still with me in one sort slow, 
 
 My wealth no more, and no whit less my need, 
 Desire still on the stilts of Fear doth go. 
 
 And yet amid all fears as hope there is, 
 Stol'n to my heart since last fair night, nay day, 
 
 Stella's eyes sent to me the beams of bliss. 
 Looking on me, while I look'd other way : 
 
 But when mine eyes back to their heav'n did move, 
 
 They fled with blush, which guilty seem'd of love. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Hope ! art thou true, or dost thou flatter me .'' 
 Doth Stella now begin v/ith piteous eye. 
 The ruins of her conquest to espy ? 
 
 Will she take time before all wrack'd he be ? 
 
 Her eyes' speech is translated thus by thee : 
 But fail'st thou not in phrase so heav'nly high ? 
 
1 66 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 Look on again, the fair text better try : 
 
 What blushing notes dost thou in margin see ? 
 
 What sighs stol'n out, or kill'd before full born ? 
 Hast thou found such and such like arguments ? 
 
 Or art thou else to comfort me forsworn ? 
 Well, how-so thou interpret the contents, 
 
 I am resolv'd thy error to maintain, 
 
 Rather than by more truth to get more pain. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Stella, the only planet 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 heav'n of my delight ; 
 
 Why dost thou spend the treasures of thy sprite, 
 With voice more fit to wed Amphion's lyre. 
 Seeking to quench in me the noble fire. 
 
 Fed by thy worth, and blinded 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 : 
 
 O think I then, what paradise of joy 
 
 It is, so fair a virtue to enjoy. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 O joy ! too high for my low style to show 
 O bliss ! fit for a nobler state than me : 
 Envy, put out thine eyes, lest thou do see 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 167 
 
 What oceans of delight in me do flow. 
 
 My friend, that oft saw through all masks my woe, 
 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 with words where faith doth shine, 
 Of her high heart giv'n me the monarchy ; 
 
 I, I, O I may say that she is mine : 
 
 And though she give but thus conditionly 
 
 This realm of bliss, while virtuous course I take, 
 
 No kings be crown'd, but they some cov'nants make. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 My Muse may well grudge at my heav'nly joy. 
 If still I force her in sad rhymes to creep : 
 
 She oft hath drunk my tears, now hopes t' enjoy 
 Nedar of mirth, since I Love's cup do keep. 
 
 Sonnets be not bound prentice to annoy : 
 Trebles sing high, as well as bases deep : 
 
 Grief but Love's winter-livery is, the boy 
 Hath cheeks to smile, as well as eyes to weep. 
 
 Come then, my Muse, show thou height of delight 
 In well-raised notes ; my pen, the best it may. 
 
 Shall paint out joy, though but in black and white. 
 Cease, eager Muse ; peace, pen, for my sake stay, 
 
 I give you here my hand for truth of this, 
 
 Wise silence is best music unto bliss. 
 
1 68 Astrophel and Stella. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Who will in fairest book of Nature know 
 How virtue may best lodg'd in beauty be, 
 Let him but learn of Love to read in thee, 
 
 Stella, those fair lines which true goodness show 
 
 There shall he find all vices overthrow. 
 Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty 
 Of reason, from whose light those night-birds fly ; 
 
 That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so. 
 
 And not content to be Perfe6lion'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 I Desire still cries. Give me some food. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Desire, though thou my old companion art. 
 And oft so clings to my pure love, that I 
 One from the other scarcely can descry. 
 
 While each doth blow the fire of my heart ; 
 
 Nqw 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. 
 
 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 sprite : 
 These things are left me by my only dear ; 
 
Astrophel and Stella. 169 
 
 But thou, Desire, because thou wouldst have all. 
 Now banish'd art ; but yet, alas ! how shall ? 
 
 SECOND SONG. 
 
 Have I caught my heav'nly jewel, 
 Teaching Sleep most fair to be ? 
 Now will I teach her that she. 
 
 When she wakes, is too, too cruel. 
 
 Since sweet Sleep her eyes hath charm'd, 
 The two only darts of Love ; 
 Now will I, with that boy, prove 
 
 Some play, while he 's 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 ! think of the danger 
 Of her just and high disdain : 
 Now will I, alas ! refrain ; 
 
 Love fears nothing else but anger. 
 
 Yet those lips, so sweetly swelling. 
 Do invite a stealing- kiss : 
 
170 Jstropkel and Stella. 
 
 Now will I but venture this, 
 Who will read, must first learn spellinc 
 
 Oh ! sweet kiss ! but ah ! she's waking 
 Low'ring beauty chastens me : 
 Now will I away hence flee : 
 
 Fool I more fool ! for no more taking. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Love, still a boy, and oft a wanton is, 
 School'd only by his mother's tender eye : 
 
 What wonder then, if he his lesson miss, 
 When for so soft a rod, dear play he try ? 
 
 And yet my Star, because a sugar'd kiss 
 In sport I suck'd, while she asleep did lie, 
 
 Doth low'r, nay chide, nay threat for only this : 
 Sweet, it was saucy Love, not humble L 
 
 But no 'scuse serves, she makes her wrath appear 
 In beauty's throne ; see now, who dares come near 
 
 Those scarlet judges, threat'ning bloody pain ? 
 O heav'nly fool ! thy most kiss-worthy face, 
 Anger invests with such a lovely grace, 
 
 That Anger's self I needs must kiss again. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 I never drank of Aganippe well. 
 Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit : 
 
 And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell : 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 171 
 
 Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit. 
 
 Some do I hear of poets' fury tell, 
 But (God wot) wot not what they mean by it ; 
 
 And this 1 swear, by blackest brook of hell, 
 I am no pickpurse of another's wit. 
 
 How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease 
 My thoughts I speak, and what I speak doth flow 
 
 In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please ? 
 Guess we the cause ? What, is it thus ? Fie, no : 
 
 Or so ? Much less : How then ? Sure thus it is. 
 
 My lips are sweet, inspir'd with Stella's kiss. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Of all the kings that ever here did reign, 
 Edward, nam'd fourth, as first in praise, I name, 
 
 Not for his fair outside, nor well-lin'd brain ; 
 
 Although less gifts imp feathers oft on fame : 
 
 Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame 
 His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain : 
 
 And gain'd by Mars, could yet mad Mars so tame, 
 
 That balance weigh'd what sword did late obtain. 
 
 Nor that he made the flower-de-luce so 'fraid, 
 Though strongly hedg'd of bloody lions' paws. 
 
 That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid : 
 Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause. 
 
 But only for this worthy knight durst prove 
 
 To lose his crown, rather than fail his love. 
 
172 Atropkel a?id Stella. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 She comes, and straight therewith her shining twins 
 do move 
 Their rays to me, who in her tedious absence lay- 
 Benighted in cold woe ; but now appears my day, " 
 
 The only light of joy, the only warmth of love. 
 
 She comes with light and warmth, which, like Aurora, 
 prove 
 Of gentle force, so that mine eyes dare gladly play 
 With such a rosy morn, whose beams, most freshly gay. 
 
 Scorch not, but only do dark chilling sp'rits remove. 
 
 But, lo ! while I do speak, it groweth noon with me ; 
 Her flamy glist'ring lights increase with time and 
 place ; 
 My heart cries ah ! it burns, mine eyes now dazzled be : 
 No wind, no shade can cool ; what help then in my 
 case ? 
 But with short breath, long looks, staid feet, and walk- 
 ing head. 
 Pray that my sun go down, with meeker beams, to bed. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Those looks, whose beams be joy, whose motion is 
 delight ; 
 That face, whose le6lure shows what perfect beauty is ; 
 That presence, which doth give dark hearts a living 
 light ; 
 That grace, which Venus weeps that she herself doth 
 miss ; 
 
Jstrophel cuid Stella. i73 
 
 That hand, which without touch holds more than 
 Atlas might ; 
 Those lips, which make death's pay a mean price for a 
 kiss ; 
 That skin, whose pass-praise hue scorns this poor 
 term of white ; 
 Those words, which do sublime the quintessence of bliss ; 
 
 That voice, which makes the soul plant himself in 
 the ears ; 
 That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be, 
 As constru'd in true speech, the name of heav'n it 
 bears ; 
 Makes me in my best thoughts, and quiet'st judgment, 
 see 
 That in no more but these I might be fully blest ; 
 Yet, ah ! my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the best. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 O how the pleasant airs of true love be 
 Infe6led by those vapours, which arise 
 From out that noisome gulf, which gaping lies 
 
 Between the jaws of hellish jealousy ! 
 
 A monster, others' harm, self-misery. 
 Beauty's plague, virtue's scourge, succour of lies 
 Who his own joy to his own hurt applies, 
 
 And only cherish doth with injury. 
 
 Who since he hath, by Nature's special grace, 
 So piercing paws as spoil when they embrace j 
 
 So nimble feet as stir still, though on thorns ; 
 So many eyes, aye seeking their own woe ; 
 
174 Astrophel and Stella. 
 
 So ample ears as never good news know : 
 Is it not evil that such a devil wants horns ? 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Sweet kiss, thy sweets I fain would sweetly indite, 
 Which, ev'n of sweetness, sweetest sweet'ner art ; 
 Pleasing'st consort, where each sense holds a part ; 
 
 Which coupling doves guides Venus' chariot right : 
 
 Best charge, and brav'st retreat in Cupid's fight ; 
 A double key, which opens to the heart, 
 A4ost rich, when most his riches is impart : 
 
 Nest of young joys, schoolmaster of delight ; 
 
 Teaching the mean, at once to take and give ; 
 
 The friendly fray, where blows both wound and heal 
 The pretty death, while each in other live : 
 
 Poor hope's first wealth, hostage of promis'd weal, 
 Breakfast of love : — But lo ! lo ! where she is. 
 Cease we to praise, now pray we for a kiss. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Sweet swelling lip, well may'st thou swell in pride, 
 Since best wits think it wit thee to admire : 
 Nature's praise, Virtue's stall, Cupid's cold fire ; ^ 
 
 Whence words, not words, but heav'nly graces slide. 
 
 The new Parnassus, where the Muses bide ; 
 Sweet'ner of music, wisdom's beautifier : 
 Breather of life, and fast'ner of desire. 
 
 Where beauty's blush in honour's grain is dy'd. 
 
Jitrophel and Stella. i^S 
 
 Thus much my heart compell'd my mouth to say, 
 But now, spite of my heart, my mouth will stay, 
 
 Loathing all lies, doubting this flatt'ry is ; 
 
 And no spur can his resty race renew, 
 Without, how far this praise is short of you. 
 
 Sweet lip, you teach my mouth with one sweet kiss. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 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, ev'n souls, together ties 
 By links of love, and only Nature's art : 
 
 How fain would I paint thee to 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, 
 
 Stop you my mouth with still, still kissing me. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Nymph of the garden, where all beauties be : 
 Beauties, which do in excellency pass 
 His, who, till death, look'd in a wat'ry glass ; 
 
 Or her's, whom nak'd the Trojan boy did see : 
 Sweet garden nymph, which keeps the cherry-tree, 
 
 Whose fruit doth far the Hesperian taste surpass : 
 
176 Astrophel and Stella. 
 
 Most sweet-fair, most fair-sweet, do not alas ! 
 From coming near those cherries banish me : 
 
 For though, full of desire, empty of wit. 
 Admitted late by your best-graced grace, 
 
 I caught, at one of them, a hungry bit ; 
 Pardon that fault, once more grant me the place, 
 
 And I do swear, ev'n by the same delight, 
 
 I will but kiss, I never more will bite. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Good brother Philip, I have borne you long, 
 I was content you should in favour creep, 
 While craftily you seem'd your cut to keep. 
 
 As though that fair soft hand did you great wrong : 
 
 I bare (with envy) yet I bare your song. 
 When in her neck, you did love ditties peep ; 
 Nay, more fool, I oft suffer'd you to sleep. 
 
 In lily's nest, where Love's self lies along. 
 
 What, doth high place ambitious thoughts augment ? 
 Is sauciness reward of courtesy ? 
 
 Cannot such grace your silly self content. 
 But you must needs with those lips billing be ? 
 
 And through those lips drink nedar from that tongue ; 
 
 Leave that. Sir Phip, lest off your neck be wrung. 
 
 THIRD SONG. 
 If Orpheus' voice had force to breathe such music's 
 
 love 
 Through pores of senseless trees, as it could make them 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. ijj 
 
 If stones good measure danc'd, the Theban walls to 
 
 build, 
 To cadence of the tunes, which Amphion's lyre did 
 yield ; 
 More cause, a like effe6l, at least-wise bringeth : 
 O stones ! O trees ! learn hearing, Stella singeth. 
 
 If love might sweeten so a boy of shepherd brood. 
 To make a lizard dull, to taste love's dainty food : 
 If eagle fierce could so in Grecian maid delight. 
 As his light was her eyes, her death his endless night : 
 Earth give that love ; heaven, I trow, love reitneth : 
 
 Stella shineth. 
 
 The birds, beasts, stones, and trees feel this, and, feel- 
 ing, love : 
 And if the trees, nor stones, stir not the same to prove, 
 Nor beasts, nor birds, do come unto this blessed gaze, 
 Know, that small love is quick, and great love doth 
 amaze : 
 They are amaz'd, but you with reason arm'd, 
 O eyes, O ears of men, how are you charm'd ! 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be ; 
 "And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet. 
 Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet. 
 
 More oft than to a chamber melody. 
 Now blessed you, bear onward blessed me. 
 
 To her, where I my heart, safe left, shall meet 
 
 My Muse and I must you of duty greet 
 With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully. 
 
178 Astrophel and Stella. 
 
 Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed ; 
 By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot : 
 
 Nor blam'd for blood, nor sham'd for sinful deed 
 And that you know, I envy you no lot 
 
 Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss. 
 
 Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 I see the house, my heart thyself contain ; 
 Beware full sails drown not thy tott'ring barge ; 
 Lest joy by nature apt sp'rits to enlarge. 
 
 Thee to thy wreck, beyond thy limits strain. 
 
 Nor do like lords, whose weak confused brain. 
 Not pointing to fit folks, each undercharge, 
 While ev'ry office themselves will discharge j 
 
 With doing all, leave nothing done but pain. 
 
 But give apt servants their due place, let eyes 
 See beauty's total sum, summ'd in her face j 
 
 Let ears hear speech, which wit to wonder ties ; 
 Let breath suck up those sweets, let arms embrace 
 
 The globe of weal, lips Love's indentures make ; 
 
 Thou, but of all the kingly tribute take. 
 
 ^^ FOURTH SONG. 
 
 Only joy, now here you are. 
 
 Fit to hear and ease my care ; 
 Let my whisp'ring voice obtain. 
 Sweet reward for sharpest pain : 
 
 Take me to thee, and thee to me. 
 
 No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. 
 
Jstropbel and Stella. 179 
 
 Night hath clos'd all in her cloke, 
 
 Twinkling stars love-thoughts provoke : 
 Danger hence good care doth keep, 
 Jealousy itself doth sleep : 
 
 Take me to thee, and thee to me. 
 
 No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. 
 
 Better place no wit can find, 
 Cupid's yoke to loose or bind : 
 
 These sweet flowers on fine bed too, 
 
 Us in their best language woo : 
 Take me to thee, and thee to me. 
 No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. 
 
 This small light the moon bestows. 
 
 Serves thy beams but to disclose ; 
 So to raise my hap more high ; 
 Fear not else, none can us spy : 
 
 Take me to thee, and thee to me. 
 
 No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. 
 
 That you heard was but a mouse, 
 
 Dumb sleep holdeth all the house : 
 Yet asleep, methinks they say. 
 Young folks, take time while you may : 
 
 Take me to thee, and thee to me. 
 
 No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. 
 
 Niggard time threats, if we miss 
 
 This large offer of our bliss. 
 Long stay, ere he grant the same. 
 Sweet, then, while each thing doth frame. 
 
iS:: Atrophel and Stella. 
 
 Take me to thee, and thee to me. 
 No, no, no, no, mx dear, let be. 
 
 Your fair mother is abed, 
 Candles out, and curtains spread ; 
 
 She thinks you do letters write ; 
 
 Write, but let me first indite : 
 Take me to thee, and thee to me. 
 No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. 
 
 Sweet, alas I why strive you thus ? 
 
 Concord better fitteth us ; 
 Leave to Mars the force of hands, 
 Your power in your beauty stands : 
 
 Take thee to me, and me to thee. 
 
 No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. 
 
 Woe to me, and do you swear 
 !Me to hate ? but I forbear ; 
 Cursed be my dest'nies all. 
 That brought me so high to fall : 
 Soon with my death I will please thee, 
 No, no, no, no, my dear, let be. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Alas ! whence came this change of looks ? If I 
 Have chang'd desert, let mine own conscience be 
 
 A still-felt plague, to self-condemning me : 
 Let woe gripe on my heart, shame load mine eye. 
 But if all faith, like spotless ermine, lie 
 
 Safe in mv soul, which onlv doth to thee. 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 (As his sole object: of felicity) 
 With wings of love in air of wonder fly. 
 
 O ease your hand, treat not so hard your slave : 
 In justice pains come not till faults do call ; 
 
 Or, if I needs, sweet judge, must torments have. 
 Use something else to chasten me withal, 
 
 Than those blest eyes, where all my hopes do dwell 
 
 No doom should make once heav'n become his hell. 
 
 FIFTH SONG. 
 
 While favour fed my hope, delight with hope is 
 
 brought ; 
 Thought waited on delight, and speech did follow 
 
 thought ; 
 Then grew my tongue and pen records unto thy 
 
 glory : 
 I thought all words were lost, that were not spent of 
 
 thee ; 
 I thought each place was dark, but where thy lights 
 
 would be. 
 And all ears worse than deaf, that heard not out thy 
 
 story. 
 
 I said thou wcrt most fair, and so, indeed, thou art ; 
 I said thou art most sweet, sweet poison to my heart ; 
 
 I said my soul was thine, O that I then had lied ! 
 I said thine eyes were stars, thy breasts the milken 
 
 way. 
 Thy fingers Cupid's shafts, thy voice the angels' lay : 
 
 And all I said so well, as no man it denied. 
 
1 82 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 But now that hope is lost, unkindness kills delight, 
 Yet thought and speech do live, though metamorphos'd 
 quite ; 
 For rage now rules the reins, which guided were by- 
 pleasure ; 
 I think now of thy faults, who late thought of thy 
 
 praise ; 
 That speech falls now to blame, which did thy honour 
 raise ; 
 The same key open can, which can lock up a treasure. 
 
 Thou then, whom partial heav'ns conspir'd in one to 
 
 frame 
 The proof of beauty's worth, th' inheritrix of fame ; 
 
 The mansion seat of bliss, and just excuse of lovers ; 
 See now those feathers pluck'd, wherewith thou flew 
 
 most high ; 
 See what clouds of reproach shall dark thy honour's 
 
 sky : 
 Whose own faults cast him down, hardly high seat 
 
 recovers. 
 
 And, O my Muse ! though oft you luU'd her in your 
 
 lap. 
 And then, a heav'nly child, gave her ambrosian pap, 
 
 And to that brain of hers your kindest gifts infused, 
 Since she, disdaining me, doth you in me disdain. 
 Suffer not her to laugh, while both we suffer pain : 
 Princes, in subjeds wrong'd, must deem themselves 
 abused. 
 
 Your client, poor myself, shall Stella handle so ? 
 Revenge, revenge, my Muse ! defiance trumpet blow ; 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 183 
 
 Threaten what may be 3one, yet do no more than 
 threaten : 
 Ah, my suit granted is, I feel my breast doth swell ; 
 Now, child, a lesson new you shall begin to spell : 
 
 Sweet babes must babies have, but shrewd girls must 
 be beaten. 
 
 Think now no more to hear of warm fine odour'd snow, 
 Nor blushing lilies, nor pearls' ruby-hidden row. 
 
 Nor of that golden sea, whose waves in curls are 
 broken ; 
 But of thy soul, so fraught with such ungratefulness 
 As where thou soon might'st help, most faith dost most 
 oppress : 
 Ungrateful who is call'd, the worst of evils is spoken. 
 
 Yet worse than worst, I say thou art a thief. — A 
 
 thief! 
 Now God forbid : a thief, and of worst thieves, the 
 chief! 
 Thieves steal for need, and steal but goods which pain 
 recovers ; 
 But thou, rich in all joys, dost rob my joys from me. 
 Which cannot be restor'd by time nor industry : 
 
 Of foes the spoil is evil, far worse of constant lovers. 
 
 Yet, gentle English thieves do rob, but will not slay ; 
 Thou English murd'ring thief, wilt have hearts for thy 
 
 prey ? 
 The name of murd'rer now on thy fair forehead 
 
 sitteth : 
 And ev'n while I do speak, my death-wounds bleeding 
 
 be ; 
 
i84 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 Which, I protest, proceed from only cruel thee : 
 
 Who may, and will not save, murder, in truth, com- 
 mitteth. 
 
 But, murder, private fault ! seems but a toy to thee, 
 I lay then to thy charge unjustest tyranny. 
 
 If rule, by force, v/ithout all claim, a tyrant showeth ; 
 For thou dost lord my heart, who am not born thy 
 
 slave. 
 And, which is worse, makes me most guiltless torments 
 have : 
 A rightful prince by unright deeds a tyrant groweth. 
 
 Lo ! you grow proud with this, for tyrants make folk 
 
 bow : 
 Of foul rebellion then I do appeach thee now ; 
 
 Rebel by Nature's law, rebel by law of Reason, 
 Thou, sweetest subject, wert born in the realm of Love, 
 And yet, against the prince thy force dost daily prove : 
 No virtue merits praise, once touch'd w^ith blot of 
 treason. 
 
 But valiant rebels oft, in fools' mouths, purchase fame : 
 I now then stain thy white with vagabonding shame. 
 
 Both rebel to the son, and vagrant from the mother ; 
 For wearing Venus' badge in every part of thee. 
 Unto Diana's train thou, runaway, didst flee : 
 
 Who faileth one is false, though trusty to another. 
 
 What ! is not this enough ? nay, far worse cometh here; 
 A witch, I say, thou art, though thou so fair appear ; 
 
 For, I protest, my sight never thy face enjoyeth. 
 But I in me am chang'd ; I am alive and dead : 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 185 
 
 My feet are turn'd to roots, my heart becometh lead : 
 No witchcraft is so evil, as which man's mind de- 
 stroyeth. 
 
 Yet witches may repent ; thou art far worse than they : 
 Alas ! that I am forc'd such evil of thee to say : 
 
 I say, thou art a devil, though cloth'd in angel's 
 shining ; 
 For thy face tempts my soul to leave the heav'n for thee, 
 And thy words of refuse, do pour even hell on me : 
 Who tempt, and tempting plague, are devils in true 
 defining. 
 
 You, then, ungrateful thief, you murd'ring tyrant, you. 
 You rebel runaway, to lord and lady untrue. 
 
 You witch, you devil, (alas !) you still of me beloved. 
 You see what I can say j mend yet your froward mind, 
 And such skill in my muse, you, reconcil'd, shall find. 
 
 That all these cruel words your praises shall be 
 proved. 
 
 SIXTH SONG. 
 
 O you that hear this voice, 
 O you that see this face. 
 
 Say, whether, of the choice. 
 Deserves the former place \ 
 
 Fear not to judge this bate, 
 
 For it is void of hate. 
 
 This side doth Beauty take, 
 For that doth Music speak \ 
 Fit orators to make 
 
i86 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 The strongest judgments weak : 
 The bar to plead their right. 
 Is only true delight. 
 
 Thus doth the voice and face, 
 These gentle lawyers, wage. 
 
 Like loving brothers' case. 
 For father's heritage ; 
 
 That each, while each contends. 
 
 Itself to other lends. 
 
 For Beauty beautifies. 
 With heav'nly hue and grace. 
 
 The heav'nly harmonies \ 
 And in this faultless face. 
 
 The perfe6l beauties be 
 
 A perfe6l harmony. 
 
 Music more lofty swells 
 In speeches nobly placed ; 
 
 Beauty as far excels. 
 In adlion aptly graced ; 
 
 A friend each party draws 
 
 To countenance his cause. 
 
 Love more afFefted seems 
 To Beauty's lovely light. 
 
 And Wonder more esteems 
 Of Music's wond'rous might ; 
 
 But both to both so bent. 
 
 As both in both are spent. 
 
 Music doth witness call 
 The ear, his truth to try ; 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 187 
 
 Beauty brings to the hall 
 Eye-judgment of the eye 5 
 Both in their obje6ls such, 
 As no exceptions touch. 
 
 The common sense, which might 
 Be arbiter of this, 
 
 To be, forsooth, upright. 
 To both sides partial is : 
 
 He lays on this chief praise, 
 
 Chief praise 'on that he lays. 
 
 Then Reason, princess high. 
 Whose throne is in the mind. 
 
 Which Music can in sky 
 And hidden beauties find ; 
 
 Say, whether thou wilt crown, 
 
 With limitless renown ? 
 
 SEVENTH SONG. 
 
 Whose senses in so evil consort their step-dame Nature 
 lays. 
 
 That ravishing delight in them most sweet tunes do not 
 raise ; 
 
 Or if they do delight therein, yet are so clos'd with 
 wit. 
 
 As with sententious lips to set a title vain on it : 
 
 O let them hear these sacred tunes, and learn in won- 
 ders' schools. 
 
 To be, in things past bounds of wit, fools — if they be 
 not fools. 
 
1 88 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 Who have so leaden eyes, as not to see sweet beauty's 
 
 show ; 
 Or, seeing, have so wooden wits, as not that worth to 
 
 know ; 
 Or, knowing, have so muddy minds, as not to be in 
 
 love ; 
 Or, loving, have so frothy thoughts, as eas'ly thence to 
 
 move : 
 O let them see these heav'nly beams, and in fair letters 
 
 read 
 A lesson fit, both sight and skill, love and firm love to 
 
 breed. 
 
 Hear then, but then with wonder hear ; see, but adoring, 
 
 see. 
 No mortal gifts, no earthly fruits, now here descended 
 
 be: 
 See ! do you see this face ? a face ! nay, image of the 
 
 skies, 
 Of which, the two life-giving lights are figur'd in her 
 
 eyes : 
 Hear you this soul-invading voice, and count it but a 
 
 voice ? 
 The very essence of their tunes, when angels do 
 
 rejoice. 
 
 EIGHTH SONG. 
 
 In a grove most rich of shade, 
 
 Where birds wanton music made. 
 
 May, then young, his pied weeds showing, 
 
 New perfum'd, with flowers fresh growing : 
 
JstropI.el and Stella. ii^9 
 
 Astrophel with Stella sweet, 
 Did for mutual comfort meet, 
 Both within themselves oppressed. 
 But each in the other blessed. 
 
 Him great harms had taught much care ; 
 H er fair n eck a foul y gke . bar e ; 
 But her sight his cares did banish \ 
 In his sight her yoke did vanish. 
 
 Wept they had, alas ! the while. 
 But now tears themselves did smile. 
 While their eyes, by love directed. 
 Interchangeably refle6led. 
 
 Sigh they did, but now, betwixt 
 Sighs of woes, were glad sighs mix'd ; 
 With arms crost, yet testifying 
 Restless rest, and living dying. 
 
 Their ears hungry of each word. 
 Which the dear tongue would afford ; 
 But their tongues restrain'd from walking, 
 'Till their hearts had ended talking. 
 
 But when their tongues could not speak. 
 Love itself did silence break ; 
 Love did set his lips asunder. 
 Thus to speak in love and wonder. 
 
 Stella ! sovereign of my joy. 
 Fair triumpher of annoy : 
 Stella ! star of heav'nly fire : 
 Stella ! loadstar of desire : 
 
[go Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 Stella ! in whose shining eyes 
 
 Are the lights of Cupid's skies, 
 
 Whose beams, where they once are darted, 
 
 Love therewith is straight imparted : 
 
 Stella ! whose voice, when it speaks, 
 Senses all asunder breaks : 
 Stella ! whose voice, when it singeth. 
 Angels to acquaintance bringeth. 
 
 Stella I in whose body is 
 Writ each chara6ler of bliss ; 
 Whose face all, all beauty passeth. 
 Save thy mind, which yet surpasseth. 
 
 Grant ! O grant I but speech, alas ! 
 Fails me, fearing on to pass : 
 
 Grant ! O me ! what am I saying ? 
 
 But no fault there is in praying. 
 
 Grant O dear ! on knees I pray, 
 
 (Knees on ground he then did stay) 
 That, not I, but since I love you, 
 Time and place for me may move you. 
 
 Never season was more fit ; 
 
 Never room more apt for it ; 
 
 Smiling air allows my reason ; 
 
 These birds sing, " Now use the season." 
 
 This small wind, which so sweet is. 
 See how it the leaves doth kiss. 
 Each tree in his best attiring. 
 Sense of love to love inspiring. 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 19 > 
 
 Love makes earth the water drink ; 
 Love to earth makes water sink ; 
 And, if dumb things be so witty, 
 Shall a heav'nly grace want pity ? 
 
 There his hands, in their speech, fain 
 ^^'ould have made tongue's language plain ; 
 But her hands, his hands repelling. 
 Gave repulse all grace excelling. 
 
 Then she spake ; her speech was such, 
 As not ear, but heart did touch : 
 While such-wise she love denied. 
 As yet love she signified. 
 
 Astrophel, said she, my love, 
 
 Cease, in these effects, to prove ; 
 
 Now be still, yet still believe me. 
 
 Thy grief more than death would grieve me. 
 
 If that any thought in me 
 Can taste comfort but of thee. 
 Let me, fed with hellish anguish. 
 Joyless, hopeless, endless languish. 
 
 If those eyes you praised, be 
 Half so dear as you to me. 
 Let me home return, stark blinded 
 Of those eyes, and blinder minded ; 
 
 If t o secret of my heart, 
 
 I do any wish impart, 
 
 Whe re thoujirt not foremost placed, 
 
 Be both wish and I defaced. 
 
192 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 If more may be said, I say, 
 
 All my bliss in thee I lay ; 
 
 If thou love, my love, content thee. 
 
 For all love, all faith is meant thee. 
 
 Trust me, while I thee deny,' 
 In myself the smart I try ; 
 Tyrant Honour doth thus use thee, 
 Stella's self might not refuse thee. 
 
 Therefore, dear ! this no more move, 
 Lest, though I leave not thy love. 
 Which too deep in me is framed, 
 I should blush when thou art named. 
 
 Therewithal away she went. 
 Leaving him so passion rent. 
 With what she had done and spoken. 
 That therewith my song is broken. 
 
 NINTH SONG. 
 
 Go, my flock, go, get you hence, 
 Seek a better place of feeding. 
 
 Where you may have some defence 
 For the storms in my breast breeding. 
 And showers from mine eyes proceeding. 
 
 Leave a wretch, in whom all woe 
 Can abide to keep no measure ; 
 
 Merry flock, such one forego, 
 Unto whom mirth is displeasure. 
 Only rich in mischiefs treasure. 
 
Jstropkel and Stella. i93 
 
 Yet, alas ! before you go, 
 Hear your woeful master's story. 
 
 Which to stones I else would show : 
 Sorrow only then hath glory, 
 When 'tis excellently sorry. 
 
 Stella ! fiercest shepherdess. 
 Fiercest, but yet fairest ever ; 
 
 Stella! whom, O heav'ns, do bless ! 
 Though against me she persever. 
 Though I bliss inherit never. 
 
 Stella hath refused me ; 
 Stella ! who more love hath proved. 
 
 In this caitiff heart to be. 
 Than can in good ewes be moved 
 Toward lambkins best beloved. 
 
 Stella hath refused me ! 
 Astrophel, that so well served 
 
 In this pleasant spring, must see. 
 While in pride flowers be preserved. 
 Himself only winter-starved. 
 
 Why, alas ! doth she then swear. 
 That she loveth me so dearly. 
 
 Seeing me so long to bear 
 Coals of love that burn so clearly ; 
 And yet leave me helpless merely ? 
 
 Is that love ? forsooth, I trow. 
 If I saw my good dog grieved. 
 And a help for him did know, 
 25 
 
^94 Astrophel a?id Stella. 
 
 My love should not be believed, 
 But he v/ere by me relieved. 
 
 No, she hates me ; w^el-away ! 
 Feigning love, somewhat to please me ; 
 
 For she knov/s, if she display 
 All her hate, death soon would seize me, 
 And of hideous torments ease me. 
 
 Then adieu ! dear flock, adieu ; 
 But, alas ! if in your straying 
 
 Heav'nly Stella meet with you, 
 Tell her, in your piteous blaying. 
 Her poor slave's unjust decaying. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 When I was forc'd from Stella, ever dear, 
 Stella ! food of my thoughts, heart of my heart, 
 
 Stella ! whose eyes make all my tempests clear, 
 By iron laws of duty to depart ; 
 Alas ! I found that she, with me, did smart ; 
 
 I 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 : 
 
 For me, I wept to see pearls scatter'd so, 
 I sigh'd her sighs, and wailed for her woe. 
 
 Yet swam in joy, such love in her was seen : 
 Thus, while th' efFe6l most bitter was to me. 
 And nothing than the cause more sweet could be, 
 
 I had been vex'd, if vex'd I had not been. 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 195 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Out, traitor Absence ! dar'st thou counsel me, 
 From my dear captainess to run away, 
 
 Because, in brave array, here marcheth she. 
 That, to win me, oft shows a present pay ? 
 
 Is faith so weak ? or is such force in thee ? 
 When sun is hid, can stars such beams display ? 
 
 Cannot heav'ns food, once felt, keep stomachs free 
 From base desire on earthly cates to prey ? 
 
 Tush, Absence, while thy mists eclipse that light, 
 My orphan sense flies to the inward sight. 
 
 Where memory sets forth the beams of love. 
 That where before heart lov'd, and eyes did see, 
 In heart both sight and love now coupled be ; 
 
 United powers make each the stronger prove. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Now, that of absence, the most irksome night. 
 With darkest shade, doth overcome my day ; 
 Since Stella's eyes, wont to give me my day. 
 
 Leaving my hemisphere, leave me in night : 
 
 Each day seems long, and longs for long-stay'd night 
 The night, as tedious, woos th' approach of day ; 
 Tir'd with the dusty toils of busy day, 
 
 Languish'd with horrors of the silent night ; 
 
 Suff'ring the evils both of day and night, 
 While no night is more dark than is my day. 
 
 Nor no day hath less quiet than my night : 
 With such bad mixture of my night and day. 
 
 
196 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 That living thus in blackest winter night, 
 I feel the flames of hottest summer day. 
 
 XC. 
 
 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 mine history : 
 
 If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. 
 
 Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame 
 A nest for my young praise in laurel tree : 
 In truth I swear, I wish not there should be 
 
 Grav'd in my epitaph a Poet's name : 
 
 Ne, if I would, I could just title make. 
 That any laud to me thereof should grow ; 
 
 Without my plumes from others' wings I take : 
 For nothing from my wit, or will, doth flow j 
 
 Since all my words thy beauty doth indite. 
 
 And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 Stella, while now, by honour's cruel might, 
 I am from you, light of my life, misled. 
 And that fair you, my sun, thus overspread 
 
 With absence veil, I live in sorrow's night. 
 
 If this dark place yet show like candle-light. 
 Some beauty's piece, as amber-colour'd head. 
 Milk hands, rose cheeks, or lips more sweet, more red 
 
 Or seeing jet's black, but in blackness, bright ; 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 197 
 
 They please, I do confess, they please mine eyes ; 
 
 But why ? because of you they models be : 
 Models ! such be wood-globes of glist'ring skies. 
 
 Dear, therefore be not jealous over me, 
 If you hear that they seem my heart to move ; 
 Not them, O no, but you in them I love. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 Be your words made, good Sir, of Indian ware, 
 That you allow me them by so small rate ? 
 Or do you curted Spartans imitate ? 
 
 Or do you mean my tender ears to spare, 
 
 That to my questions you so total are ? 
 When I demand of Phoenix-Stella's state. 
 You say, forsooth, you left her well of late : 
 
 O God ! think you that satisfies my care ? 
 
 I would know whether she do sit or walk ? 
 
 How cloth'd ? How waited on ? Sigh'd she, 
 smil'd ? 
 Whereof? With whom? How often did she talk? 
 
 With what pastime. Time's journey she beguil'd ? 
 If her lips deign'd to sweeten my poor name ? 
 Say all ; and all well said, still say the same. 
 
 TENTH SONG. 
 
 O dear life, when shall it be. 
 
 That mine eyes thine eyes may see ; 
 
 And in them thy mind discover. 
 Whether absence have had force. 
 
Astrophel and Stella. 
 
 Thy remembrance to divorce, 
 From the image of thy lover ? 
 
 Or if I myself find not, 
 After parting, aught forgot : 
 
 Nor debarr'd from beauty's treasure. 
 Let not tongue aspire to tell 
 In v^'hat high joys I shall dwell ; 
 
 Only thought aims at the pleasure. 
 
 Thought, therefore, I will send thee 
 To take up the place for me : 
 
 Long I will not after tarry : 
 There, unseen, thou may'st be bold. 
 Those fair wonders to behold, 
 
 Which in them my hopes do carry. 
 
 Thought, see thou no place forbear, 
 Enter bravely everywhere ; 
 
 Seize on all to her belonging : 
 But, if thou wouldst guarded be. 
 Fearing her beams, take with thee 
 
 Strength of liking, rage of longing. 
 
 Think of that most grateful time. 
 When thy leaping heart will climb, 
 
 In my lips to have his biding ; 
 There those roses for to kiss. 
 Which do breathe a sugar'd bliss. 
 
 Opening rubies, pearls dividing. 
 
 Think of my most princely power. 
 Which I, blessed, shall devour 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. i99 
 
 With my greedy lick'rous senses, 
 Beauty, music, sweetness, love. 
 While she doth against me prove 
 
 Her strong darts but weak defences. 
 
 Think, think of those dallyings. 
 When with dove-like murmurings. 
 
 With glad moaning passed anguish, 
 We change eyes ; and heart for heart. 
 Each to other do depart, 
 
 Joying till joy makes us languish. 
 
 O my thought I my thoughts surcease, 
 Thy delights my woes increase ; 
 
 My life melts with too much thinking : 
 Think no more, but die in me. 
 Till thou shalt revived be. 
 
 At her lips my ne6lar drinking. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 O fate ! O fault ! O curse ! child of my bliss, 
 What sobs can give words grace my grief to show 
 What ink is black enough to paint my woe ? 
 
 Through me, wretch me ! even Stella vexed is. 
 Yet, truth (if caitiff's breath may call thee) this 
 
 Witness with me, that my foul stumbling so. 
 
 From carelessness did in no manner grow ; 
 But wit, confus'd with too much care, did miss. 
 
 And do I then myself this vain scuse give ? 
 I have (live I, and know this ?) harmed thee. 
 Though words quit me, shall I myself forgive ! 
 
200 
 
 Astrophel and Stella. 
 
 Only with pains, my pains thus eased be, 
 
 That all thy hurts, in my heart's wreck I read 
 I cry thy sighs, my dear, thy tears I bleed. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 Grief, find the words, for thou hast made my brain 
 So dark with misty vapours, which arise 
 From out thy heavy mould, that inbent eyes 
 
 Can scarce discern the shape of mine own pain. 
 
 Do thou then (for thou canst) do thou complain 
 For my poor soul, which now that sickness tries, 
 Which ev'n to sense, sense of itself denies. 
 
 Though harbinger of death lodge there his train. 
 
 Or, if thy love of plaint yet mine forbears. 
 
 As of a caitiff worthy so to die, 
 Yet wail thyself, and wail, with causeful tears. 
 
 That though in wretchedness thy life doth lie. 
 Yet grow'st more wretched than thy nature bears, 
 
 By being plac'd in such a wretch as I. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 Yet sighs, dear sighs ! indeed true friends you are, 
 That do not leave your left friend at the worst ; 
 But as you with my breast I oft have nurst. 
 
 So, grateful now, you wait upon my care. 
 
 Faint coward Joy no longer tarry dare. 
 Seeing Hope yield, when this woe strake him first : 
 Delight protests he is not for th' accurst. 
 
 Though oft himself my mate in arms he sware. 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 2( 
 
 Nay, Sorrow comes with such main rage, that he 
 Kills his own children, tears, finding that they 
 
 By love were made apt to consort with me. 
 Only, true sighs, you do not go away ; 
 
 Thank may you have for such a thankful part ; 
 
 Thank-worthiest yet, when you shall break my heart. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Thought, with good cause, thou lik'st so well the 
 night. 
 Since kin or chance gives both one livery ; 
 Both sadly black, both blackly darken'd be \ 
 
 Night barr'd from sun, thou from thy own sun's light ; 
 Silence in both displays his sullen might. 
 
 Low heaviness in both holds one degree ; 
 
 That full of doubts, thou of perplexity : 
 Thy tears express Night's native moisture right. 
 
 In both amazeful solitariness : 
 In night of sp'rits, the ghastly powers to stir j 
 
 In thee, or sp'rits, or sp'rited ghastliness : 
 But, but (alas !) Night's side the odds hath far j 
 
 For that, at length, yet doth invite some rest, 
 
 Thou, though still tir'd, yet still dost it detest. 
 
 XCVII. 
 ^ Dian, that fain would cheer her friend the Night, 
 Shows her oft, at the full, her fairest face, 
 Bringing with her those starry nymphs, whose chase 
 
 From heav'nly standing hits each mortal wight. 
 But ah ! poor Night, in love with Phoebus' light. 
 
202 Atrophel and Stella. 
 
 And endlessly despairing of his grace, 
 Herself (to show no other joy hath place) 
 Silent and sad, in mourning weeds doth dight : 
 
 Even so, alas ! a lady, Dian's peer. 
 With choice delights, and rarest company, 
 
 Would fain drive clouds from out my heavy cheer : 
 But, woe is me ! though joy itself were she. 
 
 She could not show my blind brain ways of joy. 
 
 While I despair my sun's sight to enjoy. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Ah, bed ! the field where joy's peace some do see ; 
 The field where all my thoughts to war be train'd ; 
 How is thy grace by my strange fortune stain'd ! 
 
 How thy lee-shores by my sighs stormed be ! 
 
 With sweet soft shades, thou oft invitest me 
 To steal some rest ; but, wretch ! I am constrain'd, 
 (Spurr'd with Love's spur, though gold, and shortly rein'd 
 
 With Care's hard hand) to turn and toss in thee. 
 
 While the black horrors of the silent night 
 Paint Woe's black face so lively to my sight. 
 
 That tedious leisure marks each wrinkled line : 
 But when Aurora leads out Phoebus' dance. 
 Mine eyes then only wink, for spite perchance. 
 
 That worms should have their sun, and I want mine. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 When far-spent Night persuades each mortal eye. 
 To whom nor Art nor Nature granteth light. 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 203 
 
 To lay his then mark-wanting shafts of sight, 
 Clos'd with their quivers, in Sleep's armory ; 
 With windows ope, then most my mind doth lie. 
 
 Viewing the shape of darkness and delight ; 
 
 Takes in that sad hue, which, with th' inward night 
 Of his maz'd powers, keeps perfedl harmony : 
 
 But when birds charm, and that sweet air, which is 
 Morn's messenger, with rose-enamell'd skies, 
 
 Calls each wight to salute the flower of bliss ; 
 In tomb of lids then buried are mine eyes, 
 
 Forc'd by their lord, who is asham'd to find 
 
 Such liffht in sense, with such a darken'd mind. 
 
 C. 
 
 O tears ! no tears, but rain, from Beauty's skies. 
 Making those lilies and those roses grow, 
 Which aye most fair, now more than most fair show. 
 
 While graceful Pity beauty beautifies. 
 
 O honey'd sighs ! which from that breast do rise. 
 Whose pants do make unspilling cream to flow ; 
 Wing'd with whose breath, so pleasing zephyrs blow. 
 
 As can refresh the hell where my soul fries. 
 
 O plaints ! conserv'd in such a sugar'd phrase. 
 That eloquence itself envies your praise ; 
 
 While sobb'd out words a perfect music give. 
 Such tears, sighs, plaints, no sorrow is, but joy : 
 Or, if such heav'nly sighs must prove annoy, 
 
 All mirth farewell, let me in sorrow live. 
 
204 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 CI. 
 
 Stella is sick, and in that sick bed lies 
 Sweetness, which breathes and pants as oft as she : 
 
 And Grace, sick too, such fine conclusions tries. 
 That Sickness brags itself best grace to be. 
 
 Beauty is sick, but sick in so fair guise. 
 That in that paleness Beauty's white we see. 
 
 And joy, which is unsever'd from those eyes, 
 Stella, now learns (strange case !) to weep in thee. 
 
 Love moves thy pain, and like a faithful page, 
 As thy looks stir, comes up and down, to make 
 
 All folks press'd at thy will, thy pain t' assuage ; 
 Nature with care sweats for her darling's sake, 
 
 Knowing worlds pass, ere she enough can find, 
 
 Of such heav'n-stuff to clothe so heav'nly mind. 
 
 CII. 
 Where be those roses gone, which sweeten'd so our 
 eyes ? 
 Where those red cheeks, which oft, with fair increase, 
 
 doth frame 
 The height of honour in the kindly badge of shame ? 
 Who hath the crimson weeds stol'n from my morning 
 
 skies ? 
 How doth the colour vade of those vermilion dies. 
 Which Nature's self did make, and self-ingrain'd the 
 
 same ? 
 I would know by what right this paleness overcame 
 That hue, whose force my heart still unto thraldom 
 ties ? 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 205 
 
 Galen's adoptive sons, who by a beaten way 
 
 Their judgments hackney on, the fault on sickness lay; 
 
 But feeling pulse makes me (say they) mistake it far. 
 It is but love which makes this paper perfect white. 
 To write therein more fresh the story of delight. 
 
 While Beauty's reddest ink Venus for him doth stir. 
 
 cm. 
 
 O happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear, 
 I saw thee with full many a smiling line. 
 
 Upon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear : 
 While those fair planets on thy streams did shine. 
 
 The boat for joy could not to dance forbear. 
 While wanton winds, with beauties so divine 
 
 Ravish'd, staid not, till in her golden hair 
 They did themselves (O sweetest prison !) twine. 
 
 And fain those MoVs youth there would their stay 
 Have made, but forc'd by nature still to fly. 
 
 First did with pufling kiss those locks display : 
 She, so dishevell'd blush'd ; from window I 
 
 With sight thereof cried out, " O fair disgrace. 
 
 Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place." 
 
 CIV. 
 
 Envious wits, what hath been mine offence, 
 That with such pois'nous care my looks you mark, 
 That to each word, nay sigh, of mine, you hark. 
 
 As grudging me my sorrow's eloquence ? 
 
 Ah ! is it not enough, that I am thence. 
 Thence, so far thence, that scarcely any spark 
 
206 
 
 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 Of comfort dare come to this dungeon dark. 
 Where rig'rous exile locks up all mv sense ? 
 
 But if I by a happy window pass, 
 
 If I but stars upon mine armour bear ; 
 
 Sick, thirsty, glad (though but of empty glass) : 
 Your mortal notes straight my hid meaning tear 
 
 From out my ribs, and, puffing, prove that 1 
 
 Do Stella love : fools ! who doth it deny ? 
 
 ELEVENTH SONG. 
 Who is it that this dark night. 
 
 Underneath my window plaineth ? 
 It is one, who from thy sight 
 
 Being (ah I) exil'd, disdaineth 
 Ev'ry other vulgar light. 
 
 Why, alas ! and are you he ? 
 
 Be not yet those fancies chang'd ? 
 Dear, when you find change in me, 
 
 Though from me you be estrang'd. 
 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 knoweth 
 Time doth as the subje6t prove j 
 
Jstrophcl and Stella. 207 
 
 With time still affeftion groweth 
 In the faithful turtle-dove. 
 
 What if ye new beauties see, 
 
 Will not they stir new afFe6lion ? 
 I will thinic they pi6lures be, 
 
 (Image-like, of saint-perfe6lion) 
 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 beauty flourish 
 
 More than in thy reason's sight. 
 
 But the wrongs love bears, will make 
 
 Love at length leave undertaking. 
 No, 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, I will my bliss forbear ; 
 
 Fearing (sweet) you to endanger ; 
 But my soul shall harbour there. 
 
 Well, begone ; begone, I 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. 
 
2o8 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 cv. 
 
 Unhappy sight, and hath she vanish'd by 
 So near, in so good time, so free a place ? 
 Dead glass, dost though thy obje6l so embrace, 
 
 As what my heart still sees thou canst not spy ? 
 
 I swear by her I love and lack, that I 
 Was not in fault, who bent thy dazzling race 
 Only unto the heav'n of Stella's face j 
 
 Counting but dust what in the way did lie. 
 
 But cease, mine eyes, your tears do witness well. 
 That you, guiltless thereof, your neftar miss'd : 
 
 Curs'd be the page from whom the bad torch fell : 
 Curs'd be the night which did your will resist : 
 
 Curs'd be the coachman which did drive so fast, 
 Which no less curse than absence makes me taste. 
 
 CVI. 
 
 O absent presence, Stella is not here ; 
 False flatt'ring hope, that with so fair a face 
 Bare me in hand, that in this orphan place, 
 
 Stella, I say my Stella, should appear ? 
 
 What say'st thou now ! where is that dainty cheer 
 Thou told'st mine eyes should help their famish'd case ? 
 But thou art gone, now that self-felt disgrace, 
 
 Doth make me most to wish thy comfort near. 
 
 But here I do store of fair ladies meet. 
 Who may with charm of conversation sweet. 
 
 Make in my heavy mould new thoughts to grow. 
 Sure they prevail as much with me, as he 
 
Jstrophel and Stella. 209 
 
 That bade his friend, but then new maim'd, to be 
 Merry with him, and not think of his woe. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 Stella, since thou so right a princess art 
 Of all the pow'rs which life bestows on me, 
 That e'er by them aught undertaken be, 
 
 They first resort unto that sov'reign part \ 
 
 Sweet, for a while give respite to my heart, 
 Which pants as though it still should leap to thee : 
 And on my thoughts give thy lieutenancy 
 
 To this great cause, which needs both use and art. 
 
 And as a queen, who from her presence sends 
 Whom she employs, dismiss from thee my wit, 
 
 Till it hath wrought what thy own will attends. 
 On servants' shame oft master's blame doth sit j 
 
 O ! let not fools in me thy works reprove. 
 
 And scorning say, " See what it is to love ! " 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 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 delio-ht, 
 And my young soul flutters to thee his nest, 
 Most rude Despair, my daily unbidden guest, 
 
 Clips straight my wings, straight wraps me in his 
 night, 
 
2 10 Jstrophel and Stella. 
 
 And makes me then bow down my head, and say, 
 Ah ! what doth Phoebus' gold that wretch avail, 
 
 Whom iron doors do keep from use of day ? 
 So strangely, alas ! thy works in me prevail. 
 
 That in my woes for thee, thou art my joy. 
 
 And in my joys for thee, my sole annoy. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
Under the title of " Miscellaneous Poems " we have reprinted 
 the whole produ6tions of Sir Philip Sidney's Muse, as far at least as 
 we have been able to discover them, which are not contained in the 
 Arcadia, the Astrophel and Stella, the Lady of May, or his Trans- 
 lation, conjointly with his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, of the 
 Psalms of David. The six compositions here inserted last in order, 
 are now for the first time collefted. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 A REMEDY FOR LOVE. 
 
 PHILOCLEA and Pamela sweet, 
 
 By chance, iti one great house did meet ; 
 
 And meeting, did so join in heart, 
 
 That th' one from th' other could not part 
 
 And who indeed (not made of stones) 
 
 Would separate such lovely ones ? 
 
 The one is beautiful, and fair 
 
 As orient pearls and rubies are ; 
 
 And sweet as, after gentle showers, 
 
 The breath is of some thousand flowers : 
 
 For due proportion, such an air 
 
 Circles the other, and so fair, 
 
 That it her brownness beautifies. 
 
 And doth enchant the wisest eyes. 
 
 Have you not seen, on some great day. 
 Two goodly horses, white and bay, 
 Which were so beauteous in their pride, 
 You knew not which to choose or ride ? 
 
2 14 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 Such are these two ; you scarce can tell, 
 Which is the daintier bonny belle ; 
 And they are such, as, by my troth, 
 I had been sick with love of both. 
 And might have sadly said, " Good-night 
 Discretion and good fortune quite ; " 
 But that young Cupid, my old master. 
 Presented me a sov'reign plaster : 
 Mopsa I ev'n Mopsa ! (precious peat) 
 Whose lips of marble, teeth of jet, 
 Are spells and charms of strong defence. 
 To conjure down concupiscence. 
 
 How oft have I been reft of sense. 
 By gazing on their excellence. 
 But meeting Mopsa in my way, 
 And looking on her face of clay. 
 Been heal'd, and cur'd, and made as sound, 
 
 , As though I ne'er had had a wound ? 
 
 ' And when in tables of my heart. 
 Love wrought such things as bred my smart, 
 Mopsa would come, v/ith face of clout, 
 And in an instant wipe them out. 
 And when their faces made me sick, 
 Mopsa would come, with face of brick, 
 A little heated in the fire, 
 And break the neck of my desire. 
 Now from their face I turn mine eyes. 
 But (cruel panthers !) they surprise 
 Me with their breath, that incense sweet. 
 Which only for the gods is meet ; 
 And jointly from them doth respire, 
 Like both the Indies set on fire : 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 215 
 
 Which so o'ercomes man's ravish'd sense, 
 
 That souls, to follow it, fly hence. 
 
 No such-like smell you if you range 
 
 By th' Stocks, or Cornhill's square Exchange ; 
 
 There stood I still as any stock, 
 
 Till Mopsa (with her puddle dock) 
 
 Her compound or electuary, 
 
 Made of old ling and young canary ; 
 
 Bloat-herring, cheese, and voided physic, 
 
 Being somewhat troubled with a phthisic, 
 
 Did cough, and fetch a sigh so deep. 
 
 As did her very bottom sweep : 
 
 Whereby to all she did impart. 
 
 How love lay rankling at her heart : 
 
 Which, when I smelt, desire was slain. 
 
 And they breath'd forth perfumes in vain. 
 
 Their angel voice surpris'd me now ; 
 
 But Mopsa, her Too-whit, To-hoo, 
 
 Descending through her oboe nose. 
 
 Did that distemper soon compose. 
 
 And, therefore, O thou precious owl I 
 The wise Minerva's only fowl ; 
 What, at thy shrine, shall I devise 
 To offer up a sacrifice ? 
 Hang i^j^sculapius, and Apollo, 
 And Ovid, with his precious shallow. 
 Mopsa is love's best medicine, 
 True water to a lover's wine. 
 Nay, she's the yellow antidote, 
 Both bred and born to cut Love's throat : 
 Be but my second, and stand by, 
 Mopsa, and I'll them both defy ^ 
 
1 6 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 And all else of those gallant races, 
 Who wear infe6lion in their faces ; 
 For thy face (that Medusa's shield I) 
 Will brine me safe out of the field. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Since shunning pain, I ease can never find j 
 
 Since bashful dread seeks where he knows me harmed 
 Since will is won, and stopped ears are charmed ; 
 
 Since force doth faint, and sight doth make me blind ; 
 
 Since loosing long, the faster still I bind ; 
 
 Since naked sense can conquer reason armed ; 
 Since heart, in chilling fear, with ice is warmed ; 
 
 Jn fine, since strife of thought but mars the mind, 
 I yield, O Love ! unto thy loathed yoke, 
 
 Yet craving law of arms, whose rule doth teach. 
 That, hardly us'd, who ever prison broke. 
 
 In justice quit, of honour made no breach : 
 Whereas, if I a grateful guardian have, 
 Thou art my lord, and I thy vow^ed slave. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 When Love, pufPd up with rage of high disdain, 
 Resolv'd to make me pattern of his might, 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 217 
 
 Like foe, whose wits inclin'd to deadly spite, 
 Would often kill, to breed more feeling pain ; 
 
 He would not, arm'd with beauty, only reign 
 On those afFeds which easily yield to sight ; 
 But virtue sets so high, that reason's light. 
 
 For all his strife can only bondage gain : 
 
 So that I live to pay a mortal fee, 
 Dead palsy-sick of all my chiefest parts. 
 
 Like those whom dreams make ugly monsters see. 
 And can cry help with naught but groans and starts : 
 
 Longing to have, having no wit to wish, \ 
 To starving minds such is god Cupid's dish. ^ 
 
 SONG. 
 
 To the tune of " Non credo gia che piu infelice amante." 
 
 The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth, 
 Unto her rested sense, a perfe6l waking. 
 
 While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth. 
 Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making ; 
 
 And mournfully bewailing. 
 Her throat in tunes expresseth 
 What grief her breast oppresseth. 
 
 For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. 
 28 
 
2i8 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, 
 That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness : 
 Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth ; 
 Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. 
 
 II. 
 
 Alas ! she hath no other cause of anguish. 
 But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken. 
 
 Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, 
 Full womanlike, complains her will was broken. 
 
 But I, who daily craving. 
 Cannot have to content me. 
 Have more cause to lament me. 
 
 Since wanting is more woe than too much having. 
 
 O Philomela fair ! O take some gladness. 
 That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness : 
 Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth ; 
 Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 To the tune of " Basciami vita mia." 
 
 Sleep, baby mine, Desire's nurse. Beauty, singeth ; 
 Thy cries, O baby ! set mine head on aching : 
 The babe cries, " 'Way, thy love doth keep me 
 wakinp-." 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 219 
 
 Lully, lully, my babe, Hope cradle bringeth 
 Unto my children alway good rest taking : 
 The babe cries, " 'Way, thy love doth keep me 
 waking." 
 
 Since, baby mine, from me thy watching springeth, 
 Sleep then a little, pap Content is making ; 
 The babe cries, " Nay, for that abide I waking." 
 
 VERSES. 
 To the tune of the Spanish song, " Si tu sennora no dueles de mi. 
 
 O FAIR ! O sweet ! when I do look on thee, -^ 
 
 In whom all joys so well agree, <«- 
 Heart and soul do sing in me. ,>^ 
 
 This you hear is not my tongue,*^ 
 Which once said what I conceived ^ 
 For it was of use bereaved, A 
 
 With a cruel answer stung, c 
 No ! though tongue to roof be cleaved, 4,- 
 
 Fearing lest he chastis'd be. 
 
 Heart and soul do sing in me. 
 
 O fair ! O sweet 1 when I do look on thee. 
 
 In whom all joys so well agree. 
 
 Just accord all music makes ; 
 In thee just accord excelleth. 
 Where each part in such peace dwelleth, 
 
 One of other beauty takes. 
 Since then truth to all niinds telleth. 
 
220 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 That in thee lives harmony, 
 Heart and soul do sing in me. 
 
 O fair ! O sweet ! when I do look on thee, 
 In whom all joys so well agree, 
 They that heav'n have known do say, 
 
 That whoso that grace obtaineth. 
 
 To see what fair sight there reigneth. 
 Forced are to sing alway : 
 
 So then since that heav'n remaineth 
 In thy face, I plainly see. 
 Heart and soul do sing in me. 
 
 O fair ! O sweet ! when I do look on thee. 
 In whom all joys so well agree. 
 Sweet I think not I am at ease, 
 
 For because my chief part singeth ; 
 
 This song from death's sorrow springeth : 
 As to swan in last disease : 
 
 For no dumbness, nor death, bringeth 
 Stay to true love's melody : 
 Heart and soul do sing in me. 
 
 SONNETS.* 
 I. 
 The scourge of life, and death's extreme disgrace ; 
 The smoke of hell, the monster called Pain : 
 
 * The four following sonnets, says a MS. in the Bodleian Library, 
 " were made by Sir P. Sidney when his Lady hadd a payne in her 
 face, the small poxe." 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. '■ 
 
 Long sham'd to be accurs'd in ev'ry place, 
 By them who of his rude resort complain ; 
 
 Like crafty wretch, by time and travel taught, 
 His ugly evil in others' good to hide ; 
 
 Late harbours in her face, whom Nature wrought 
 As treasure-house where her best gifts do bide ; 
 
 And so by privilege of sacred seat, 
 
 A seat where beauty shines and virtue reigns. 
 
 He hopes for some small praise, since she hath great. 
 Within her beams wrapping his cruel stains. 
 
 Ah ! saucy Pain, let not thy terror last, 
 
 Aiore loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast. 
 
 II. 
 Woe ! woe to me, on me return the smart ; 
 
 My burning tongue hath bred my mistress pain ; 
 For oft in pain, to pain my painful heart. 
 
 With her due praise did of my state complain. 
 
 I prais'd her eyes, whom never chance doth move ; 
 
 Her breath, which makes a sour answer sweet ; 
 Her milken breasts, the nurse of child-like love ; 
 
 Her legs (O legs !) her aye well-stepping feet : 
 
 Pain heard her praise, and full of inward fire, 
 (First sealing up my heart as prey of his) 
 
 He flies to her, and, bolden'd with desire, 
 
 Her face (this age's praise) the thief doth kiss. 
 
 O Pain ! I now recant the praise I gave. 
 And swear she is not worthy thee to have. 
 
222 Miscellaneous Pc 
 
 III. 
 
 Thou Pain, the only guest of loath'd Constraint ; 
 The child of Curse, man's weakness foster-child ; 
 
 Brother to Woe, and father of Complaint : 
 Thou Pain, thou hated Pain, from heav'n exil'd, 
 
 How hold'st thou her whose eyes constraint doth fear, 
 Whom curs'd, do bless ; whose weakness, virtues arm ; 
 
 Who others' woes and plaints can chastely bear : 
 In whose sweet heav'n angels of high thoughts swarm ? 
 
 What courage strange hath caught thy caitiff heart ? 
 Fear'st not a face that oft whole hearts devours ? 
 
 Or art thou from above bid play this part. 
 And so no help 'gainst envy of those powers ? 
 
 If thus, alas ! yet while those parts have woe ; 
 
 So stay her tongue, that she no more say, " O." 
 
 IV. 
 
 And have I heard her say, " O cruel pain ! " 
 And doth she know what mould her beauty bears ? 
 
 Mourns she in truth, and thinks that others feign ? 
 Fears she to feel, and feels not others' fears .? 
 
 Or doth she think all pain the mind forbears ? 
 That heavy earth, not fiery sp'rits, may plain ? 
 
 That eyes weep worse than heart in bloody tears ? 
 That sense feels more than what doth sense contain ? 
 
 No, no, she is too wise, she knows her face 
 Hath not such pain as it makes others have : 
 
Miscellaneous 'Poems. 223 
 
 She knows the sickness of that perfe6l place 
 Hath yet such health, as it my life can save. 
 
 But this, she thinks, our pain high cause excuseth, 
 Where her, who should rule pain, false pain abuseth. 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 From Horace, Book II. Ode X. beginning, 
 
 " Reftius vives, Licini," etc. 
 
 You better sure shall live, not evermore 
 
 Trying high seas ; nor, while sea's rage you flee. 
 Pressing too much upon ill-harbour'd shore. 
 
 The golden mean who loves, lives safely free 
 From filth of foreworn house, and quiet lives, 
 Releas'd from court, where envy needs must be. 
 
 The wind most oft the hugest pine tree grieves : 
 
 The stately towers come down with greater fall : 
 The highest hills the bolt of thunder cleaves. 
 
 Evil haps do fill with hope, good haps appal 
 
 With fear of change, the courage well prepar'd : 
 
 Foul winters, as they come, away they shall. 
 
 Though present times, and past, with evils be snar'd, 
 
 They shall not last : with Cithern silent muse, 
 Apollo wakes, and bow hath sometime spar'd. 
 
224 Miscellajieous Poems. 
 
 In hard estate, with stout shows, valour use, 
 The same man still, in whom wisdom prevails ; 
 In too full wind draw in thy swelling sails. 
 
 IMITATIONS. 
 From Catullus, Carm. lxx. 
 I. 
 NuLLi se dicit mulier mea nubere malle, 
 
 Quam mihi ; non si se Jupiter ipse petat : 
 Dicit : sed mulier cupido quod dicit amanti, 
 In vento, et rapida scribere oportet aqua. 
 
 Englished. 
 
 Unto nobody, my woman saith, she had rather a wife be 
 Than to myself, not though Jove grew a suitor of hers : 
 These be her words, but a woman's words to a love 
 
 that is eager. 
 In wind or water's stream do require to be writ. 
 
 Qui sceptra ssvus duro imperio regit. 
 Timet timentes ; metus in authorem redit. 
 
 Fair, seek not to be fear'd ; most lovely, beloved by 
 
 thy servants ; 
 For true it is, that they fear many whom many do fear. 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 225 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Like as the dove, which seeled up doth fly, 
 Is neither freed, nor yet to service bound ; 
 
 But hopes to gain some help by mounting high, 
 Till want of force do force her fall to ground : 
 
 Right so my mind, caught by his guiding eye. 
 
 And thence cast ofF, where his sweet hurt he found, 
 Hath neither leave to live, nor doom to die ; 
 
 But with his wings of fincies up he goes. 
 
 To high conceits, whose fruits are oft but small ; 
 
 Till wounded, blind, and wearied spirit, lose 
 Both force to fly, and knowledge where to fall : 
 
 O happy dove, if she no bondage tried ! 
 
 More happy I, might I in bondage bide ! 
 
 SONNETS.* 
 
 I. 
 
 Prometheus, when first from heav'n high 
 
 He brought down fire, till then on earth not seen ; 
 
 * This first piece, Anthony Wood informs us, was written by 
 Sir Edward Dyer, chancellor of the most noble Order of the Garter, 
 and the initials E. D. are accordingly prefixed to it in the folio edi- 
 tions of Sidney's Works. The second is a reply to the first from the 
 pen of our author. 
 
 29 
 
226 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 Fond of delight, a satyr, standing by. 
 
 Gave it a kiss, as it like sweet had been. 
 
 Feeling forthwith the other burning power. 
 
 Wood with the smart, with shouts and shrieking 
 shrill. 
 
 He sought his ease in river, field, and bower ; 
 But, for the time, his grief went with him still. 
 
 So silly I, with that unwonted sight. 
 
 In human shape, an angel from above. 
 Feeding mine eyes, th' impression there did light ; 
 
 That since I run and rest as pleaseth love : 
 The difference is, the satyr's lips, my heart, 
 He for a while, I evermore, have smart. 
 
 IT. 
 
 A satyr once did run away for dread. 
 With sound of horn which he himself did blow : 
 
 Fearing and fear'd, thus from himself he fled, 
 Deeming strange evil in that he did not know. 
 
 Such causeless fears when coward minds do take, 
 It makes them fly that which they fain would have ; 
 
 As this poor beast, who did his rest forsake. 
 Thinking not why, but how, himself to save. 
 
 Ev'n thus might I, for doubts which I conceive 
 Of mine own words, my own good hap betray ; 
 
 And thus might I, for fear of may be, leave 
 The sweet pursuit of my desired prey. 
 
 Better like I thy satyr, dearest Dyer, 
 
 Who burnt his lips to kiss fair shining fire. 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 227 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 My mistress lowers, and saith I do not love : 
 I do protest, and seek with service due, 
 \ In humble mind, a constant faith to prove ; 
 
 But for all this, I cannot her remove 
 
 From deep vain thought that I may not be true. 
 
 ., If oaths might serve, ev'n by the Stygian lake. 
 Which poets say, the gods themselves do fear ; 
 
 I never did my vowed word forsake : 
 
 For why should I, whom free choice slave doth make, 
 Else-what in face, than in my fancy bear ? 
 
 My Muse, therefore, (for only thou canst tell,) 
 Tell me the cause of this my causeless woe ? 
 Tell, how ill thought disgrac'd my doing well ? 
 ^.^Fell, how my joys and hopes thus foully fell 
 To so low ebb that wonted were to flow. 
 
 O this it is, the knotted straw is found ; 
 
 In tender hearts, small things engender hate : 
 A horse's worth laid waste the Trojan ground : 
 A three-foot stool in Greece made trumpets sound : 
 
 An ass's shade e'er now hath bred debate. 
 
 If Greeks themselves were mov'd with so small cause, 
 To twist those broils, which hardly would untwine : 
 ( Should ladies fair be tied to such hard laws, 
 
 As in their moods to take a lin^ 
 I would it not, their metal is too fine. 
 
228 Miscellaveous Poefjis. 
 
 My hand doth not bear witness with my heart. 
 She saith, because I make no woeful lays, 
 
 To paint my living death and endless smart : 
 "' And so for one that felt god Cupid's dart, 
 She thinks I lead and live too merry days. 
 
 Are poets then the only lovers true, 
 Whose hearts are set on measuring a verse ? 
 
 Who think themselves well blest, if they renew 
 Some good old dump that Chaucer's mistress knew ; 
 And use but you for matters to rehearse. 
 
 Then, good Apollo, do away thy bow ; 
 
 Take harp and sing in this our versing time : 
 And in my brain some sacred humour flow : 
 That all the earth my woes, sighs, tears may know ; 
 
 And see you not that I fall now to rhyme. 
 
 As for my mirth, how could I but be glad, 
 Whilst that me-thought I justly made my boast, 
 - That only I the only mistress had ? 
 
 But now, if e'er my face with joy be clad. 
 Think Hannibal did laugh when Carthage lost. 
 
 Sweet lady , as for those whose sullen cheer, 
 Compar'd to me, made me in lightness sound ; 
 
 Who, stoic-like, in cloudy hue appear ; 
 
 Who silence force to make their words more dear j 
 Whose eyes seem chaste, because they look on ground 
 
 Believe them not, for physic true doth find, 
 Choler adust is joy'd in woman-kind. 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 229 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 In wonted walks, since wonted fancies change, 
 
 Some cause there is, which of strange cause doth rise : 
 
 For in each thing whereto mine eye doth range ; 
 Part of my pain, me-seems, engraved Hes. 
 
 The rocks, which were of constant mind the mark, 
 In climbing steep, now hard refusal show : 
 
 The shading woods seem now my sun to dark, 
 And stately hills disdain to look so low. 
 
 The restful caves now restless visions give ; 
 In dales I see each way a hard ascent : 
 
 Like late-mown meads, late cut from joy I live ; 
 Alas ! sweet brooks do in my tears augment : 
 
 Rocks, woods, hills, caves, dales, meads, brooks, answer 
 
 me ; 
 Infeded minds infedl each thing they see. 
 
 SONNET. ,^,, ^ 
 
 - -',. . . 
 
 If I could think how these my thoughts to leave. 
 Or thinking still, my thoughts might have good end 
 
 If rebel sense would reason's law receive ; 
 Or reason foil'd, would not in vain contend : 
 
 Then might I think what thoughts were best to think : 
 
 Then might I wisely swim, or gladly sink. 
 
230 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 If either you would change your cruel heart, 
 Or cruel (still) time did your beauties stain : 
 
 If from my soul this love would once depart, 
 Or for my love some love I might obtain ; 
 
 Then might I hope a change, or ease of mind, 
 
 By your good help, or in myself, to find. 
 
 But since my thoughts in thinking still are spent. 
 With reason's strife, by senses overthrown ; 
 
 You fairer still, and still more cruel bent, 
 I loving still a love that loveth none : 
 
 I yield and strive, I kiss and curse the pain. 
 
 Thought, reason, sense, time. You, and I, maintain. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 Oft have I mus'd, but now at length I find. 
 Why those that die, men say, they do depart : 
 
 Depart ! a word so gentle to my mind. 
 
 Weakly did seem to paint Death's ugly dart. 
 
 But now the stars, with their strange course, do bind 
 Me one to leave, with whom I leave my heart ; 
 
 I hear a cry of spirits faint and blind. 
 
 That parting thus, my chiefest part I part. 
 
 Part of my life, the loathed part to me, 
 
 Lives to impart my weary clay some breath ; 
 
 But that good part, wherein all comforts be. 
 Now dead, doth show departure is a death : 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 231 
 
 Yea, worse than death, death parts both woe and joy, 
 From joy I part, still living in annoy. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Finding those beams, which I must ever love. 
 To mar my mind, and with my hurt to please, 
 
 I deem'd it best, some absence for to prove, 
 If farther place might further me to ease. 
 
 My eyes thence drawn, where lived all their light, 
 Blinded forthwith in dark despair did lie, 
 
 Like to the mole, with want of guiding sight, 
 Deep plung'd in earth, deprived of the sky. 
 
 In absence blind, and wearied with that woe. 
 To greater woes, by presence, I return ; 
 
 Even as the fly, which to the flame doth go, 
 
 Pleas'd with the light, that his small corse doth burn 
 
 Fair choice I have, either to live or die 
 A blinded mole, or else a burned fly. 
 
 THE SEVEN WONDERS OF ENGLAND. 
 I. 
 Near Wilton sweet, huge heaps of stones are found,* 
 But so confus'd, that neither any eye 
 
 * Stonehenge on Salisbury Plain. 
 
232 Miscellaneous Poe7ns. 
 
 Can count them just, nor Reason reason try, 
 What force brought them to so unlikely ground. 
 
 To stranger weights my mind's waste soil is bound, 
 Of passion-hills, reaching to Reason's sky. 
 
 From Fancy's earth, passing all number's bound, 
 Passing all guess, whence into me should fly 
 
 So maz'd a mass ; or, if in me it grows, 
 
 A simple soul should breed so mixed woes. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Bruertons have a lake, which, when the sun 
 Approaching warms, not else, dead logs up sends 
 From hideous depth ; which tribute, when it ends. 
 
 Sore sign it is the lord's last thread is spun. 
 
 My lake is Sense, whose still streams never run 
 But when my sun her shining twins there bends ; 
 
 Then from his depth with force in her begun. 
 Long drowned hopes to watery eyes it lends ; 
 
 But when that fails my dead hopes up to take. 
 
 Their master is fair warn'd his will to make. 
 
 III. 
 
 We have a fish, by strangers much admir'd. 
 Which caught, to cruel search yields his chief part 
 (With gall cut out) clos'd up again by art. 
 
 Yet lives until his life be new requir'd. 
 
 A stranger fish, myself, not yet expir'd, 
 Tho', rapt with Beauty's hook, I did impart 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 233 
 
 Myself unto th' anatomy desir'd, 
 Instead of gall, leaving to her my heart : 
 
 Yet live u^ith thoughts clos'd up, 'till that she will, 
 By conquest's right, instead of searching, kill. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Peak hath a cave, vv^hose narrow entries find 
 Large rooms within, where drops distil amain : 
 'Till knit with cold, though there unknown remain, 
 
 Deck that poor place with alabaster lin'd. 
 
 Mine eyes the strait, the roomy cave, my mind ; 
 Whose cloudy thoughts let fall an inward rain 
 Of sorrow's drops, till colder reason bind 
 
 Their running fall into a constant vein 
 Of truth, far more than alabaster pure. 
 Which, though despis'd, yet still doth truth endure. 
 
 A field there is, where, if a stake be prest 
 Deep in the earth, what hath in earth receipt. 
 Is chang'd to stone in hardness, cold, and weight, 
 
 The wood above doth soon consuming rest. 
 
 The earth her ears ; the stake is my request ; 
 Of which, how much may pierce to that sweet seat, 
 
 To honour turn'd, doth dwell in honour's nest. 
 Keeping that form, though void of wonted heat ; 
 
 But all the rest, which fear durst not apply. 
 
 Failing themselves, with wither'd conscience die. 
 30 
 
234 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Of ships, by shipwreck cast on Albion's coast, 
 Which rotting on the rocks, their death do die : 
 From wooden bones, and blood of pitch, doth fly 
 
 A bird, which gets more life than ship had lost. 
 
 My ship. Desire, with wind of Lust long tost. 
 Brake on fair cliffs of constant Chastity ; 
 Where plagued for rash attempt, gives up his ghost 
 
 So deep in seas of virtue, beauties lie : 
 But of this death flies up the purest love. 
 Which seeming less, yet nobler life doth move. 
 
 VII. 
 
 These wonders England breeds ; the last remains - 
 A lady, in despite of Nature, chaste, 
 On whom all love, in whom no love is plac'd. 
 
 Where Fairness yields to Wisdom's shortest reins. 
 
 An humble pride, a scorn that favour stains ; 
 A woman's mould, but like an angel grac'd ; 
 An angel's mind, but in a woman cas'd ; 
 
 A heav'n on earth, or earth that heav'n contains : 
 Now thus this wonder to myself I frame ; 
 She is the cause that all the rest I am. 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 235 
 
 A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO SHEPHERDS, 
 
 Uttered in a Pastoral Show at Wilton. 
 
 Will. Dick, since we cannot dance, come, let a cheer- 
 ful voice 
 Show that we do not grudge at all when others do 
 rejoice. 
 Dick. Ah Will ! though I grudge not, I count it feeble 
 glee. 
 With sight, made dim with daily tears, another's 
 
 sport to see. 
 Whoever lambkins saw, yet lambkins love to 
 
 play. 
 To play when that their loved dams are stol'n, or 
 
 gone astray ? 
 If this in them be true, as true in men think I 
 A lustless song forsooth thinks he, that hath 
 more lust to cry. 
 Will. A time there is for all, my mother often says. 
 
 When she, with skirts tuck'd very high, with 
 
 girls at football plays. 
 When thou hast mind to weep, seek out some 
 
 smoky room : 
 Now let those lightsome sights we see, thy 
 darkness overcome. 
 Dick. What joy the joyful sun gives unto bleared eyes ; 
 That comfort in these sports you like, my mind 
 his comfort tries. 
 Will. What ? Is thy bagpipe broke, or are thy lambs 
 miswent ; 
 Thy wallet, or thy tar-box, lost ; or thy new 
 raiment rent ? 
 
236 Miscellafieous Poems. 
 
 Dick. I would it were but thus, for thus it were too 
 
 well. 
 Will. Thou see'st my ears do itch at it : good Dick 
 
 thy sorrow tell. 
 Dick. Hear then, and learn to sigh : a mistress I do 
 serve. 
 Whose wages make me beg the more, who 
 
 feeds me till I starve ; 
 Whose livery is such, as most I freeze appar- 
 elled most, 
 And looks so near unto my cure, that I must 
 needs be lost. 
 Will. What ? These are riddles sure : art thou then 
 
 bound to her ? 
 Dick. Bound as I neither power have, nor would have 
 
 power, to stir. 
 Will. Who bound thee? 
 Dick. Love, my lord. 
 
 Will. What witnesses thereto ? 
 
 Dick. Faith in myself, and worth in her, which no 
 
 proof can undo. 
 Will. What seal .? 
 
 Dick. My heart deep graven. 
 
 Will. Who made the band so fast ? 
 
 Dick. Wonder that, by two so black eyes, the glit- 
 
 t'ring stars be past. 
 Will. What keepeth safe thy band ? 
 Dick. Remembrance is the chest 
 
 Lock'd fast with knowing that she is, of worldly 
 things, the best. 
 Will. Thou late of wages plain'dst : what wages 
 
 may'st thou have ? 
 Dick. Her heavenly looks, which more and more do 
 give me cause to crave. 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 237 
 
 Will. If wages make you want, what food is that she 
 
 gives ? 
 Dick. Tear's drink, sorrow's meat, wherewith not I, 
 
 but in me my death lives. 
 Will. What living get you then ? 
 Dick. Disdain ; but just disdain : 
 
 So have I cause myself to plain, but no cause to 
 complain. 
 Will. What care takes she for thee ? 
 Dick. Her care is to prevent 
 
 My freedom, with show of her beams, with vir- 
 tue, my content. 
 Will. God shield us from such dames ! If so our 
 dames be sped, 
 The shepherds will grow lean I trow, their 
 
 sheep will be ill-fed. 
 But Dick, my counsel mark : run from the 
 
 place of woe : 
 The arrow being shot from far, doth give the 
 smaller blow. 
 Dick. Good Will, I cannot take thy good advice ; be- 
 fore 
 That foxes leave to steal, they find they die 
 therefore. 
 Will. Then, Dick, let us go hence, lest we great folks 
 annoy : 
 For nothing can more tedious be, than plaint in 
 time of joy. 
 Dick. Oh hence ! O cruel word I which even dogs do 
 hate : 
 But hence, even hence, I must needs go j such 
 is my dogged fate. 
 
238 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 To the tune of'' Wilhelmus van Nassau,'' etc. 
 
 Who hath his fancy pleased, 
 
 With fruits of happy sight, 
 Let here his eyes be raised 
 
 On Nature's sweetest light ; 
 A light which doth dissever, 
 
 And yet unite the eyes ; 
 A light which, dying, never 
 
 Is cause the looker dies. 
 
 She never dies, but lasteth 
 In life of lover's heart ; 
 
 He ever dies that wasteth 
 In love his chiefest part. 
 
 Thus is her life still guarded. 
 In never dying faith ; 
 
 Thus is his death rewarded. 
 Since she lives in his death. 
 
 Look then and die, the pleasure 
 Doth answer well the pain ; 
 
 Small loss of mortal treasure. 
 Who may immortal gain. 
 
 Immortal be her graces. 
 Immortal is her mind ; 
 
 They, fit for heav'nly places, 
 This heav'n in it doth bind. 
 
Miscellaneo2is Poems. 239 
 
 But eyes these beauties see not, 
 Nor sense that grace descries ; 
 
 Yet eyes deprived be not 
 From sight of her fair eyes : 
 
 Which, as of inward glory 
 They are the outward seal ; 
 
 So may they live still sorry, 
 Which die not in that weal. 
 
 But who hath fancies pleased, 
 With fruits of happy sight. 
 
 Let here his eyes be raised 
 On Nature's sweetest light. 
 
 THE SMOKES OF MELANCHOLY. 
 
 L 
 
 Who hath e'er felt the change of love, 
 And known those pangs that losers prove. 
 May paint my face without seeing me, 
 And write the state how my fancies be. 
 The loathsome buds grown on Sorrow's tree. 
 
 But who by hearsay speaks, and hath not fully felt 
 What kind of fires they be, in which those spirits melt, 
 Shall guess, and fail, what doth displease, 
 Feeling my pulse, miss my disease. 
 
240 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 II. 
 O no ! O no ! trial only shows 
 The bitter juice of forsaken woes ; 
 Where former bliss, present evils do stain ; 
 Nay, former bliss adds to present pain, 
 While remembrance doth both states contain. 
 
 Come, learners, then to me, the model of mishap, 
 Ingulphed in despair, slid down from Fortune's lap 
 And, as you like my double lot. 
 Tread in my steps, or follow not. 
 
 III. 
 For me, alas ! I am full resolv'd 
 Those bands, alas ! shall not be dissolv'd ; 
 Nor break my word, though reward come late ; 
 Nor fail my faith in my failing fate ; 
 Nor change in change, tho' change change my state : 
 
 But always own myself, with eagle-eyed Truth, to fly 
 Up to the sun, altho' the sun my wings do fry ; 
 For if those flames burn my desire, 
 Yet shall I die in Phoenix' fire. 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 241 
 
 ODE. 
 
 When, to my deadly pleasure, 
 When to my lively torment. 
 Lady, mine eyes remained 
 Joined, alas ! to your beams. 
 
 With violence of heav'nly 
 Beauty, tied to virtue ; 
 Reason abash'd retired ; 
 Gladly my senses yielded. 
 
 Gladly my senses yielding. 
 Thus to betray my heart's fort. 
 Left me devoid of all life. 
 
 They to the beamy suns went. 
 Where, by the death of all deaths, 
 Find to what harm they hast'ned. 
 
 Like to the silly Sylvan, 
 
 Burn'd by the light he best lik'd. 
 
 When with a fire he first met. 
 
 Yet, yet, a life to their death. 
 Lady you have reserved ; 
 Lady the life of all love. 
 
 For though my sense be from me. 
 And I be dead, who want sense. 
 Yet do we both live in you. 
 31 
 
242 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 Turned anew, by your means, 
 Unto the flow'r that ay turns, 
 As you, alas ! my sun bends. 
 
 Thus do I fall to rise thus ; 
 Thus do I die to live thus ; 
 Chang'd to a change, I change not. 
 
 Thus may I not be from you ; 
 Thus be my senses on you ; 
 Thus what I think is of you ; 
 Thus what I seek is in you ; 
 All what I am, it is you. 
 
 VERSES. 
 
 To the tune of a Neapolitan song, which beginneth, 
 
 " No, no, no, no." 
 
 No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe. 
 Although with cruel fire. 
 
 First thrown on my desire, 
 She sacks my render'd sprite ; 
 
 For so fair a flame embraces 
 
 All the places. 
 Where that heat of all heats springeth. 
 That it bringeth 
 
 To my dying heart some pleasure. 
 
 Since his treasure 
 Burneth bright in fairest light. No, no, no, no. 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 243 
 
 No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe, 
 Although with cruel fire, 
 
 First thrown on my desire. 
 She sacks my render'd sprite ; 
 
 Since our lives be not immortal. 
 
 But to mortal 
 Fetters tied, do wait the hour 
 Of death's power. 
 
 They have no cause to be sorry, 
 
 Who with glory 
 End the way, where all men stay. No, no, no, no. 
 
 No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe, 
 Although with cruel fire, 
 
 First thrown on my desire, 
 She sacks my render'd sprite ; 
 
 No man doubts, whom beauty killeth. 
 
 Fair death feeleth. 
 And in whom fair death proceedeth. 
 Glory breedeth : 
 
 So that I, in her beams dying, 
 
 Glory trying. 
 Though in pain, cannot complain. No, no, no, no. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 To the tune of a Neapolitan Villanel. 
 
 All my sense thy sweetness gained ; 
 Thy fair hair my heart enchained ; 
 
244 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 My poor reason thy words moved, 
 So that thee, hke heav'n, I loved. 
 
 Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan ; 
 
 Dan, dan, dan, deridan, deridan, dei : 
 While to my mind the outside stood. 
 For messenger of inward good. 
 
 Nor thy sweetness sour is deemed ; 
 Thy hair not worth a hair esteemed ; 
 Reason hath thy words removed, 
 Finding that but words they proved. 
 
 Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan, 
 
 Dan, dan, dan, deridan, deridan, dei : 
 'For no fair sign can credit win. 
 If that the substance fail within. 
 
 No more in thy sweetness glory, 
 For thy knitting hair be sorry ; 
 Use thy words but to bewail thee. 
 That no more thy beams avail thee ; 
 
 Dan, dan, 
 
 Dan, dan. 
 Lay not thy colours more to view, 
 Without the picture be found true. 
 
 Woe to me, alas ! she weepeth ! 
 Fool ! in me what folly creepeth ? 
 Was I to blaspheme enraged, 
 Where my soul I have engaged ? 
 
 Dan, dan, 
 
 Dan, dan. 
 
Miscellaneoi/s Poems. 245 
 
 And wretched I must yield to this ; 
 The fault I blame, her chasteness is. 
 
 Sweetness ! sweetly pardon folly ; 
 Tie me, hair, your captive wholly : 
 Words I O words of heav'nly knowledge ! 
 Know, my words their faults acknowledge ; 
 
 Dan, dan, 
 
 Dan, dan. 
 And all my life I will confesss, 
 The less 1 love, I live the less. 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 From La Diana de Monte-Mayor, in Spanish ; where Sireno, 
 a shepherd, whose mistress Diana had utterly forsaken him, pull- 
 ing out a little of her hair, wrapped about « ith green silk, to the 
 hair he thus bewailed himself. 
 
 What changes here, O hair ! 
 
 I see, since I saw you ? 
 How ill fits you this green to wear. 
 
 For hope, the colour due ? 
 Indeed, I well did hope. 
 
 Though hope were mix'd with fear. 
 No other shepherd should have scope 
 
 Once to approach this hair. 
 
 Ah hair ! how many days 
 My Dian made me show. 
 
246 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 With thousand pretty childish plays, 
 If I ware you or no : 
 
 Alas! how oft with tears, 
 
 tears of guileful breast ! 
 
 She seemed full of jealous fears. 
 Whereat I did but jest. 
 
 Tell me, O hair of gold, 
 If I then faulty be. 
 
 That trust those killing eyes I would. 
 Since they did warrant me ? 
 
 Have you not seen her mood. 
 What streams of tears she spent, 
 
 'Till that I sware my faith so stood. 
 As her words had it bent ? 
 
 Who hath such beauty seen 
 In one that changeth so ? 
 
 Or where one's love so constant been. 
 Who ever saw such woe ? 
 
 Ah, hair! are you not griev'd 
 To come from whence you be. 
 
 Seeing how once you saw I liv'd. 
 To see me as you see ? 
 
 On sandy bank of late, 
 
 1 saw this woman sit ; 
 
 Where, " Sooner die than change my state," 
 She with her finger writ : 
 
 Thus my belief was staid, 
 Behold Love's mighty hand 
 
 On things were by a woman said. 
 And written in the sand. 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 247 
 
 The same Sireno in Monte-Mayor, holding his mistress's glass 
 before her, and looking upon her while she viewed herself, thus 
 sang : — 
 
 Of this high grace, with bliss conjoin'd, 
 
 No farther debt on me is laid, 
 Since that in self-same metal coin'd. 
 
 Sweet lady, you remain well paid ; 
 
 For if my place give me great pleasure, 
 Having before my nature's treasure. 
 In face and eyes unmatch'd being. 
 You have the same in my hands, seeing 
 What in your face mine eyes do measure. 
 
 Nor think the match unev'nly made. 
 That of those beams in you do tarry. 
 
 The glass to you but gives a shade. 
 To me mine eyes the true shape carry ; 
 
 For such a thought most highly prized. 
 
 Which ever hath Love's yoke despised, 
 Better than one captiv'd perceiveth. 
 Though he the lively form receiveth. 
 
 The other sees it but disguised. 
 
 ^^ Of THS^^i 
 
 JUHI7BRSIT1 
 
248 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread, 
 For Love is dead : 
 
 All Love is dead, infe6led 
 With plague of deep disdain : 
 
 Worth, as nought vv^orth, reje6led, 
 And faith fair scorn doth gain. 
 
 From so ungrateful fancy ; 
 
 From such a female frenzy ; 
 
 From them that use men thus. 
 
 Good Lord, deliver us. 
 
 Weep, neighbours, weep, do you not hear it said. 
 That Love is dead ? 
 
 His death-bed, peacock's folly : 
 His winding-sheet is shame ; 
 
 His will, false-seeming holy, 
 His sole exec'tor, blame. 
 
 From so ungrateful fancy ; 
 
 From such a female frenzy ; 
 
 From them that use men thus, 
 
 Good Lord, deliver us. 
 
 Let dirge be sung, and trentals * rightly read. 
 For Love is dead : 
 
 Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth 
 
 * " Tricennalia," says Bishop Fleetwood, " were called ' tren- 
 tals ' from ' trigintalia,' and in English ' a month's-mind ; ' because 
 the service lasted a month, or thirty days, in which they said so 
 many masses for the repose of the person deceased." 
 
Miscellaneous Pocfns. 249 
 
 A4y mistress' marble heart ; 
 
 Which epitaph containeth, 
 " Her eyes were once his dart." 
 
 From so ungrateful fancy ; 
 
 From such a female frenzy ; 
 
 From them that use men thus, 
 
 Good Lord, deliver us. 
 
 Alas ! I lie : rage hath this error bred ; 
 Love is not dead. 
 
 Love is not dead, but sleepeth 
 In her unmatched mind : 
 
 Where she his counsel keepeth 
 Till due deserts she find. 
 
 Therefore from so vile fancy, 
 
 To call such wit a frenzy : 
 
 Who Love can temper thus. 
 
 Good Lord, deliver us. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 -Thou blind man's mark ; thou fool's self-chosen snare. 
 Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scatter'd thought : 
 
 Band of all evils ; cradle of causeless care ; 
 
 Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought : 
 
 Desire ! Desire ! I have too dearly bought. 
 With price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware j 
 
 Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought, 
 Who shouldst my mind to higher things prepare ; 
 32 
 
250 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought ; 
 In vain thou mad'st me to vain things aspire ; 
 In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire : 
 
 For Virtue hath this better lesson taught, 
 Within myself to seek my only hire. 
 Desiring nought but how^ to kill Desire. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Leave me, O love ! which reachest but to dust ; 
 
 And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things : 
 Grow rich in that which never taketh rust ; 
 
 Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings. 
 
 Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might 
 To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be. 
 
 Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light. 
 That doth both shine, and give us sight to see. 
 
 O take fast hold I let that light be thy guide. 
 In this small course which birth draws out to death. 
 
 And think how evil becometh him to slide. 
 
 Who seeketh heav'n, and comes of heav'nly breath. 
 
 Then farewell, world, thy uttermost I see, 
 Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me. 
 
 SPLENDIDIS LONGUM VALEDICO NUGIS. 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 251 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 The dart, the beams, the sting, so strong I prove, 
 Which my chief part doth pass through, parch, and tie, 
 
 That of the stroke, the heat, and knot of love. 
 Wounded, inflam'd, knit to the death, I die. 
 
 Harden'd and cold, far from affedlion's snare 
 Was once my mind, my temper, and my life ; 
 
 While I that sight, desire, and vow forbare, 
 
 Which to avoid, quench, lose, nought boasted strife. 
 
 Yet will not I grief, ashes, thraldom change 
 For others' ease, their fruit, or free estate j 
 
 So brave a shot, dear fire, and beauty strange, 
 
 Bid me pierce, burn, and bind, long time and late. 
 
 And in my wounds, my flames, and bonds, I find 
 
 A salve, fresh air, and bright contented mind. 
 
 STANZAS TO LOVE. 
 
 Ah, poor Love I why dost thou live, 
 Thus to see thy service lost ; 
 
 If she will no comfort give, 
 
 Make an end, yield up the ghost ! 
 
 That she may, at length, approve 
 That she hardly long believ'd, 
 
 That the heart will die for love 
 That is not in time reliev'd. 
 
25 2 Miscellaneous Poe?ns. 
 
 Oh ! that ever I was born ! 
 
 Service so to be refus'd ; 
 Faithful love to be foreborn ! 
 
 Never love was so abus'd. 
 
 But, sweet Love, be still awhile ; 
 
 She that hurt thee, Love, may heal thee 
 Sweet ! I see within her smile, 
 
 More than reason can reveal thee. 
 
 For, though she be rich and fair. 
 Yet she is both wise and kind. 
 
 And, therefore, do thou not despair, 
 But thy faith may fancy find. 
 
 Yet, although she be a queen. 
 That may such a snake despise, 
 
 Yet, with silence all unseen,- 
 Run, and hide thee in her eyes : 
 
 Where if she will let thee die. 
 Yet at latest gasp of breath. 
 
 Say that in a lady's eye 
 
 Love both took his life and death.* 
 
 * For the two preceding poems we are indebted to the learning 
 and unwearied research of Dr. Bliss. The first is contained in his 
 Bibliographical Miscellanies, a small volume of literary curiosities 
 which has long been completely out of print : the second is to be 
 found in his elaborate, and, we may safely say, perfeft edition of 
 Wood's Athenae Oxonienses, vol. i. col. 525. 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 253 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Virtue, beauty, and speech, did strike, wound, charm, 
 My heart, eyes, ears, with wonder, love, delight ; 
 First, second, last, did bind, enforce, and arm, 
 His works, shows, suits, with wit, grace, and vows' 
 might. 
 
 Thus honour, liking, trust, much, for, and deep. 
 Held, pierc'd, possess'd, my judgment, sense, and will, 
 Till wrongs, contempt, deceit, did grow, steal, creep, 
 Bands, favour, faith, to break, defile, and kill. 
 
 Then grief, unkindness, proof, took, kindled, taught, 
 Well-grounded, noble, due, spite, rage, disdain : 
 But ah, alas ! in vain my mind, sight, thought, 
 Doth him, his face, his words, leave, shun, refrain. 
 For nothing, time, nor place, can loose, quench, ease, 
 Mine own, embraced, sought, knot, fire, disease.* 
 
 * The above is reprinted from " England's Helicon;" and is 
 there entitled " An Excellent Sonnet of a Nymph." The same 
 work contains thirteen other poetical compositions by Sidney ; but 
 they are all merely extrafts from the Astrophel and Stella, the Ar- 
 cadia, or the Sonnets, etc., at the end of the latter, which the reader 
 will find included in the present volume under the head of Miscel- 
 laneous Poems. 
 
254 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 WOOING-STUFF. 
 
 Faint amorist, what ! do'st thou think 
 
 To taste Love's honey, and not drink 
 One dram of gall ? or to devour 
 
 A world of sweet, and taste no sour ? 
 Do'st thou ever think to enter 
 
 Th' Elysian fields, that dar'st not venture 
 In Charon's barge ? a lover's mind 
 
 Must use to sail with every wind. 
 
 He that loves, and fears to try. 
 
 Learns his mistress to deny. 
 Doth she chide thee ? 'tis to show it. 
 
 That thy coldness makes her do it : 
 Is she silent ? is she mute ? 
 
 Silence fully grants thy suit : 
 Doth she pout, and leave the room ? 
 
 Then she goes to bid thee come : 
 Is she sick ? why then be sure. 
 
 She invites thee to the cure : 
 Doth she cross thy suit with " No ? " 
 
 Tush, she loves to hear thee woo : 
 Doth she call the faith of man 
 
 In question ? Nay, 'uds-foot, she loves thee 
 than;* 
 And if ere she makes a blot, 
 
 She's lost if that thou hit'st her not. 
 
 * " Than " and " then " were used as synonymous by our elder 
 poets, whenever their rhyine required the interchange. 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 255 
 
 He that after ten denials, 
 
 Dares attempt no farther trials, 
 Hath no warrant to acquire 
 
 The dainties of his chaste desire.* 
 
 TWO PASTORALS, 
 
 Made by Sir Philip Sidney, upon his meeting with his two worthy 
 friends and fellow poets, Sir Edward Dyer and M. Fulke 
 Greville.t 
 
 Join mates in mirth to me. 
 
 Grant pleasure to our meeting ; 
 Let Pan, our good god, see 
 How grateful is our greeting. 
 
 Join hearts and hands, so let it be, 
 Make but one mind in bodies three. 
 
 * This lively little poem is printed at the end of " Cottoni Pos- 
 thuma," together with " Valour Anatomised in a Fancy," which 
 will also be found in a subsequent part of this volume. 
 
 + This, and the following pastoral, are taken from the ably illus- 
 trated, and beautiful reprint of Davison's Poetical Rhapsody, edited 
 by Nicholas Harris Nicolas, Esq. We have already seen the close 
 intimacy that subsisted between Fulke Greville and our author ; 
 and Sidney's connexion with Sir Edward Dyer appears not to have 
 been less afFeftionate. They are styled by Gabriel Harvey the 
 " Castor and Pollux of poetry;" and Spenser denominates them 
 " The two very diamonds of her Majesty's court." The friendship 
 of this illustrious trio seems only to have been dissolved by death ; 
 for Sir Philip, in his will, ordered his books to be divided between 
 Sir Edward and L.ord Brooke. 
 
256 Miscellaneous Poe?ns. 
 
 Ye hymns and singing skill 
 Of god Apollo's giving, 
 Be press'd our reeds to fill 
 With sound of music living. 
 
 Join hearts and hands, so let it be, 
 Make but one mind in bodies three. 
 
 Sweet Orpheus' harp, whose sound 
 
 The stedfast mountains moved. 
 Let there thy skill abound. 
 
 To join sv/eet friends beloved. 
 
 Join hearts and hands, so let it be. 
 Make but one mind in bodies three. 
 
 My two and I be met, 
 
 A happy blessed trinity. 
 As three more jointly set 
 In firmest band of unity. 
 
 Join hearts and hands, so let it be. 
 Make but one mind in bodies three. 
 
 Welcome my two to me,* 
 
 The number best beloved. 
 Within my heart you be 
 In friendship unremoved. 
 
 Join hearts and hands, so let it be. 
 Make but one mind in bodies three. 
 
 Give leave your flocks to range. 
 
 Let us the while be playing ; 
 Within the elmy grange. 
 
 Your flocks will not be straying. 
 
 * On the margin are the initials, E. D. ¥. G. P. S. 
 
Miscellaneous Poems. 257 
 
 Join hearts and hands, so let it be, 
 Make but one mind in bodies three. 
 
 Cause all the mirth you can, 
 
 Since I am now come hither. 
 Who never joy, but when 
 I am with you together. 
 
 Join hearts and hands, so let it be, 
 Make but one mind in bodies three. 
 
 Like lovers do their love. 
 So joy I in you seeing : 
 Let nothing me remove 
 
 From always with you being. 
 
 Join hearts and hands, so let it be, 
 Make but one mind ia bodies three. 
 
 And as the turtle dove 
 
 To mate with whom he liveth, 
 Such comfort fervent love 
 Of you to my heart giveth. 
 
 Join hearts and hands, so let it be, 
 A4ake but one mind in bodies three. 
 
 Now joined be our hands. 
 
 Let them be ne'er asunder. 
 But link'd in binding bands 
 By metamorphosed wonder. 
 
 So should our sever'd bodies three 
 As one for ever joined be. 
 
258 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 DISPRAISE OF A COURTLY LIFE. 
 
 Walking in bright Phoebus' blaze. 
 
 Where with heat oppress'd I was, 
 
 I got to a shady wood. 
 
 Where green leaves did newly bud ; 
 
 And of grass was plenty dwelling, 
 
 Deck'd with pied flowers sweetly smelling. 
 
 In this wood a man I met. 
 On lamenting wholly set ; 
 Ruing change of wonted state. 
 Whence he was transformed late. 
 Once to shepherds' God retaining. 
 Now in servile court remaining. 
 
 There he wand'ring malecontent, 
 Up and down perplexed went, 
 Daring not to tell to me, 
 Spake unto a senseless tree. 
 One among the rest eledling, 
 These same words, or this affe6i:ing ; 
 
 " My old mates I grieve to see 
 Void of me in field to be. 
 Where we once our lovely sheep 
 Lovingly like friends did keep ; 
 Oft each other's friendship proving, 
 
Miscellaneoys Poems. 259 
 
 But may love abiding be 
 
 In poor shepherds' base degree ? 
 
 It belongs to such alone 
 
 To whom art of love is known : 
 
 Seely * shepherds are not witting 
 
 What in art of love is fitting. 
 
 Nay, what need the art to those 
 To whom we our love disclose ? 
 It is to be used then, 
 When we do but flatter men : 
 Friendship true, in heart assured, 
 Is by Nature's gifts procured. 
 
 Therefore shepherds, wanting skill, 
 Can Love's duties best fulfil ; 
 Since they know not how to feign. 
 Nor withiove to cloak disdain, 
 Like the wiser sort, whose learning 
 Hides their inward will of harming. 
 
 Well was I, while under shade 
 Oaten reeds me music made. 
 Striving with my mates in song ; 
 Mixing mirth our sonss amone. 
 
 * In Todd's Johnson this word is described on the authority 
 of Chaucer and Spenser to mean lucky, happy ; and likewise, 
 agreeably to the usage of the latter writer, silly, inoffensive, harm- 
 less. Perhaps the instance in the text, as well as that in the 
 next page, afford the best proof which can be adduced of the 
 word being used synonymously with silly, ignorant, or simple. 
 Nicolas. 
 
26o Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 Greater was the shepherd's treasure, 
 Than this false, fine, courtly pleasure. 
 
 Where how many creatures be, 
 So many pufF'd in mind I see ; 
 Like to Juno's birds of pride. 
 Scarce each other can abide : 
 Friends like to black swans appearing, 
 Sooner these than those in hearing. 
 
 Therefore, Pan, if thou may'st be 
 Made to listen unto me. 
 Grant, I say, if seely man 
 May make treaty to god Pan, 
 That I, without thy denying. 
 May be still to thee relying. 
 
 Only for my two loves' sake,* 
 In whose love I pleasure take \ 
 Only two do me delight 
 With their ever-pleas iig sight ; 
 Of all men to thee retaining. 
 Grant me with those two remaining. 
 
 So shall I to thee always 
 
 With my reeds sound mighty praise : 
 
 And first lamb that shall befall, 
 
 Yearly deck thine altar shall. 
 
 If it please thee to be reflefted, 
 
 And 1 from thee not rejected." 
 
 * The margin again gives the initials. Sir E. D. and M. F. G. 
 
Miscellaneous Poe?ns. 
 
 261 
 
 So I left him in that place, 
 Talcing pity on his case j 
 Learning this among the rest, 
 That the mean estate is best ; 
 Better filled with contenting, 
 Void of wishing and repenting. 
 
THE LADY OF MAY^ 
 
 A MASQUE. 
 
The origin of the " Lady of May " possesses somewhat of politi- 
 cal interest. In 1578, while Queen Elizabeth either was, or affec- 
 ted to be, still entirely undecided whether or not she should embrace 
 the matrimonial proposals of the Duke of Alen9on, she was invited 
 by the Earl of Leicester to his splendid mansion of Wanstead- 
 house, probably with the hope of recovering, in privacy, and when 
 relieved from the counter-manoeuvres of his rivals, that ascendancy 
 over the royal mind, which seemed now on the point of being com- 
 pletely annihilated. The Queen accepted the invitation, and re- 
 mained several days at the luxurious mansion of her favourite, where 
 every pleasure was presented to her which ostentatious magnificence 
 could devise, or prodigality colleft. Even Sir Philip Sidney then 
 condescended to flatter her vanity in the following Masque, which 
 was written for the occasion, and performed in her Majesty's pres- 
 ence .with all the adornments which the composition admitted of. 
 Like the other similar produftions of the same period, it is remark- 
 able for little else than the nauseous seasoning of adulation in which 
 that extraordinary woman took such exquisite delight. 
 
 The following are the names of the 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 The SUITER, mother of the May-Lady. 
 
 The MAY-LADY. 
 
 THERION, a forester ) „ . r . a^ t j 
 
 ^„„,T^.„ . . ^ Suiters or the May-Lady. 
 
 ESPILUS, a shepherd I ^ ^ 
 
 ROMBUS, a schoolmaster. 
 
 LALUS, an old shepherd. 
 
 DORCAS, a shepherd. 
 
 RIXUS, a forester. 
 
THE LADY OF MAY, 
 
 A MASQUE. 
 
 Her most excellent Majesty walking in Wanstead Garden, as she 
 passed down into the grove, there came suddenly among the train 
 one apparelled like an honest man's wife of the country ; where 
 crying out for justice, and desiring all the lords and gentlemen to 
 speak a good word for her, she was brought to the presence of 
 her Majesty, to whom, upon her knees, she offered a supplication, 
 and used this speech. 
 
 THE SUITER. 
 
 OST fair lady ! for as for other your titles of 
 state, statelier persons shall give you, and 
 thus much mine own eyes are witnesses of; 
 take here the complaint of me, poor wretch ! 
 as deeply plunged in misery, as I wish to you the highest 
 point of happiness. 
 
 Only one daughter I have, in whom I had placed all 
 
 the hopes of my good hap, so well had she, with her 
 
 good parts, recompensed my pain of bearing her, and 
 
 care of bringing her up : but now, alas ! that she is 
 
 34 
 
266 , Tke Lady of May, 
 
 come to the time I should reap my full comfort of her, 
 so is she troubled with that notable matter, which we in 
 the country call matrimony, as I cannot choose but fear 
 the loss of her wits, at least of her honesty. Other 
 women think they may be unhappily cumbered with one 
 master-husband ; my poor daughter is oppressed with 
 two, both loving her, both equally liked of her, both 
 striving to deserve her. But now, lastly (as this jeal- 
 ousy, forsooth, is a vile matter) each have brought their 
 partakers with them, and are, at this present, without 
 your presence redress it, in some bloody controversy ; 
 now, sweet lady, help ; your own way guides you to 
 the place where they encumber her. I dare stay here 
 no longer, for our men say in the country, the sight of 
 you is infedious. 
 
 And with that she went away a good pace, leaving the supplication 
 with her Majesty, which very formally contained this 
 
 SUPPLICATION. 
 Most Gracious Sovereign ! 
 
 To one, whose state is raised over all. 
 
 Whose face doth oft the bravest sort enchant; 
 
 Whose mind is such as wisest minds appal ; 
 Who in one self these divers gifts can plant : 
 
 How dare I, wretch ! seek there my woes to rest. 
 
 Where ears be burnt, eyes dazzled, hearts opprest ? 
 
 Your state is great, your greatness is your shield ; 
 Your face hurts oft, but still it doth delight ; 
 
 Your mind is wise, but still it makes you mild : 
 Such planted gifts enrich ev'n beggars' sight : 
 
A Masq^ue. 267 
 
 So dare I, wretch ! my bashful fear subdue, 
 And feed mine ears, mine eyes, my heart in you. 
 
 Herewith, the woman suiter being gone, there was heard in the 
 wood a confused noise, and forthwith there came out six shep- 
 herds, with as many fosters, hauling and pulling to whither side 
 they should draw the Lady of May, who seemed to incline neither 
 to the one nor the other side. Among them was Master Rombus, 
 a schoolmaster of a village thereby, who, being fully persuaded 
 of his own learned wisdom, came thither, with his authority to 
 part their fray ; where, for answer, he received many unlearned 
 blows. But the Queen coming to the place where she was seen 
 of them, though they knew not her estate, yet something there 
 was which made them startle aside and gaze upon her : till old 
 Father Lalus stepped forth (one of the substantiallest shepherds) 
 and making a leg or two, said these i^\N words. 
 
 LALUS THE OLD SHEPHERD. 
 
 May it please your dignity to give a little superfluous 
 intelligence to that, which, with the opening of my 
 mouth, my tongue and teeth shall deliver unto you. 
 So it is, right worshipful audience, that a certain she- 
 creature, which we shepherds call a woman, of a min- 
 sical countenance ; but, by my white lamb, not three 
 quarters so beauteous as yourself, hath disannulled the 
 brainpan of two of our featiest young men. And will 
 you wot how ? By my mother Kit's soul, with a cer- 
 tain frenzical malady they call love : when I was a 
 young man they called it flat folly. But here is a sub- 
 stantial schoolmaster can bettei* disnounce the whole 
 foundation of the matter, although, in sooth, for all his 
 loquence, our young men were nothing duteous to his 
 clerkship. Come on, come on, master schoolmaster, be 
 not so bashless \ we say, " that the fairest are ever the 
 
268 
 
 The Lady of May, 
 
 gentlest :" tell the whole case, for you can much better 
 vent the points of it than I. 
 
 Then came forward Master Rombus, and, with many special graces, 
 made this learned oration. 
 
 Now the thunder-thumping Jove transfund his dotes 
 mto your excellent formosity, which have, with your 
 resplendent beams, thus segregated the enmity of these 
 rural animals : I am " potentissima domina," a school- 
 master J that is to say, a pedagogue, one not a little 
 versed m the disciplinating of the juvenile fry, wherein 
 to my laud I say it, I use such geometrical proportion] 
 as neither wanted mansuetude nor corredion : for so it 
 is described 
 
 Parcare subjeaos, et debellire superbos.* 
 
 * We hope the reader will hold us guiltless of the dog-latin 
 wh:ch the rustic pedant is made to utter throughout the whole of 
 this piece. The charafler of Master Rombus bears a striking 
 resemblance to that of the erudite Holofernes in Love's Labour 
 Lost. " He too, draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than 
 the staple of his argument." No doubt they were both intended to 
 ridicule the tortured English, called Euphuism, which John Lyly, 
 and his followers, had succeeded in bringing into a temporary 
 fashion ; and the chief credit of discarding which from general use 
 Drayton has ascribed, in the following lines, to Sir Philip Sidney : 
 
 The noble Sidney, with this last, arose. 
 That heroe for numbers and for prose, 
 That throughly pac'd our language, as to show 
 The plenteous English hand in hand might go 
 With Greek and Latin ; and did first reduce 
 Our tongue from Lyly's writing then in use ; — 
 Talking of stones, stars, plants, of fishes, flies, 
 Playing with words and idle similies. — 
 
A Masque. 269 
 
 Yet hath not the pulchritude of my virtues protedted 
 me from the contaminating hands of these plebeians j 
 for coming, " solummodo," to have parted their sanguin- 
 olent fray, they yielded me no more reverence, than if 
 I had been some " pecorius asinus." I, even I, that 
 am, vi^ho ami? "Dixi; verbus sapiento satum est." 
 But M^hat said that Trojan ^Eneas, vv^hen he sojourned in 
 the surging sulks of the sandiferous seas ? 
 
 Hecc olim memonasse juvebit. 
 
 Well, w^ell, "ad propositos revertebo;" the purity of 
 the verity is, that a certain " pulchra puella profe6t6," 
 eledled and constituted by the integrated determination 
 of all this topographical region, as the sovereign lady of 
 this dame Maia's month, hath been, " quodammodo," 
 hunted, as you would say ; pursued by two, a brace, a 
 couple, a cast of young men, to whom the crafty coward 
 Cupid had, " inquam," delivered his dire dolorous 
 dart. 
 
 But here the May-Lady interrupted his speech, saying to him. 
 
 Away, away, you tedious fool ! your eyes are not 
 worthy to look to yonder princely sight ; much less 
 your foolish tongue to trouble her wise ears. 
 
 At which Master Rombus, in a great chafe, cried out, 
 
 " O Tempori, O Moribus !" in profession a child ; 
 in dignity a woman ; in years a lady ; " in caeteris " a 
 maid ; should thus turpify the reputation of my doc- 
 trine, with the superscription of a fool ! — " O Tem- 
 pori, O Moribus !" 
 
270 The Lady of May, 
 
 But here again the May-Lady saying to him, 
 
 Leave off, good Latin fool, and let me satisfy the long 
 desire I have had to feed mine eyes with the only sight 
 this age hath granted to the world. 
 
 The poor schoolmaster went his way back, and the lady, kneeling 
 down, said in this manner : 
 
 Do not think, sweet and gallant lady, that I do abase 
 myself thus much unto you because of your gay apparel; 
 for what is so brave as the natural beauty 'of the flow- 
 ers ? nor because a certain gentleman hereby seeks to 
 do you all the honour he can in his house ; that is not 
 the matter, he is but our neighbour, and these be our 
 own groves ; nor yet because of our great estate, since 
 no estate can be compared to be the lady of the whole 
 month of May, as I am. So that since both this place 
 and this time are my servants, you may be sure I would 
 look for reverence at your hands, if I did not see some- 
 thing in your face which makes me yield to you : the 
 truth is, you excel me in that wherein I desire most to 
 excel, and that makes me give this homage unto you, as 
 to the beautifullest lady these woods have ever received. 
 But now, as old Father Lalus dire6led me,' I will tell you 
 my fortune, that you may be judge of my mishaps, and 
 others' worthiness. Indeed so it is, that I am a fair 
 wench, or else I am. deceived, and therefore, by the con- 
 sent of all our neighbours, have been chosen for the 
 absolute lady of this merry month. With me have 
 been (alas ! I am ashamed to tell it) two young men, 
 the one a forester named Therion, the other Espilus a 
 shepherd, very long, even in love, forsooth. I like 
 them both, and love neither : Espilus is the richer, but 
 Therion the livelier. Therion doth me many pleasures 
 
J Masque. 271 
 
 as stealing me venison out of these forests, and many 
 other such like pretty and prettier services ; but withal, 
 he grows to such rages, that sometimes he strikes me, 
 sometimes he rarls at me This shepherd Espilus, of a 
 mild disposition, as his fortune hath not been to do me 
 great service, so hath he never done me any wrong ; but 
 feeding his sheep, sitting under some sweet bush, some- 
 times, they say, he records my name in doleful verses. 
 Now the question I am to ask you, fair lady, is, whether 
 the many deserts and many faults of Therion, or the 
 very small deserts and no faults of Espilus, be to be 
 preferred ? But before you give your judgment, most 
 excellent lady, you shall hear what each of them can 
 say for themselves in their rural songs. 
 
 Thereupon Therion challenged Espilus to sing with him, speaking 
 these six verses. 
 
 THERION. 
 
 Come, Espilus, come, now declare thy skill ; 
 
 Show how thou canst deserve so brave desire : 
 Warm well thy wits, if thou wilt win her will ; 
 
 For water cold did never promise fire : 
 Great, sure, is she, on whom our hopes do live, 
 Greater is she who must the judgment give. 
 
 But Espilus, as if he had been inspired with the Muses, began 
 forthwith to sing, whereto his fellow shepherds set in with their 
 recorders, which they bare in their bags like pipes ; and so of 
 Therion's side did the foresters, with the cornets they wore about 
 their necks, like hunting-horns, in baudrikes. 
 
 ESPILUS. 
 
 Tune up, my voice, a higher note I yield. 
 
 To high conceits, the song must needs be high : 
 
272 The Lady of May, 
 
 More high than stars ; more firm than flinty field, 
 
 Are all my thoughts, in which I live or die : 
 Sweet soul, to whom I vowed am a slave, 
 Let not wild woods so great a treasure have. 
 
 The highest note comes oft from basest mind. 
 As shallow brooks do yield the greatest sound ; 
 
 Seek, other thoughts thy life or death to find, 
 Thy stars be fiill'n, plow'd is thy flinty ground : 
 
 Sweet soul, let not a wretch that serveth sheep. 
 
 Among his flock so sweet a treasure keep. 
 
 Two thousand sheep I have, as white as milk. 
 Though not so white as is thy lovely face ; 
 
 The pasture rich, the wool as soft as silk : 
 All this I give, let me possess thy grace : 
 
 But still take heed, lest thou thyself submit 
 
 To one that hath no vi'ealth, and wants his wit. 
 
 THERION. 
 
 Two thousand deer in wildest woods I have ; 
 Them can I take, but you 1 cannot hold : 
 
 He is not poor, who can his freedom save : 
 Bound but to you, no wealth but you I would : 
 
 But take this beast, if beasts you fear to miss. 
 
 For of his beasts, the greatest beast he is. 
 
 ESPILUS, kneeling to the ^-leen. 
 Judge you, to whom all beauty's force is lent : 
 
A Masque. 273 
 
 THERION. 
 
 Judge you of love, to whom all love is bent. 
 
 But as they waited for the judgment her Majesty should give of 
 their deserts, the shepherds and foresters grew to a great conten- 
 tion, whether of their fellows had sung better, and so whether the 
 estate of shepherds or foresters were the more worshipful. The 
 speakers were Dorcas, an old shepherd, and Rixus, a young foster, 
 between whom the schoolmaster, Rombus, came in as a moderator. 
 
 DORCAS, THE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Now all the blessings of my old grandam (silly 
 Espilus) light upon thy shoulders for this honeycomb 
 singing of thine ; now, of my honesty, all the bells in 
 the town could not have sung better : if the proud heart 
 of the harlotry lie not down to thee now, the sheep's 
 rot catch her, to teach her that a fair woman hath not 
 her fairness to let it grow rustish. 
 
 RIXUS, THE FOSTER. 
 
 O Midas ! why art not thou alive now to lend thine 
 ears to this drivel ? By the precious bones of a hunts- 
 man, he knows not the blaying of a calf from the song 
 of a nightingale ; but if yonder great gentlewoman be 
 as wise as she is fair, Therion, thou shalt have the 
 prize ; and thou, old Dorcas, with young master Espilus, 
 shall remain tame fools, as you be. 
 
 DoRCAS. And, with cap and knee be it spoken, it is 
 your pleasure, neighbour Rixus, to be a wild fool ! 
 
 Rixus. Rather than a sheepish dolt. 
 35 
 
274 The Lady of May, 
 
 Dorcas. It is much refreshing to my bowels, you 
 have made your choice ; for my share, I will bestow 
 your leavings upon one of your fellows. 
 
 Rixus. And art not thou ashamed, old fool ! to liken 
 Espilus, a shepherd, to Therion of the noble vocation 
 of huntsmen, in the presence of such an one as even 
 with her eye only can give thee cruel punishment ? 
 
 Dorcas. Hold thy peace, I will neither meddle with 
 her, nor her eyes ; they feign in our town they are 
 dangerous both ; neither will I liken Therion to my boy 
 Espilus, since one is a thievish prowler, and the other is 
 as quiet as lambs that now came from sucking. 
 
 ROMBLTS, THE SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 " Heu ! Ehem ! Hei I Insipidum ! Inscitium vulgo- 
 rum et populorum ! " Why, you brute nebulons, have 
 you had my " corpusculum " so long among you, and 
 cannot yet tell how to edify an argument ? Attend and 
 throw your ears to me, for I am gravidated with child, 
 till I have endo£lrinated your plumbeous cerebrosities. 
 First, you must divisionate your point, " quasi " you 
 should cut a cheese into two particles ; for thus must I 
 uniform my speech to your obtuse conceptions : for 
 *' prius dividendum oratio antequam definiendum ; ex- 
 emplum gratia," either Therion must conquer this dame 
 Maia's nymph, or Espilus must overthrow her, and that 
 " secundum " their dignity, which must also be sub- 
 divisionated into three equal species, either according to 
 the penetrancy of their singing, or the meliority of their 
 functions ; or, lastly, the supremacy of their merits. 
 
J Masque. 275 
 
 *' De " singing "satis." "Nunc" are you to argu- 
 mentate of the qualifying of their estate first; and then, 
 whether hath more infernally, I mean deeply, deserved. 
 
 Dorcas. O poor Dorcas ! poor Dorcas ! that I was 
 not sent in my young days to school, that I might have 
 purchased the understanding of Master Rombus's mys- 
 terious speeches. But yet thus much I concern of 
 them, that I must even give up what my conscience 
 doth find in the behalf of shepherds. O sweet honey- 
 milken lambs ! And is there any so flinty a heart, that 
 can find about him to speak against them, that have the 
 charge of such good souls as you be, among whom there 
 is no envy, and all obedience ; where it is lawful for a 
 man to be good if he list, and hath no outward cause to 
 withdraw him from it ; where the eye may be busied in 
 considering the works of nature, and the heart quietly 
 rejoiced in the honest using them ? If templation, as 
 clerks say, be the most excellent, which is so fit a life 
 for templars as this is, neither subjedl to violent oppres- 
 sion, nor servile flattery ? How many courtiers, think 
 you, have I heard under our field, in bushes, making 
 their woful complaints ; some, of the greatness of their 
 mistress's estate, which dazzled their eyes, and yet 
 burned their hearts ; some, of the extremity of her 
 beauty mixed with extreme cruelty ; some, of her too 
 much wit, which made all their loving labours folly ? 
 O how often have I heard one name sound in many 
 mouths, making our vales witnesses of their doleful 
 agonies ! So that with long-lost labour, finding their 
 thoughts bare no other wool but despair, of young cour- 
 tiers they grew old shepherds. Well, sweet lambs, I 
 will end with you as I began : he that can open his 
 
2/6 The Lady of May, 
 
 mouth against such innocent souls, let him be hated as 
 much as a filthy fox ; let the taste of him be worse than 
 musty cheese ; the sound of him be more dreadful than 
 the howling of a wolf; his sight more odible than a 
 toad in one's porridge. 
 
 Rixus. Your life, indeed, hath some goodness. 
 
 ROMBUS, THE SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 " O tace, tace ! " or all the fat will be ignified ; first 
 let me dilucidate the very intrinsical marrowbone of the 
 matter. He doth use a certain rhetorical invasion into 
 the point, as if, indeed, he had conference with his 
 Iambs ; but the truth is, he doth equitate you in the 
 mean time, Master Rixus ; for thus he saith, that the 
 sheep are good, *' ergo," the shepherd is good, an " En- 
 thymeme a loco contingentibus," as my finger and my 
 thumb are " contingentes." Again he saith, who liveth 
 well, is likewise good ; but shepherds live well, " ergo," 
 they are good ; syllogism in Darius, King of Persia, " a 
 conjugatis ; " as you would say, a man coupled to his 
 wife, two bodies, but one soul ; but do you but acqui- 
 escate to my exhortation, and you shall extinguish him. 
 Tell him his " major " is a knave, his " minor " is a 
 fool, and his conclusion both, " Et ecce homo blancatus 
 quasi lilium." 
 
 Rixus. I was saying, the shepherd's life had some 
 goodness in it, because it borrowed of the country quiet- 
 ness something like ours : but that is not all ; for ours, 
 besides that quiet part, doth both strengthen the bodies, 
 and raise up the mind with this gallant sort of activity. 
 
J Masque. 277 
 
 O sweet contentation ! to see the long life of the hurt- 
 less trees ! to see how in straight growing up, though 
 never so high, they hinder not their fellows ! they only 
 enviously trouble, which are crookedly bent. What 
 life is to be compared to ours, where the very growing 
 things are ensamples of goodness ! we have no hopes 
 but we may quickly go about them, and going about 
 them, we soon obtain them ; not like those that have 
 long followed one, in troth, most excellent chase, do 
 now, at length, perceive she could never be taken, but 
 that, if she staid at any time near the pursuers, it was 
 never meant to tarry with them, but only to take breath 
 to fly farther from them. He, therefore, that doubts 
 that our life doth not so far excel all others, let him 
 also doubt, that the well-deserving and painful Therion 
 is not to be preferred before the idle Espilus ; which 
 is even as much as to say, as that the roes are not 
 swifter than sheep, nor the stags more goodly than goats. 
 
 RoMBUS. " Bene, bene, nunc de quaestione prepos- 
 itus i " that is as much as to say, well, well, now of the 
 proposed question ; that was, whether the many great 
 services, and many great faults of Therion, or the iew 
 small services, and no faults of Espilus, be to be prefer- 
 red ; incepted or accepted the former ? 
 
 THE MAY-LADY. 
 
 No, no ; your ordinary brains shall not deal in that 
 matter : I have already submitted it to one, whose sweet 
 spirit hath passed through greater difficulties ; neither 
 will I that your blockheads lie in her way. 
 
 Therefore, O Lady ! worthy to see the accomplish- 
 
278 The Lady of May, 
 
 ment of your desires, since all your desires be most 
 worthy of you, vouchsafe our ears such happiness, and 
 me that particular favour, as that you will judge, whether 
 of these two be more worthy of me ? or, whether I be 
 worthy of them ? and this I will say, that in judging me, 
 you judge more than me in it. 
 
 This being said, it pleased her Majesty to judge, that Espilus did 
 the better deserve her ; but what words, what reasons, she used 
 for it, this paper, which carrieth so base names, is not worthy to 
 contain. Sufficeth it, that upon the judgment given, the shep- 
 herds and foresters made a full concert of their cornets and re- 
 corders, and then did Espilus sing this song, tending to the great- 
 ness of his own joy, and yet to the comfort of the other side, 
 since they were overthrown by a most worthy adversary. The 
 song contained two short tales ; and thus it was. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 SiLVANUs, long in love, and long in vain, 
 At length obtain'd the point of his desire ; 
 
 Who being ask'd, now that he did obtain 
 
 His wished weal, what more he could require ? 
 
 Nothing, said he, for most I joy in this. 
 
 That goddess mine my blessed being sees. 
 
 When wanton Pan, deceiv'd with lion's skin, 
 Came to the bed, where wound for kiss he got 
 
 To woe and shame the wretch did enter in. 
 Till this he took for comfort of his lot ; 
 
 Poor Pan, he said, although thou beaten be, 
 
 It is no shame, since Hercules was he. 
 
 Thus joyfully in chosen tunes rejoice. 
 That such an one is witness of my heart, 
 
A Masque. 279 
 
 Whose clearest eyes I bless, and sweetest voice ; 
 
 That see my good, and judgeth my desert : 
 Thus woful I, in woe, this salve do find. 
 My foul mishap came yet from fairest mind. 
 
 The music fully ended, the May-Lady took her leave in this sort. 
 
 Lady, Yourself, for other titles do rather diminish 
 than add unto you ; I and my little company must now 
 leave you : I should do you wrong to beseech you to 
 take our follies well, since your bounty is such as to 
 pardon greater faults. Therefore I will wish you good 
 night, praying to God, according to the title I possess, 
 that, as hitherto it hath excellently done, so hencefor- 
 ward the flourishing of May, may long remain in you, 
 and with you. 
 
VALOUR ANATOMIZED, 
 
 IN A FANCY. 
 
 36 
 
This pleasing little Essay bears the date 158 1 ; and originally 
 appeared under the name of Sir P. Sidney, at the end of the small 
 volume entitled " Cottoni Posthuma, being divers choice pieces of 
 that renowned antiquary Sir Robert Cotton, Knt. and Bart.," pub- 
 lished in the year 1651, and edited by James Howell, the popular 
 writer of " Epistolas Ho-Elianse." Anthony Wood, in his Athe- 
 nas, inserts the " Valour Anatomized " in his summary of our au- 
 thor's compositions, but adds, that " others say it was written by 
 Sir Thomes Overbury." It has been generally claimed, notwith- 
 standing, on behalf of Sidney, by his biographers ; though, as far as 
 we can ascertain, it has never been hitherto reprinted with his 
 Works. 
 
VALOUR ANATOMIZED, 
 
 IN A FANCY. 
 
 ^ALOUR towards men is an emblem of abil- 
 ity towards women, a good quality signifying 
 a better. Nothing draws a woman like to 
 it. Nothing is more behoveful for that 
 sex : for from it they receive prote6lion, and in a free 
 way too, without any danger. Nothing makes a shorter 
 cut to obtaining ; for a man of arms is always void of 
 ceremony, which is the wall that stands betwixt Pyra- 
 mus and Thisbe, that is, man and woman : for there is 
 no pride in women but that which rebounds from our 
 own baseness, as cowards grow valiant upon those that 
 are more cowards ; so that only by our pale asking we 
 teach them to deny, and by our shamefacedness we put 
 them in mind to be modest. Whereas, indeed, it is 
 cunning rhetoric to persuade the hearers that thev are 
 that already which the world would have them to be. 
 This kind of bashfulness is far from men of valourous 
 disposition, and especially from soldiers ; for such are 
 
284 Falour Anatomized. 
 
 ever men, without doubt, forward and confident, losing 
 no time lest they should lose opportunity, which is the 
 best fadlor for a lover. And because they know women 
 are given to dissemble, they will never believe them 
 when they deny. Certainly before this age of wit, and 
 wearing black, brake in upon us, there was no way 
 known to win a lady, but by tilting, tourneying, and 
 riding to seek adventures through dangerous forests ; in 
 which time these slender striplings with little legs were 
 held but of strength enough to marry their widows. 
 And even in our days, there can be given no reason of 
 the inundation of serving-men upon their mistresses, but 
 only that usually they carry their masters' weapons, and 
 their valour. To be accounted handsome, just, learned, 
 and well-favoured, all this carries no danger with it. 
 But it is better to be admitted to the title of valiant 
 a6ls : at least that imports the venturing of mortality ; 
 and all women delight to hold him safe in their arms, 
 who hath escaped thither through many dangers. To 
 speak at once, man hath a privilege in valour. In 
 clothes and good faces we do but imitate women j and 
 many of that sex will not think much, as far as an an- 
 swer goes, to dissemble wit too. So then these neat 
 youths, these women in men's apparel, are too near a 
 woman to be beloved of her ; they be both of a trade : 
 but he of grim aspect, and such a one a lass dares take, 
 and will desire him for newness and variety. A scar in 
 a man's face is the same that a mole is in a woman's ; 
 and a mole in a woman's is a jewel set in white, to 
 make it seem more white. So a scar in a man is a 
 mark of honour, and no blemish \ for it is a scar and a 
 blemish in a soldier to be without one. Now as for all 
 things else which are to procure love, as a good face. 
 
Valour Anatomized. 285 
 
 wit, clothes, or a good body, each of them, I must needs 
 say, works somewhat for want of a better ; that is, if 
 valour corrive not therewith. A good face availeth 
 nothing, if it be on a coward that is bashful ; the utmost 
 of it is to be kissed, which rather increaseth, than 
 quencheth appetite. He that sendeth her gifts, sends 
 her word also, that he is a man of small gifts otherwise : 
 for wooing by signs and tokens implies the author dumb. 
 And if Ovid, who writ the Law of Love, were alive, as 
 he is extant, and would allow it as a good diversity ; 
 then gifts should be sent as gratuities, not as bribes ; and 
 wit would rather get promise than love. Wit is not to 
 be seen, and no woman takes advice of any in her lov- 
 ing, but of her own eyes, or her waiting-woman's : nay, 
 which is worse, wit is not to be felt, and so no good 
 bedfellow. Wit applied to a woman makes her dissolve 
 her simperings, and discover her teeth with laughter ; 
 and this is surely a purge for love ; for the beginning 
 and original of love is a kind of foolish melancholy. As 
 for the man that makes his tailor his bawd, and hopes to 
 inveigle his love with such a coloured suit, surely the 
 same man deeply hazards the loss of her favour upon 
 every change of his clothes. So likewise the other that 
 courts her silently with a good body, let me tell him that 
 his clothes stand always betwixt his mistress's eyes and 
 him. The comeliness of clothes depends upon the 
 comeliness of the body, and so both upon opinion. She 
 that hath been seduced by apparel, let me give her to 
 weet, that men always put off their clothes before they 
 go to bed ; and let her that hath been enamoured of her 
 servant's body understand, that if she saw him in a skin 
 of cloth, that is, in a suit made to the pattern of his 
 body, she would discern slender cause to love him ever 
 
^^^ Valour Anatomized. 
 
 after. There are no clothes fit so well in a woman's 
 eye as a suit of steel, though not of the fashion : and no 
 man so soon surpriseth a woman's afFedions, as he that 
 is the subjeca of whisperings, and hath always some 
 twenty stories of his own achievements depending upon 
 him. Mistake me not, I understand not by valour one 
 that never fights but when he is backed by drink or an- 
 ger, or hissed on by beholders ; nor one that is despe- 
 rate ; nor one that takes away a serving-man's weapons, 
 when perhaps they cost him his quarter's wages ; nor 
 one that wears a privy coat of defence, and therein is 
 confident ; for then such as make bucklers would be 
 accounted the very scum of the commonwealth : I in- 
 tend one of an even resolution, grounded upon reason, 
 which is always even ; having his power restrained by 
 the law of not doing wrong. 
 
LETTER 
 
 TO 
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH, 
 
 ANNO 1580, 
 DISSUADING HER FROM MARRYING 
 
 THE DUKE OF ANJOU. 
 
In addition to the extraft from Miss Lucy Aikin's Court of 
 Queen Elizabeth, which we have already given in the Life of our 
 Author prefixed to this volume, we may here add two other com- 
 mendations of this celebrated state document. 
 
 " It contains," observes Strype, in his Annals of the Reforma- 
 tion, " many brief, but bright sentences ; showing the mature 
 judgment of the writer, his wisdom in counsel, his skill in politics, 
 his acquaintance with the Roman history, his knowledge of foreign 
 states and kingdoms, and observations thence, his apprehension of 
 the great danger from Papists, his concern for the Protestant interest 
 abroad, (of which she was the only proteftress, as well as of the 
 religion at home,) the little or no advantage she was like to receive 
 from France, her personal danger in case of a conclusion of this 
 marriage with Monsieur, and how dear she was to her own people. 
 So that, in short, this letter, abounding with such close application 
 of arguments, seems to have swayed the Queen to decline this 
 motion." 
 
 " Among other enemies to the match," says Mr. Hume, " Sir 
 Philip Sidney, son to Sir Henry Sidney, Lord Deputy of Ireland, 
 and nephew to Leicester, a young man the most accomplished of 
 that age, used the freedom to write her a letter, in which he dis- 
 suaded her from her present resolution, with an unusual elegance of 
 expression, as well as force of reasoning." 
 
 This courageous epistle was first printed in the " Scrinia Ceci- 
 liana," or " Supplement to the Cabala," p. 201. Lond. 1663. — 
 It was afterwards inserted among the " Sidney Papers," vol. i. 
 p. 287. 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH, 
 
 ANNO 1580, 
 
 DISSUADING HER FROM MARRYING THE DUKE OF ANJOU. 
 
 Most feared and beloved^ 
 
 Most sweet and gracious sovereign^ 
 
 O seek out excuses of this my boldness, 
 and to arm the acknowledging of a fault 
 with reasons for it, might better show I 
 knew I did amiss, than any way diminish the 
 attempt, especially in your judgment ; who being able to 
 discern lively into the nature of the thing done, it were 
 folly to liope, by laying on better colours, to make it 
 more acceptable. Therefore, carrying no other olive 
 branch of intercession, than the laying of myself at 
 your feet ; nor no other insinuation, either for attention 
 or pardon, but the true vowed sacrifice of unfeigned 
 love ; I will, in simple and direil terms (as hoping they 
 shall only come to your merciful eyes), set down the 
 .^7 
 
290 Letter to ^een Elizabeth. 
 
 overflowing of my mind in this most important matter, 
 importing, as I think, the continuance of your safety; 
 and, as I know, the joys of my hfe. And because my 
 words (I confess shallow, but coming from the deep 
 well-spring of most loyal affe6lion) have delivered to 
 your most gracious ear, what is the general sum of my 
 travelling thoughts therein ; I will now but only declare, 
 what be the reasons that make me think, that the mar- 
 riage with Monsieur will be unprofitable unto you ; 
 then will I answer the objedlion of those fears, which 
 might procure so violent a refuge. 
 
 The good or evils that will come by it, must be con- 
 sidered either according to your estate or person. To 
 your estate, what can be added to the being an absolute 
 born, and accordingly respe6led, princess ? But, as 
 they say the Irishmen are wont to call over them that 
 die, " they are rich, they are fair, what needed they to 
 die so cruelly : " not unfitly of you, endowed with 
 felicity above all others, a man might well ask, " what 
 makes you in such a calm to change course ; to so 
 healthful a body, to apply so unsavory a medicine : 
 what can recompense so hazardous an adventure ?" 
 Indeed, were it but the altering of a well maintained 
 and well approved trade : for, as in bodies natural, every 
 sudden change is full of peril ; so in this body politic, 
 whereof you are the only head, it is so much the more 
 dangerous, as there are more humours to receive a hurt- 
 ful impression. But hazards are then most to be re- 
 garded, when the nature of the patient is fitly composed 
 to occasion them. 
 
 The patient I account your realm ; the agent Mon- 
 sieur, and his design ; for neither outward accidents do 
 much prevail against a true inward strength ; nor doth 
 
Letter to ^een Elizabeth. 291 
 
 inward weakness lightly subvert itself, without being 
 thrust at by some outward force. 
 
 Your inward force (for as for your treasures indeed, 
 the sinews of your crown, your Majesty doth best and 
 only know) consisteth in your subjedls, generally unex- 
 pert in warlike defence ; and as they are divided now 
 into mighty faftions (and failions bound on the never- 
 dying knot of religion) the one of them, to whom your 
 happy government hath granted the free exercise of the 
 eternal truth ; with this, by the continuance of time, by 
 the multitude of them, by the principal offices, and 
 strength they hold, and lastly, by your dealings both at 
 home and abroad against the adverse party ; your state 
 is so entrapped, as it were impossible for you, without 
 excessive trouble, to pull yourself out of the party so 
 long maintained. For such a course once taken in 
 hand, is not much unlike a ship in a tempest, which 
 how dangerously soever it may be beaten with waves, 
 yet is there no safety or succour without it : These, 
 therefore, as their souls live by your happy government, 
 so are they your chief, if not your sole, strength : these, 
 howsoever the necessity of human life makes them 
 lack, yet can they not look for better conditions than 
 presently they enjoy : these, how their hearts will be 
 galled, if not aliened, when they shall see you take a 
 husband, a Frenchman and a Papist, in whom (howso- 
 ever fine wits may find farther dealings or painted ex- 
 cuses) the very common people well know this, that he 
 is the son of a Jezebel of our age : that his brother 
 made oblation of his own sister's marriage, the easier 
 to make massacres of our brethren in belief: that he 
 himself, contrary to his promise, and all gratefulness, 
 having his liberty and principal estate by the Hugonots' 
 
292 Letter to ^een Elizabeth. 
 
 means, did sack Lacharists,* and utterly spoil them 
 with fire and sword. This, I say, even at first sight, 
 gives occasion to all, truly religious, to abhor such a 
 master, and consequently to diminish much of the hope- 
 ful love they have long held to you. 
 
 The other faction, most rightly, indeed, to be called 
 a faftion, is the Papists ; men whose spirits are full of 
 anguish, some being infested by others, whom they ac- 
 counted damnable ; some having their ambition stopped, 
 because they are not in the way of advancement ; some 
 in prison and disgrace ; some whose best friends are 
 banished praftisers ; many thinking you are an usurper ; 
 many thinking also you had disannulled your right, be- 
 cause of the Pope's excommunication ; all burthened 
 with the weight of their conscience ; men of great 
 numbers, of great riches, because the affairs of state 
 have not lain on them : of united minds, as all men 
 that deem themselves oppressed naturally are ; with 
 these I would willingly join all discontented persons, 
 such as want and disgrace keep lower than they have 
 set their hearts ; such as have resolved what to look for 
 at your hands ; such as Caesar said, " quibus opus est 
 bello civili," and are of his mind, " malo in acie, quam 
 iji foro cadere." These be men so much the more to be 
 doubted, because, as they do embrace all estates ; so are 
 they commonly of the bravest and wakefulest sort ; and 
 that know the advantage of the world most. This 
 
 * Or rather, as it is written in some manuscript copies. La 
 Charite, a town in France, situated upon the river Loire. The 
 matins of Paris, equally disgraceful with the Sicilian vespers, were 
 repeated at La Charite, one of the cautionary towns given to the 
 Protestants, which was surprised, and the inhabitants abandoned to 
 the rage of their enemies. Dr. Zouch. 
 
Letter to ^een Elizabeth. 293 
 
 double rank of people, how their minds have stood, the 
 northern rebellion, and infinite other pra6lices, have well 
 taught you ; which, if it be said it did not prevail, that 
 is true indeed ; for if they had prevailed, it were too 
 late now to deliberate. But, at this present, they want 
 nothing so much as a head, who in effecSl needs not but 
 to receive their instructions ; since they may do mischief 
 only with his countenance. Let the Singiniam * in 
 Henry the Fourth's time, Perkin Warbeck f in your 
 grandfather's ; but of all, the most lively and proper is 
 
 * Such is the reading in the Supplement of the Cabala, and in the 
 Sidney Papers. But in two MSS., one in the British Museum, the 
 other in the library of Trinity College, Dublin, we read " the sing- 
 ing man," a proper appellation for a priest before the Reformation, 
 when it was his principal employment to sing or chant the service 
 of the Church. In 1400, John Magdalen, Chaplain to Richard the 
 Second, and much resembling him in person, was supported in his 
 attempts to gain the regal power by many of the English nobility. 
 These conspiracies against- King Henry the Fourth were defeated, 
 and Magdalen, the Pseudo-Richard, flying into Scotland, was taken 
 and sent to London, where he suffered death as a common traitor. 
 See Stowe's Annals, p. 325. Dr. Zouch. 
 
 + This mysterious personage made his appearance in the reign of 
 Henry the Seventh, and represented himself to be Richard, Duke 
 of York, the second son of Edward the Fourth, who, with his 
 brother, was supposed to have been murdered in the Tower by their 
 uncle, Richard the Third. Perkin first made a landing in Ireland, 
 and was instantly supported by the Earl of Desmond, and other 
 partisans of the white rose. He was afterwards invited to the court 
 of France, and received as the rightful heir to the English throne. 
 He had similar honours conferred upon him by the Duchess of 
 Burgundy, and James the Fourth, then King of Scotland, who mar- 
 ried him to his near relation, the Lady Catharine Gordon, daughter 
 to the Earl of Huntley. For a minute account of his proceedings 
 and final submission, see Lingard's Hist, of England, vol. v. 
 p. 414. 8vo. 
 
294 Letter to ^leen Elizabeth. 
 
 that of Lewis, the French King's son, in Henry the 
 Third's time ; who having at all no show of title, yet 
 did he cause the nobility, and more, to swear dired 
 fealty and vassalage ; and they delivered the strongest 
 holds unto him. I say, let these be sufficient to prove, 
 that occasion gives minds and scope to stranger things 
 than ever would have been imagined. If then the 
 afFe6lionate side have their afFe6lions weakened, and the 
 discontented have a gap to utter their discontent ; I 
 think it will seem an ill preparative for the patient (I 
 mean your estate) to a great sickness. 
 
 Now the agent party, which is Monsieur : whether 
 he be not apt to work on the disadvantage of your 
 estate, he is to be judged by his will and power j his 
 will to be as full of light ambition as is possible ; be- 
 sides the French disposition, and his own education ; 
 his inconstant temper against his brother ; his thrusting 
 himself into the Low Country matters ; his sometimes 
 seeking the King of Spain's daughter ; sometimes your 
 Majesty ; are evident testimonies of his being carried 
 away with every wind of hope ; taught to love greatness 
 any way gotten ; and having for the motioners and 
 ministers of the mind, only such young men, as have 
 showed they think evil contentment a ground of any 
 rebellion j who have seen no commonwealth but in 
 faction 5 and divers of which have defiled their hands 
 in odious murders : with such fancies and favourites, 
 what is to be hoped for ; or that he will contain himself 
 within the limits of your conditions ; since, in truth, it 
 were strange that he that cannot be contented to be the 
 second person in France, and heir apparent, should be 
 content to come to be a second person, where he should 
 pretend no way to sovereignty. His power, I imagine. 
 
 \i 
 
Letter to ^een Elizabeth. 295 
 
 is not to be despised, since he is come into a country, 
 where the way of evil-doing will be presented unto him ; 
 where there needs nothing but a head, to draw together 
 all the ill-affe6led members ; himself a prince of great 
 revenues, of the most popular nation of the world, full 
 of soldiery, and such as are used to serve without pay, 
 so as they may have show of spoil ; and, without ques- 
 tion, shall have his brother ready to help him, as well 
 for old revenge, as to divert him from troubling France, 
 and to deliver his own country from evil humours. 
 Neither is King Philip's marriage here any example ; 
 since then it was between two of one religion, so that 
 only he in England, stood only upon her strength, and 
 had abroad King Henry of France, ready to impeach 
 any enterprise he should make for his greatness that 
 way. And yet what events time would have brought 
 forth of that marriage, your most blessed reign hath 
 made vain all such considerations. But things holding 
 in present state, I think I may easily conclude, that 
 your country as well by long peace, and fruits of peace, 
 as by the poison of division, wherewith the faithful shall 
 by this means be wounded, and the contrary enabled, 
 made fit to receive hurt ; and JVlonsieur being every 
 way likely to use the occasions to hurt, there can almost 
 happen no worldly thing of more eminent danger to 
 your estate royal. And as to your person, in the scale 
 of your happiness, what good there may come by it, to 
 balance with the loss of so honourable a constancy ; 
 truly, yet I perceive not. I will not show so much 
 malice, as to objeil the universal doubt, the race's un- 
 faithfulness ; neither will I lay to his charge the ague- 
 like manner of proceedings, sometimes hot and some- 
 times cold, in the time of pursuit ; which always rightly 
 
296 Letter to ^een Elizabeth. 
 
 is most fervent ; and I will temper my speeches from 
 any other unreverend disgracings of him, in particular ; 
 (though they might be never so true) this only vi^ill I 
 say, that if he do come hither, he must live here in far 
 less reputation than his mind will well brook, having no 
 other royalty to countenance himself with ; or else you 
 must deliver him the keys of your kingdom, and live at 
 his discretion ; or, lastly, he must be separate himself, 
 with more dishonour, and farther disuniting of heart, 
 than ever before. Often have I heard you, with pro- 
 testation, say, no private pleasure nor self-affeilion could 
 lead you to it ; but if it be both unprofitable for your 
 kingdom, and unpleasant to you, certainly it were a dear 
 purchase of repentance ; nothing can it add unto you, 
 but the bliss of children, which, I confess, were a most 
 unspeakable comfort ; but yet no more appertaining 
 unto him, than to any other, to whom the height of all 
 good haps, were allotted to be your husband ; and there- 
 fore I may assuredly affirm, that what good soever can 
 follow marriage, is no more his than anybody's ; but the 
 evils and dangers are peculiarly annexed to his person 
 and condition. For, as for the enriching of your country 
 with treasure, which either he hath not, or hath other- 
 wise bestowed it ; or the staying of your servants' minds 
 with new expe6lations and liberality, which is more dan- 
 gerous than fruitful : or the easing of your Majesty of 
 cases, which is as much as to say, as the easing of you 
 to be queen and sovereign : I think every one perceives 
 this way to be full of hurt, or void of help. Now 
 resteth to consider, what be the motives of this sudden 
 change, as I have heard you in most sweet words de- 
 liver 3 fear of standing alone, in respeft of foreign deal- 
 ings ; and in them, from whom you should have respeft, 
 
Letter to '^een Elizabeth. 297 
 
 doubt of contempt. Truly, standing alone, with good 
 foresight of government, both in peace and warlike de- 
 fence, is the honourablest thing that can be, to a well- 
 established monarchy ; those buildings being ever most 
 strongly durable, which lean to none other, but remain 
 from their own foundation. 
 
 So yet in the particulars of your estate at present, I 
 will not altogether deny that a true Masinissa, were fit 
 to countermine the enterprise of mighty Carthage : but 
 how this general truth can be applied to Monsieur, in 
 truth I perceive not. The wisest that have given best 
 rules, where surest leagues are made, have said, that it 
 must be between such as either vehement desire of a 
 third thing, or as vehement fear, doth knit their minds 
 together. Desire is counted the weaker bond, but yet 
 that bound so many princes to the Holy Land. It 
 united that invincible king, Henry the Fifth, and that 
 good Duke of Burgundy ; the one desiring to win the 
 crown of France from the Dauphin, the other desiring 
 to revenge his father's murder upon the Dauphin ; which 
 both tended to one. That coupled Lewis the Twelfth 
 and Ferdinando of Spain to the conquest of Naples. Of 
 fear, there are innumerable examples : Monsieur's de- 
 sires, and yours, how they shall meet in public matters, 
 I think no oracle can tell ; for as the geometricians say, 
 that parallels, because they maintain divers lines, can 
 never join : so truly, two, having in the beginning con- 
 trary principles, to bring forth one do61:rine, must be 
 some miracle. He of the Romish religion ; and if he 
 be a man, must needs have that manlike property, to 
 desire that all men be of his mind : you the eredlor 
 and defender of the contrary, and the only sun that daz- 
 zleth their eyes : he French, and desiring to make 
 
298 Letter to ^een Elizabeth. 
 
 France great ; your Majesty English, and desiring noth- 
 ing less than that France should not grow great : he, 
 both by own fancy and his youthful governors, embrac- 
 ing all ambitious hopes ; having Alexander's image in 
 his head, but perhaps evil painted : your Majesty with 
 excellent virtue, taught what you should hope, and by 
 no less wisdom, what you may hope ; with a council 
 renowned over all Christendom for their well-tempered 
 minds, having set the utmost of their ambition in your 
 favour, and the study of their souls in your safety. 
 
 Fear hath as little show of outward appearance, as 
 reason, to match you together ; for in this estate he is 
 in, whom should he fear, his brother? alas! his brother 
 is afraid, since the King of Navarre is to step into his 
 place. Neither can his brother be the safer by his fall, 
 but he may be the greater by his brother's ; whereto, 
 whether you will be an accessary, you are to determine. 
 The King of Spain certainly cannot make war upon 
 him, but it must be upon all the crown of France, which 
 is no likelihood he will do : well may Monsieur (as he 
 hath done) seek to enlarge the bounds of France upon 
 this state ; which hkewise, whether it be safe for you to 
 be a countenance to, any other way, may be seen : so 
 that if neither desire nor fear be such in him, as are to 
 bind any public fastness, it may be said, that the only 
 fortress of this your marriage, is of his private affection ; 
 a thing too incident to the person, laying it up in such 
 knots. 
 
 The other objection of contempt in the subjects : I 
 assure your Majesty, if I had heard it proceed out of 
 your mouth, which of all other I do most dearly rev- 
 erence, it would as soon (considering the perfections of 
 body and mind have set all men's eyes by the height of 
 
Letter to ^ee?i Elizabeth. 299 
 
 yout estate) have come to the possibility of my imagina- 
 tion, if one should have told me on the contrary side, 
 that the greatest princess of the world, should envy the 
 state of some poor deformed pilgrim. What is there, 
 either within you or without you, that can possibly fall 
 into the danger of contempt, to whom fortunes are tied 
 by so long descent of your royal ancestors ? But our 
 minds rejoice with the experience of your inward virtues, 
 and our eyes are delighted with the sight of you. But 
 because your own eyes cannot see yourself, neither can 
 there be in the world any example fit to blaze you by, 
 I beseech you vouchsafe to weigh the grounds thereof. 
 The natural causes are length of government, and un- 
 certainty of succession : the efFeds, as you term them, 
 appear by cherishing some abominable speeches, which 
 some hellish minds have uttered. The longer a prince 
 reigneth, it is certain the more he is esteemed ; there is 
 no man ever was weary of well-being. And good in- 
 creased to good, maketh the same good both greater 
 and stronger : for it useth men to know no other cares, 
 when either men are born in the time, and so never saw 
 other ; or have spent much of their flourishing time, 
 and so have no joy to seek other ; in evil princes, abuse 
 growing upon abuse, according to the nature of evil, with 
 the increase of time, ruins itself. But in so rare a gov- 
 ernment, where neighbours' fires give us light to see 
 our quietness, where nothing wants that true adminis- 
 tration of justice brings forth ; certainly the length of 
 time, rather breeds a mind to think there is no other 
 life but in it, than that there is any tediousness in so 
 fruitful a government. Examples of good princes do 
 ever confirm this, who, the longer they lived the deeper 
 they sunk into their subjects' hearts. Neither will I 
 
300 Letter to ^ee?i Elizabeth. 
 
 trouble you with examples, being so many and manifest. 
 Look into your own estate, how willingly they grant, 
 and how dutifully they pay such subsidies, as you de- 
 mand of them : how they are no less troublesome to 
 your Majesty in certain requests, than they were in the 
 beginning of your reign ; and your Majesty shall find 
 you have a people more than ever devoted to you. 
 
 As for the uncertainty of succession, although for 
 mine own part I have cast the utmost anchor of my 
 hope ; yet for England's sake, I would not say anything 
 against such determination ; but that uncertain good 
 should bring a contempt to a certain good, I think it is 
 beyond all reach of reason ; nay, because if there were 
 no other cause (as there are infinite) common reason 
 and profit would teach us to hold that jewel dear, the 
 loss of which would bring us to we know not what ; 
 which likewise is to be said of your Majesty's speech of 
 the rising sun ; a speech first used by Sylla to Pompey, 
 in Rome, as then a popular city, where indeed men 
 were to rise and fall, according to the flourish and breath 
 of a many-headed confusion. But in so lineal a mon- 
 archy, wherever the infants suck the love of their right- 
 ful prince, who would leave the beams of so fair a sun, 
 for the dreadful expectation of a divided company of 
 stars : virtue and justice are the only bonds of people's 
 love ; and as for that point, many princes have lost their 
 crowns, whose own children were manifest successors j 
 and some that had their own children used as instru- 
 ments of their ruin ; not that I deny the bliss of chil- 
 dren, but only to show religion and equity to be of 
 themselves sufficient stays. Neither is the love borne 
 in the Queen your sister's days, any contradid ion here- 
 unto i for she was the oppressor of that religion, which 
 
Letter to ^een Elizabeth. 301 
 
 lived in many men's hearts, and whereof you were 
 known to be the favourer ; by her loss was the most 
 excellent prince in the world to succeed ; by your loss, 
 all blindness light upon him, that sees not our misery. 
 Lastly, and most properly for this purpose, she had 
 made an odious marriage with a stranger (which is now 
 in question whether your Majesty shall do or no) so 
 that if your subje61:s do at this time look for any after- 
 chance, it is but as the pilot doth to the ship-boat, if his 
 ship should perish ; driven by extremity to the one, but 
 as long as he can with his life, tending the other. And 
 this I say, not only for the lively parts that be in you ; 
 but even for their own sakes, for they must needs see 
 what tempests threaten them. 
 
 The last proof in this contempt, should be the ven- 
 omous matter, certain men imposthumed with wicked- 
 ness should utter against you. Certainly not to be evil 
 spoken of, neither Christ's holiness nor Cesar's might, 
 could ever prevent or warrant \ there being for that no 
 other rule than so to do, as that they may not justly say 
 evil of you ; which whether your Majesty have not 
 done, I leave it in you, to the sincereness of your own 
 conscience, and wisdom of your judgment in the world, 
 to your most manifest fruits and fame throughout Europe. 
 Augustus was told that men spake of him much hurt : 
 " It is no matter," said he, " so long as they cannot do 
 much hurt." And lastly, Charles the Fifth, to one that 
 told him, " Les HoUandois parlent mal ; " "Mais ils 
 patient bien," answered he. I might make a scholar- 
 like reckoning of many such examples ; it sufficeth that 
 these great princes knew well enough upon what way 
 they flew, and cared little for the barking of a i^-w curs : 
 and truly in the behalf of your subjects, I durst with 
 
302 Letter to ^een Elizabeth. 
 
 my blood answer it, that there was never monarch held 
 in more precious reckoning of her people ; and before 
 God how can it be otherwise ? For mine own part, 
 when I hear some lost wretch hath defiled such a name 
 with his mouth, I consider the right name of blasphemy, 
 whose unbridled soul doth delight to deprave that, which 
 is accounted generally most high and holy. No, no, 
 most excellent lady, do not raze out the impression you 
 have made in such a multitude of hearts ; and let not 
 the scum of such vile minds bear any witness against 
 your subje£ls' devotions : which to proceed one point 
 farther, if it were otherwise, could little be helped, but 
 rather nourished, and in efFe6l began by this. The only 
 means of avoiding contempt are love and fear ; love, as 
 you have by divers means sent into the depth of their 
 souls ; so if anything can stain so true a form, it must 
 be the trimming yourself, not in your own likeness, but 
 in new colours unto them ; their fear by him cannot be 
 increased, without the appearance of French forces, the 
 manifest death of your estate ; but well may it against 
 him, bear that face, which (as the tragic Seneca saith) 
 " Metus in authorem redit," as because both in will and 
 power, he is like enough to do harm. Since then it is 
 dangerous for your state, as well because by inward 
 weakness (principally caused by division) it is fit to 
 receive harm j since to your person it can be no way 
 comfortable, you not desiring marriage ; and neither to 
 person nor estate, he is to bring any more good than 
 anybody ; but more evil he may, since the causes that 
 should drive you to this, are either fears of that which 
 cannot happen, or by this means cannot be prevented : 
 I do with most humble heart say unto your Majesty 
 (having assayed this dangerous help) for your standing 
 
Letter to ^een Elizabeth. 303 
 
 alone, you must take it for a singular honour God hath 
 done you, to be indeed the only protedlor of his church ; 
 and yet in worldly respe6ls your kingdom very sufficient 
 so to do, if you make that religion, upon which you 
 stand, to carry the only strength, and have abroad those 
 that still maintain the same course ; who as long as they 
 may be kept from utter falling, your Majesty is sure 
 enough from your mightiest enemies. As for this man, 
 as long he is but Monsieur in might, and a Papist in 
 profession, he neither can, nor will, greatly shield you ; 
 and if he get once to be King, his defence will be like 
 Ajax's shield, which rather weighed them down, than 
 defended those that bare it. Against contempt, if there 
 be any, which I will never believe, let your excellent 
 virtues of piety, justice, and liberality, daily, if it be 
 possible, more and more shine. Let such particular 
 a6^ions be found out (which be easy as I think to be 
 done) by which you may gratify all the hearts of your 
 people : let those in whom you find trust, and to whom 
 you have committed trust, in your weighty affairs, be 
 held up in the eyes of your subjects : lastly, doing as 
 you do, you shall be, as you be, the example of princes, 
 the ornament of this age, and the most excellent fruit 
 of your progenitors, and the perfect mirror of your 
 posterity. 
 
 Your Majesty's faithful, humble, 
 and obedient subject, 
 
 P. Sydney. 
 
DISCOURSE IN DEFENCE 
 
 EARL OF LEICESTER. 
 
 39 
 
The circumstances which led to the drawing up of this Defence 
 of the Earl of Leicester, have been already briefly stated in our 
 preliminary memoir, pp. 38, 39. It was first published by Arthur 
 Collins in his Introdu6lion to the Sidney Letters, and in his opinion 
 was written in 1584, immediately after the appearance of Leicester's 
 Commonwealth ; which was originally circulated on the Continent 
 in the commencement of that year. The MS. is still, we believe, 
 among the family papers at Penshurst, which form altogether, as we 
 have understood, no less than twenty volumes folio. 
 
 It was this Defence which Lord Orford affefted to consider as 
 infinitely the most valuable of all Sir Philip's writings. " By far the 
 best specimen of his abilities," says his lordship, " to us who can 
 judge only by what we see, is a pamphlet published amongst the 
 Sidney Papers, being an answer to the famous libel called Leices- 
 ter's Commonwealth. It defends his uncle with great spirit. 
 What had been said in derogation to their blood seems to have 
 touched Sir Philip most." 
 
 I 
 
 i : 
 
DISCOURSE IN DEFENCE 
 
 EARL OF LEICESTER. 
 
 F late there hath been printed a book, in 
 form of dialogue, to the defaming of the 
 Earl of Leicester, full of the most vile re- 
 proaches, which a wit used to wicked and 
 filthy thoughts can imagine. In such manner truly, 
 that if the author had as well feigned new names, as he 
 doth new matters, a man might well have thought his 
 only meaning had been, to have given a lively pi6lure of 
 the uttermost degree of railing. A thing contemptible 
 in the doer, as proceeding from a base and wretched 
 tongue, and such a tongue, as, in the speaking, dares 
 not speak his own name. Odious to all estates, 
 since no man bears a name, of which name, how 
 unfitly soever to the person, by an impudent liar, any- 
 thing may not be spoken ; by all good laws sharply 
 punished, and by all civil companies like a poisonous 
 serpent avoided. But to the Earl himself, in the eyes 
 
3o8 Defence of the 
 
 of any men, who, with clear judgments, can value 
 things, a true and sound honour grows out of these dis- 
 honourable falsehoods. Since he may justly say, as a 
 worthy senator of Rome once in like case did, that no 
 man, these twenty years, hath borne a hateful heart to 
 this estate, but that, at the same time, he hath showed 
 his enmity to this Earl ; testifying it hereby, that his 
 faith is so linked to her Majesty's service, that who goes 
 about to undermine the one, resolves withal to overthrow 
 the other. For it is not now, first that evil contented, 
 and evil minded persons, before the occasion be ripe for 
 them, to show their hate against the prince, do first 
 vomit it out against his counsellors j nay certainly, so 
 stale a device it is, as it is to be marvelled, that so fine 
 wits, whose inventions a fugitive fortune hath sharp- 
 ened, and the air of Italy perchance purified, can light 
 upon no gallanter way, than the ordinary pretext of the 
 very clownish rebellious. And yet that this is their plot 
 of late, by name, first to publish something against the 
 Earl of Leicester, and after, when time served, against 
 the Queen's Alajesty, by some of their own intercepted 
 discourses, is made too manifest. He himself, in some 
 places, brings in the examples of Gaveston, Earl of 
 Cornwall, Robert Vere, Duke of Ireland, and Delapool, 
 Duke of Suffolk. It is not my purpose to defend them, 
 hut I would fain know, whether they that persecuted 
 those counsellors, when they had had their will in ruin- 
 ing them, whether their rage ceased, before they had as 
 well destroyed the kings themselves, Edward, and Rich- 
 ard the Second, and Henry the Sixth ? The old tale 
 testifieth, that the wolves, that mean to destroy the 
 flock, hate most the truest and valiantest dogs. There- 
 fore, the more the filthy imposthume of their wolvish 
 
Earl of Leicester, 309 
 
 malice breaks forth, the more undoubtedly doth it raise 
 this well-deserved glory to the Earl, that who hates 
 England, and the Queen, must also withal hate the Earl 
 of Leicester. 
 
 And as for the libel itself, such is it, as neither in 
 respe6t of the writer, nor matter written, can move, I 
 think, the lightest wits to give thereto credit, to the dis- 
 credit of so worthy a person. For the writer (whom in 
 truth I know not, and, loath to fail, am not willing to 
 guess at) shows yet well enough, of what kennel he is, 
 that dares not testify his own writings with his own 
 name. And which is more base — (if anything can be 
 more base than a defamatory libeller) he counterfeits 
 himself, in all the treatise, a Protestant, when any man, 
 with half an eye, may easily see he is of the other party ; 
 which filthy dissimulation, if hw honest men of that 
 religion will use, to the helping of themselves, of how 
 many carats of honesty is this man, that useth it (as 
 much as his poor power can) to the harm of another. 
 And lastly, evident enough it is, to any man that reads it, 
 what poison he means to her Majesty, in how golden a 
 cup soever he dress it. 
 
 For the matter written, so full of horrible villanies, as 
 no good heart will think possible to enter into any crea- 
 ture, much less to be likely in so noble and well-known 
 a man as he is, only thus accused to be by the railing 
 oratory of a shameless libeller. Perchance he had read 
 the rule of that sycophant, that one should backbite 
 boldly J for though the bite were healed, yet the scar 
 would remain : but sure that schoolmaster of his would 
 more cunningly have carried it, leaving some shadows 
 of good, or, at least, leaving out some evil, that his 
 treatise might have carried some probable show of it ; 
 
310 Defence of the 
 
 for as reasonable commendation wins belief, and exces- 
 sive gets only the praiser the title of a flatterer ; so much 
 more in this far worse degree of lying, it may well re- 
 bound upon him.self, the vile reproach of a railer, but 
 never can sink into any good mind. The suspicion of 
 any such unspeakable mischiefs, especially it being every 
 man's case, even from the meanest to the highest, 
 whereof we daily see odious examples,^hat even of the 
 great princess, the dear riches of a good name are sought 
 in such sort to be picked away by such night thieves. 
 For through the whole book, what is it else, but such a 
 bundle of railings, as if it came from the mouth of some 
 half-drunk scold in a tavern, not regarding while evil 
 were spoken, what was fit for the person of whom the 
 railing was, so the words were fit for the person of an 
 outrageous railer. Dissimulation, hypocrisy, adultery, 
 falsehood, treachery, poison, rebellion, treason, cow- 
 ardice, atheism, and what not, and all still so upon the 
 superlative, that it was no marvel, though the good law- 
 yer, he speaks of, made many a cross to keep him from 
 such a father of lies, and in many excellent gifts, passing 
 all shameless scolds ; in one he passeth himself with an 
 unheard-of impudence, bringing persons, yet alive, to 
 speak things which they are ready to depose, upon their 
 salvation, never came in their thoughts. Such a gentle- 
 woman spake of a matter no less than treason, belike 
 she whispered, yet he heard her ; such two knights 
 spake together of things not fit to call witnesses to, yet 
 this ass's ears were so long that he heard them. And 
 yet see his good nature all this while would never reveal 
 them, till now, for secrecy's sake, he puts them forth in 
 print ; certainly such a quality in a railer, as I think 
 never was heard of, to name persons alive, as not only 
 
Earl of Leicester. 3 1 1 
 
 can, but do disprove his falsehoods, and yet with such 
 familiarity to name them. Without he learned it of 
 Pace, the Duke of Norfolk's fool, for he, when he had 
 used his tongue, as this heir of his hath done his pen, of 
 the noblest persons, sometimes of the Duke himself, the 
 next that came fitly in his way, he would say he had 
 told it him, of abundance of charity, not only to slander 
 but to make bate. What, therefore, can be said to such 
 a man ? Or who lives there, even Christ himself, but 
 that so stinking a breath may blow infamy upon ? Who 
 hath a father, by whose death the son inherits, but such 
 a nameless historian may say his son poisoned him ? 
 Where may two talk together, but such a spirit of reve- 
 lation may surmise they spake of treason ? What need 
 more, or why so much ? as though I doubted that any 
 would build belief upon such a dirty seat, only when he, 
 to borrow a little of his inkhorn, when he plays the 
 statist, wringing very unluckily some of Machiavel's 
 axioms to serve his purpose, then indeed — then he tri- 
 umphs. Why then the Earl of Leicester means and 
 plots to be king himself, but first to rebel from the 
 prince to whom he is most bound, and of whom he only 
 dependeth, and then to make the Earl of Huntingdon 
 king, and then to put him down, and then to make 
 himself. Certainly, sir, you shoot fair ; I think no 
 man, that hath wit and power to pronounce this word 
 England, but will pity a sycophant so weak in his own 
 faculty. But of the Earl of Huntingdon, as I think all 
 indifferent men will clear him from any such foolish 
 and wicked intent of rebellion, so I protest, before the 
 majesty of God, who will confound all liars, and before 
 the world, to whom efFefts and innocency will witness 
 my truth, that I could never find in the Earl of Leices- 
 
3^2 Defence of the 
 
 ter any one motion of inclination toward any such pre- 
 tended conceit in the Earl of Huntingdon. I say no 
 wit future, for as for the present, or for drawing it to 
 himself, I think no devil so wicked, nor no idiot so sim- 
 ple, as to conjedlure ; and yet, being to him as I am, I 
 think I should have some air of that, which this gentle 
 libel-maker doth so particularly and piecemeal understand, 
 and I do know the Earls of Warwick, of Pembroke, my 
 father, and all the rest he names there, will answer the 
 like. And yet such matters cannot be undertaken with- 
 out good friends, nor good friends be kept without 
 knowing something ; but the Earl's mind hath ever been 
 to serve only and truly, setting aside all hopes, all fears, 
 his mistress by undoubted right Queen of England, and 
 most worthy to be the queen for her royal excellences, 
 and most worthy to be his queen, having restored his 
 overthrown house, and brought him to this case, that 
 curs for only envy bark at. And this his mind is not 
 only (though chiefly) for faith knit in conscience and 
 honour, nor only (though greatly) for gratefulness, 
 where all men know how much he is bound, but even 
 partly for wisdom's sake, knowing, by all old lessons 
 and examples, that, how welcome soever treasons be, 
 traitors to all wise princes are odious, and that, as Mu- 
 cius answered Tully, who wrote to him how he was 
 blamed for showing himself so constant a friend to Cae- 
 sar, that he doubted not, even they that blamed him 
 would rather choose such friends as he was, than such 
 as they were. For wise princes well know, that these 
 violent discontentments arise out of the parties' wicked 
 humours, as in sick folks, that think, with change of 
 places, to ease their evil, which indeed is inward, and 
 whom nor this prince, nor that prince, can satisfy, but 
 
Earl of Leicester. 313 
 
 such as are led by their fancies, that is to say, who leave 
 to be princes. But this gentle libel-maker, because he 
 would make an evident proof of an unquenchable malice, 
 desperate impudency and falsehood, which never knew 
 blushing, is not content with a whole dicHiionary of slan- 
 ders upon these persons living, but as if he would rake 
 up the bones of the dead, with so apparent falsehoods 
 toucheth their houses, as if he had been afraid else he 
 should not have been straight found in that wherein 
 he so greatly labours to excel. First, for Hastings, he 
 saith, the Lord Hastings conspired the death of his mas- 
 ter King Edward's sons ; let any man but read the ex- 
 cellent treatise of Sir Thomas More, compare but his 
 words with this libel-maker's, and then judge him, if he, 
 who in a thing so long since printed, and, as any man 
 may see by other of his allegations, diligently read, hath 
 the face to write so direitly contrary, not caring, as it 
 seems, though a hundred thousand find his falsehood, so 
 some dozens, that never read Sir Thomas More's words, 
 may be carried to believe his horrible slanders of a 
 nobleman so long ago dead. I set down the words of 
 both, because, by this only lively comparison, the face 
 of his falsehood may be the better set forth. And who 
 then can doubt, but he that lies in a thing, which, with 
 one look, is found a lie, what he will do, where yet 
 there is though as much falsehood, yet not so easy dis- 
 proof. 
 
 Now to the Dudleys, such is his bounty, that, when 
 he hath poured out all his flood of scolding eloquence, 
 he saith they are no gentlemen, affirming, that the then 
 Duke of Northumberland was not born so ; in truth, if 
 I -should have studied with myself of all points of false 
 inventions, which a poisonous tongue could have spit 
 40 
 
3H Defence of the 
 
 out against that duke, yet would it never have come 
 into my head, of all other things, that any man would 
 have objected want of gentry unto him ; but this fellow 
 doth like him, who, when he had shot off all his railing 
 quiver, called one cuckold that was never married, be- 
 cause he would not be in debt to any one evil word. I 
 am a Dudley in blood, that duke's daughter's son, and 
 do acknowledge, though in all truth, I may justly affirm, 
 that I am, by my father's side, of ancient, and always 
 well-esteemed and well-matched gentry, yet I do ac- 
 knowledge, I say, that my chiefest honour is to be a 
 Dudley, and truly am glad to have cause to set forth the 
 nobility of that blood whereof I am descended, which, 
 but upon so just cause, without vain glory, could not 
 have been uttered ; since no man, but this fellow of 
 invincible shamelessness, would ever have called so 
 palpable a matter in question. In one place of his book, 
 he greatly extolleth the great nobility of the house of 
 Talbot, and truly with good cause, there being, as I 
 think, not in Europe a subje6l house which hath joined 
 longer continuance of nobility, with men of greater 
 service and loyalty. And yet this duke's own grand- 
 mother, whose blood he makes so base, was a Talbot, 
 daughter and sole heir to the Viscount L'Isle ; even he, 
 the same man, who, when he might have saved himself, 
 chose rather manifest death, than to abandon his father, 
 that most noble Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, of whom the 
 histories of that time make so honourable mention. The 
 house of Gray is well known ; to no house in England 
 in greater continuance of honour, and for number of 
 great houses sprung of it, to be matched by none ; but, 
 by the noble house of Neville, his mother was a right 
 Gray, and a sole inheritrix of that Gray of the house of 
 
Earl of Leicester. 315 
 
 Warwick which ever strave with the great house of 
 Arundel, which should be the first earl of England ; he 
 was likewise so descended, as that justly the honour of 
 the house remained chiefly upon him, being the only 
 heir to the eldest daughter, and one of the heirs to that 
 famous Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, that was Regent 
 of France ; and although Richard Neville, who married 
 the youngest sister, because she was of the whole blood 
 to him that was called Duke of Warwick, by a point in 
 our law carried away the inheritance ; and so, also, I 
 know not by what right the title, yet in law of heraldry 
 and descents, which doth not consider those quiddities 
 of our law ; it is most certain, that the honour of the 
 blood remained upon him chiefly who came of the eldest 
 daughter. And more undoubtedly is it to be said of the 
 house of Berkeley, which is affirmed to be descended 
 lineally from a King of Denmark, but hath ever been 
 one of the best houses in England, and this duke was 
 the only heir-general to that house, which the house of 
 Berkeley doth not deny j howsoever, as sometimes it 
 falls out between brothers, there be question for land 
 between them.* Many other houses might herein be 
 
 * Elizabeth, Countess of Warwick, was the only daughter and 
 heir of Thomas, fifth Baron Berkeley, by Margaret De L'Isle, 
 daughter and heir of Warine, second Baron De L'Isle. The 
 Countess of Warwick had issue three daughters, the eldest of whom, 
 Margaret, became the wife of James Talbot, first Earl of Shrews- 
 bury ; and it was from being heirs to this lady, through the in- 
 termarriage of Edmund, the father of John Dudley, Duke of 
 Northumberland, with the eldest daughter of Edward Gray, created 
 Baron De LTsle, fifteenth Edward IV. and subsequently Viscount 
 L'Isle, on account of having married Elizabeth, sister and eventu- 
 ally heir of Thomas Talbot, the second Viscount L'Isle, that the 
 Dudleys came to consider themselves heirs-general to the house of 
 Berkeley. 
 
3^6 Defence of the 
 
 mentioned, but I name these, because England can boast 
 of no nobler, and because all these bloods so remained 
 in him, that he, as heir, might (if he had listed) have 
 used their arms and name, as in old time they used in 
 England, and do daily, both in Spain, France, and Italy. 
 So that, I think, it would seem as great news as if they 
 came from the Indies, that he, who by right of blood, 
 and so accepted, was the ancientest viscount of England, 
 heir in blood and arms to the first or second earl of 
 England ; in blood of inheritance a Gray, a Talbot, a 
 Beauchamp, a Berkeley, a L'lsle,* should be doubted 
 to be a gentleman. But he will say, these great honours 
 came to him by his mother, for these I do not deny they 
 came so ; and that the mother, being an heir, hath been, 
 
 * The ancient barony of L'lsle, which has long been in abey- 
 ance, was claimed in 1823, by Sir John Shelly Sidney, Bart, of 
 Penshurst, the heir and representative of Sir Philip Sidney, being 
 descended from his brother Robert, the first Earl of Leicester, of 
 their name. A committee of the House of Lords, however, de- 
 termined on the 25th of May, 1826, "that there did not appear 
 sufficient ground to advise his Majesty to allow the claim ot the 
 petitioner." The principal reason for this decision appears to have 
 been, that, while the peerage in question was created by writ, there 
 was no direft and conclusive, though there was the strongest pre- 
 sumptive, evidence of either Gerard De LTsle, the first baron, or 
 Warine De L'lsle, the second baron, having ever sat in Parliament, 
 in compliance with the various briefs of summons with which they 
 were undoubtedly served, in the reigns of Edward the Third and 
 his successor, a circumstance absolutely necessary to create a barony 
 in fee in favour of themselves and their descendants. Lord Redes- 
 dale, in the course of the proceedings, went the length of main- 
 taining that, according to the tenor of the law in the sixth year of 
 Richard the Second, even this was insufficient to constitute a de- 
 scendible right of peerage, a discovery for which we presume his 
 lordship was more indebted to his fancy than his learning. See fche 
 valuable Report of the case, just published by Mr. Nicolas. 
 
Earl of Leicester. 317 
 
 in all ages and countries, sufficient to nobilitate, is so 
 manifest, that, even from the Roman time to modern 
 times, in such case they might, if they listed, and so 
 often did use the mother's name ; and that Augustus 
 Caesar had both name and empire of C^sar, only by 
 his mother's right, and so both * moderns. But I will 
 claim no such privilege ; let the singular nobility of his 
 mother nothing avail him, if his father's blood were not, 
 in all respedls, worthy to match with hers. If ancient, 
 undoubted, and untouched nobility be worthy to match 
 with the most noble house that can be : this house, 
 therefore, of Dudley, which, in despite of all shameless- 
 ness, he so doth deprave, is, at this day, a peer, as we 
 term it, of the realm, a baron, and, as all Englishmen 
 know, a lord of the Parliament, and so a companion, 
 both in marriage, Parliament, and trial, to the greatest 
 duke that England can bear ; so hath it been ever 
 esteemed, and so, in the constitutions of all our laws 
 and ordinances, it is always reputed. Dudley house is 
 so to this day, and thus it hath been time out of mind ; 
 in Harry the Fifth's time, the Lord Dudley was his 
 Lord Steward, and did that pitiful office in bringing 
 home, as the chief mourner, his vi6lorious master's 
 dead body ; as who goes but to Westminster, in the 
 church may see. I think if we consider together the 
 time which was of England the most flourishing, and 
 the King he served, who, of all English kings, was 
 most puissant, and the office he bare, which was, in 
 effed, as great as an English subje6l could have, it 
 would seem very strange ; so that Lord Dudley, if he 
 could out of his grave hear this fellow make question, 
 
 * i. e. both name and arms. 
 
 
3^8 Defence of the 
 
 whether his lawful posterity, from father to son, should 
 be gentlemen or no ? But though he only had been 
 sufficient to ere6l nobility to his successors, bringing, as 
 the Romans termed it, so noble an image into the house, 
 yet did he but receive his nobility from his ancestors, 
 who had been lords of that very seignory of Dudley 
 Castle, many descents before, even from King Richard 
 the First's time ; at which time. Sir Richard Sutton 
 married the daughter and heir of the Lord Dudley ; 
 since which time all descended of him, as divers branches 
 there be, left the name of Sutton, and have all been 
 called Dudleys, which is now above four hundred years 
 since ; and both those houses of Sutton and Dudley, 
 having been before that time of great nobility ; and that 
 Sutton was a man of great honour and estimation, that 
 very match witnesseth sufficiently, it being a dainty 
 thing in that time, that one of Saxon blood, as Sutton's 
 name testifieth he was, should match with such an in- 
 heritrix as Dudley was ; the like example whereof I 
 remember none, but the great house of Raby, who 
 matched with Neville, who of that match, as the Sut- 
 tons were called Dudleys, so did they ever since take 
 the name of Neville ; so, as of a house, which, these 
 four hundred years, have been still owners of one 
 seignory, the very place itself, to any that sees it, wit- 
 nessing ; such as, for any that I know, in England none, 
 but the noble house of Stafford hath the like, consider- 
 ing the name of the house, the length of time it hath 
 been possessed, the goodliness of the seat, with pleasures 
 and royalties about it ; so, as I think, any, that will not 
 swear themselves brothers to a reproachful tongue, will 
 judge of his other slanders by this most manifest ; since 
 all the world may see he speaks against his own knowl- 
 
Earl of Leicester. 319 
 
 edge ; for if either the house of Dudley had been great 
 anciently, and now extinguished, or now great, and had 
 not continued from old time, or that they had been un- 
 entitled gentlemen, so as men must not needs have taken 
 knowledge of them, yet there might have been cast 
 some veil over his untruth ; but in a house now noble, 
 long since noble, with a nobility never interrupted, 
 seated in a place which they have, each father, and each 
 son, continually owned, what should be said, but that 
 this fellow desires to be known ; suitable, having an 
 untrue heart, he will become it with an untrue tongue. 
 But perchance he will seem to doubt, for what will not 
 he doubt, who will affirm that, which beyond all doubt 
 is false, whether my great-grandfather, Edmond Dudley, 
 were of the Lord Dudley's house, or no. Certainly, he 
 might, in conscience and good manners, if so he did 
 doubt, have made some distindlion between the two 
 houses, and not in all places have made so contemptible 
 mention of that name of Dudley, which is borne by 
 another peer of the realm ; and even of charity sake he 
 should have bestowed some father upon Edmond Dud- 
 ley, and not leave him not only ungentled, but fatherless. 
 A railing writer extant, against 0(Slavius Augustus, saith, 
 his grandfather was a silversmith ; another Italian, against 
 Hugh Capet, though with most absurd falsehood, saith 
 his father was a butcher. Of divers of the best houses 
 of England, there have been such foolish dreams, that 
 one was a farrier's son, another a shoemaker's, another 
 a milliner's, another a fiddler's ; foolish lies, and by 
 any that ever tasted any antiquities, known to be so. 
 Yet those houses had luck to meet with honester railers, 
 for they were not left fatherless clean, they descended 
 from somebody ; but we, as if we were of Deucalion's 
 
320 Defence of the 
 
 brood, were made out of stones, have left us no ances- 
 tors from whence we are come : but, alas ! good railer, 
 you saw the proofs were clear, and therefore, for hon- 
 esty's sake, were contented to omit them ; for, if either 
 there had been difference of name, or difference of arms 
 between them ; or, if though in name and arms they 
 agreed, yet, if there had been many descents fallen since, 
 the separating of those branches (as we see in many 
 ancient houses, it so falls out, as they are uncertain 
 whether came out of other) then, I say yet, a valiant 
 railer may venture upon a thing, where, because there 
 is not an absolute certainty, there may be some possi- 
 bility to escape ; but, in this case, where not only name 
 and arms, with only that difference which acknowledgeth 
 our house to be of the younger brother, but such near- 
 ness of blood, as that Edmond Dudley's was no farther 
 off than son to the younger brother of the same Lord 
 Dudley, and so as he was to be Lord Dudley, if the 
 Lord Dudley had died without heirs ; and, by the Ger- 
 man and Italian manner, himself was to have been also 
 called Lord Dudley ; that his father, being called John 
 Dudley, married to the daughter and heir of Bramshot 
 in Sussex ; it was the only descent between him and the 
 Lord Dudley, who was his grandfather ; his great- 
 grandfather being that noble Lord Dudley, whom before 
 I mentioned, and no man need doubt that this writer 
 doth not only know the truth hereof, but the proofs of 
 this truth. This John, Edmond's father, being buried 
 at Arundel Castle, who married Bramshot, and left that 
 land to Edmond, and so to the duke in Sussex, which, 
 after the duke sold, by confiscation came to the crown. 
 This tomb any man at Arundel Castle may see. This 
 Bramshot land I name, a thing not in the air, but which 
 
Earl of Leicester. 321 
 
 any man, by the ordinary course of those things, may 
 soon know whether such hind did not succeed unto 
 Edmond from his flither. So as where is this inheri- 
 tance of land, and monuments in churches, and the 
 persons themselves little more than in man's memory ; 
 truly this libeller deserves many thanks, that, with his 
 impudent falsehood, h;>th given occasion to set down so 
 manifest a truth. 
 
 As to the Dudleys, he deals much harder withal, but 
 no whit truer : But therein I must confess, I cannot 
 allege his uncharitable triumphing upon the calamities 
 fallen to that house, though they might well be chal- 
 lenged of a writer, of whom any honesty were to be 
 expeded ; but God forbid I should find fault with that, 
 since, in all his book, there is scarce any one truth else. 
 But our house received such an overthrow ; and hath 
 none else in England done so ? I will not seek to wash 
 away that dishonour with other honourable tears. I 
 would this land were not so full of such examples ; and 
 I think, indeed, this writer, if he were known, might in 
 conscience clear his ancestors of any such disgraces, 
 they were too low in the mire to be so thunder-stricken ; 
 but this I may justly and boldly affirm, let the last fault 
 of the duke be buried. 
 
 And, in good faith, now I have so far touched there, 
 as any man that list to know a truth (if at least there be 
 any that can doubt thereof) may straight be satisfied. I 
 do not mean to give any man's eyes or ears such a sur- 
 feit, as by answering to repeat his filthy falsehoods, so 
 contrary to themselves, as may well show how evil lies 
 can be built with any uniformity. The same man in 
 the beginning of the book, was potent, to use his term, 
 in that the Queen had cause to fear him ; the same 
 41 
 
322 Defence of tie 
 
 man, in the end thereof, so abje6l, as any man might 
 tread on him ; the same man so unfriendly as no man 
 could love him : the same man so supported by friends, 
 that court and country were full of them \ the same 
 man extremely weak of body, and infinitely luxurious, 
 the same man a dastard to fear anything : the same man 
 so venturous, as to undertake, having no more title, such 
 a matter, that Hercules himself would be afraid to do, if 
 he were here among us : in sum, in one the same man, 
 all the faults that in all the most contrary-humoured 
 men in the world can remain ; that sure, I think, he 
 hath read the Devil's Roll of Complaints, which he 
 means to put up against mankind, or else he could never 
 have been acquainted with so many wretched mischiefs. 
 But hard it were, if every goose quill could any way 
 blot the honour of an Earl of Leicester, written in the 
 hearts of so many men through Europe. Neither for 
 me, shall ever so worthy a man's name be brought to 
 be made a question, where there is only such a nameless 
 and shameless opposer. But because that, though the 
 writer hereof doth most falsely lay want of gentry to my 
 dead ancestors, I have to the world thought good to say 
 a little, which, I will assure any, that list to seek, shall 
 find confirmed with much more. But to thee, I sav, 
 thou therein liest in thy throat ; which I will be ready 
 to justify upon thee, in any place of Europe, where thou 
 wilt assign me a free place of coming, as within three 
 months after the publishing hereof, I may understand 
 thy mind. And, as till thou hast proved this, in all con- 
 struftion of virtue and honour, all the shame thou hast 
 spoken is thine own, the right reward of an evil-tongued 
 shelm, as the Germans especially call such people. So 
 again, in any place, whereto thou wilt call me, provided 
 
Earl of Leicester. 323 
 
 that the place be such, as a servant of the Queen's maj- 
 esty have free access unto ; if I do not, having my life 
 and liberty, prove this upon thee, I am content that this 
 lie, I have given thee, return to my perpetual infamy. 
 And this which I v/rite I would send to thine own 
 hands, if I knew thee ; but I trust it cannot be intended, 
 that he should be ignorant of this printed in London, 
 which knows the very whisperings of the privy-chamber. 
 I will make dainty of no baseness in thee, that art indeed 
 the writer of this book. And, from the date of this 
 writing, imprinted and published, I will three months 
 expe6l thine answer. 
 
1 
 
LETTERS. 
 
In the following colle6tion will be found such familiar epistles of 
 Sir Philip Sidney, as seem either calculated to interest the general 
 reader, or to throw any light upon our author's charafter. The 
 sixteen letters which are placed together, last in order, are now 
 published for the first time from MSS. in the British Museum. 
 These we have thought it better to reprint verbatim from the origi- 
 nals, only here and there presuming to supply, within brackets, the 
 lacuna which fire and damp have occasioned ; since we are aware 
 that many antiquaries have a strong prejudice against modernized 
 versions, and those who entertain such an opinion cannot have 
 access in regard to this part of our work, as was the case with the 
 previous contents of the present volume, to other published copies 
 more suited to their tastes. « 
 
 Walpole has sneeringly observed that the letters of Sidney are 
 but " poor matters." They are certainly the hurried and careless 
 produftions of a man deeply immersed in business, who takes up his 
 pen solely because duty and necessity compel him to write ; and 
 not the laborious effusions of a secluded literary coxcomb, which, 
 after having been dribbled out by syllables, and diligently pruned 
 and adjusted into smooth and striking sentences, are addressed indi- 
 redly to the world through the medium of some gossiping friend. 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney to Edtvard MoUneux^ Esq.^ Secretary 
 to his father as Lord Deputy.* 
 
 [Reprinted from the Sidney Papers, vol. i. p. 256.] 
 
 Mr. Molineux, 
 
 Few words are best. My letters to my father 
 have come to the eyes of some. Neither can I con- 
 demn any but you for it. If it be so, you have played 
 
 * This letter was not written to the steward, as Walpole falsely 
 states, but to the secretary of Sir H. Sidney, Edward Molineux, 
 Esq., of Nuffield in the county of Surrey. Sir Philip imagined, 
 erroneously, as he afterwards confessed, that this gentleman had 
 basely betrayed the confidence of his employer, and furnished the 
 enemies of the aged Lord Deputy with matter of accusation against 
 him. Though the above epistle, therefore, is sadly deficient in point 
 of discretion and temper, it shows the intensity of our author's 
 filial regard ; and, whatever may be dedufted from our estimation 
 of the coolness of his head on account of it, an equivalent must, 
 we apprehend, be substituted in our increased love and respect for 
 the amiable qualities of his heart. 
 
328 Letter s. 
 
 the very knave with me ; and so I will make you know, 
 if I have good proof of it. But that for so much as is 
 past. For that is to come, I assure you before God, 
 that if ever I know you do so much as read any letter I 
 write to my father, without his commandment, or my 
 consent, I will thrust my dagger into you. And trust to 
 it, for I speak it in earnest, in the mean time farewell. 
 From court, this last of May, 1578. 
 By me, 
 
 Philip Sidney. 
 
 Indorsed, Mr. Philip Sidney to me, brought 1578, by 
 my Lord Chancellor ; received the 21st of June. 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney to his brother Robert^ the Jirst Earl of \ 
 Leicester of their name.* 
 
 My good brother. 
 
 You have thought unkindness in me that I have 
 not written oftener unto you, and have desired I should 
 write unto you something of my opinion touching your 
 
 * This letter was probably composed about 1578 ; and originally 
 appeared in a little volume, entitled, " Instruftions for Travellers, 
 by Robert Earl of Essex, Sir Philip Sidney, and Secretary Davison, 
 1633." It has been since reprinted in Seward's Biographiana, 
 vol. ii. p. 370. A MS. copy of it is extant in Trinity College 
 Library, Dublin ; and another in the Library of University College, 
 Oxon. For a transcript from the latter, we have been indebted to 
 the courtesy of the Rev. Frel. Charles Plumptre, fellow and tutor 
 of University. 
 
Letters. 329 
 
 travel ; you being persuaded my experience thereunto 
 be something, which I must needs confess, but not as 
 you take it ; for you think my experience grows from 
 the good things which I have learned ; but I know the 
 only experience which I have gotten, is to find how 
 much I might have learned, and how much indeed I 
 have missed, for want of dire6ting my course to the 
 right end, and by the right means. I think you have 
 read Aristotle's Ethics ; if you have, you know it is 
 the beginning and foundation of all his works, the end 
 to which every man doth and ought to bend his greatest 
 and smallest actions. I am sure you have imprinted in 
 your mind the scope and mark you mean by your pains 
 to shoot at : for if you should travel but to travel, or to 
 say you had travelled, certainly you should prove a pil- 
 grim to no purpose. But I presume so well of you, 
 that though a great number of us never thought in our- 
 selves why we went, but a certain tickling humour to 
 do as other men had done, you purpose, being a gentle- 
 man born, to furnish yourself with the knowledge of 
 such things as may be serviceable for your country and 
 calling ; which certainly stands not in the change of air, 
 for the warmest sun makes not a wise man ; no, nor in 
 learning languages, although they be of serviceable use, 
 for words are but words in what language soever they 
 be, and much less in that all of us come home full of 
 disguisements, not only of apparel, but of our coun- 
 tenances, as though the credit of a traveller stood all 
 upon his outside ; but in the right informing your mind 
 with those things which are most notable in those places 
 which you come unto. 
 
 Of which as the one kind is so vain, as I think ere it 
 be long, like the mountebanks in Italy, we travellers 
 42 
 
330 Letters. 
 
 shall be made sport of in comedies ; so may I justly 
 say, who rightly travels with the eye of Ulysses, dcth 
 take one of the most excellent ways of worldly wisdom. 
 For hard sure it is to know England, without you know 
 it by comparing it with some other country, no more 
 than a man can know the swiftness of his horse without 
 seeing him well matched. For you, that are a logician, 
 know, that as greatness of itself is a quantity, so yet 
 the judgment of it, as of mighty riches and all other 
 strengths, stands in the predicament of relation ; so that 
 you cannot tell what the Queen of England is able to 
 do defensively or offensively, but through knowing what 
 they are able to do with whom she is to be matched. 
 This, therefore, is one notable use of travellers, which 
 stands in the mind and correlative knowledge of things, 
 in which kind comes in the knowledge of all leagues 
 betwixt prince and prince ; the topographical description 
 of each country ; how the one lies by situation to hurt 
 or help the other j how they are to the sea, well har- 
 boured or not; how stored with ships; how with rev- 
 enue ; how with fortification and garrisons ; how the 
 people, warlike, trained, or kept under, with many other 
 such considerations, which as they confusedly come into 
 my mind, so I, for want of leisure, hastily set them 
 down ; but these things, as I have said, are of the first 
 kind which stands in the balancing one thing with the 
 other. 
 
 The other kind of knowledge is of them which stand 
 in the things which are in themselves either simply 
 good, or simply bad, and so serve for a right "instru6lion 
 or a shunning example. These Homer meant in this 
 verse, " Qui multos hominum mores cognovit et urbes." 
 For he doth not mean by "mores" how to look, or put 
 
Letters. 33 r 
 
 off one's cap with a new-found grace, although true 
 behaviour is not to be despised ; marry my heresy is, 
 that the English behaviour is best in England, and the 
 Italian's in Italy. But " mores " he takes for that from 
 whence moral philosophy is so called ; the certainness 
 of true discerning of men's minds both in virtue, pas- 
 sion, and vices. And when he saith " cognovit urbes," 
 he means not, if I be not deceived, to have seen towns, 
 and marked their buildings ; for surely houses are but 
 houses in every place, they do but differ " secundum 
 magis et minus ;" but he attends to their religion, poli- 
 tics, laws, bringing up of children, discipline both for 
 war and peace, and such like. These I take to be of 
 the second kind, which are ever worthy to be known 
 for their own sakes. As surely in the great Turk, 
 though we have nothing to do with him, yet his disci- 
 pline in war matters is, " propter se," worthy to be 
 known and learned. 
 
 Nay, even in the kingdom of China, which is almost 
 as far as the Antipodes from us, their good laws and 
 customs are to be learned ; but to know their riches 
 and power is of little purpose for us, since that can 
 neither advance nor hinder us. But in our neighbour 
 countries, both these things are to be marked, as well 
 the latter, which contain things for themselves, as the 
 former, which seek to know both those, and how their 
 riches and power may be to us available, or otherwise. 
 The countries fittest for both these, are those you are 
 going into. France is above all other most needful for 
 us to mark, especially in the former kind ; next is Spain 
 and the Low Countries ; then Germany, which in my 
 opinion excels all others as much in the latter consider- 
 ation, as the other doth in the former, yet neither are 
 
332 Letters. 
 
 void of neither ; for as Germany, methinks, doth excel 
 in good laws, and well administering of justice, so are 
 we likewise to consider in it the many princes with 
 whom we may have league, the places of trade, and 
 means to draw both soldiers and furniture thence in time 
 of need. So on the other side, as in France and Spain, 
 we are principally to mark how they stand towards us 
 both in power and inclination ; so are they, not without 
 good and fitting use, even in the generality of wisdom 
 to be known. As in France, the courts of parliament, 
 their subaltern jurisdiftion, and their continual keeping 
 of paid soldiers. In Spain, their good and grave pro- 
 ceedings ; their keeping so many provinces under them, 
 and by what manner, with the true points of honour ; 
 wherein since they have the most open conceit, if they 
 seem over curious, it is an easy matter to cut ofF when 
 a man sees the bottom." Flanders likewise, besides the 
 neighbourhood with us, and the annexed considerations 
 thereunto, hath divers things to be learned, especially 
 their governing their merchants and other trades. Also 
 for Italy, we know not what we have, or can have, to 
 do with them, but to buy their silks and wines ; and as 
 for the other point, except Venice, whose good laws 
 and customs we can hardly proportion to ourselves, be- 
 cause they are quite of a contrary government ; there is 
 little there but tyrannous oppression, and servile yielding 
 to them that have little or no right over them. And 
 for the men you shall have there, although indeed some 
 be excellently learned, yet are they all given to counter- 
 feit learning, as a man shall learn among them more 
 false grounds of things than in any place else that I 
 know ; for, from a tapster upwards, they are all dis- 
 coursers in certain matters and qualities, as horseman- 
 
Letters. 333 
 
 ship, weapons, painting, and such are better there than 
 in other countries ; but for other matters, as well, if not 
 better, you shall have them in nearer places. 
 
 Now resteth in my memory but this point, which 
 indeed is the chief to you of all others ; which is the 
 choice of what men you are to dire6l yourself to ; for it 
 is certain no vessel can leave a worse taste in the liquor 
 it contains, than a wrong teacher infe6ts an unskilful 
 hearer with that which hardly will ever out : I will not 
 tell you some absurdities I have heard travellers tell ; 
 taste him well before you drink much of his do6lrine. 
 And when you have heard it, try well what you have 
 heard, before you hold it for a principle ; for one error 
 is the mother of a thousand. But you may say, how 
 shall I get excellent men to take pains to speak with 
 me ? truly in hw words, either by much expense or 
 much humbleness. 
 
 ( 
 Sir Philip Sidney to his brother Robert. 
 [Repiinted from the Sidney Papers, vol. i. p. 283-5.] 
 
 My dear brother. 
 
 For the money you have received, assure your- 
 self (for it is true) there is nothing I spend so pleaseth 
 me, as that which is for you. If ever I have ability you 
 will find it, if not, yet shall not any brother living be 
 better beloved than you of me. I cannot write now to 
 N. White, do you excuse me. For his nephew, they 
 are but passions in my father, which we must bear with 
 
334 Letters. 
 
 reverence ; but I am sorry he should return till he had 
 the circuit of his travel, for you shall never have such a 
 servant as he w^ould prove ; use your own discretion 
 therein. For your countenance I w^ould for no cause 
 have it diminished in Germany ; in Italy your greatest 
 expense must be upon worthy men, and not upon house- 
 holding. Look to your diet (sweet Robin) and hold up 
 your heart in courage and virtue, truly great part of my 
 comfort is in you. I know not myself what I meant by 
 bravery in you, so greatly you may see I condemn you ; 
 be careful of yourself, and I shall never have cares. I 
 have written to Mr. Savile,* I wish you kept still to- 
 gether, he is an excellent man ; and there may if you 
 list pass good exercises betwixt you and Mr. Nevyle,t 
 there is great expedlation of you both. For the method 
 of writing history, Boden hath written at large ; you 
 may read him, and gather out of many words some mat- 
 ter. This I think in haste, a story is either to be con- 
 sidered as a story, or as a treatise, which, besides that, 
 addeth many things for profit and ornament ; as a story, 
 he is nothing but a narration of things done, with the 
 beginnings, causes, and appendances thereof; in that kind 
 your method must be to have " seriem temporum " very 
 exadly, which the Chronologies of Melan^thon, Tar- 
 chagnora, Languet, and such other, will help you to. 
 Then to consider by that as you 
 
 not yourself, Zenophon to follow Thucydides, so doth 
 Thucydides follow Herodotus, and Diodorus Siculus 
 follow Zenophon : so generally 'do the Roman sto- 
 
 * Afterwards the celebrated Sir Henry Savile. 
 t Mr. Alexander Nevyle. For an account of this gentleman 
 see Warton's History of Poetry, vol. iv., p. 208, edit. 1824. 
 
Letters. 335 
 
 ries follow the Greek, and the particular stories of 
 present monarchies follow the Roman. In that kind 
 you have principally to note the examples of virtue 
 or vice, with their good or evil successes, the establish- 
 ments or ruins of great estates, with the causes, the 
 time, and circumstances of the laws then wrote of, the 
 enterings and endings of wars, and therein, the strat- 
 agems against the enemy, and the discipline upon the 
 soldier ; and thus much as a very historiographer. Be- 
 sides this, the historian makes himself a discourser for 
 profit, and an orator, yea a poet, sometimes for orna- 
 ment. An orator, in making excellent orations, " e re 
 nata," which are to be marked, but marked with the 
 note of rhetorical remembrances : a poet, in painting 
 forth the effects, the motions, the whisperings of the 
 people, which though in disputation, one might say were 
 true, yet who will mark them well, shall find them taste 
 of a poetical vein, and in that kind are gallantly to be 
 marked ; for though perchance they were not so, yet it 
 is enough they might be so. The last point which 
 tends to teach profit, is of a discourser, which name I 
 give to whosoever speaks, " Non simpliciter de fa6lo, 
 sed de qualitatibus et circumstantiis fa6ti ; " and that is 
 it which makes me and many others, rather note much 
 with our pen than with our mind, because we leave all 
 these discourses to the confused trust of our memory, 
 because they being not tied to the tenor of a question, as 
 philosophers use sometimes places ; the divine, in telling 
 his opinion and reasons in religion ; sometimes the law- 
 yer, in showing the causes and benefits of laws j some- 
 times a natural philosopher, in setting down the causes 
 of any strange thing, which the story binds him to speak 
 
33^ Letters. 
 
 of; but most commonly a moral philosopher, either in 
 the ethic part, when he sets forth virtues or vices, and 
 the natures of passions, or in the politic, w^hen he doth 
 (as often he doth) meddle sententiously w^ith matters of 
 estate. Again, sometimes he gives precept of war, both 
 offensive and defensive ; and so, lastly, not professing 
 any art, is his matter leads him he deals with all arts, 
 which because it carrieth the life of a lively example, it 
 is wonderful what light it gives to the arts themselves, 
 so as the great civilians help themselves with the dis- 
 courses of the historians ; so do soldiers, and even 
 philosophers and astronomers ; but that I wish herein, 
 is this, that when you read any such thing, you straight 
 bring it to his head, not only of what art, but by your 
 logical subdivisions, to the next member and parcel of 
 the art. And so as in a table, be it witty words, of 
 which Tacitus is full ; sentences of which Livy, or 
 similitudes whereof Plutarch ; straight to lay it up in 
 the right place of his storehouse, as either military, or 
 more specially defensive military, or more particularly 
 defensive by fortification, and so lay it up. So likewise 
 in politic matters, and such a little table you may easily 
 make, wherewith I would have you ever join the his- 
 torical part, which is only the example of some strata- 
 gem, or good counsel, or such like. This write I to 
 you in great haste, of method without method, but with 
 more leisure and study (if I do not find some book that 
 satisfies) I will venture to write more largely of it unto 
 you. Mr. Savile will with ease help you to set down 
 such a table of remembrance to yourself, and for your 
 sake I perceive he will do much, and if ever I be able I 
 will deserve it of him ; one only thing, as it comes unto 
 
Letters. 337 
 
 my mind, let me remember you of, that you consider 
 wherein the historian excelleth, and that to note, as 
 Dion Nicaeus, in the searching the secrets of govern- 
 ment ; Tacitus, in the pithy opening the venom of 
 wickedness, and so of the rest. My time, exceedingly 
 short, will suffer me to write no more leisurely ; Stephen 
 can tell you who stands with me while I am writing. 
 Now (dear brother) take delight likewise in the mathe- 
 matical ; Mr. Savile is excellent in them. I think you 
 understand the sphere, if you do, I care little for any 
 more astronomy in you. Arithmetic and geometry, I 
 would wish you well seen in, so as both in matter of 
 number and measure you might have a feeling and a6tive 
 judgment ; I would you did bear the mechanical instru- 
 ments, wherein the Dutch excel, I write this to you 
 as one, that for myself have given over the delight in 
 the world, but wish to you as much, if not more, than 
 to myself. So you can speak and write Latin, not bar- 
 barously, I never require great study in Ciceronianism, 
 the chief abuse of Oxford, '' qui dum verba se6lantur, 
 res ipsas negligunt." My toyful books I will send, with 
 God's help, by February, at which time you shall have 
 your money : and for 200/. a year, assure yourself, if 
 the estates of England remain, you shall not fail of it ; 
 use it to your best profit. My Lord of Leicester sends 
 you forty pounds, as I understand by Stephen, and prom- 
 iseth he will continue that stipend yearly at the least, 
 then that is above commons ; in any case write largely 
 and diligently unto him, for in troth I have good proof 
 that he means to be every way good unto you ; the odd 
 30/. shall come with the hundred, or else my father and 
 I will jarl. ^ Now, sweet brother, take a delight to keep 
 43 
 
338 Letters. 
 
 and increase your music, you will not believe what a 
 want I find of it in my melancholy times. At horse- 
 manship when you exercise it, read Crison Claudio, and 
 a book that is called " La Gloria del' Cavallo," withal 
 that you may join the thorough contemplation of it with 
 the exercise ; and so shall you profit more in a month, 
 than others in a year, and mark the bitting, saddling, 
 and curing of horses. I would by the way your wor- 
 ship would learn a better hand; you write worse than I, 
 and I write evil enough ; once again have a care of i 
 
 your diet, and consequently of your complexion ; re- 
 member "Gratior est veniens in pulchro corpore virtus." 
 Now sir for news, I refer myself to this bearer, he can 
 tell you how idle we look on our neighbours' fires, and 
 nothing is happened notable at home, save only Drake's 
 return, of which yet I know not the secret points ; but 
 about the world he hath been, and rich he is returned. 
 Portugal we say is lost, and to conclude, my eyes are 
 almost closed up, overwatched with tedious business. 
 God bless you, sweet boy, and accomplish the joyful 
 hope I conceive of you. Once again commend me to 
 Mr. Nevyle, Mr. Savile, and honest Harry White, and 
 bid him be merry. When you play at weapons, I would 
 have you get thick caps and brasers, and play out your 
 play lustily, for indeed ticks and dalliances are nothing 
 in earnest, for the time of the one and the other greatly 
 differs, and use as well the blow as the thrust ; it is 
 good in itself, and besides exerciseth your breath and 
 strength, and will make you a strong man at the tourney 
 and barriers. First, in any case pra6lise the single 
 sword, and then with the dagger ; let no day pass with- 
 out an hour or two such exercise ; the rest study, or 
 confer diligently, and so shall you come home to my 
 
Letters. 339 
 
 comfort and credit. Lord ! how I have babbled : once 
 again farewell dearest brother. 
 
 Your most loving and careful brother, 
 
 Philip Sydney. 
 At Leicester-house, this i8th of 06lober, 1580. 
 
 Letter to Sir Francis Wahingham. 
 
 [Reprinted from Lodge's Portraits and Memoirs of the most Illus- 
 trious Personages, No. i.] 
 
 Right honourable, 
 
 I receive divers letters from you, full of the dis- 
 comfort which I see, and am sorry to see, that you daily 
 meet with at home ; and I think, such is the good will 
 it pleaseth you to bear me, that my part of the trouble 
 is something that troubles you ; but I beseech you let it 
 not. I had before cast my count of danger, want, and 
 disgrace ; and, before God, sir, it is true in my heart, 
 the love of the cause doth so f^ir overbalance them all, 
 that, with God's grace, they shall never make me weary 
 of my resolution. If her Majesty were the fountain, I 
 would fear, considering what I daily find, that we should 
 wax dry ; but she is but a means whom God useth, and 
 I know not whether I am deceived, but I am faithfully 
 persuaded, that if she should withdraw herself, other 
 springs would rise to help this a6lion : for methinks I 
 see the great work indeed in hand against the abusers of 
 the world, wherein it is no greater fault to have confi- 
 dence in man's power, than it is too hastily to despair of 
 
340 Letters. 
 
 God's work. I think a wise and constant man ought 
 never to grieve while he doth play, as a man may say, 
 his own part truly, though others be out ; but if himself 
 leave his hold because other mariners will be idle, he 
 will hardly forgive himself his own fault. For me, I 
 
 cannot promise of my own course, no, not of the 
 
 because I know there is a higher power that must up- 
 hold me, or else I shall fall ; but certainly I trust I shall 
 not by other men's wants be drawn from myself; there- 
 fore, good sir, to whom for my particular I am more 
 bound than to all men besides, be not troubled with my 
 troubles, for I have seen the worst, in my judgment, 
 beforehand, and worse than that cannot be. 
 
 If the Queen pay not her soldiers she must lose her 
 garrisons ; there is no doubt thereof; but no man living 
 shall be able to say the fault is in me. What relief I 
 can do them, I will. I will spare no danger, if occasion 
 serves. I am sure no creature shall be able to lay in- 
 justice to my charge ; and, for farther doubts, truly I 
 stand not upon them. I have written by Adams to the 
 council plainly, and therefore let them determine. It 
 hath been a costly beginning unto me this war, by rea- 
 son I had nothing proportioned unto it ; my servants 
 unexperienced, and myself every way unfurnished ; but 
 hereafter, if the war continue, I shall pass much better 
 through with it. For Bergen up Zome, I delighted in 
 it, I confess, because it was near the enemy : but espe- 
 cially having a very fair house in it, and an excellent air, 
 I destined it for my wife ; but, finding how you deal 
 there, and that ill payment in my absence thence might 
 bring forth some mischief, and considering how apt the 
 Queen is to interpret everything to my disadvantage, I 
 have resigned it to my Lord Willoughby, my very 
 
 
Letters. 34 ' 
 
 friend, and indeed a valiant and frank gentleman, and 
 fit for that place ; therefore I pray you know that so 
 much of my regality is fallen. 
 
 I understand I am called very ambitious and proud at 
 home, but certainly if they knew my heart they would 
 not altogether so judge me. I wrote to you a letter by 
 Will, my Lord of Leicester's jesting player, enclosed in 
 a letter to my wife, and I never had answer thereof. It 
 contained something to my Lord of Leicester, and coun- 
 sel that some way might be taken to stay my lady there. 
 I, since, divers times have writ to know whether you 
 had received them, but you never answered me that 
 point. I since find that the knave delivered the letters 
 to my Lady of Leicester, but whether she sent them you 
 or no I know not, but earnestly desire to do, because I 
 doubt there is more interpreted thereof. Mr. Erington 
 is with me at Flushing, and therefore I think myself at 
 the more rest, having a man of his reputation ; but I 
 assure you, sir, in good earnest, I find Burlas another 
 manner of man than he is taken for, or I expelled. I 
 would to God, Burne had obtained his suit. He is ear- 
 nest, but somewhat discomposed with consideration of 
 his estate. Turner is good for nothing, and worst for 
 the sound of the hackbutes. We shall have a sore war 
 upon us this summer, wherein if appointment had been 
 kept, and these disgraces forborne, which have greatly 
 weakened us, we had been vi6lorious. I can say no 
 more at this time, but pray for your long and happy life. 
 At Utrecht, this 24th of March, 1586. 
 
 Your humble son, 
 Philip Sydney. 
 
 I know not what to say to my wife's coming till you 
 resolve better ; for if you run a strange course, I may 
 
342 
 
 Letters. 
 
 take such a one here as will not be fit for any of the 
 feminine gender. I pray you make much of Nichol. 
 Gery. I have been vilely deceived for armours for 
 horsemen ; if you could speedily spare me any out of 
 your armory, I will send them you back as soon as my 
 own be finished. There was never so good a father 
 found a more troublesome son. Send Sir William Pel- 
 ham, good sir, and let him have Gierke's place, for we 
 need no clerks, and it is most necessary to have such a 
 one in the council. 
 
 
LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 SIR PHILIP SYDNEY, KNIGHT. 
 From the unpublished originals in the British Museum. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 FROM THE COTTONIAN MS. GALEA, B. XI. F. 37O. 
 
 N. B. The edges of this volume are so burnt, that some whole 
 words at the ends of the lines are lost. These we have endeav- 
 oured occasionally to supply within brackets. 
 
 To the Right honorable and my singular vnkle.^ the earle 
 of [^Leicester.'] 
 
 RiGHTE HONORABLE 
 
 AND MY SINGULAR GOOD LORDE AND VNCLE, 
 
 Allthoughe I haue at this presente . . little matter 
 worthy the writinge vnto your Lordeshippe, yet beinge 
 newlie returned frome my poIl[ish] iournei, I woolde 
 not omitt anie ocasion of humbly perfoorminge this 
 dutie. Wherefore I hum[bly] beseeche your L. to take 
 these few lines in good parte, Whiche I wryte rather to 
 continew this [duty] I ow vnto yow, then for any other 
 thinge they may conteine in them. The Emperour* 
 as I wrate . . laste vnto your L. hathe these two yeeres 
 continuallie pretended a iourney to Prage, wh[ich] it is 
 
 * Maximilian the Second of Hungary. 
 
344 Letters. 
 
 thoughte shall in deede be perfoormed, to the greate con- 
 tentacion of that kinsedome, wh[ich] otherwise seemed 
 to bende to disobedience. There it is thoughte his son 
 shall very shortlie be [ele6led] kinge, whome likewise 
 the Emperour seekes by all meanes possible to aduance 
 to the kinged[om] of the Romaines, and for that pur- 
 pose desyres to call an imperiall diett in Francfort, the 
 [place] appointed for the ele6lions, but it is thoughte the 
 Ele6lours will rather choose an other . . for this nexte 
 ensuinge diett whiche is saide shall be sommer follow- 
 inge at the fur[thest,] and then there is no hope of elec- 
 tion. Not beinge at Francfort, it is likely it shal [be 
 held] at Regenspurg, where I beleue the Emperour will 
 demaunde fur greater summes of mo[ney] then will be 
 grawnted unto him. Thoughe the peace betwixte the 
 Turke and him [is not] as yet, as fur as it is knowne, 
 perfittlie concluded, yet it is thoughte the Turke will 
 rath[er] proceede by sea then this waie, and as the 
 Frenche ambassadour hathe writtne, meane .... insite 
 the Pope's territorie, perchaunce his conscience moueth 
 him, to seeke the benefitt of ... . Jubile. I hope as 
 the Spanierdes allreddy begin to speake lower, so the 
 Pope's holiness will haue lesse leasure to ministre suche 
 wicked and detestable counceills to the chris[tian] princes 
 as hetherto he dothe. Owt of Frawnce yowr L. hathe 
 the aduertisements f u . . . . the Prince of Conde is re- 
 tired to Basill where he liuethe in companie withe the 
 
 Adr children, beinge frustrate of a greate hope 
 
 he had conceaued of suckowr owt of Jerma[ny] wherein 
 many and wise men do impute greate faulte to the prince 
 Casimire, the Cow[nt] Palatines seconde son, in so 
 muche that to write to yowr L. plainely, he is heauilie 
 sus[pe6ted] to be corrupted by the frenche. His father 
 
Letters. 345 
 
 certainely is as vertuous a prince as liuethe [but] he suf- 
 ferethe him selfe to much to be gouerned by that son. 
 This I thoughte my dut[ie to] write as hauinge hearde 
 it in a very good place and muche afFeftioned to the 
 tr[ew] cawse. The Polakes hartily repente their so fur 
 fetcht ele6tion, beinge now in suche case [that] neither 
 they haue the kinge, nor any thinge the kinge, withe so 
 many othes, had promised .... besides that their is 
 lately sturred up a very dangerous Sedition, for the same 
 ca[use] that hathe bredde suche lamentable ruines in 
 France and Flandres. Now the [sedition] is reasonably 
 wel appeased, but it is thoughte it will remaine so but a 
 while, I have no othre thinge worthy the writinge at 
 this presente to yowr L. wherefore I humbly ceasse 
 withe my dailie and moste boundne praier, that it please 
 the eternall to continew and encreace yow in all pros- 
 peritie. Frome Vienne, This 27 of Nouembre, 1574. 
 Yowr L. moste 
 
 obedi 
 
 Philippe Sidney. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 Ibid. ff. 387-8. not the original. 
 
 Sir Philip Sydney to Sir Francis Wahingham. 
 
 RiGHTE HONORABLE, 
 
 I receiued in commandement from her Ma"® that 
 in my waye to the Emperor, I should deliver her Ma'"'' 
 
34^ Letters. 
 
 letters to the brethren Palatins, and withall giue them to 
 vnderstand how greatly, and in what good respe£tes her 
 Ma''*^ was sorry for the death of the late Elector, and 
 yet withall somewhat comforted by the assured expeila- 
 tion her Ma*'® had of their succeeding vnto him in all 
 his vertues, I should, according as I sawe cause, per- 
 swade them to brotherly loue, necessary for the publique 
 weale, and their owne preseruation. Afterwards to 
 Casimire in particular, I should so much the more ex- 
 presse her Ma"®* good fauor towards him, as he was the 
 son most deere vnto his father, and had allready giuen 
 very good shew of his princely vertues. Lastly I should 
 learne of him, whether the mony deliuered were as yet 
 receiued, which her Ma"® would be content to leaue 
 there in some place of that country in deposito. For the 
 first I could not yet doe it, but only to prince Casimir, 
 the Ele6lour being at a towne of his in the upper Pala- 
 tinate called Amberg, whether I meane to goe vnto him, 
 being not much out of the waye for Prage, where the 
 Emperour lyes, if I doe not meete him by the way, as 
 it is thought I shall, but to Prince Casimire I said ac- 
 cording to mine instru6lions, and to that purpose so 
 much more, as the course of speech, and the framing of 
 the time did give occasion. His answer was that her 
 Ma"® in deed had great reason to be sorry for the losse 
 of his father, hauing bene in truth so trew a friend and 
 servant vnto her, of his other good partes he left to be 
 witnessed by the things he hath done in the aduance- 
 ment of vertue and Religion. For himselfe he could 
 not thinke himselfe bound enough to her Ma"® for this 
 signification of her goodnes towards him, and in the 
 vertues of his father, there was none he would seeke 
 more to follow, then his duty and good will to her Ma"®. 
 
Letters. 347 
 
 This he did in very good termes, and with a coun- 
 tenance well witnessing it came from his hart. 
 
 For the second, I founde no cause to perswade him 
 to vnity with his brother, he being, as he saith, fully 
 perswaded so to embrace it, as nothing more, yet found 
 I in him great miscontentment that his brother beginnes 
 to make alteration in Religion, for hauing two principall 
 gouerments the vpper Palatinate which lyes in Bauaria, 
 and this which they calle the nether, by the Rhine, the 
 EIe6lor hath already in the vpper established Lutheran- 
 isme, and as it is feared is comming shortly to doe the 
 like here. He hath vsed great perswasions to his 
 brother in it, and of late hath sett out in print his 
 father's Confession in his owne name, to the end as I 
 perceiue, by him, to auoyde all suspicion, that eyther 
 flattery in his father's time, or feare now, did or may 
 moue him, either to embrace, or leaue, that which con- 
 cernes his conscience. This confession he hath sent to 
 all the Electors, and most part of the Princes of Ger- 
 many. He is resolved, if his brother doe drive away 
 from him the learned men of the true profession, that 
 he will receiue to him, and hereof something may breed 
 gall betwixt them, if any doe ; but the best is to be 
 hoped, considering Prince Lodouick is of a soft nature, 
 ledde to these things only thorough conscience, and 
 Prince Casimir wise that can temper well with the 
 others weaknes. 
 
 For the third, which was to shew her Ma"^® speciall 
 good liking of Prince Casimir, I did it with the first, 
 and his answere was the same protestation of his good 
 harte, as before I wratte. 
 
 In the last, touching her Ma''^'' money, his answer 
 was the K. of France had falsefied his promise, and 
 
348 Letters. 
 
 therefore neither her Ma''^ nor the Ritters who doe 
 greatly cry for it, could as yet have their dew. I told 
 him it would be a cause to make her Ma"^ withdraw 
 from like loanes, as the well paying would give her 
 cause to doe it in greater somes. He was greeved with 
 my vrging of him, and assured me, that if he could gett 
 the payement, he wolde rather dye then not see her 
 Ma''^ honorably satisfied. Then I pressed him for cer- 
 teine iewells and ostages I had learned he had in pawne 
 of the King ; he told mee, they were allready the Rit- 
 treses, but if her Ma''*" would buy any of them she might 
 haue a good bargaine. 
 
 In fyne, this I find, that of nyne Monthes was dew to 
 the Soldiers, they are paied but to and an halfe, for other 
 the Duke of Lorrayne and Vaudemont are bound, of 
 which they make perfect account. Their Jewells and 
 ostages they valew a little more then at halfe a Moneths 
 paye, so that there is due vnto them yet foure Moneths 
 pay, which according to their gentle allowance comes to 
 aboue a ^ Million of Frankes : vntil most part of this be 
 payed, I do not think her Ma''® can receiue her dew. 
 The best is, a thing well employed is halfe paied, and 
 yet truly by that I find in the Prince, I doe hold my 
 selfe in good beleefe, that her Ma"** within a yeare or 
 two shalbe honorably answered it. 
 
 Now touching the particularities her Ma"® willed me 
 to learne of him, as of the Emperors, both in matters of 
 State and Religion, how the Princes of Germany are 
 afFeiled in French and Low Country matters, what 
 forces there are preparing here, and what he himselfe 
 meanes to be. 
 
 For the Emperor, he knows very little of him, but 
 such generall pointes euerywhere knowen, of his papis- 
 
Letters. 349 
 
 try or Spanish grauity. But this I understand by men 
 of good iudgement, that he is left poore, the Diuision 
 with his brethren not yet made, warres with the Turke 
 feared, and yet his peace little better, considering the 
 great tributes he paies, and the continuall spoiles his 
 subieftes suffer vppon the Frontiers. 
 
 The other Princes of Germany haue no care but how 
 to grow riche and to please their senses ; the Duke of 
 Saxony so carried away with the vbiquity, that he growes 
 bitter to the true Lutherians. The rest are of the same 
 mould, thinking they should be safe, though all the 
 world were on fire about them, except it be the Land- 
 graue William, and his brethern, and this Prince Casi- 
 mire, who wisheth very earnestly, that her Ma''*' would 
 writte of purpose vnto the Landgraue, being a Prince 
 both religious, wise, and very much addi6led to her 
 Ma''^ 
 
 Forces there are none publiquely preparing. Casimir 
 the only man, the Ritters and soldiors doe looke and 
 depend vppon him, he temporises a little staying till he 
 gathers of the K. of France and K. of Nauarre 3 
 Months paye for such an army, as he will bring, and 
 then in deed he saith, I shall heare, that he is dead, or 
 that he hath left a miserable France of the Papishe syde. 
 I haue sent the Princes confession in Dutch. The 
 Prince did giue of a meaning Don John * should haue 
 
 * Don John of Austria, natural brother to Philip the Second of 
 Spain. Hume says, referring to Camden and Grotius as his au- 
 thorities, that this prince "had projefted to espouse the Queen of 
 Scots, and to acquire in her right the dominion of the British king- 
 doms." He was afterwards killed by poison in the Low Countries, 
 at the instigation, as was generally supposed, of his brother, who 
 dreaded his ambition. 
 
350 Letters. 
 
 to marry the Quene of Scotts, and so to sturr troubles 
 in England. 
 
 There is none of the Princes like to enter into any 
 League (and that rather as it were to serue the Quene, 
 then any way ells) but the Prince Casimir, the Land- 
 graue, and the Duke of Brunswick. 
 
 The Bohemians which were earnest in Maximilians 
 time to haue Churches of the true Religion granted 
 them, doe now grow cold only being content to haue 
 the freedom in their houses. I will not furder trouble 
 you, but with my humble commendations vnto you 
 leaue you to the Eternall. From Heidelberg this 22. of 
 Marche 1576. 
 
 Yours to doe you any seruice 
 
 Philipp Sydney. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 Ibid. f. 363, 4. 
 
 The direEiion of this letter^ to Secretary JValsinghatn., is 
 lost with the envelope. 
 
 RiGHTE HONORABLE. 
 
 The Nexte day I dispatched away Woodall 
 be . . . 22 of Marche I departed frome Heidelberge, and 
 not findinge the [Ele6lour] at Amberg as I hoped to 
 haue done came to Prague uppon Maun . . . uppon Eas- 
 ter Monday afterwardes I had Audience, where accord- 
 [ing to] her Ma*^'*^* commawndcmente, I was to make 
 
 r 
 
Letters. 351 
 
 knowne unto him, [how] greatlie Her Maiestie was 
 grieued withe the losse of so worthy a [Prince as] the 
 Emperour * his father was, her Ma'"' hauinge so greate 
 cawse .... as bothe the publicke losse of suche a prince 
 
 (the fruites of whose gouernement were well 
 
 founde, bothe in the Mainteining the empir .... and 
 staijng the Turkes inuasion) and the Particular goodwill 
 .... euer betwixte Her Maiestie and him, coolde not 
 but greatly gr[ieve] her. 
 
 Secondly Her Ma'"'* good hope of him, that he woolde 
 seconde his fath[er] in his uertues and the manner of 
 his gouernemente. And [the advice of] her Ma"''^ 
 cownsaile unto him to auoide the turbulent cowncells, 
 of . . . . guyded withe pryuate passions whereof the issue 
 is uncertaine, [the bene]fittes none, and the harmes 
 manifeste. 
 
 Besides these, as ocasion shoolde serue, I shoolde 
 giue him to undrest [and how] nobly her Ma"® had pro- 
 ceeded in the low countrey matters, and upp[on] good 
 growndes. The 3 firste I did declare together unto 
 him .... other reasons as bothe y® instrudiions did more 
 largely specify, and [opportunity] it selfe did ministre. 
 
 He awnswered me in Latin withe very kw wordes, 
 to the firste, t . . . . persuade him selfe so of her Ma''® as 
 it pleased her to signify un[to him] for w'^'' signification 
 he gave her Serenitie (for y* was y® tearme he [used]) 
 uery greate thankes, and therewithall added a certaine 
 speeche of. .. . the praises her Ma"® gaue his father he 
 saide he woolde not stande .... becawse he mighte 
 seeme to deryue parte of the glory to him selfe .... 
 
 * Maximilian the Second died in 1576, and was succeeded by 
 Rodolphus the Second. 
 
352 Letter i. 
 
 his goodwill towardes her Ma''^ of w"^^ he was left uery 
 good wi[tness,] hauinge by many meanes knowne his 
 fathers minde therein. 
 
 To the seconde, and thirde, he awnswered together, ; 
 that as God had pr[ote(£tion] of the Empire, so he , 
 woolde prouyde him withe cownceile how to [govern] i 
 it, but y* he did in most gratefull manner accepte her | 
 Ma^'^ .... and y' y*^ rule he woolde follow chiefly, shoolde ] 
 be his fathers imita[tion] after y' he fell into dyuerse , 
 other particuler demandes and speeches .... to longe to ! 
 recyte, but that I uppon ocasion of Don Jhon D Hus- 
 tro . . . . twise or thryse to giue him to vndrestande how I 
 her Ma''*' had pr . . . . those thinges, but his allowance , 
 thereof was so generall y* I coolde .... tyme passe no i 
 furdre. 
 
 The nexte day I deliuered her Ma''*"^ lettres to the 
 Empresse, withe the singular signification of her Ma"*"* 
 greate good will unto her, and her Maiesties wisshinge 
 of her to aduise her son to a wyse and peaceable gou- 
 ernemente ; of the Emperour deceassed I used but few i 
 wordes, becawse in trothe I saw it bredd some troble j, 
 unto her to heere him mentioned in that kinde ; she 
 awnswered me withe many cowrteowse speeches, and 
 greate acknowledging of her owne beholdingenes to her 
 Ma"^. And for her son, she saide she hoped he woolde 
 do well, but that, for her owne part, she saide she had ; 
 giuen her selfe frome y^ worlde and woolde not greatly 
 sturr frome thence forwarde in it. Then did I deliuer 
 the queene of Frawnce [her] letter, she standinge by 
 the Empresse, usinge suche speeches as I thou[ght] 
 were fitt for her double sorrow, and her Ma'"''' good 
 will unto her, confirm [ed] by her wyse and noble j 
 gouerninge of her selfe in the tyme of her beinge in . 
 
Letters. 353 
 
 Frawnce. Her awnswere was full of humblenes, but 
 she spake so low y' I coolde not undrestande many of 
 her wordes. Frome them I wente to the yonge princes, 
 and paste of cache syde certaine complementes, w*^** I 
 will leaue becawse I feare me I haue allreddy bene 
 ouer longe there [in]. The reste of the daies y^ I lay 
 there, I enfourmed my selfe as well as I coolde of suche 
 particularities as I receaued in my enstru6tions, as of the 
 I. Emperours disposicion and his brethren, 2. By 
 whose Aduise he is dire6ted. 3. When it is lykely he 
 shall marry. 4. What princes in Jermany are moste 
 afFeded to him. 5. In w' state he is lefte for reuenews. 
 6. w*^ good agreement there is betwixte him and his 
 brethren. 7. And what partaye they haue. In these 
 thinges I shall at my returne more largely be hable,'and 
 w"* more leysure, to declare it : now, only thus muche 
 I will troble yow withe. 
 
 I. That the Emperour is holy by his inclination giune 
 to the warres, few of wordes, sullein of disposition, very 
 secrete and resolute, nothinge the manner his father had 
 in winninge men in his behauior, but yet constant in 
 keepinge them. And suche a one, as thoughe he prom- 
 ise not muche owtwardly, hathe, as the Latines say, 
 Al'iqu'id in Recessu. 
 
 His Brother Earnest, muche lyke him in disposition, 
 but y^ he is more franke and forwarde, v/^^ perchawnce 
 y^ necessity of his fortune dryues him to. Bothe Ex- 
 treemely Spaniolated. Matthias and Maximilian lyke- 
 w[ise] broughte upp togeather, but in Jermany, and 
 in their behauiour fram[ing] of them selues to the lyk- 
 inge of this contrey people, especially Maximilian, 
 who seemes in deede to promise some greate worthines, 
 45 
 
354 Letters. 
 
 but their yowthe, and education, as yet under gouerne- 
 ment, makes y® iudgem[ent] y^ harder. 
 
 Albertus and Wenceslaus are in Spaine. Albertus, 
 of late made Card[inal], of the beste witt of them all, 
 and uppon him it is thoughte t[he Archbishoprick] of 
 Toledo shall be bestowed. Wenceslaus is of a very 
 quick spi[rit], as yet very yonge, and made putt on a 
 Spanishe grauity .... upp to be seruantes to the pope, 
 and y* is lyke to be their h[ighest] Ambition. 
 
 2. The Emperour is most gouerned by one Diet .... 
 greate m"^ of his howse, beares y® redde crosse of Spaine 
 and .... a professed seruante to y" crowne and inquisi- 
 tors gouernemente. The nuntio of y** Pope y* is now 
 there is lykewise great u . . . . and followed by him, so 
 y* w* cownceills suche authors giue m[ay be] easily 
 imagined, thoughe y^ effe61:es be longe in bringing forthe. 
 
 3. He dothe kepe him unmarried till the Daughter of 
 Spaine be .... is now eleauen yeere olde, there was 
 lyke to haue growne some .... becawse the kinge of 
 Spaine seemed rather to have lyked of the K . . . . Por- 
 tugall, but it is now hoped that y' kinge will haue y® 
 Don .... Frawnce, and so the Emperour to strengthen 
 the holinesse of t . . . . muche y^ more, will become 
 bothe son, brother, nephew, and .... the kinge of 
 Spaine. 
 
 4. How the princes of Jermany are afFedl .... him, 
 and what authority the howse of Austriche dothe daily 
 g[et over] them by their carelesnes, and whylst as you 
 wrate they are .... in securitie, I will if it please yow 
 referr till my returne .... 5. thereuppon hanges dyuerse 
 thinges, and I haue allreddy bene .... His reuenewes 
 are greate, but his enemy the Turke so muche ab . . . . 
 greatnes, that he can not turne muche of them to other 
 
Letters. 355 
 
 use The Empire of late at y® Dyet of Ratisbone 
 
 did graunte his fath[er a loan] of six million of florins to 
 be paide in six yeere. He hat .... nothinge of it as 
 yet, but makes perfitt accompte not only to .... it, but 
 to continew it, w*^'' if it be so will be a matter of greate 
 .... consideringe he is bounde to no other thinge for it 
 but y® defence .... owne patrimony. I will bringe yow 
 a particular of his reuenews .... gesse in a thinge yeerly 
 allmoste changinge may suffer. 
 
 6. The brethren do agree very well, and so certainly 
 are lyke to doe .... suttlety of the worlde is conspyred 
 
 to unite them, and more agreate n y*^ sorte, to 
 
 some terrible ende. This is certaine that none is loked 
 
 o Ma"^ and the poore reliques of Frawnce and 
 
 Flawndres, as the to her state, for as for iermany, 
 
 I assure yow they make accown them in effedle 
 
 allreddy at leaste hurtlesse enemies. 7. Their pa 
 
 as yet made Austriche is y^ only thinge y' can be diuyded. 
 I am of ... . will be contented withe Pensions. Ear- 
 
 nestus especially hauing as h absolute gouerne- 
 
 ment of Hungary and Austriche y^ Emperour will keep 
 
 his in .... I am ashamed I haue trobled yow so 
 
 longe. But I will leaue the Emperours acceptacion of 
 y* low contrey matters till I may my selfe say it unto 
 yow, and so, his speeches at my farewell, w'^'* I am 
 afraide I was in the beginninge of these scribbles to 
 longe in. Hether I came the last of Aprill, and had 
 Audience the nexte day. I had frome her Ma^'^ to con- 
 dole w'** him and to perswade him to vnitie withe his 
 brother ; he made his vizchancelour to awnswere me, 
 whiche he did in a very longe speeche, withe thanks to 
 her Ma*'** and prayses of y^ worthy prince y* is dead ; 
 the pointe of Concorde w**^ his brother, he thanked her 
 
356 Letters. 
 
 Maiestie for remembringe, And fell into a common place 
 of y® necessitie of brothers loue, but descended nothinge 
 into his own particularitie, or w' he thoughte of him. 
 
 One thinge I was bolde to adde in my speeche, to 
 desyre him, in her Maiesties name, to haue mercyfull 
 consideration of the churche of the religion, so notably 
 established by his father as in all Jermany there is not 
 suche a nomber of excellente learned men, and truly 
 woolde rue any man to see the desolation of them. I 
 laied before him as well as I coolde the dangers of the 
 mightiest princes of Christendome by entryng into lyke 
 vyolente changes, the wronge he shoolde doe his worthy 
 father utterly to abolishe y' he had instituted, and so as 
 it were condemne him, besydes the example he shoolde 
 giue his posterity to handle him y^ lyke. This I em- 
 boldened my selfe to doe, seinge as me thoughte greate 
 cawse for it, either to moue him att least to haue some 
 regarde for her Ma"^ sake, or if that followed not, yet to 
 leaue y* publicke testimony w"* the churche of Jermany 
 that her Ma*^ was carefull of them, besides y' I learned 
 Prince Casimir had used her Ma*'®^ authoritie in per- 
 swadinge his brother from it. This I hope will be takne 
 for sufficiente cawse therein, of my boldenes. My 
 Awnswere was at firste none, so longe as m"^ Vizchan- 
 ceilour stode by. After I had an other interpretour he 
 made me this answere, that for her Ma"®^ sake he woolde 
 doe muche, he mislyked not of the men, but must be 
 constrained to doe as the other princes of the Empyre. 
 In the mean time he is gone to the bathes for the laste 
 remedy of his infirmity. 
 
 Whow his brother and he stande I will lykewise re- 
 ferr till my returne, and that I haue spokne withe Prince 
 Casimir. Frome who ... so to ende this longe trob- 
 
Letters. 357 
 
 llnge of yow, I meane to goe w"' her Ma*'*'® letter to the 
 Langraue, who is the only prince Casimir maices ac- 
 cownte of. 
 
 What I shall fynde amonge these princes truly I 
 know not till I haue spokne w*'* prince Casimir, [to 
 whjome I go to morrow to Caisarlautar, but I see their 
 proceedinges suche y' my ho[pe] dothe euery day grow 
 lesse and lesse. I beseeche yow pardon me for my longe 
 troblinge of yow. I most humbly recommende my selfe 
 unto yow, and leaue yow to the Eternalls most happy 
 protection. Frome Heidelberg, this 3''. of May, 1577.* 
 Yours humbly at commawndem[ent,] 
 
 Philipp Sidney. 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 BURGHLEY PAPERS, MS. LANSD. XXXIX., No. 29. 
 
 Endorsed, " Sr Ph. Sidney to my L. His suite to be ioined in 
 Patents with ye E. of Warwick. 
 
 .... the right honorable 
 .... gular good Lord 
 . . . . L. Threasorer of 
 England^ etc." 
 
 Right honorable my singular good lord. 
 
 Without carrijng with me any furdre reason of 
 this boldnes, then yowr welknown goodnes [unto] me, 
 
 * The last of these four figures appearing more like an ordinary 
 2 than 7, occasioned the following note by Planta in the Catalogue : 
 
358 Letters. 
 
 I humbly craue of yowr L. yowr good word to her 
 Ma*'^, for the confirming y' grawnt she once made vnto 
 me, of ioining me pattent with my L. of Warwick : 
 whose desyre is y*^ it shoold be so. The larger discours- 
 ing hereof I will omitt, as superfluous to yowr wisdome, 
 neither will I vse more plenty of wordes, till God make 
 me hable to print them in som seruiceable effe61:, tow- 
 ardes yowr L. in the mean tyme I will prai for yowr 
 Long and prosperows life, and so humbli take my leaue. 
 At Ramsbury. This 20th of Juli, 1583. 
 
 Yowr Lps. most humbli at comandment, 
 
 Philip Sidnej.* 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 FROM THE MS. GALEA, C. VIII. f. 213-4. 
 
 The direftion Is lost with the envelope ; the edge, as in all these 
 Cottonian MSS. is much burnt. 
 
 RIGHT HONORABLE MY SINGULAR GOOD LORD, 
 
 Vppon Thursday we came into this Town driuen 
 to Land at Ramekins,t becaws the wynd began to ryse 
 in such sort as our M^"^ durst not anker befo[re] y® town, 
 
 " N. B. This date must be a mistake, since Maxim. 11. died in 
 1576." But Sir Philip's " 22 " at the beginning is very different 
 from the last numeral in the date 1572. 
 
 * The small red seal of arms belonging to this letter is in excel- 
 lent preservation, wrapt in paper. 
 
 t The castle of Rammikins in Walcheren. 
 
Letters. 359 
 
 and from thence came with as durty a waulk as euer 
 poor gouernor entred his charge withall. 
 
 I fynd the people very glad of me, and promis my 
 self as much surety in keeping this town as ... . popular 
 goodwill gottne by light hopes and .... by a .... as 
 slight conceites maj breed me, for indeed the garrison is 
 far to weak to comand by ... . autority, which is pitty, 
 for how great a iew[el], this is to the crown of England 
 and the queenes safety, I need not wryte it to yow[r] 
 L. who knows it so well. Yet I must need saj the 
 better I know it the more I fynd the preciowsnes of it. 
 I haue sent to m"^ Norreis for my cosin Scots company, 
 for Coronel Morgans, and my brothers (which I mean 
 to put in the Ramekins), but I dout I shall but change, 
 and not encrease, the enseignes by any more then myne 
 own company, for fear of breeding iealowsies in this 
 people, w*^^ is carried more by shews then substance, 
 and therefore the waj must be rather to encreace the 
 nombers of men in each company, then the companies, 
 and y' maj be done easily inough, withe their good lyk- 
 ing ; but I mean to innovat as little as may be till yowr 
 Lps comming which is hee longed for as Messias is of 
 the iews, but indeed most necessary it is y* your L. 
 make great speed to reform both the Dutch and English 
 abuses. 
 
 I am more and more perswaded that with y* propor- 
 tion w"^'* her Ma" alloweth, the contrei is fully hable to 
 maintain the wars, if what thei do be well ordred, and 
 not abused, as it is by the states : and y*^ thej look for at 
 your L. handes, it beeing strange that the people shew 
 them selues far more carefull then the gouernors in all 
 thinges touching the publick. 
 
 The taking of the sconses by M"^. Norris was of good 
 
3^0 Letters. 
 
 moment, but now his lying before Numeyhen* is greatly 
 feared will both wast his men (besydes the danger of the 
 enemy, who very strongli marcheth y' waj) and little 
 preuail, there beeing a great riuer between him and the 
 citti. But the great suiEciency of the gentleman maj 
 ouerwaj other conieftures. 
 
 Mr. Edward Norrice deliuered the companies heer 
 vnto me, whome he had very well and souldierly goUj.ned, 
 but the companies indeed very sikkly and miserable. 
 Good my L. hast away, if yow do come, for all thinges 
 considered, I had rather yow came n[ot] at all, then 
 came not quikkli, for oncle by yo[ur] own presence 
 these cources may be stopped, whic[h] if thei run on, 
 wil be past remedy. Heer is Aldegond, a man greatli 
 suspected, but by no man charged. He Hues restrained 
 to his hows, and for ought I can fynd deales wit[h] noth- 
 ing oneli desyring to haue his cau[se wjholy referred to 
 your L. and therefore with [the] best heed I can to his 
 proceedings, I will leau hi[m] to his cleering, or con- 
 demning, when yowr L. sha[ll] heer him. I think 
 truli if my coming ha[d] been longer delaied, som alter- 
 ation woold ha[ve] followed, for the truth is y^ people 
 is weery of war, and if they do not see such a cource 
 takne as maj be lykeli to defend them, the[y] wil in a 
 suddain giue ouer the caws. Thei Ho[landers have] 
 newli made Count Morricef gouernour of Hola[nd] and 
 Zealand, which oneli grew by the delaies of your Lps 
 
 * Nimeguen. 
 
 t Maurice was the second son of the late Prince of Orange. 
 He was invested by the States with the full power and authority of 
 stadtholder, and appointed captain-general of Holland, Zealand, 
 and Friesland. 
 
Letters. 361 
 
 coming, but I can not perceau o . . . . meaning of either 
 diminishing or crossing your Lps autority. but rather 
 y' the Count meanes holy to depend vppon your Lps 
 autority. 
 
 With 3000" charges, I coold fynd meanes so to lodge 
 my self and souldiers in this Town, as woold in an ex- 
 tremity comand it where now we are at their mercie .... 
 [The] enemy threatnes dyuers places as Ostend, Sluse, 
 Bergen, and Bomel, but yet we haue no certain news 
 what he will attempt, but what so euer it be, there is 
 great lykelihod he will endanger it, the souldiers are so 
 euill paied and prouyded of euery thing y' is necessary. 
 I haue delt earnestli with the States of Zealand, for the 
 releef of Ostend, but yet can obtain nothing but delaies. 
 
 To conclude, all will be lost if gouernment bee not 
 presently vsed. M'^. Dauison is heer very carefull in 
 her Ma""^ cawses, and in your Lps ; he takes great 
 paines therein, and goes to great charges for it. I am 
 yet so new heer y' I can not wryte so important matters 
 as perhaps heerafter I shall, and therefore I will not any 
 furdre tryflingli trouble your L. but humbli leau yow to 
 the blessed proteftion of the Almighti. At Flushing, 
 This 12^^ of Nouember, 1585. 
 
 Yowr Lps most humble 
 
 and obedient neuew, 
 
 Philip Sidnej. 
 
 M^ Edward Norrice, as lykewise his brother, put 
 great hope in your L. which I haue thought good to 
 nourishe, becaws I think it fitt for your Lps seruice. 
 M'. Edward woold faine haue charge of horses and for 
 caws will seek to erect a company heer. I am behold- 
 ing to this bearer, captain Fenton. 
 46 
 
3^2 Letters. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 FROM THE HARLEIAN MS. 285, f. 162-4. 
 
 The seal is not quite perfeft. It is thus diiefted to Secretary 
 Walsingham. 
 
 '' To the right hono- 
 rable her Ma^^<'\ 
 Embassadour in the 
 low contreis." 
 
 Sir, 
 
 By the inclosed yow maj perceau what my re- 
 quest was, and what the generals answer. I desyred 
 Coronal Morgans regiment might be brought to som 
 part heeraboutes, becaws thei might be refreshed before 
 being receaued into the Town : yow see what reason is 
 made against it, but the Count Holloic fyndes my request 
 reasonable, and accordingli hath writtne to y® states, with 
 whome I prai yow for my sake in good sort deal for it, 
 for I perceau I shall be driuen to this extremity, either 
 to keep these stille, or to bring them in very miserabli. 
 Besydes, if those men wear once in these quarters, I 
 shoold haue ocasion to do seruice, and woold not be 
 resty when I wear requyred in som tyme of need, and 
 for any abuse of ye contrei I wil take it vppon me. I 
 think Captain Huntlei goes to daj to Middelbourg ; I 
 praie God the general vse him well. 
 
 The Thre[asurer] takes a strange cource. M"". Mor- 
 gan assures me he hath receaued yet but 1200 gildrenes 
 of 3 monthes. Truli, since y^ kynd cource is not ac- 
 
Letters. 3^3 
 
 cepted, yow shall do well according to the nature of 
 your office to deal thorowli in it, and for my part, I will 
 stick to yow in it, and each thing els, and prai for yowr 
 happy lyfe. At Flushing, Thes 7"* of December. 
 Yowr Louing cosin and 
 frend. 
 
 Ph. SiDNEJ. 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 HARL. 286, f. 72-3. with seal ; directed 
 
 " To the right honorable 
 Sir Francis IValsingham^ 
 knight, principal secretary." 
 
 RIGHT HONORABLE, 
 
 I haue takne vp three hundred poundes of Hans 
 Barnard at vsance, who very frendli hath vsed me in it. 
 be caws yow giue me leau to be thus bold, I humbli 
 beseech yow the daj maj be obserued, y' I maj preseru 
 my creddit in these partes, and I dout not by Gods 
 grace to keep my self w**^ in my bowndes, and yet to 
 proceed honorabli. And so I humbli take my leaue 
 praijng for your long and happy Lyfe. At Middelbourg. 
 This I. of December, 1585. 
 
 Your humble son 
 
 Philip Sidnej. 
 
3^4 Letters. 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 FROM THE HARLEIAN MS. 285, F. 1 64-5 j 
 Thus partly direfted, 
 
 ^^ right honorable 
 tcis Waking a 
 principal Secretary.'''' 
 
 RIGHT HONORABLE, 
 
 I haue receaued som lettres from yow, most of 
 them in recomending the bearers, which shall bee as 
 well performed as I can. Turner I hope will serue my 
 turn well. 
 
 My company I look and long for, and am sorry the 
 Leuy is not made of the hole number of 200, for we 
 want supply of men exceedingli, and although I had not 
 kept them all in myne own hand, yet might I very well 
 haue helpe[d] my other copanies with them, and there- 
 fore if it maj yet be redrest, I humbli beseech yow 
 lett it. 
 
 As concerning vittuailers, for ought I can yet perceau 
 I mai better furnish my self either heer or in England, 
 then by tying my self to any one. and for Brown and 
 Bruin I assure yow sir, thei do as yet but badli satisfy 
 the souldiowrs, and in my opinion are mereli hurtfull, 
 after a Gomortha fashion by meanes of frendship of the 
 officers forcing the poor men to take it deerer then heer 
 they might prouyde them selues. Great abuses haue 
 been heer w'^'' I hope now my L. of Lester will reform : 
 a very euill turn it is y* Sir William Pellam and Mr. 
 
Letters. 365 
 
 Killigrew cam not with him, For, as for Doctor Clerk^ 
 he is of those great clerkes y' are not alwaies the wysest, 
 and so my Lord now to late fyndes him ; and indeed 
 the beginnings heer are so intricate, both in matters 
 martiall, and politik, that if thei come not before ordres 
 be sett down, thei will come to far les purpose. Mr. 
 Dauison doth him good seruice heer ; I woold he might 
 be suifred to remain heer a month or two longer. The 
 Thr[easurer] heer paies our Zealand souldiers in Zealand 
 money, w*^"^ is 5 in the 100 loss to the poor sowldiers, 
 who God knows want no such hindrances, beeing scarce 
 hable to keep lyfe w"' their entier pay. if the comodity 
 thereof be truly answered the queen, yet truly is it but 
 a poor encreace to her Ma", considering what loss it is 
 to the Miserable Souldier ; but if priuat Lucre be made, 
 it hath to hurtfull a proportion toother such abuses heer. 
 For my self I am in a garrison as much hable to com- 
 and Flushing, as the Towr is to answer for London, 
 and for ought I can yet learn it is hardli to be redrest, 
 for the articles intend y* there must be fyue thowsand 
 kept for the defence of the contrei besydes the garrisons, 
 so as out of them w%ut som ado thei maj be hardli 
 drawn. I mean truli, if I can not haue it helpt heer, to 
 wryte a protestation thereof both to her Ma" and the 
 Lordes of the Cownceill, as a thing y"^ I can no waj 
 take vpon me to answer, if I be not encreast by, at the 
 least, 400 men more than yet I haue. I woold gladli 
 know what my old frend, the Baron of Ausperg, did in 
 England, for he landed iust when I embarked. Coronal 
 Morgan whom I fynd indeed a sufficient man in gouerne- 
 ment, humbli beseecheth yow for God's sake, y' where- 
 as his brother is dead in her Ma"'^* seruice, who was 
 deepli bownd for him lykewise seruing her Ma", and y' 
 
366 Letters. 
 
 his son and heir, yowr seruante, is now also w*'' Sir 
 Francis Drake, y^ one Cooper, to whome Edward Mor- 
 gan was bownd for his brother, maj not be sufFred to 
 take aduantage, by extentes or otherwise, of his Landes 
 till som reasonable end maj be made for him. I know 
 yow fauor your seruant, for the yong gentleman deserues 
 it, and it now standes vppon his vtter vndoing. And 
 lett me add my humble request y' yow will deal carefulli 
 in it : if there be a general comandment giuen y* none 
 trouble his landes till the yong gentlemans return, I 
 think it will be a very good cource. Burnam is come 
 to me whome I long longed for, and fynd my self much 
 steeded by him. I humbli beseech yow to end the mat- 
 ter for him w*^** yow promist him, for he hath and wil 
 deserue it, besydes yowr promis. yow told me sir I 
 shoold be free of excises for my own hows and haue 
 access to the town assembli as an assistant, but as yet I 
 fynd neither, they affirming y* none but the general and 
 y^ Earles y' come with him., haue to enioy y* priuiledg. 
 my Lord of Lester wil needs haue me with him to help 
 his settling, I leau y^ best ordre I can, hauing great good 
 assistance of Mr. Burlace, whome I beseech yow com- 
 fort with som lettre. I am solicited to desyre the dis- 
 patch of the salt suit, w*^** is affirmed wil be worth fyue 
 hundred markes a yeer to me. but by the waj for Brown, 
 euen now I receaued lettres and beer, 12 ton, from him, 
 with lettres to Griffin y* it was my lordes pleasure he 
 shold seru me, but I haue refused it and can assure 
 yow sir y* I am better serued by the one haulf by my 
 mans prouision ; now iudg yow sir how poor men are 
 delt with. I must euer remember yow for poor Steuen. 
 yow know sir it toucheth my creddit to haue my man so 
 long a prisoner, if by my industry it maj be helped ; but 
 
Letters. 367 
 
 I leau y' and my self to your good care and fauour, hop- 
 ing thereon as greatly as indeed I want his seruice. I 
 will now end with my most humble comendacions to 
 my best mother, and my praier for your long and happy 
 lyues. At Middelbourg This 14th of December, 1585. 
 Yowr humble Son, 
 
 Philip Sidnej. 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 IBID. F. 169-170. 
 
 The red seal is in perfeft preservation. The diredlion is this, 
 
 " right honorable 
 Wah'inga 
 Knight .^ Principal Secretary" 
 N. etc. 
 
 Right honorable. 
 
 This gentleman had the charge of Flushing till I 
 came, where in trothe I must needes affirm I found no 
 one greef grown between anj of them and ani burgess, 
 which I prai yow sir acknowledg vnto him, becaws I 
 perceau he especially relies vpon your good opinion and 
 fauour. He is very desyrows to be emploied in seruice 
 this waj and most of horsmen w''*' if it might be obtained 
 he woold emploi him self with great diligence and care 
 in it, and indeed he proffits in the vnderstanding of this 
 art very much. And so hauing no more at this tyme, I 
 
3^8 Letters. 
 
 humbli take my leau, praijng for your long and happy 
 lyfe. At Middlebourg, This i6th of December. 
 Your humble Son. 
 
 Ph. SiDNEJ. 
 
 This letter is endorsed on the fold, 
 
 " 1585 
 Decemb. 16, 
 
 S"^. Ph. Sydney. 
 Mr. Edw. Norris." 
 
 (apparently the bearer.) 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 IBID. 286. F. 74-5. 
 
 Endorsed on the fold thus, " 29 Januarie, 1585, From Sr. Phillippe, 
 Sydney, by Mr. Arondell." The seal is perfeft, and this direc- 
 tion, 
 
 " To the right hono- 
 rable Sir Francis 
 JVahingam Knight^ 
 principal secretary ^ 
 
 Right honorable, 
 
 A4y cosin Arundel was loth to return withowt my 
 lettres to yowr honowr, and I, willing to take any oca- 
 sion to remember my duty vnto yow, am glad with all 
 to signefy my goodwill to this gentleman in crauing your 
 good cowntenance towardes him, as one indeed exceed- 
 
Letters. 369 
 
 ingli well qualefied, and, as far as I any way can fynd, 
 earnestli and hartili affedled to his contreis good : of all 
 other he is especialli desyrows to be kept in yowr good 
 fauor, w'='' beeing the sum of this letter, hauing writtn 
 more at larg by sir Robert Stapleton, I humbli take my 
 Leau, praijng for yowr long and happy lyfe. At Hage, 
 This 29th of Jan. 1586. 
 
 Yowr humble son, 
 
 Philip Sidnej. 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 
 FROM THE COTTONIAN MS. GALEA, C. IX. f. 56-7. 
 
 Thus direfted, 
 
 " To his Ex"' 
 my Singular good Lord 
 The Earl of Leaster." 
 
 right honorable my singular good lord, 
 
 I haue sent this bearer, my Cornett, to yowr Ex- 
 cellency, whome I do most humbly beseech yow to dis- 
 patch again vnto me, becaws it standes me much vppon 
 to know what I shall resolution, becaws my charges 
 dyuers waies, and particularly of my horsmen, grows 
 greater then I am hable to prow thorow withall. I had 
 of the Cownt Hollock a patent for them of Somedick to 
 Lodg me certain nomber of hors till my company wear 
 sufficient to be mustred : there som of them wear, and 
 47 
 
370 Letters. 
 
 now they haue gottne, vppon what caws I know not, an 
 ASt from your Excellency to be free from any, where- 
 uppon so courteously those Bowres* delt, as to arrest 
 my horses the very daj y' I had sent for them, thinking 
 truly I shold haue had ocasion to haue ventred my lyfe, 
 and wold not releas them till I had paid them two hun- 
 dred flourins for the charges as thei pretended. I hum- 
 bli beseech yowr Ex" becaws I know my lieutenant 
 hath been at the sea syde almost this month to my great 
 expence, that I may haue either a quarter assygned me, 
 or els y^ to this place thei maj bring such prouision as 
 the encreacing of the nomber will requyre ; for, els I 
 beeing not to demand pay till thej be mustred, nor to be 
 mustred till my nomber be complett, it will [be] to 
 heauy a burden for me to bear, who I protest to your 
 Ex*'' am so fur from desyring gain, y^ I am willing to 
 spend all y' I can make j onely my care is y' I maj be 
 hable to go thorow with it to your honour and seruice, 
 as I hope in God I shall. 
 
 For these men, they are of the richest yle of these 
 partes, and neuer touched with the war, but so do the 
 rich still putt of all matters by fynding som frend or 
 other of theirs in y** cownceill y^ may lighten them, to 
 burden others. I humbli beseech yowr Ex" my Cornett 
 may return with such resolution as I maj either go 
 thorow or giue ouer my cornett ; for my part I hope 
 and am almost assured to do yow good seruice and my 
 hart burnes to do it, if onely my hability do not fall me 
 in the waj. 
 
 For Roger Williams also, I wold it wold pleas yowr 
 Ex" to dispatch his sergeant maiorship vniuersalli ouer 
 
 * Boors. 
 
Letters. 371 
 
 all horsmen, and in y' nature yow maj better allow him 
 som good pension, then by beeing only ouer the English : 
 and so also for his Cornett, the gentleman deserues 
 much. 
 
 Heerwith I will no furdre trouble yowr Ex*^', but 
 humbli take my Leau, and pray to God for yowr long 
 and prosperows Lyfe, with widtory. At Berghen, This 
 2 of February, 1586, 
 
 Yowr Ex'="'^ 
 
 most humble and 
 obedient neuew. 
 
 Ph. SiDNEJ. 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 IBID. F. 44-5. Directed thus, 
 
 [To] ^^ His £x« 
 
 my singular 
 good lord." 
 
 RIGHT HONORABLE MY SINGULAR GOOD LORD. 
 
 The manner of ver j death, and my in- 
 tent, I haue imparted to Mr. Tutty at large to deliuer 
 to yowr Ex*'' ; now I am onely to beseech yowr Ex'^' and 
 if I maj preuail with yowr Ex*"' to persuade yow, that if 
 the iournej into Freesland be but vppon such general 
 growndes as thei wear when I came awaj, which maj as 
 easily be done heerafter as now, y' it will pleas yow to 
 
372 Letters. 
 
 send forces to the beseeging of Steenberg w*'' 2000 of 
 yowr footmen, besydes them that these quarters maj 
 spare, and 300 of your hors with them heer abowt, I 
 will vndertake vppon my lyfe either to win it, or to 
 make the enemy rais his seeg from Graue, or, which I 
 most hope, both. And it shall be done in the sight of 
 the world, which is most honorable and profitable. For 
 these matters of practises, I assure yowr Ex*^' thei are 
 dainty in respect of y*' doublenes which almost euer fals 
 in them, and of the many impedimentes y' fall in them, 
 that if notable seasons guyde not, or som worthi person 
 answer for it, thei are better omitted than attempted. 
 Bredaj vndoutedli, at least I think vndoutedly, was but 
 a trapp, for owr poor Englishmen might haue been 
 sufFred to take a place, which thei woold neuer haue 
 striun to put them out of, till thej might haue cutt both 
 them and vs in peeces, who shoold come to seaz it. 
 But as for Graueling, I will neuer stur till I haue La 
 Mote himself, or som principal officers of his in hand. 
 Therefore if it pleas yowr Ex°' to let Old Tutty and 
 Read, with sir William Stanley, and sir William Russel, 
 with the 200 hors, com hether, I dout not to send yow 
 honorable and comfortable news of it, for I haue good 
 vnderstanding thereof, by this shew I made, and I know 
 what the enemy can do shall not seru if this maj be 
 done ; 500 pyoners with munition and vittail according, 
 must be done, and if God will, I will do yow honour in 
 it. It greeues me very much, the souldiours are so 
 hardli delt with in your first beginning of gouernment, 
 not only in their paies, but in taking booties from them, 
 as by yowr Ex*^'^* Letters I fynd : when souldiours grow 
 to despair and giue vpp townes, then it is late to buy 
 yi with hundred thowsandes w'^'' might haue been saued 
 with a tryfle. 
 
Letters. 373 
 
 I think to write a French lettre to yowr Ex*"', becaws 
 yowr Ex'^J wrate to me in y' Language, which if it pleas 
 yow, maj be shewd to your cownceill, for, by my troth, 
 they are euen in their old train, and maj do that safely 
 vnder yowr cullour now, w*''* before they did the more 
 sparingli for fear of hatred. I humbli beseech yowr 
 Ex'^' y* Morbais maj fynd him self comforted for this 
 seruice he hath done vppon one of the best Captaines 
 y* prince of Parma had. I am now departing toward 
 Flushing, and y'^ tyde cals me awaj, I will therefore 
 humbli kiss yowr handes and referr the rest to my next, 
 praijng God to prosper yowr Ex'^', as I dout not he will, 
 and so humbli take my leau. At Berghen, This 2 of 
 Feb. 1586. 
 
 Yowr Ex'^''^^ 
 
 most humble and 
 
 obedient 
 
 Ph. SiDNEJ. 
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 
 IBID. c. XI. f. 265-6 J dire6ted 
 
 Monseig^ 
 Monseig^ le Conte 
 
 de Leicestre etc. 
 
 RIGHT HONORABLE MY SINGULAR GOOD LORD, 
 
 The Baron of Greanye desyres me to remember 
 yowr Excellency for his dispatch for the hydutch regi- 
 
374 Letters. 
 
 ment, which I the willlnger do becaws I think him a 
 good honest gentleman, and know y' he hath greatly- 
 blamed the Cownt HoUok* for his late drunken folly. 
 If yowr Excellency mean to leuy of y' contrej, I think 
 he will well seru yowr turn : I perceau he wold fain be 
 answered, becaws accordingli he might rule him self. 
 Heer are no news in Roterdam, but y^ yowr band is of 
 very handsom men, but meerly, and vnarmed, spending 
 monej and time to no purpos. I humbli kis yowr 
 handes and prai for your long and happy lyfe. At Rot- 
 erdam, This 12*'' of Feb. 1586. 
 
 Your Excellencies most humble 
 
 Ph. SiDNEJ. 
 
 * Count Hollok, or Hohenlo, the Lieutenant-General of Prince 
 Maurice, was the head of a party in the Netherlands which was 
 formed against the Earl of Leicester. These two enemies, how- 
 ever, were in part reconciled through the intervention of Sir P. 
 Sidney, for whom the Count entertained a sincere and permanent 
 affeftion. When the latter was told by the surgeon, after the skir- 
 mish before Zutphen, that the wound which Sidney had there re- 
 ceived was likely to endanger his life, he exclaimed, " Away, 
 villain, never see my face again, till thou bring better news of that 
 man's recovery, for whose redemption many such as I were happily 
 lost." 
 
Letters. 375 
 
 LETTER XIV. 
 
 IBID. c. IX. f. 93-4, thus directed, 
 
 '' he right honorable 
 
 gular good Lord 
 
 the Earl of Leicester 
 lord general and gouernor 
 etc.'' 
 
 RIGHT HONORABLE MY SINGULAR GOOD LORD, 
 
 This bearer, Martin Droger, is a man known al- 
 reddi to your Excellenci, a man vndoutedly very hable to 
 serue, but in the past time of want of gouernment, I think 
 he was content to go with the stream of making com- 
 modity among the rest, whereof now he is charged, but 
 in revenge thereof he vttereth such fowl abuses in the 
 Magistrates heer, as is very horrible. For my part I 
 haue not autority to redress it, but to speak of it and 
 seek y^ best amendes I can of it, it fitts properly next 
 vnder your Ex*^' to the Cownt Norrice,* whome I 
 woold to God yow woold send into these partes with 
 ample autority, I am sure he woold heer aduyce, and I 
 am persuaded together we shold do yow seruices of im- 
 portance, for dyuers things come in my waj which, be- 
 caws thej belong not indeed to my charge, I am fain to 
 lett pass. 
 
 It is assuredli thought that Sluce will be beseeged by 
 cutting of the commodity of the sea j onely to be pre- 
 uented by building the fort Grunfelt spake for, a matter 
 of greater consequence a great deal than Barge : thei 
 
 * Sic in MS. It is most probably a mistake tor Morrice. 
 
37^ Letters. 
 
 make such store of Cables and other such furniture at 
 Bruges, as it is almost apparent y' it is so intended. I 
 haue sent Burlas thither ; at his coming back I will 
 more particularli aduertis your Excellency. 
 
 I am in great hope to light vppon som good ocasions 
 to do yow honour and seruice. The enterprises are 
 still hopefull, but not yet fully rype, which till thei bee 
 it wear hable to mar all if I shold be far absent. Roger 
 Williams beseecheth your Excellency to pass him his 
 sergeant-maiorship general, with such allowance as shall 
 seem good vnto yow. Of all nations they do desyre 
 him., he is fain to be at charge at Berghen. Yowr Ec- 
 cellency shall take care of few men y*^ more bravely 
 deseru it, as I hope he will. For my self, I will hasten, 
 as soon as I can possibly, to yowr Excellency, when I 
 haue but a little settled the matters of these partes, 
 especially of my regiment, ouer whome since it hath 
 pleased yowr Excellency to appoint me, and that thei 
 are most ioifull of it, if euer I may deserue any thing of 
 yow, I humbli beseech yow that that thei mai fynd 
 them selues so much the more tendred. 
 
 If it pleas your Ex*'' but to speak with Valk and Tel- 
 lin, thei will aduertis your Ex""' of the particular cace, 
 becaws thei best vnderstand it. 
 
 There is with your Ex'^' Coronel Piron, one y^ hath 
 serued as well as any man in these partes, in deed a 
 most vaillant man, and of better iudgment than vttrance. 
 He and I haue enterprises to be done vppon Flanders 
 syde, of good importance ; I beseech your Ex''' to dis- 
 patch him awaj ; it shall I hope turn to your seruis. 
 
 The Enemy sturs of euery syde, and your syde must 
 not be ydle, for if it bee, it quickly looseth reputation. 
 I beseech your Ex''' be not discouraged with the queenes 
 
Letters. 377 
 
 discontentmentes, for the euent beeing ani thing good, 
 your glory will shyne thorow those mistes ; onely if it 
 pleas yow to haue daily cownceill taken of your meanes, 
 how to encreace them, and how to husband them : and 
 when all is said, if thei can seru, yow shall make a noble 
 war ; if not, the peace is in your hand, as I fynd well 
 by Aldegend, of whome I keep a good opinion and yet 
 a suspiciows ey. 
 
 It maj pleas yow to send awaj for the Scotts out of 
 Berges, for Roger Williams standes in great dout of 
 them. I humbli beseech your Eccellency to giue pres- 
 ent order for y' point indeed, and if in their steed it 
 pleased yow to send your Welshmen thither, thei shold 
 haue a good place of training, and care shold be had of 
 them, to yowr good lyking : it maj pleas your Ex*=' to 
 send presently awaj a placard of the prohibition and pun- 
 ishment of them y* vittail the enemy, for yet there is 
 nothing published, in my opinion, where now they maj 
 carry marchandis to Calleis, and vittail to Roan. • Roan 
 should be the next place for marchandis, and Nantes for 
 vittail ; but that as yowr Ex'^' shall fynd good ; but great 
 expedition of sending the placard is exceeding necessary. 
 
 I will no furdre troble yowr Ex"' for this tyme, but 
 with my daily praier for yowr long and happy Lyfe, and 
 vidlory ouer yowr enemies. At Flushing, this 19"^ of 
 Feb: 1586. 
 
 Yowr Ex'^'^^ 
 
 most humble and 
 obedient nephew. 
 
 Ph. SiDNEJ. 
 48 
 
378 Letters. 
 
 LETTER XV. 
 
 IBID. c. X. f. 75-6, dire6led, to 
 
 " The right worshipful 
 my especial good cosin 
 and frend^ Mr. Dauison * 
 at Cowrt." 
 
 MY GOOD COSIN, 
 
 I loue to heer from yow : vppon my hauing the 
 Zeland regiment, w*^"^ yow know was more yowr per- 
 suasion then any desyre in me, the Cownt Hollok 
 cawsed a many handed supplication to be made, y' no 
 stranger might haue any regime [nt,] but presently after, 
 with all the same handes, protested thei ment it not by 
 me, to whome thei wished all honowr, etc. The 
 Cownt Morrice shewd him self constantli kynd toward 
 me therein, but M^ Paul Bus hath to many Busses in 
 his hed, such as yow shall fynd he will be to God and 
 man abowt one pitch : happy is the coniun6lion with 
 them y* ioin in the fear of God. Medekerk far shynes 
 aboue him in all matters of cownceill and faith[ful] 
 dealing. I prai yow wryte to me and loue me, and fare- 
 wel. At Flushing, where I thank God all is well, and 
 my garrison in good ordre. This 24^'' of Feb ^1586. 
 Yowr louing cosin and 
 frend. 
 
 Ph. SiDNEJ. 
 
 * We beg leave to coire6l an error which we have been inadver- 
 tently led into at p. 362. The VI. Letter is said to be addressed 
 to Mr. Secretary Waisingham, instead of Mr. Davison, who was 
 the English ambassador to the Low Countries. 
 
Letters. 379 
 
 LETTER XVI. 
 IBID. C. IX. f. lOI. 
 
 The direftion, to the Earl of Leicester, has been torn off. 
 RIGHT HONORABLE MY SINGULAR GOOD LORD, 
 
 I am so loth to trouble your Ex""' with any thing 
 concerning my self, that I am fain to be vrged vnto it 
 by others, becaws the necessity of the seruice requyres 
 it. 
 
 The Cownceill of Zeland haue all, with great ear- 
 nestnes, vrged me, to beseech your Ex'^' that the regi- 
 ment it hath pleased yow to appoint vnder my charge, 
 maj be paid according to the manner heertofore ob- 
 serued, for it is douted that now all beeing brought to 
 one foot, they shall be paid but according to the manner 
 of others, which though it maj seem iust, becaws it is 
 equall, it is most vniust, becaws of the great difference 
 of the pryzes. I humbli beseech yowr Ex''', indeed 
 most humbli and earnestly, y^ it will pleas yow to haue 
 graciows consideration thereof. The prince of Orange 
 euer had y"^ regard, as well for that reason of the con- 
 treis Dearth, as for the necessity of the places where 
 thei are to be trusted, w'^'^ are both first to be attempted, 
 when so euer the enemy makes any great forces, and yet 
 are indeed to be esteemed owr last strength. 
 
 Becaws I know not how long these Letters shall be 
 before they com to your Ex'^', I will add nothing but my 
 praier for your long and prosperous lyfe, with victory 
 
3^0 Letters. 
 
 ouer those whom your vertew makes your enemies. At 
 Berghes. This 25"* of February, 1586. 
 Your Ex'''^^ 
 most humble and obedient, 
 
 Ph. SiDNEJ. 
 
 ' Of THS 
 
 
Av, 
 
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