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thyself: that is to say, learn to know what thou art few, whether your example be old or young, who withable, fit, and apt unto, and follow that.

[Detached Observations from the Schoolmaster.] It is pity that commonly more care is had, and that among very wise men, to find out rather a cunning man for their horse, than a cunning man for their children. To the one they will gladly give a stipend of 200 crowns by the year, and loth to offer the other 200 shillings. God, that sitteth in heaven, laugheth their choice to scorn, and rewardeth their liberality as it should; for he suffereth them to have tame and well ordered horse, but wild and unfor

tunate children.

out learning have gathered, by long experience a little wisdom, and some happiness; and when you do consider what mischief they have committed, what dangers they have escaped (and yet twenty for one do perish in the adventure), then think well with yourself, whether ye would that your own son should come to wisdom and happiness by the way of such experience or no.

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Thus, experience of all fashions in youth, being in proof always dangerous, in issue seldom lucky, is a way indeed to overmuch knowledge; yet used comonly of such men, which be either carried by some curious affection of mind, or driven by some hard necessity of life, to hazard the trial of overmany peri

lous adventures.

sometime chief justice would tell of himself. When It is a notable tale, that old Sir Roger Chamloe, he was Ancient in inn of court certain young gentletain misorders; and one of the lustiest said, 'Sir, we men were brought before him to be corrected for cerOne example, whether love or fear doth work more proved all fashions, and yet those have done full be young gentlemen; and wise men before us have in a child for virtue and learning, I will gladly report; well.' which may be heard with some pleasure, and followed Sir Roger had been a good fellow in his youth. But This they said, because it was well known, with more profit. Before I went into Germany, I he answered them very wisely. Indeed,' saith he, 'in came to Broadgate, in Leicestershire, to take my leave youth I was as you are now: and I had twelve fellows of that noble Lady Jane Grey, to whom I was exceed-like unto myself, but not one of them came to a good ing much beholden. Her parents, the duke and the end. And therefore, follow not my example in youth, duchess, with all the household, gentlemen and gentle- but follow my counsel in age, if ever ye think to women, were hunting in the park. I found her in her chamber, reading Phoedon Platonis in Greek, and that come to this place, or to these years, that I am come with as much delight, as some gentlemen would read unto; less ye meet either with poverty or Tyburn in the way.' a merry tale in Bocace. After salutation and duty done, with some other talk, I asked her, why she would lose such pastime in the park? Smiling, she answered me, I wiss, all their sport in the park is but a shadow to that pleasure that I find in Plato. Alas! good folk, they never felt what true pleasure meant.' And how came you, Madam,' quoth I, to this deep knowledge of pleasure? And what did chiefly allure you unto it, seeing not many women, but very few men, have attained thereunto?' 'I will tell you,' quoth she, and tell you a truth which, perchance, ye will marvel at. One of the greatest benefits that ever God gave me, is, that he sent me so sharp and severe parents, and so gentle a schoolmaster. For when I am in presence either of father or mother, whether I speak, keep silence, sit, stand, or go, eat, drink, be merry or sad, be sewing, playing, dancing, or doing anything else, I must do it, as it were, in such weight, measure, and number, even so perfectly as God made the world, or else I am so sharply taunted, so cruelly threatened, yea, presently, sometimes with pinches, nips, and bobs, and other ways, which I will not name for the honour I bear them, so without measure misordered, that I think myself in hell, till time come that I must go to Mr Elmer; who teacheth me so gently, so pleasantly, with such fair allurements to learning, that I think all the time nothing, whiles I am with him. And when I am called from him, I fall on weeping, because, whatever I do else, but learning, is full of grief, trouble, fear, and whole misliking And thus my book hath been so much my pleasure, and bringeth daily to me more pleasure and more, that, in respect of it, all other pleasures, in very deed, be but trifles and troubles unto me.'

unto me.

[In favour of the learning of more languages than one]-I have been a looker on in the cockpit of learning these many years; and one cock only have I known, which, with one wing, even at this day, doth pass all other, in mine opinion, that ever I saw in any pit in England, though they had two wings. Yet nevertheless, to fly well with one wing, to run fast with one leg, be rather rare masteries, much to be marvelled at, than sure examples, safely to be followed. A bishop that now liveth a good man, whose judgment in religion I better like, than his opinion in perfectness in other learning, said once unto me; We have no need now of the Greek tongue, when all things be translated into Latin.' But the good man understood not, that even the best translation, is for mere necessity but an evil imped wing to fly withal, or a heavy stump leg of wood to go withal. Such, the higher they fly, the sooner they falter and fail : the faster they run the ofter they stumble and sorer they fall. Such as will needs so fly, may fly at a pye and catch a daw: and such runners, as commonly they, shove and shoulder, to stand foremost, yet in the end they come behind others, and deserve but the hopshackles, if the masters of the game be right judgers.

[With reference to what took place at the univerLearning teacheth more in one year than experience sities on the accession of Mary-And what good could in twenty; and learning teacheth safely when expe- chance then to the universities, when some of the rience maketh mo miserable than wise. He hazardeth greatest, though not of the wisest, nor best learned, sore that waxeth wise by experience. An unhappy nor best men neither of that side, did labour to permaster he is, that is made cunning by many ship-suade, that ignorance was better than knowledge,' wrecks; a miserable merchant, that is neither rich nor wise but after some bankrouts. It is costly wisdom that is bought by experience. We know by experience itself, that it is a marvelous pain, to find out but a short way by long wandering. And surely, he that would prove wise by experience, he may be witty indeed, but even like a swift runner, that runneth fast out of his way, and upon the night, he knoweth not whither. And verily they be fewest in number that be happy or wise by unlearned experience. And look well upon the former life of those

which they meant, not for the laity only, but also for
the greatest rabble of their spirituality, what other
And therefore
pretence openly soever they made.
did some of them at Cambridge (whom I will not
name openly) cause hedge priests fettel out of the
country, to be made fellows in the university; saying
in their talk privily, and declaring by their deeds
openly, that he was fellow good enough for their
time, if he could wear a gown and a tippet comely, and
have his crown shorn fair and roundly; and could

·

1 Fetched.

turn his porteus and piel readily. Which I speak not to reprove any order either of apparel, or other duty, that may be well and indifferently used; but to note the misery of that time, when the benefits provided for learning were so foully misused.

And what was the fruit of this seed? Verily, judgment in doctrine was wholly altered; order in discipline very sore changed; the love of good learning began suddenly to wax cold; the knowledge of the tongues (in spite of some that therein had flourished) was manifestly contemned: and so, the way of right study purposely perverted; the choice of good authors, of malice confounded; old sophistry, I say not well, not old, but that new rotten sophistry, began to beard, and shoulder logic in her own tongue: yea, I know that heads were cast together, and counsel devised, that Duns, with all the rabble of barbarous questionists, should have dispossessed of their place and room, Aristotle, Plato, Tully, and Demosthenes, whom good M. Redman, and those two worthy stars of that university, M. Cheke and M. Smith, with their scholars, had brought to flourish as notably in Cambridge, as ever they did in Greece and in Italy; and for the doctrine of those four, the four pillars of learning, Cambridge then giving no place to no university, neither in France, Spain, Germany, nor Italy. Also, in outward behaviour, then began simplicity in apparel to be laid aside, courtly gallantness to be taken up; frugality in diet was privately misliked, town going to good cheer openly used; honest pastimes, joined with labour, left off in the fields; unthrifty and idle games haunted corners, and occupied the nights: contention in youth nowhere for learning; factions in the elders everywhere for trifles.

All which miseries at length, by God's providence, had their end 16th November 1558.* Since which time, the young spring hath shot up so fair as now there be in Cambridge again many good plants.

[Qualifications of an Historian.]

member), after some reasoning we concluded both what was in our opinion to be looked for at his hand, that would well and advisedly write an history. First point was, to write nothing false; next, to be bold to say any truth: whereby is avoided two great faultsflattery and hatred. For which two points, Cæsar is read to his great praise; and Jovius the Italian to his just reproach. Then to mark diligently the causes, counsels, acts, and issues, in all great attempts: and in causes, what is just or unjust; in counsels, what is purposed wisely or rashly; in acts, what is done courageously or faintly; and of every issue, to note some general lesson of wisdom and wariness for like matters in time to come, wherein Polybius in Greek, and Philip Comines in French, have done the duties of wise and worthy writers. Diligence also must be used in keeping truly the order of time, and describing lively both the site of places and nature of persons, not only for the outward shape of the body, but also for the inward disposition of the mind, as Thucydides doth in many places very trimly; and Homer everywhere, and that always most excellently; which observation is chiefly to be marked in him. And our Chaucer doth the same, very praiseworthily: mark him well, and confer him with any other that writeth in our time in their proudest tongue, whosoever list. The style must be always plain and open; yet some time higher and lower, as matters do rise and fall. For if proper and natural words, in well-joined sentences, do lively express the matter, be it troublesome, quiet, angry, or pleasant, a man shall think not to be reading, but present in doing of the same. And herein Livy of all other in any tongue, by mine opinion, carrieth away the praise.

After the publication of Ascham's works, it became more usual for learned men to compose in English, more particularly when they aimed at influencing public opinion. But as religious controversy was what then chiefly agitated the the English works of that age are now of little

[From the Discourse on the Affairs of Germany. The writer minds of men, it follows that the great bulk of is addressing his friend John Astely.]

When you and I read Livy together (if you do re-interest.

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Third Period.

THE REIGNS OF ELIZABETH, JAMES I., AND CHARLES I. [1558 TO 1649.]

N the preceding sections, the history of English literature is brought to a period when its infancy may be said to cease, and its manhood to commence. In the earlier half of the sixteenth century, it was sensibly affected by a variety of influences, which, for an age before, had operated powerfully in expanding the intellect of European nations. The 1 Breviary. * The date of the accession of Queen Elizabeth.

study of classical literature, the invention of printing, the freedom with which religion was discussed, together with the general substitution of the philosophy of Plato for that of Aristotle, had everywhere given activity and strength to the minds of men. The immediate effects of these novelties upon English literature, were the enrichment of the language, as already mentioned, by a great variety of words from the classic tongues, the establishment of better models of thought and style, and the allowance of greater freedom to the fancy and powers of observation in the exercise of the literary calling. Not only the Greek and Roman writers, but those of modern Italy and France, where letters experienced an earlier revival, were now translated into English, and being liberally diffused by the press, served to excite a taste for elegant reading in lower branches of society than had ever before felt the genial influence of letters. The dissemination of the Scriptures in the vulgar tongue, while it greatly affected the language and ideas of the people, was also of no small avail in giving new direction to the thoughts

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of literary men, to whom these antique Oriental compositions presented numberless incidents, images, and sentiments, unknown before, and of the richest and most interesting kind.

that short period, we shall find the names of almost all the very great men that this nation has ever produced, the names of Shakspeare, and Bacon, and Spenser, and Sydney, and Hooker, and Taylor, and Barrow, and Raleigh, and Napier, and Hobbes, and many others; men, all of them, not merely of great talents and accomplishments, but of vast compass and reach of understanding, and of minds truly creative and original; not perfecting art by the delicacy of their taste, or digesting knowledge by the justness of their reasonings, but making vast and substantial additions to the materials upon which taste and reason must hereafter be employed, and enlarging to an incredible and unparalleled extent both the stores and the resources of the human faculties.'

Among other circumstances favourable to literature at this period, must be reckoned the encouragement given to it by Queen Elizabeth, who was herself very learned and addicted to poetical composition, and had the art of filling her court with men qualified to shine in almost every department of intellectual exertion. Her successors, James and Charles, resembled her in some of these respects, and during their reigns, the impulse which she had given to literature experienced rather an increase than a decline. There was, indeed, something in the policy, as well as in the personal character of all these sovereigns, which proved favourable to literature. The study of the belles lettres was in some measure identified with the courtly and arbitrary principles of the time, not perhaps so much from any enlightened spirit in those who supported such principles, as from a desire of opposing the puritans, and other malcontents, whose religious doctrines taught them to despise some departments of elegant literature, and utterly to condemn others. There can be no doubt that the drama, for instance, chiefly owed that encouragement which it received under Elizabeth and her successors, to a spirit of hostility to the puritans, who, not unjustly, repudiated it for its immorality. We must at the same time allow much to the influence which such a court as that of England, during these three reigns, was calculated to have among men of literary tendencies. Almost all the poets, and many of the other writers, were either courtiers themselves, or under the immediate protection of courtiers, and were constantly experiencing the smiles, and occasionally the solid benefactions, of royalty. Whatever, then, was refined, or gay, or sentimental, in this country and at this time, came with its full influence upon literature.

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In the reign of Elizabeth, some poetical names of importance precede that of Spenser. The first is THOMAS SACKVILLE (1536-1608), ultimately Earl

The works brought forth under these circumstances have been very aptly compared to the productions of a soil for the first time broken up, when 'all indigenous plants spring up at once with a rank and irrepressible fertility, and display whatever is peculiar and excellent in their nature, on a scale the most conspicuous and magnificent." The ability to write having been, as it were, suddenly created, the whole world of character, imagery, and sentiment, as well as of information and philosophy, lay ready for the use of those who possessed the gift, and was appropriated accordingly. As might be expected, where there was less rule of art than opulence of materials, the productions of these writers are often deficient in taste, and contain much that is totally aside from the purpose. To pursue the simile above quoted, the crops are not so clean as if they had been reared under systematic cultivation. On this account, the refined taste of the eighteenth century condemned most of the productions of the sixteenth and seventeenth to oblivion, and it is only of late that they have once more obtained their deserved reputation. After every proper deduction has been made, enough remains to fix this era as by far the mightiest in the history of English literature, or indeed of human intellect and capacity. There never was anything,' says the writer above quoted, 'like the sixty or seventy years that elapsed from the middle of Elizabeth's reign, to the period of the Restoration. In point of real force and originality of genius, neither the age of Pericles, nor the age of Augustus, nor the times of Leo X., nor of Louis XIV., can come at all into comparison; for in

*Edinburgh Review, xviii. 275.

of Dorset and Lord High Treasurer of England, and who will again come before us in the character of a dramatic writer. In 1557, Sackville formed the design of a poem, entitled The Mirrour for Magistrates, of which he wrote only the 'Induction, and one legend on the life of Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. In imitation of Dante and some other of his predecessors, he lays the scene of his poem in the infernal regions, to which he descends under the guidance of an allegorical personage named SORROW. It was his object to make all the great persons of English history, from the Conquest downwards, pass here in review, and each tell his own story, as a warning to existing statesmen; but other duties compelled the poet, after he had written what has been stated, to break off, and commit the completion of the work to two poets of inferior note, Richard Baldwyne and George Ferrers. The whole poem is one of a very remarkable kind for the age, and the part executed by Sackville exhibits in some parts a strength of description and a power of drawing allegorical characters, scarcely inferior to Spenser.

[Allegorical characters from the Mirrour for Magistrates.]
And first, within the porch and jaws of hell,
Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent
With tears; and to herself oft would she tell
Her wretchedness, and, cursing, never stent
To sob and sigh, but ever thus lament

With thoughtful care; as she that, all in vain,
Would wear and waste continually in pain:
Her eyes unstedfast, rolling here and there,
Whirl'd on each place, as place that vengeance
So was her mind continually in fear, [brought,
Tost and tormented with the tedious thought
Of those detested crimes which she had wrought;
With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky,
Wishing for death, and yet she could not die.
Next, saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook,
With foot uncertain, profer'd here and there;
Benumb'd with speech; and, with a ghastly look,
Searched every place, all pale and dead for fear,
His cap born up with staring of his hair;
'Stoin'd and amazed at his own shade for dread,
And fearing greater dangers than was need.
And, next, within the entry of this lake,
Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire;
Devising means how she may vengeance take;
Never in rest, 'till she have her desire;
But frets within so far forth with the fire
Of wreaking flames, that now determines she
To die by death, or 'veng'd by death to be.
When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence,
Had show'd herself, as next in order set,
With trembling limbs we softly parted thence,
Till in our eyes another sight we met;
When fro my heart a sigh forthwith I fet,
Ruing, alas, upon the woeful plight
Of Misery, that next appear'd in sight:

His face was lean, and some-deal pin'd away,
And eke his hands consumed to the bone;
But, what his body was, I cannot say,
For on his carcase raiment had he none,
Save clouts and patches pieced one by one;
With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast,
His chief defence against the winter's blast:
His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree,
Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share,
Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he,
As on the which full daint❜ly would he fare;
His drink, the running stream, his cup, the bare
Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold ground:
To this poor life was Misery ybound.

Whose wretched state when we had well beheld,
With tender ruth on him, and on his feers,
In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held;
And, by and by, another shape appears
Of greedy Care, still brushing up the briers;
His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dinted in,
With tawed hands, and hard ytanned skin:
The morrow grey no sooner hath begun
To spread his light e'en peeping in our eyes,
But he is up, and to his work yrun;
But let the night's black misty mantles rise,
And with foul dark never so much disguise
The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while,
But hath his candles to prolong his toil.

By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death,
Flat on the ground, and still as any stone,
A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath;
Small keep took he, whom fortune frowned on,
Or whom she lifted up into the throne
Of high renown, but, as a living death,
So dead alive, of life he drew the breath:
The body's rest, the quiet of the heart,
The travel's case, the still night's feer was he,
And of our life in earth the better part;
Riever of sight, and yet in whom we see
Things oft that [tyde] and oft that never be;
Without respect, esteem[ing] equally
King Croesus' pomp and Irus' poverty.

And next in order sad, Old-Age we found:
His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind;
With drooping cheer still poring on the ground,
To rest, when that the sisters had untwin'd
As on the place where nature him assign'd
His vital thread, and ended with their knife
The fleeting course of fast declining life :

There heard we him with broke and hollow plaint
Rue with himself his end approaching fast,
And all for nought his wretched mind torment
With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past.
And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste;
Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek,
And to be young again of Jove beseek!

But, an the cruel fates so fixed be
That time forepast cannot return again,
This one request of Jove yet prayed he,-
That, in such wither'd plight, and wretched pain,
As eld, accompany'd with her loathsome train,
Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief
He might a while yet linger forth his life,

And not so soon descend into the pit;
Where Death, when he the mortal corpse hath slain,
With reckless hand in grave doth cover it:
Thereafter never to enjoy again

The gladsome light, but, in the ground ylain,
In depth of darkness waste and wear to nought,
As he had ne'er into the world been brought:

But who had seen him sobbing how he stood
Unto himself, and how he would bemoan
His youth forepast-as though it wrought him good
To talk of youth, all were his youth foregone--
He would have mused, and marvel'd much whereon
This wretched Age should life desire so fain,
And knows full well life doth but length his pain:
Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed ;
Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four;
With old lame bones, that rattled by his side;
His scalp all pil'd, and he with eld forelore,
His wither'd fist still knocking at death's door;
Fumbling, and driveling, as he draws his breath;
For brief, the shape and messenger of Death.
And fast by him pale Malady was placed:
Sore sick in bed, her colour all foregone;
Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste,
Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone;
Her breath corrupt; her keepers every one
Abhorring her; her sickness past recure,
Detesting physic, and all physic's cure.

But, oh, the doleful sight that then we see!
We turn'd our look, and on the other side
A grisly shape of Famine mought we see :
With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that cried
And roar'd for meat, as she should there have died;
Her body thin and bare as any bone,
Whereto was left nought but the case alone.

And that, alas, was gnawen every where,
All full of holes; that I ne mought refrain
From tears, to see how she her arms could tear,
And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain,
When, all for nought, she fain would so sustain
Her starven corpse, that rather seem'd a shade
Than any substance of a creature made:

Great was her force, whom stone-wall could not stay.
Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw;
With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay
Be satisfy'd from hunger of her maw,
But eats herself as she that hath no law;
Gnawing, alas, her carcase all in vain,

Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein.

6

On her while we thus firmly fix'd our eyes,
That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight,
Lo, suddenly she shriek'd in so huge wise
As made hell gates to shiver with the might;
Wherewith, a dart we saw, how it did light
Right on her breast, and, therewithal, pale Death
Enthirling it, to rieve her of her breath:

And, by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw,
Heavy, and cold, the shape of Death aright,
That daunts all earthly creatures to his law,
Against whose force in vain it is to fight;
Ne peers, ne princes, nor no mortal wight,
No towns, ne realms, cities, ne strongest tower,
But all, perforce, must yield unto his power:
His dart, anon, out of the corpse he took,
And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see)
With great triumph eftsoons the same he shook,
That most of all my fears affrayed me;
His body dight with nought but bones, pardy;
The naked shape of man there saw I plain,
All save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein.

Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad,
With visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued:
In his right hand a naked sword he had,
That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued;
And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued)
Famine and fire he held, and therewithal

He razed towns and threw down towers and all:
Cities he sack'd, and realms (that whilom flower'd
In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest)
He overwhelm'd, and all their fame devour'd,
Consum'd, destroy'd, wasted, and never ceas'd,
'Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppress'd:
His face forehew'd with wounds; and by his side
There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide.

[Henry Duke of Buckingham in the Infernal Regions.] [The description of the Duke of Buckingham-the Bucking ham, it must be recollected, of Richard III.-has been much admired, as an impersonation of extreme wretchedness.] Then first came Henry Duke of Buckingham, His cloak of black all piled, and quite forlorn, Wringing his hands, and Fortune oft doth blame, Which of a duke had made him now her scorn; With ghastly looks, as one in manner lorn,

latter, on her accession to the throne, rewarded him with many favours. He must have been a man of taste and refined feelings, as the following specimen of his poetry will suffice to show :

Sonnet made on Isabella Markham, when I first thought her fair, as she stood at the princess's window, in goodly attire, and talked to divers in the court-yard. 1564.

Whence comes my love? Oh heart, disclose;
It was from cheeks that shamed the rose,
From lips that spoil the ruby's praise,
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze:
Whence comes my woe? as freely own;
Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.
The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
The lips befitting words most kind,
The eye does tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say 'tis Cupid's fire;
Yet all so fair but speak my moan,
Sith nought doth say the heart of stone.
Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak
Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek-
Yet not a heart to save my pain;
Oh Venus, take thy gifts again!
Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like our own.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586) takes his rank in English literary history rather as a prose writer than as a poet. His poetry, indeed, has long been laid aside on account of the cold and affected style in which he wrote. It has been justly remarked, that, if he had looked into his own noble heart, and written directly from that, instead of from his somewhat too metaphysico-philosophical head, his poetry would have been excellent.' Yet in some pieces he has fortunately failed in extinguishing the natural sentiment which inspired him. The following are admired specimens of his sonnets :

[Sonnets of Sir Philip Sidney.]

Because I oft in dark abstracted guise
Seem most alone in greatest company,

Oft spread his arms, stretched hands he joins as fast, With dearth of words, or answers quite awry

With rueful cheer, and vapoured eyes upcast.

His cloak he rent, his manly breast he beat ;
His hair all torn, about the place it lain :
My heart so molt to see his grief so great,
As feelingly, methought, it dropped away :
His eyes they whirled about withouten stay:
With stormy sighs the place did so complain,
As if his heart at each had burst in twain.

Thrice he began to tell his doleful tale,
And thrice the sighs did swallow up his voice;
At each of which he shrieked so withal,
As though the heavens ryved with the noise;
Till at the last, recovering of his voice,
Supping the tears that all his breast berained,
On cruel Fortune weeping thus he plained.

JOHN HARRINGTON.

Some pleasing amatory verses (exhibiting a remarkable polish for the time in which they were written) by JOHN HARRINGTON (1534-1582) have been published in the Nuga Antique. This poet was imprisoned in the Tower by Queen Mary for holding correspondence with Elizabeth, and the

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 unflattering glass:
But one worse fault Ambition I confess,
That makes me oft my best friends overpass,
Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place
Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace.
With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies,
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What may
it be, that even in heavenly 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, even 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?

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