PR 
 1187 
 H344S 
 v.l 
 
 HEA DLEY 
 
 SELECT BEAUTIES OF 
 ANCIENT ENGLISH 
 POETRY 
 
 1
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ^ ^ c^d^^ i^-:^'''" '-'^^^>B^'-;
 
 SELECT BEAUTIES 
 
 o r 
 
 BT" THE lATE 
 
 jvbio^kapmicail sketch 
 
 BY THE 
 
 REV, he:n^ry KE TT, B J> 
 
 FELLOW OF TRINITY^ COLLEGE, OXFORD . 
 
 THE MONUMENT OF BANIsrfU MINJDES 
 
 r>y^: 
 
 i!i!!liiii.iiiiili:iiilii:illii:iii!iiiii;;:ii!!iillll!i!iii!ii 
 
 VOlLUMiE THE FIRST 
 
 Printed for JOHN SHAHIPIE, Piccadilly, 
 
 and. Ts^or ani Hersey.Heet Street . 
 
 MDCCCX .
 
 m-^
 
 TO ii3i~i-^ 
 WILLIAM WINDHAM, ESQ. M. P. 
 
 FELBRIG, NORFOLK. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 It is some satisfaction to me, in my anxiety for the 
 fate of these volumes, that let the decisions of Criti- 
 cism be what they will, in being permitted to affix 
 your name to them, I am at least securing a degree 
 of reflected lustre to one page ; while every reader 
 who is acquainted with your character, will be pleased 
 to find, that the same generous and watchful attention 
 which you dedicate to the liberty and interests of 
 your Country, you are not backward in extending 
 even to the most distant and collateral branches of its 
 Literature. 
 
 Your much obliged 
 
 Humble Servant, 
 
 Norwich, Feb. 14, 1787. HENRY HEADLEY. 
 
 1965447
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 VOLUME THE FIRST. 
 
 REFACE 1 
 
 Introduction ix 
 
 Biographical Sketches xxix 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 The Den of the Vices May 69 
 
 Orpheus and Eurydice P.Fletcher 72 
 
 The Bower of Bhss ...Niccols 75 
 
 Tlie Cave of Despair G. Fletcher 81 
 
 The Degeneracy of the Tunes Browne 84 
 
 The Poet conducted to the Infernal Regions - 
 
 Lord Buckhurst 86 
 
 The Battle of Cressey May 100 
 
 The Shepherd's Life P.Fletcher 113 
 
 The Capture of Mortimer Drayton 115 
 
 The same May 125 
 
 The Alarm of Satan, from Marino Crashaw 130 
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 The Death of Rosamond May 150 
 
 Cleopatra debating on her own destruction Daniel 157 
 
 A Lady being wronged by false suspect, &c...Gascoigne 159 
 
 Doracles and Daphles Warner 162 
 
 Ode to Mars Gascoigne I72 
 
 Ode to Concord Gascoigne I73 
 
 Matilda poisoned by an Assassin Drayton 175 
 
 Robert Duke of Normandy in Captivity Niccols 182 
 
 The Meeting of Richard and Isabel ...Daniel 186 
 
 The Question Hunis I95 
 
 Richard III. before the Battle of Bosworth 
 
 Sir J. Beaumont 1 gj 
 Richard II, the morning before his Murder Daniel 202
 
 Handsomely printed, in Two Volumes, Demy Svo. Price \l.\s. in 
 Boards, for John Sharps, Piccadilly, 
 
 THE 
 
 POETICAL WORKS 
 
 REV, JAMES HURDIS, D.D, 
 
 Late Fellow of Magdaien College, and Professor of Poetry ia the 
 University of Oxford. 
 
 With some Account of the Author by a Sister, and a Portrait en- 
 graved by J. RoMNEY, from a Miniature by F. Nash, in the Pos- 
 session of the Family.
 
 MR. HEADLEY'S 
 
 SELECT BEAUTIES OF 
 
 ANCIENT ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 TO WHICH ARE ADDED, 
 
 H/S ORIGINAL PO^MS, S)'c. 
 
 PRECEDED BT A 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF HIS LIFE ; 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY KETT, B.D. 
 
 FELLOW OF TRINITY COLLEGE, OXFORD. ^ 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 Biographical sketch 
 
 HENRY HEADLEY. 
 
 Fame, register of Time, ^ 
 
 Write in thy scrowle, that I, 
 
 Of wisdome lover, and sweet poesie. 
 
 Was cropped in my piime. 
 
 And ripe in worth, though greene in years did dye. 
 
 drummond; 
 \ 
 
 XlENRY Headley was the only son of the Rev. 
 Henry Headley, Vicar of North Walsham, in the 
 county of Norfolk. He was born at Irstead, in N )X- 
 folk, in 1766. The reputation of Dr. Parr, as Mas- 
 ter of the Grammar School at Norwich, induced 
 Mr. Headley to place his son under his care, at a 
 time when the Doctor had several scholars, who, as 
 well as young Headley, afterwards displayed the 
 great advantages they derived from his instructions. 
 As the constitution of young Headley was naturally 
 delicate, much of the time which his school-fellows 
 spent in robust exercises, he devoted to writing, 
 and" many of the wild and tender effusions of his
 
 ! BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 fancy proved the poetical bias of mind. These early 
 blossoms of his genius were distributed among his 
 friends, and some of them still cherish the remem- 
 brance of their beauty and sweetness. 
 
 On the 14th of January 1182 he was admitted a 
 Commoner of Trinity College, in the University of 
 Oxford, under the tuition of the Rev. Charles Jesse; 
 and at the following election on Trinity Monday, 
 May 27, was chosen scholar of that society. His 
 situation in the University was as favourable as he 
 could desire; for it not only allowed him ample 
 scope for the expansion of his genius, and the in- 
 dulgence of his literary propensities, but presented 
 him with a full view of that living example of clas- 
 sical taste and learned research, which he beheld 
 with admiration, and followed with enthusiasm. 
 This example was the Rev. Thomas Warton, well 
 known to the Public by his numerous works : he 
 was at that time senior Fellow of Trinity College, 
 and usually resided there ; and the situation of 
 Headley, as a scholar of the same College, was fa- 
 vourable to the contemplation of Mr. Warton's cha- 
 racter, general manners, and habits of life. As his 
 friends found, that no subjects were more agreeable 
 to Headley, than anecdotes of Warton, they often 
 fed his curiosity with a treat he so much enjoyed. 
 The information they gave him, and the perusal of 
 his various publications his Poems his Observa- 
 tions on Spenser and his History of English Poe- 
 try, operated as fuel supplied to the flame of his 
 inclination, and stimulated him to give his mind 
 that direction which marked the course of his sub-
 
 OP HENRY HEADLET. V 
 
 sequent studies, and induced liim to prefer the 
 ** monuments of banish'd minds " as existing in old 
 English poetry, to all other literary pursuits. 
 
 The various objects which the appearance of the 
 University of Oxford presented, could not fail to 
 produce a powerful effect upon his imagination. 
 The delightful gardens and public walks, the various 
 seats of learning and piety, Avhere heroes had been 
 taught the lessons of honour and virtue, sages had 
 planned their systems of philosophy, and poets had 
 indulged their flights of fancy the survey of the 
 gothic battlements and lofty towers, " mantled with 
 the moss of time," the crisped roof^, the clustered 
 columns, and the mellow gloom of the painted 
 windows were all objects so closely connected with 
 the study of antiquities, and with the history and 
 the glory of his native country, as to give a deep 
 tincture to his mind ; they were perfectly congenial 
 with his taste, and contributed with the before- 
 mentioned circumstances to mature and refine it. 
 
 Meanwliile, whate'er of beautiful, or new, 
 Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky. 
 By chance or search, was oiFer'd to his view, 
 He scan'd with curious and romantic eye. 
 Whate'er of lore tradition could supply 
 From Gothic tale, or song, or fable old, 
 Rous'd him, still keen to listen and to pry. 
 At last, though long by diffidence control'd, 
 And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold *. 
 
 Diligent as he soon became in exploring the stores 
 of ancient English poetry, he did not allow his 
 darling studies to engross so much of his time as to 
 interrupt the enjoyments, or damp the ardour of 
 
 * Beattie'i MiiutreL Stanza M.
 
 vi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 social intercourse. Happily finding, in Trinity Coir 
 lege, several of its members who were young men 
 of talents, learning, and amiable manners, he had 
 little difficulty in selecting his associates. He soon 
 formed a strict intimacy with William Benwell, 
 whose congenial taste, suavity of manners, exem- 
 plary conduct, and classical attainments, fully jus- 
 tified the predilection of Headley. And he was 
 often the associate of Williain Lisle Bowles, who has 
 since distinguished himself as an eminent poet. 
 Both were scholars of Trinity College at the same 
 time with Headley, and were nearly of tlie same 
 standing ; and although they were engaged in lite- 
 rary pursuits different from those of Headley, as 
 that generous sympathy which animates ingenuoijs 
 and cultivated understandings was the basis of their 
 attachment, they warmly encouraged him to prose- 
 pute his favourite studies. 
 
 His long vacations, far from being passed in idle 
 rambles from home, were devoted to his studies, 
 and the anxious discharge of his domestic duties. 
 At this time his father was confined by an illness, 
 which terminated in his death : the impression made 
 upon the mind of his affectionate son, by a prospect 
 so melancholy, may be collected from the beginning 
 of his poem to Myra. ' 
 
 From these sad scenes, where care and pale dismay 4 
 Darken with deepest clouds the coming day, 
 Where duty breathes in vain its lengthen'd sigh. 
 And wipes the stagnant tear from sorrow's eye. 
 O'er all its hopes views hovering death prevail, ,, 
 And mourns the social comforts, as they fail ; '^ 
 
 Say, can a novice" Muse, though you inspire, 
 In artless thanks awake the sadden'd lyre P
 
 OF HENRY HEADLEY. vii 
 
 In 1786 he produced the first collected fruits of 
 authorship hy the publication of his Poems and other 
 Pieces. Most of them had appeared in the Gen- 
 tleman's Magazine, and were presented to the Public 
 in this collection in a corrected form. They were 
 inscribed to his preceptor Dr. Parr, whom he com- 
 plimented, in an appropriate passage from a modern 
 Latin author, applied with a felicity of judgment, 
 for which Headley was always remarkable. 
 
 In n87, at the age of 22, he published " Select 
 Beauties of Ancient English Poets, with Remarks.''^ 
 The list of subscribers to this work was highly ho- 
 nourable to the author, consisting chiefly of a large 
 and very respectable number of Oxford and Norfolk 
 friends. The Dedication to William Windham, Esq. 
 of Felbrig, then M. P. for the city of Norwich, is 
 neat and appropriate. That Mr. Windham took an 
 opportunity of handsomel}^ returning this public tes- 
 timony of Headley's esteem, will appear in the course 
 of this narrative. 
 
 Of the benevolence of Headley's disposition many 
 instances might be adduced ; the following occurred 
 to do honour to his character, during his residence 
 in the University. 
 
 When Dr. Uri, a learned Hungarian, who had 
 been ii-ivited to Oxford from the University of Har- 
 derwick, for the purpose of making a catalogue of 
 the Oriental Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library, 
 was discharged by the delegates of the Oxford press 
 with a trifling gratuity, Headley showed the greatest
 
 viii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 solicitude to save this venerable scholar from im- 
 pending poverty; he contributed, with Dr. Parr, 
 Dr. Valpy, Dr. Smyth, Master of Pembroke Col- 
 lege, the Rev. William Agutter, the writer of this 
 narrative, and many others, to raise an annuity for 
 his life. Dr. Uri frequently displayed his various 
 knowledge of books, and recounted the adventures 
 of his youthful days with a peculiar quaintness of 
 narrative, and a diverting mixture of various lan- 
 guages, to the many parties made for him in Trinity 
 College, and to no one of its members was he a 
 more welcome guest than to Headley ; and he che- 
 rished to the close of life for no one of his benefac- 
 tors a warmer or more grateful attachment. 
 
 As a tribute of respect to Dr. Uri, Headley gave 
 a sketch of his character in a Latin inscription, writ- 
 ten under his profile, which, for terseness of ex- 
 pression, may pass as an extract from a classical 
 author. 
 
 He was an occasional contributor of many inge- 
 nious pieces to the Gentleman's Magazine, under 
 the signature of C. T. O. and wrote the Essay, 
 No. 16, in the OUa Podrida, a periodical work, 
 published in Oxford in 1788, by the Rev. Thomas 
 Monro, an intimate friend, and one of his old school- 
 fellows, then a Demy of Magdalen College, This 
 Essay contains some excellent observations on an- 
 cient and modern tragedy. 
 
 He left Trinity College after having resided there 
 for the greater part of three years. The extreme
 
 OF HENRY HEADLEY. U 
 
 concern he felt on quitting the University, he ex- 
 pressed in the beautiful and pathetic poem (page 207, 
 Vol. ii.) which was never before printed correctly, 
 and for which the Public are indebted to the kind- 
 ness of his amiable sister, Mrs. Parish, of Guilford- 
 Street, London. 
 
 For some" months after he left Oxford, the in- 
 quiries of his college friends for his place of resi- 
 dence were vain : it at length appeared that he was 
 married, and had retired to Matlock, in Derbyshire, 
 pleased with such a sequestered retreat, and the 
 wild scenery of the country, which accorded with 
 the romantic turn of his mind. 
 
 The symptoms of a consumptive tendency in his 
 constitution, which had been increasing for some 
 years, were now so strongly confirmed, and he be- 
 came so alarmingly indisposed, that his physician 
 advised him to try the benefit of a warmer climate, 
 and to take a voyage to Lisbon. Thither he deter- 
 mined to go, without delay, and his friend Benwell, 
 excited by the most poignant sympathy, hastened to 
 London to take leave of him. With what sensa- 
 tions the meeting and the parting of two such 
 friends were attended under such distressing circum- 
 stances, may be more easily imagined than can ade- 
 quately be described. Harassed by an incessant 
 cough, and unaccompanied by any one he knew, 
 Headley ha4 the resolution to undertake this voyage 
 in May 1788, but on landing at Lisbon, far from 
 feeling any effectual relief, found himself oppressed 
 by the heat -of the climate. A few days would pro-
 
 X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 bably have terminated his life, had he not availed 
 himself of a letter of recommendation kindly given 
 to him by Mr. Windham to Mr. De Visme. 
 
 This gentleman, anxious to meliorate the deplorable 
 state of Headley's health, conveyed him to his beauti- 
 ful villa near C intra, allotted spacious apartments for 
 his use, procured for him an able physician, amused 
 him with his elegant books and pictures, and gave 
 him every facility of deriving the desired benefit 
 from the change of climate. 
 
 His malady had however made too great a progress 
 to be stopped by such expedients : and as he found 
 he received no material benefit from his residence in 
 Portugal, he returned to England in the month of 
 August, to his house in Norwich. After suffering 
 to such a degree, as to put his patience to a very 
 severe trial, he died on the 15th of November 1788, 
 in the 23d year of his age. 
 
 He was buried near his parents and two sisters, in 
 the church of North Walsham, in Norfolk. A 
 plain black marble slab, stating the periods of his 
 death and his age, was put up to his memory, near a 
 monument which had been erected by his desire to 
 the memory of his father. 
 
 The following epitaph was written at the request 
 of his widow, by the Rev. W. Ben well, and is now 
 for the first time made public.
 
 OF HENRY HEADLEY. 
 
 MEMORY OF HENRY HEADLEY, 
 
 Son of the Rev. Henry Headley, and late of Trinity College, 
 Oxford, 
 Who died November 15, 1788, 
 His monmful Widow placed this stone. 
 With genius and literaiy abilities emuiently distinguished, 
 With an imagination the most vigorous, and judgment the most 
 penetrating. 
 And a taste for whatever was excellent in art or nature, 
 In all his pleasures most pure, elegant, and refin'd, 
 In his friendships ardent and unchanging. 
 In his affections as a husband most tender and exalted ; 
 Beloved, admired, and reverenced 
 By the few whpse happiness it was 
 To know his nncoknmon merits and quaUfications. 
 He supported for more than five years 
 A state of almost unremitted pain and illness. 
 With a fortitude and manliness of mind, 
 That was never stimulated to severity, of subdued into complaint ; 
 ' And fell an early and much-lamented sacrifice 
 To a lingering consumption, 
 In his twenty-third year. 
 
 With respect to his person, he was of middle sta- 
 ture, thin, and dehcately formed. Lavater might 
 have taken a useful hint from his physiognomy, for 
 his features were remarkably expressive. When he 
 was in health, his cheeks glowed with the tints of 
 the damask-rose, his face was the index of genius 
 and sensibility ; and in the moments of social inter- 
 course, when he was animated by some favourite 
 subject, his eyes sparkled with extraordinary vi- 
 vacity. 
 
 There was a charm in his society, which all 
 acknowledged who came within the sphere of its 
 influence. The stream of his conversation was
 
 XU BIOGEAPUICAL SKETCH 
 
 rather rapid than diffuse; rather bright than pro* 
 found. He caught the peculiarities of different 
 characters with wonderful quickness, and described 
 them with matchless humour : he excelled in ori- 
 ginal and lively sallies of imagination ; yet his 
 wit was free from malevolence, for he was perfectly 
 good-natured, and his ridicule was as often turned 
 upon himself as it was levelled against others. 
 
 The writer of this narrative recollects but one 
 instance of his anger. His resentment was roused 
 by an unfounded insinuation, that he preferred the 
 company of some of his acquaintance of another 
 college, because they were of superior rank to his 
 fi*iends at Trinity. This gust of his passion was 
 violent though short. Such a noble mind as his 
 could recognize no predilection for associates, but 
 that which depended upon merit alone. 
 
 He was high spirited without arrogance, and 
 elevated without pride. Nothing could be more 
 abhorrent from his disposition than the cringing of 
 the sycophant, or the abject servilities of the flat- 
 terer. Although he had smarted under the disci- 
 pline of his old master, he recounted many instances 
 of his kindness, and he would not have paid the 
 compliment of a Dedication of his Poems, even 
 to Dr. Parr himself, had he not regarded him as a 
 person of transcendent worth : to such worth alone 
 he made his obeisance ; and when Hcadley offered 
 the incense of his praise, it was the sacrifice made 
 by genius upon the altar of gratitude. 
 
 When suffering the attacks of indisposition, he 
 showed great firmness of mind, and cheerfulness of
 
 OP HENRT HEADLEf . Xui 
 
 temper. There was indeed a buoyancy in his dispo- 
 sition, that elevated him above the weight of his 
 malady, and which seldom failed to display itself in 
 the most agreeable manner, on the appearance of 
 any one of his friends, who might truly exclaim in 
 the words of his favourite poet Shirley 
 
 I often saw 
 
 A smile shoot graceful upward from his eyes. 
 As if they had gaiu'd a victory over grief. 
 
 It would be difficult to find a person actuated by 
 keener sensibility : his mind was accordingly the 
 genial soil in which friendship took a rapid and a 
 deep root, and soon bore the most delicious fruits. 
 His heart beat with all the tenderness, and his actions 
 displayed all the energetic charities of a son, a 
 brother, a husband, and a friend. 
 
 When his life was verging towards its close, and 
 the fire of his imagination began to be damped by his 
 sufferings, his sympathies continued to be ardent 
 and energetic; the kindness of his friends was still 
 his predominant and favourite topic of conversation, 
 and he only ceased to recount the instances of their 
 attachment when he ceased to breathe. 
 
 Considered as a Poety he displayed soqie of the 
 mature fruits, as well as the tender blossoms of 
 genius. His verses were for the most part pleasing, 
 elegant, spirited, and nervous, but generally of a 
 pensive cast : his strains were those of the plaintive 
 nightingale, rather than of the cheerful lark : his 
 poetry was the exact picture of his mind, the image 
 of his genuine feelings ; it arose naturally out of the
 
 xir BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 different situations of his life : he was horn and oc^ 
 casionally resided near the sea : he delighted, there- 
 fore, to describe those scenes, amid which, in his 
 days of health, he had taken delight to ramble ; 
 
 " On those loVd shores, tvhere Yare with ce^eless sweep 
 Joins tlie dark bosom of the fearful deep *." 
 
 He was a great admirer of good pictures his 
 taste as a connoisseur suggested to him the following 
 appropriate description, and his gallantly prompted 
 him to convert it into a high and very elegant com- 
 pliment to a lady. 
 
 " Slaves to the lav?s of taste, let some admira 
 Paulo's bold stroke, or vivid Titian's fire ; 
 With critic skill, and just precision, trace 
 Poussin's leam'd air, or soft Corregio's grace. 
 In mute amaze let others trembling stand, 
 And feel the dark sublime of Rosa's hand ; 
 Be mine the task their varied styles to view, 
 And mark their blended beauties met in yout." 
 
 He disdained to be a competitor for fame with 
 those whose merit consisted merely in writing so- 
 norous and empty verses ; but the excellence he 
 aimed at, and that which he attained, consisted in 
 the display of vivid images and vigorous expres- 
 sions, faithful delineations of nature, and rich me- 
 lody of versification. The following specimens may 
 serve to confirm these remarks, and it will not be 
 easy to find two poems of the kind superior to them 
 in point of sweetness and tenderness. The former 
 has much of the manner of Shakspeare, the latter 
 of Pope. 
 
 Verses to Myrn, vol. ii. p. 20*. t Verses to M^ra, vol. ii, p. 204.
 
 OF HENRY HEADLEY. XY 
 
 TO PHILOMEL. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 No noise I heard, but all was still as deatl), 
 Save that at times a distant dying note 
 Of spirit unseen, or Heaven's minstrelsy, 
 Would indistinctly meet my ravished ear ; 
 Such as was never heard from harp or lute, 
 Or waked into a voice by human hand, 
 
 All, Philomel, the strain was thine! 
 
 POEMS, vol. ii. p. 182.- 
 
 THE BEGGAR'S DOG. 
 
 Ye pamper'd favourites of base mankind. 
 
 Whether writh riches pooi-, or learning blind, 
 
 from your distracted views oh pause awhile, 
 
 And har a brothers tale without a smile ; 
 
 And let contrition note how much is due 
 
 To all the generous cares I owe to yon. 
 
 Whilst fatt'ning pomp secure in cumb'rous state, 
 
 His scanty crumbs withheld, and barr'd his gate, 
 
 Nor sullen deign'd witli scorn's averted eye 
 
 The cheaper tribute of a selfish sigh, 
 
 The neediest suppliant of sorrow's train 
 
 For bread I hungering sought, and sought in vdn ; 
 
 Each petty solace thus by you denied, 
 
 With sleepless watch Fideiio supplied : 
 
 When Winter wet with rain my trembling beard, 
 
 My falling tear he felt, my groan he heard, 
 
 When my grey locks at night the wild wind rent, 
 
 Like withered moss upon a monument, 
 
 What could he more t against the pitiless storm 
 
 He lent his little aid to keep me warm ; 
 
 Even now as parting with his latest breath. 
 
 He feels the thrilling grasp of coming death, 
 
 With all that forid fidelity of face. 
 
 That marks the features of his honest race, 
 
 His half uplifted eye in vain he moves, 
 
 And gasps to lick tlie helpless hand he loves. 
 
 poxMS vol. ii. p. 186,
 
 XVI BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 With respect to his proficiency as a scholar, it 
 would be unjust to his reputation not to remark, 
 that he was particularly well acquainted with the 
 Greek tragedians, and was skilled in Latin composi- 
 tion. He often conversed on the pathos of Euri- 
 pides, the simple energy of the Greek epigramma- 
 tists, the copiousness of Cicero, and the fire of 
 Lucan, with the accuracy of one who well under- 
 stood their phraseology, and highly relished their 
 original beauties: he has enriched his works with 
 critical and illustrative remarks drawn from these and 
 other classical sources. 
 
 Of few scholars could it be more truly said 
 Nihil legebatf quod nmi excerpebat. He reaped the 
 produce of many fields, but conveyed few weeds, 
 mixed with [corn, into his granary : his common- 
 place book, which was always at hand, attested at 
 once the extent of his researches, and the judicious 
 nature of his extracts from every book he read. 
 
 As the Author of the " Select Beauties of an- 
 cient English Poetry, with Remarks," he has given 
 proofs of great diligence and critical skill. He 
 performed in this work more than he promised ; for 
 he included under the unostentatious and general 
 term Remarks, a Preface, Introduction, Biographical 
 Sketches, Notes, and a Supplement. The rigid 
 critic may complain that this work bears marks of 
 negligence and precipitation ^but the same severity 
 would induce him to censure a beautiful face for its 
 freckles, or a diamond for a slight flaw. Such a 
 critic would be uncandid and unjust not to allow, 
 that Headley has executed much more in point of
 
 OF HENRY HEADLEY. XVII 
 
 quantity, and completed his design much better in 
 point of judgment, than could be expected from a 
 person so young, and whose health was extremely 
 precarious. His principles of criticism are sound, 
 his remarks are pertinent, and they are often made 
 with a degree of acuteness, force, and. discrimina- 
 tion, that would have done credit even to a Johnson, 
 or a Walpole. 
 
 The collection of the twenty-niiie Biographical 
 Sketches of the old English Poets may be consi- 
 dered as a rich cabinet of exquisite portraits, 
 finished with all the truth and spirit of a Vandyke. 
 They possess a peculiar delicacy of touch, and fide- 
 lity of character. The colours are vivid, the fea- 
 tures of each person are discriminated with the 
 greatest precision ; and we have only to regret, that 
 we have no more compositions of the kind from the 
 same masterly hand. 
 
 The following Selections afford ample specimens 
 of his diligence as well as of his talents and his 
 taste. He was obliged to travel through manj^ a 
 dreary and extensive forest of old' English Poetry, 
 often without a guide, before he could find and 
 select the beautiful garland of flowers, which, he 
 has presented to the Public. Much of the work 
 was executed when bis spirits were drooping, when 
 he was depressed by grief, or afflicted with pain : 
 his work was intended to be as much a solace amid 
 bis sufferings, as a monument of his fame. It may, 
 however, justly be pronounced to be one of the 
 most curious and pleasing collections of the kind in 
 
 VOL. I. b
 
 xvm BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 our language, and may deservedly be classed with 
 Percy's Reliques of ancient English Poetry, and 
 Ellis's Specimens of early English Poets, Had it 
 pleased Divine Providence to prolong his life, and 
 bless him with health, he would have completed his 
 plan by publishing two additional volumes *, as well 
 as the better part of Robert Southwell's Poetry f. 
 His more mature age would have justified all other 
 promises of his youth, and he would not only have 
 been, as it seems just to surmise, a most distin- 
 guished ornament to the literature of his country, 
 as a critic and an antiquarian, but probably would 
 have gained a nich in the Temple of the British 
 Poets above Warton, and very near to Pope. A 
 fatal malady prevented the growth of some of his 
 laurels, but not before others had produced such 
 branches as those who do justice to his memory and 
 his productions, will ever delight to see thriving in 
 the most fair and flourishing state. 
 
 The Select Beauties were spoken of in terms of 
 just commendation by various reviewers. The fol- 
 lowing are the concluding observations in the Monthly 
 Review for January 1788. 
 
 *' The Selections are made from an attentive pe- 
 rusal of the respective authors, and exhibit complete 
 and satisfactory specimens of their different modes 
 of writing. A work executed as this is, with dili- 
 gence and taste, is an acquisition to English litera- 
 ture. It brings to light a number of poetical beau- 
 
 * Preface, p. 8. t Biographical Sketches, p^T.
 
 OP HENBY HEADLEY. XIX 
 
 ties, which before were hardly known to exist ; and 
 by separating them from those dull and jejune 
 pieces, among which they were buried, restores to 
 their authors that fame which could be revived by 
 no other means." 
 
 ON THE 
 
 DEATH OF HENRY HEADLEY, 
 
 BT THE REV. WM. LISLE BOWLES, A.M. OF TRINITY COLLEGE, 
 OXFORD. 
 
 To every gentle Muse in vain allied, 
 
 In youth's full early morning Hea^ley died! 
 
 Ah ! long had sickness left her pining trape. 
 
 Rueful and wan on each decaying grace : 
 
 Untimely sorrow touch'd his thonghtful mien ! 
 
 Despair upon his languid smile was seen ! 
 
 Yet Resignation, miising on the grave, 
 
 (When now no hope could cheer, no pity save) 
 
 And Virtue, that scarce felt its fate severe, 
 
 And pale Affliction, dropping soft a tear. 
 
 For friends belov'd, from whom she soon must part, 
 
 Breath'd a sad solace on his aching heart. 
 
 Nor ceas'd he yet to stray, where, winding wild, 
 
 The Muse's path his drooping steps begnil'd, 
 
 Intent to rescue some neglected rhyme, 
 
 Lone-blooming, from the mournful waste of time ; 
 
 And cull each scatter'd sweet, that seem'd to smile. 
 
 Like flowers upon some long-jforsaken pile *. 
 
 Far from the murmuring crowd, unseen, he sought 
 Each charm congenial to his sadden'd thought. 
 When the grey morn illum'd the mountain's side, 
 To hear the sweet birds' earliest song he hied ; 
 When meekest eve to the fold's distant bell 
 Listen'd, and bade the woods and vales farewell j 
 
 * Alluding to Beauties of Ancient Poetry, published by Mr, H.
 
 XX BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 Musing in tearful mood, he oft was seen 
 The last tliat linger'd on the fading green. 
 The waving w ood, high o'er the cliff reclin'd, 
 Tlie murmuring waterfall, the winter's wind. 
 His temper's trembling texture seem'd to suit, 
 Like airs of sadness the responsive lute. 
 
 Yet deem not hence the social spirit dead, 
 Though from the world's hard gaze his feelings fled : 
 Firm was his friendship, and his faith sincere, 
 And warm as Pity's his unheeded tear. 
 That wept the ruthless deed, the poor man's fate, 
 By fortime's storms left cold and desolate. 
 
 Farewell ! yet be this humble tribute paid 
 To all thy virtues, from that social shade * 
 
 Wliere once we sojourn'd. 1, alas ! remain 
 
 ' To mourn the hours of youth (yet mourn in vain) 
 That fled neglected. Wisely thou hast trod 
 The better path ; and that High Meed, which Go 
 Ordain'd for Virtue, tow'ring from the dust, 
 Shall bless thy labours, spirit ! pure and just 
 
 VERSES 
 
 ON THE DEATH OP MR. HEADLEY, 
 BY THE KEV. HENRY KETT, FELLOW OF TRINITY COLLEGE, OXFORO. 
 
 WniTTEN IN 1788. 
 
 Sweet Pensiveness, who once didst love to throw 
 O'er Headley's Muse the fading tints of woe ! 
 How does thy swelling bosom heave with sighs. 
 To see how low thy youthful votary lies ! 
 Cynthia, whose praise adorn'd his tuneful lay, 
 Now gilds his tomb with her mild streaming ray ; 
 And Philomela, favourite of his song, 
 Charms las cold ear no more with thrilling tongue. 
 
 * Trinity College, Oxford-
 
 OF HENRY HEADLEY. 1 
 
 Taste, to his call obedient, drew aside 
 Oblivion's veil, that thick was wove to hide 
 The long-neglected Bards of other days, 
 Rev(^rd to sight, they trim their wither'd bays ; 
 His early loss with doleful dirges uiouru, 
 And wreaths of cypress twine around his urn. 
 Led on by Gratitude, they ask of Fame 
 To mai k her scroll with Ileadley's honour'd nani. 
 
 But in his volumes vain the search to find 
 The perfect picture of his noble mind : 
 There Genius only shoots his feeble rays, 
 And Taste refin'd but half his skill displays. 
 Compar'd with that bright intellectual power 
 Tliat spread its influence o'er his social hour ; 
 When health's fresh roses o'er his features bloom'd. 
 And joy's bright glance his eagle-eye illum'd j 
 When brilliant wit, and solid judgment shone, 
 Whose striking features maik'd them for his own. 
 
 His fancy with congenial rapture fir'd. 
 That first the Poet's ardent soul inspir'd ; 
 With Shakspeare wander'd o'er the mag^c isle. 
 With Milton saw the groves of Eden smile ; 
 With captive Surrey mourn'd his distant fair ; 
 Or rais'd with MuUa's Bard the fiend Despair : 
 On Cherwell's sedgy banks with Warton stray'd 5 
 And yvoo'd the Muse in gothic stole arra^d. 
 
 O Death, why hast thou pluck'd, with ruthless hand. 
 The fairest flower, that grac'd our favour'd land ? 
 Soon as, with fragrance rich, and colours fair, 
 It bar'd its bosom to the vernal air. 
 But Faith, wiiose steady eye can Heaven survey, 
 Views it transplanted to the realms of day ; 
 Wliere with fresh bloom its ripening beauties sbiue. 
 And mix witli amaranth its leaves divine. 
 
 Oft as 'mid Bromholm's holy walls I stray, 
 Where Superstition mourns her own decay, 
 Thy lovely image shall to fancy rise, 
 And dreams of tbrmer joys entnmce my eyes. 
 Here we remark'd how Time's relentless power 
 Broke the arch'd gate, and bow'd the ivy tower ; 
 How keen delight oft chas'd the sailors woes, 
 When o'er the wave these misty walls arose
 
 XXU BIOGRAPHICAL SKBTCH, &c. 
 
 To hi"! chaim'il eye, ouiPii of hcaitfelt bliss, 
 That he his babes all motherless should kiss. 
 
 When tlie world's eyes with poppy-wreaths arc bouud, 
 And Sleep, the ehild of Silence, reij^iis around, 
 Kind Melancholy, guide my lonely feet, 
 Where thou and Headlry fix'd your classic seat. 
 If the dear scenes that won their earthly Iotc 
 Can draw down angels from tlie joys above, 
 Sotl let mc breathe tliy name with many a tear ; 
 Haply tliy gentle spiiit stoops to hear ! 
 
 In vain did low decay with pain conspire 
 
 To quench the lustre of affection's lire ; 
 
 No wastinij pains its vital heat consume, 
 
 Stronsj as the lamp, that gilds the niould'ring tomb. 
 
 From friendship's base no storms his soul could move. 
 
 The last sad look was sympathy and love. 
 
 Before bright Genius and soft Friendship find 
 A nobler mansion than his heaven-born mind, 
 These eyes in death shall close, which melt with woe, 
 And time's dark stream in distimt ages flow.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 'T'HE Public are here presented icith an Edition of 
 Mr. Headley's Works, without either Abridgment or 
 Addition, except a Note upon one by Mr. Headley, at 
 page 83. In proceeding with the alterations of the Or- 
 thography in the " Select Beauties," many selections were 
 found already modernixed, having been printed by Mr. 
 Headley from editions published since the deaths of the 
 respective authors. 
 
 The Public have now an opportunity of enjoying the 
 literary banquet prepared by Mr. Headley, with the same 
 facility as they have been accustomed to peruse the Works 
 of Shakspeare and Milton ; and it is presumed, that an 
 equal reliance may be placed upon the text, as upon the 
 variorum editions of those immortal writers. 
 
 The Notes before placed in a body at the end of the 
 Second Volume, are in this edition, for the convenience of 
 the Reader, arranged at the bottom of thu corresponding 
 pages of the Text.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 1 o those who may have made the poetry of this 
 country a subject of serious and dehberate investiga-^ 
 tion, the following extracts will afford neither enter- 
 tainment nor instruction, as their own track of read- 
 ing must have previously familiarized their several 
 contents. From such, therefore, I have not the va- 
 nity to expect either thanks or attention : but as en- 
 quirers of this kind are comparatively few, a large 
 and a respectable body of the public remains, to 
 whom a work of this nature seems not improperly 
 adapted ; a work, that might at once do justice to 
 deserted merit, diversify the materials of common 
 reading, and by opening fresh sources of innocent 
 amusement, tend to strengthen, arid co-operate with, 
 that taste for poetical antiquities which for some time 
 past li^s been considerably advancing. Those who 
 have long been accustomed to the correctness and 
 refinement of a classical course of study, whose _ 
 minds are become pampered with the luxuries of 
 Rome and of Athens, soon form a habit of turning 
 with aversion, from those paths of science which are 
 at first, perhaps, uninviting, and apparently but little 
 VOL. I. B
 
 ii PREFACE. 
 
 congenial with their favourite pursuits ; from such 
 readers the moth and the spider are in no danger of 
 molestation : trusting to the taste and the dihgence 
 of others, it is through the medium of compilation 
 they are generally made acquainted with the obscurer 
 poets of their country. To constitute a relish for the 
 black letter, a certain degree of literary Quixotism 
 is highly requisite : he who is unwilling to penetrate 
 the barren heath and the solitary desert ; he who can- 
 not encounter weariness, perplexity, and disgust ; he 
 who is not actuated by an enthusiasm for his employ- 
 ment, is no true knight, and unfit for such service. 
 That species of occasional readers to whom business 
 is the object of life, who may chance to while away 
 their hour of relaxation with a book, it is humbly 
 hoped, will be here as likely to meet with a moral 
 sentiment, a good image, a pathetic incident, or a 
 pointed reflection, that may strike the fancy, the 
 judgment, or the heart, as in any miscellany of mo- 
 dern poetry whatever : perhaps from the advantages 
 of novelty here offered, they may stand a better 
 chance of losing their indifference, and after roving 
 with the usual listlessness of a fickle appetite, may 
 at last find a something to settle upon with pleasure. 
 Of similar publications, I do not think it necessary to 
 give a very particular account ; indeed I know of no 
 one that comes under that title exactly. What, how- 
 ever, I have chiefly found those which may be per- 
 versely considered as similar, I will state as briefly as
 
 PREFACE. lit 
 
 possible, and how far in the execution of my plan I 
 have deviated from them. The compilations I have 
 hitherto met with, from being either too limited or 
 too extensive, have always appeared to me imperfect: 
 some, under a variety of quaint and affected titles, 
 selected from authors far too well known* to stand 
 in need of such partial and disjointed recommenda- 
 tion, and who in fact hold a most distinguished rank 
 in the school of the people ; others I have found 
 mere common-place books of mutilated quotations, 
 adapted to the illustration only of an alphabetical list 
 of given subjects, without, as it should seem, the 
 most distant reference to the beauties of composition. 
 Nor are there wanting those, which seem formed, 
 almost at random, from the great mass of our Poetry, 
 both ancient and modem, where we must not be 
 alarmed if we meet with our friend, or our neigh- 
 bour, in the same page with a Shakspeare, a Milton, 
 and a Popef. Selections expressly of beauties J 
 from modern books of credit, unless immediately in- 
 
 * As Cowley, Dryden, Waller, Denliam. 
 
 t From this censure it is but justice to except The Muses Library, 
 a work which was intended to exhibit a systejnatic view of the pro- 
 gress of our poetry, from its origin with the Saxons to the reign of 
 Charles the Second. It was begun with fidelity and spirit by a Mrs. 
 Cowper, with the assistance of Mr. Oldys : only one volume ap- 
 peared, which is very scarce. The Quintessence of English Poetry, 
 3 vols. Lond. 1740, a work comprehending a considerable range of 
 our old poets, is, I think, the next in point of merit ; the preface is 
 neatly written. 
 
 :|: Dr. Goldsmith, who was only unhappy, amidst all the works he 
 undertook, in his Beauties of English Poetry, disgraced himself by a 
 very superficial and hasty compilation of the kind.
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 tended for the use of s^chools, are in a great degree 
 idle and impertinent, and do but multiply books to 
 no good end ; by anticipating him, they deprive the 
 reader of that pleasure which every one feels, and 
 of that right which every one is entitled to, of judg- 
 ing for himself: but in obscure literature of a more 
 remote period, the contents of which are strangely 
 unequal, even where it is the wish of the editor to 
 exhibit them entire, it is safer, previously to allure 
 curiosity by select specimens of prominent excel- 
 lence, than to run the risk of suppressing it totally by 
 an indiscriminate and bulky republication of the 
 whole : for it not unfrequently happens on the first 
 inspection of such works, in which the beauties bear 
 no proportion to the defects, that by an unlucky sort 
 of perverseness the reader is confronted with a dull 
 passage, or perhaps a series of them, the volume is 
 instantly laid aside, and with it every intention of a 
 re-examination. In such cases, therefore, and in 
 such only, selections seem eminently of use; and 
 were it possible to obtain the opinions of the forgot- 
 ten authors in question, there can be little doubt of 
 their acquiescing in a revival of their works, how- 
 ever partial, rather than meet the horrors of perpe- 
 tual oblivion. As far as relates to myself, I have 
 avoided, as much as possible, touching those who 
 have already justly obtained the distinction of being 
 denominated our Older Classics*, who, though not 
 
 * As Chaocer, Sbakspeare, Jonson, Milton.
 
 PREFACE. T 
 
 universally either read or understood (as must ever 
 be the case with the best elder writers in every coun- 
 try'), are notwithstanding familiar to us in conversa- 
 tion, and constantly appealed to in controverted 
 points of poetical taste : these I have studiously 
 avoided, and confined myself in the general to some 
 of the better parts of the unfortunate few who still 
 remain unpopular, and of whom I may safely affirm, 
 that they may find foils in many writers, who, through 
 accident and partiality, still linger amongst the fa- 
 vourites of the day. There are not wanting those 
 who consider works of this kind as taking very un- 
 justifiable Uberties with the deceased, and who think 
 no good reason can be assigned to warrant the havoc 
 that ensues in the formation of them : there is a spe- 
 cious kind of philanthropy in the argument, and, as 
 such, it deserves attention. Let us for a moment re- 
 collect the fate of Cowley. 
 
 et crimine ex mo 
 
 Disce onmes virgil. 
 
 As the unnatural relish for tinsel and metaphysical 
 conceit declined, his bays gradually lost their ver- 
 dure ; he was no longer to be found in the hands of 
 the multitude, and untouched even in the closets of 
 the curious : in short, the shades of oblivion gather- 
 ed fast upon him. In consequence, however, of many 
 detached parts of him which tem with the finest pic- 
 tures of the heart. Bishop Hurd undertook his welU
 
 vi PREFACE. 
 
 known edition, in which the most exceptionable po- 
 etry (that had operated hke a mill-stone and sunk the 
 rest) is omitted, and the generality of his charms 
 preserved, he has now a dozen readers where before 
 he had scarce one. To those who set a value on their 
 hours, an accidental fescinating line, or a happy ex- 
 pression, is no compensation for the loss of them: 
 for such readers, many authors must be mangled in 
 order to be read ; the cost of working some mines is 
 more than the gold extracted will sometimes repay. 
 Yet in thus playing the anatomist, every one who has 
 sensibility must, more or less, feel a melancholy re- 
 luctance at rejecting too fastidiously; the very reflec- 
 tion that the writers of these works upon which we 
 now calmly sit in judgment, have no longer the power 
 of personall}' pleading for themselves ; that the tem- 
 porary supports of prejudice, patronage, and fashion, 
 have long subsided for ever; that, in composing them, 
 they might have forfeited their time, their fortune, 
 and their health, and on many of those passages 
 which we now by a random stroke of the pen deprive 
 them of, might have fondly hoped to build their im- 
 mortality, affords an irresistibly affecting specimen of 
 the instability and hazard of human expectations. 
 With the "disjecti membra Poetae" before me, let me 
 be pardoned then if I have sometimes, as I fear I 
 have, listened to the captivating whispers of mercy, 
 instead of the cool dictates of unsentimental criti- 
 cism : often have I exulted to find an unexpected
 
 PREFACE. iVii 
 
 and latent beauty, which on a first perusal had 
 escaped me, that might countenance the preservation 
 of a doubtful passage, which I had just doomed to its 
 former oblivion. The end of a moralizing mood is 
 too frequently nonsensical ; yet is there not something 
 that holds out a strong incentive to the love of fame 
 and the cultivation of the mind, when we thus see its 
 works, though shrouded by occasional depressions, 
 yet resting on the rock of truth, insensible, as it 
 were, to the lapse of time and the wrecks of years, 
 and surmounting at last every impediment, while the 
 body to which they belonged has for ages been the 
 plaything of the winds, or hardened with the clod of 
 the valley ? 
 
 Let me conclude with an apology to my reader, 
 which I am sorry to be under the necessity of mak- 
 ing. In my endeavours to render these volumes wor- 
 thy of attention, I have been thwarted by a situation 
 peculiarly unfavourable to such pursuits : the reposi- 
 tories, museums, and libraries of the curious, from 
 whence, and whence only, adequate materials are to 
 be drawn, I have had no access to ; a small private 
 collection was my only resource, some few notices 
 from the Ashmolean MSS. in Oxford being excepted^ 
 For assistance received I am solely indebted to my 
 very dear friend, Mr, William Benwell, of Trin. Coll. 
 Oxon, whose ingenuity and kindness furnished me 
 with many hints. Should I be so fortunate, however.
 
 viil PREFACE. 
 
 as to succeed in what is here offered to the Public, it 
 is my intention to extend my plan to two additional 
 volumes, which will include a variety of pieces in a 
 less serious style ; to the completion of which neither 
 attention nor expense will be spared. 
 
 Had I given way to the temptation of enriching my 
 work with specimens from Older Dramatic Authors, 
 I must infallibly have enlarged my plan for their ad- 
 mission. They afford a field for selection, suffi- 
 ciently wide of themselves, to form a complete work. 
 I have, therefore, with the exception of two or three 
 instances, totally avoided them.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 W HILE the accumulated materials of successive ages seem 
 to have been requisite for the completion of other arts, 
 many of which, indeed, still remain imperfect and progres- 
 sive, Poesy, with a certain preternatural eccentricity, has dis- 
 tinguished herself by arriving at a degree of comparative 
 perfection, \vith less gradual and adventitious assistance. 
 
 " nee longum tempus et ingens, 
 
 Exiit ad coelum ramis felicibus arbos." 
 
 Though ages have elapsed since the birth of Homer, we 
 still gaze at him with undiminished curiosity, till our eyes 
 grow dim with admiration : yet this Bard, who has stood 
 the scrutiny of Greece and of Rome, and the trying test of 
 three thousand years, liad no pre-existing models of conse- 
 quence to look up to ; the literary prospects of his day were 
 barren, uncultivated, and disheartening. Criticism, as it 
 was a subsequent production to his works, and in great mea- 
 sure originally derived from them, had no share in advanc- 
 ing him to immortality, by forming his taste, correcting his 
 fancy, or improving his judgment. Shakspeare, whose name 
 will suffer little in being mentioned after him, at a time 
 when to read and write was an accomplishment, untutored 
 by learning (for those scanty sparks of it that faintly glim- 
 mered on his eye through the medhim of translation, are 
 hardly to be considered as such), destitute of the advantages 
 of birth, without rules, and without examples, carried Dra-
 
 X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 matic Poetry to a height that has hitherto baffled imitation, 
 and seems likely to descend to future times without a rival. 
 The original rectitude of some men's minds, of the 
 
 " Pauci, quos aequus amavit 
 
 Jupiter " 
 
 is such, as to serve them in place both of rules and exam- 
 ples ; and though Genius, thus unassisted, seldom in any de- 
 partment of Science produces a perfect model, yet it is al- 
 vj^ays its pride, and not unfrequently its lot, to rise in pro- 
 portion to the deficiency of its resources, and bear up with- 
 out them in such a manner as to give an appearance of their 
 being unnecessary. If we seriously and impartially examine 
 the cluster of poetical names that shone, and were concen- 
 tered in the space of ninety-one years, from the accession of 
 Elizabeth inclusively, to the restoration of Charles the Se- 
 cond, and compare them with those who have respectively 
 flourished from that time to this, a period of an hundred and 
 thirty-eight years*, we shall find the phalanx of older classics 
 but little aft'ected by a comparison with the more modem 
 muster-roll. The following scale will tend at one view to 
 illustrate how large and valuable a portion of literature is 
 comprehended in a very narrow period. Many names are 
 omitted of no particular import, individually or collectively 
 considered. 
 
 Elizabeth beam to reign in 1558. 
 
 Epic Poets. 
 
 Philosophical and 
 Metaphysical 
 
 Dramatic. 
 
 Historical. 
 
 Spenser 
 
 Sir J. Davies 
 
 Gascoigne 
 
 Niccols 
 
 Milton 
 
 Phin. Fletcher 
 
 Shakspeare 
 
 Sackville 
 
 Davenant. 
 
 Giles Fletcher 
 
 Massinger 
 
 Daniel 
 
 
 More. 
 
 Jonson 
 
 Drayton 
 
 
 
 Beaumont and 
 
 May 
 
 
 
 Fletcher 
 
 Sir J. Beaumont. 
 
 
 
 Shirley. 
 
 
 * Referring to the date of the former edition of this work, 1788.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 XI 
 
 Satirical. 
 
 Pastoral. 
 
 Amat(>rr and Mis- 
 cellaneous. 
 
 Translators. 
 
 Hall 
 
 Warner ^ 
 
 Raleigh 
 
 Fairfax 
 
 Marston 
 Rowlands 
 
 Drayton 
 Browne 
 
 Drummond 
 Marlow 
 
 Sandys 
 Crashaw. 
 
 Donne. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 Cowley 
 
 Carew 
 
 Corbet 
 
 
 - 
 
 
 King 
 
 Habington 
 
 Cartvvright 
 
 Randolph 
 
 Suckling. 
 
 
 In thus bringing forward the most meritorious and promi- 
 nent luminaries of a past age, a natural question seems to 
 arise; how happens it that the great parts of poetry, should 
 so soon be filled up, and manifest a degree of excellence in 
 some respects unequalled, and in others unexceeded, by our 
 later writers ? In the following remarks I have endeavoured 
 to assign a true reason. I cannot but tliink, that there exists 
 a very close analogy, between the intellectual and the bodily 
 powers, and that the strength of the one, in its operations, 
 is in a similar manner affected with that of the other. The 
 secondary endeavours of bodily exertion are seldom propor- 
 tioned to the ardour of the first ; the labours of the hus- 
 bandman are generally found to be most efficacious in the 
 morning, the sultry noon induces lassitude and weakness, 
 and " the night ccmeth on in which no man worketh." If 
 we turn our eyes to the mind's works in individuals, instances 
 are sufficiently numerous where its primary effusions remain 
 unequalled by evei-y succeeding one; like the nature of 
 some soils, whose fertility is exhausted by a single harvest, 
 and whose after-crops do but teem with the rankest weeds 
 or the most sickly flowers. The star of science no sooner 
 appeared in the British hemisphere, than, struck with the
 
 XU INTRODUCTION. 
 
 luxury of its beams, the minds of men were suddenly arous- 
 ed and awakened to the most animated exertions, and the 
 most daring flights ; silent were the legendary oracles of the 
 Bard and die Minstrel, the dark and long-impending clouds 
 of barbarism were dispelled, and instantly gave way to a 
 clear and a healthy horizon. Add to this, we constantly 
 find a period in the annals of every country, at which its 
 people begin to be sensible of the shame and the ignominy 
 of ignorance : this no sooner becomes perceived than it is 
 deeply felt: the mind, stimulated by a forcible impulse, 
 catches the alarm, and hastens at once to renounce its 
 slavery; in the struggle and collision that ensues, the genius 
 of the people frequently takes astonishing strides towards 
 perfection. Not satisfied with a tardy, gradual, and delibe- 
 rate reform, the cause of learning and improvement is car- 
 ried far beyond those limits that experience and cooler rea- 
 son might have fixed for its advances. Peter the Great had 
 no sooner returned from the inspection of foreign courts, 
 and the influence of the transplanted arts had begun to 
 soften the grossness and severity of the Russian manners; 
 than his court, disgusted at the meanness of their appear- 
 ance, would not content themselves with a mere reform, nor 
 proceed in the common course, from squalor to decency, 
 and from thence to elegance; but resolved to do something; 
 and not knowing where to stop, they hastily passed over the 
 happy medium, and assumed at once an air of tawdry splen- 
 dor, of awkward and irregular magnificence, not to be pa- 
 ralleled by any nation on the face of the globe. We may 
 yet further observe, that the military spirit of the day, in 
 Eliza's reign, being put upon the stretch far beyond its usual 
 tone by the perilous and alarming situation of the kingdom , 
 served to excite and to diflfuse a general inclination for ac- 
 tion, that invigorated attempts of every kind, whether hte- 
 rary or political. The temper of the times was happily and
 
 INTRODUCTION. XUl 
 
 singularly disposed for the reception and cultivation of the 
 classics, which then more immediately began to operate with 
 salutary effects. The manly spirit of expiring chivalry lent 
 a romantic grace to the prevailing taste, which, associating 
 with the fantastic incongruities of Italian imagery, required 
 nothing but the chastity and good sense of ancient learning 
 to add a weight and a value to composition which were 
 hitherto unknown. 
 
 In order to enter more closely into the nature of that 
 species of poetry which it is the purpose of these volumes 
 to recommend, it will be necessary to consider it under the 
 following heads : Language, Versification, Style, Sentiment, 
 and Imagery. 
 
 As to language, it has been very justly remarked by John- 
 son, that " from the authors which rose in the time of 
 Elizabeth a speech might be formed adequate to all the pur- 
 poses of use and elegance *." This acknowledgment of the 
 Doctor's is confirmed by Dryden : in his Essay on Dramatic 
 Poesie, speaking of Beaumont and Fletcher, he says, " I am 
 apt to believe the English language in them arrived to its 
 highest perfection; what words have since been taken in, are 
 rather superfluous than ornamental." It would have been a 
 matter of national advantage, had Johnson, after an attentive 
 perusal of the poets of this age, distinguished in his Dictionary 
 those particular obsolete words which, from their sound and 
 significance, merit use and adoption ; the sanction of his au- 
 thority might have gone far towards restoring them to that 
 rank, both in writing and conversation, which they have too 
 long undeservedly forfeited: but, by the contracted lists of 
 authors his quotations are drawn from, it is evident he neg- 
 lected dirtying himself in the dust of the Black-Letter, a 
 task which, however uninviting, was indispensably requisite 
 
 * Fugitive Pieces, Vol. II. p. 74.
 
 :idy INTRODUCTION. 
 
 to the completion of his plan, and without which, no man 
 can clearly survey tlie obscure foundations of our language. 
 It is observed by Sir W. Davenant* of Spenser, *' that our 
 language did receive from his hand new grafts of old wither- 
 ed words." Every reader's experience must witness the 
 truth of the remark; by a too indiscriminate use of anti- 
 quated words, coarse and obsolete idioms, Spenser f has no 
 doubt blemished his poem ; as a painter may overcharge a 
 landscape with a profuse introduction of ruins. Yet, on the 
 whole, Spenser's works are an inexhaustible mine of the 
 richest materials, forming in fact the very bullion of our 
 language ; and it is to be lamented they are so rarely explor- 
 ed for present use. Milton was fully conscious of their 
 value ; and many of the most admired and popular passages 
 in his works, to every inteUigent reader, 
 
 Whisper whence they stole 
 
 Those balmy spoils Par. Lost. 
 
 When Bishop Burnet I objected against him, that he " made 
 many new and rough words,'' he certainly betrayed the nar- 
 rowness of his reading ; what he concluded the production 
 of Milton, was but the sterlmg and current coin of the pre- 
 ceding century ; and, at a time when it had fallen into disre- 
 pute, was agaiu circulated by our divine bard, in opposition 
 to the fastidiousness and false reftnement of the wits and the 
 coxcombs of his age. Pope, Atterbury, and Swift, who 
 headed one party, Addison, Congreve, and Steele, who led 
 the other, in Queen Anne's reign, with their respective minor 
 
 * Preface to Goudibert, p. 3, folio edition. 
 
 t Spenser has incurred the censure of Edmund Bolton, the first 
 sensible old English critic, for the affected antiquity of his las- 
 guage. 
 
 X Burnet's History of his own Time, Vol. I. p. 163.
 
 INTRODUOTflOt*. XV 
 
 adherents, in the general tenour of their writmgs, addressed 
 the judgment rather than the fancy, and, with a Parnassian 
 sneer pecuHar to themselves, eitiier neglected or hunted 
 down their poetical predecessors; some of them, who de- 
 served better treatment, were even wantonly pounded in the 
 Dunciad. Let them take their share of praise, and rest con- 
 tented. Satire and morality they carried to perfection; but 
 the higher regions of poesy received neither extension nor 
 embellishment from their hands. In new modeling the lan- 
 guage of verse, they have given it an artificial gloss, a seduc- 
 tive and meretricious lustre, of which its primary purity had 
 no need. Compound epithets, which are the life of a lan- 
 guage, and in which our own is far from being deficient, 
 they almost totally discarded. It is rather remarkable, that 
 Pope, who has expressed his relish for them in Homerj 
 should be inattentive to them in his own writings. He justly 
 observes, in his preface to the IHad, that, " as a metaphor 
 is a short simile, one of these epithets is a short description.** 
 Aristotle has said of Homer, that he was the only one who 
 had discovered living words, an appellation highly charac- 
 teristic of the epithets I am mentioning, which are from the 
 recommendation and example of a few men of taste making 
 their way into our poetry a second time, after a long discon- 
 tinuance. Many valuable hints on this subject are suggest- 
 ed in the correspondence of Mr, Gray with his friend Mr. 
 West. The latter had disapproved of some expressions in 
 Gray's Agrippina, who well replies, that " the language of 
 the age is never the language of poetry;" and what is still 
 more to the purpose, '* Shakspeare's language is one of his 
 principal beauties * ; and he has no less advantages over 
 our Addisotis and Rowes in this, than in those other great 
 
 * See Mason's Life of Gray, Vol. III. the third, fourth, and fifUt 
 Letters.
 
 XVI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 excellencies you mention ; every word in him is a pic 
 ture *." 
 
 Let us now proceed to Versilication, on wliich subject 
 our superiority over our predecessors is, perhaps, too impli- 
 citly insisted on, and too generally allowed. He who is not 
 biassed by the cant of what is generally called authority, 
 nor shackled in the trammels of bigotry and system, will 
 often take occasion to observe, that many are the instances 
 where art is rather a troublesome innovator than a real be- 
 nefactor, and that, as she introduces improvement, it is not 
 unfrequently attended with frivolity and impertinence. The 
 prevailing opinion of the age is seldom a standartl of taste 
 safe enough to be trusted. The dominion over poetical 
 numbers which Pope possessed, was most astonishing and 
 unexampled, to any one who has cast an attentive eye on 
 the state in which he found them. Under his hand they ap- 
 pear to have attained a degree of polish far beyond what 
 they might have been supposed to have been capable of, 
 and indeed beyond every thing that could have been ex- 
 pected or foreseen. Yet did he not stretch his prerogative 
 too far, by reducing them to perfect mechanism ? of rhyme 
 has he not made a rattle, and of verse a plaything ? Amid 
 such attention to sound, must not sense have been a loser 
 somewhere or other ? " Pars minima est ipsa puella sui." 
 The substance itself is lost in the profusion of appendages. 
 An old satirist has well expressed himself on this head : 
 
 Alas, poor idle sound : 
 
 Since I first Phoebus knew, I never found 
 
 Tiiy interest in sacred poesie. 
 
 Thou to invention add'st but eurquedry, 
 
 * Mr. Hume seems to have exposed his want of taste in the fol- 
 lowing opinion relative to Shakspeare : " Nervous and picturesque 
 expressions, as well as descriptions, abound in him ; bnt it is in vain 
 we look either for purity or simplicity of diction." Hist, of Eng- 
 land, Vol. VI. p. 162.
 
 INTRODUCTION. XViJ 
 
 A gaudy omature : but hast no part 
 In that soul-pleasing high infused art, 
 
 Marston. Scourg. Vill. B. ii. Edit. 1599. 
 
 His translation of Homer, timed as it was, operated like 
 an inundation in the English Republic of Letters, and has 
 left to this day indelible marks on more than the surface of 
 our poetry. Co-operating with the popular stream of his 
 other works, it has formed a sort of modern Helicon, on 
 whose banks infant poets are allured to wander and to 
 dream ; from whose streams they are content to drink in- 
 spiration, without searching for remoter sources. Whether 
 its waters are equally pure, salutary, and deep, with the 
 more ancient wells of English undefiled, admits of a 
 doubt : so forcibly affected by them, however, have been 
 the minds of the public since his day, and so strangely en- 
 chanted with the studied and uniform flow of his harmony, 
 that they have not only grown indifferent, but in a great 
 measure insensible, to the mellifluous, yet artless, numbers 
 of Spenser, Shakspeare, and Fletcher, where the pauses 
 are not from their clockwork construction anticipated by the 
 ear, where there is a union of ease and energy, of dignity 
 and of grace ; and, to use the words of Dryden *, " the rude 
 sweetness of a Scotch tune, which is natural and pleasing, 
 thounfli not perfect." But the consequences that have en- 
 sued to the cause of Poetry, from the sway of Pope, are 
 not the happiest : in proportion as his works were read, and 
 the dazzle of his diction admired, proselytes, who would 
 not originally have been scribblers of verse, were gained, 
 and the art of tagging smooth couplets, without any re- 
 ference to the character of a poet, is become an almost in- 
 dispensable requisite in a fashionable education. Founded 
 upon this prevailing habit, hence has arisen, and been gra- 
 
 Prefiice to his Fables. 
 VOL. I. C
 
 XVIU INTRODUCTION. 
 
 dually making its way, a spurious taste, which, as it repro- 
 bates and sets at defiance our older masters, bears no real 
 relation to the maker or inventor. Here, perhaps, it may 
 not be amiss to remark, how soon Poesy began to mimic 
 the movements of a sister art *, by accommodating sound 
 to sense, and (if I may be allowed the terms) 
 
 To dress asd troiile the tongue, and roll the eye, 
 
 to assume affected abruptness of transition, and rapidity of 
 apostrophe. In the neglected, yet highly finished transla- 
 tion of Tasso by Fairfax, some of the tricks of versification, 
 that have been suice cultivated to so faulty an excess, began 
 first to appear, as the position in the following cursory in- 
 stances seems to indicate. 
 
 Pope has a most complete piece of mimicry of this 
 sort : 
 
 the string let fly 
 
 Twang'd short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry. 
 
 s. xxi. 449. 
 
 Twanged the sti-ing, out flew tlie quanel long, 
 And thi'oiigh the subtil air did singing pass. 
 
 B. vil St. 103. 
 
 VaHish'd her garments rich, and vestures strange, 
 
 B. xviii. St 35. 
 
 Lightned the heav'n above, the earth below 
 
 Roar'd aloud. B. xviii. st. 37. 
 
 On his right hand at last laid on the ground, 
 He leau'd his head weak like a shaking reed. 
 Dazzled his eyes, the world on wheels ran round. 
 
 B. xix. St. 28. 
 
 Vanished the shade, the sun appear'd in sight. 
 
 B. xvi. St. 68. 
 
 These are the dawnings of those mechanical beauties, 
 which refinement introduces as auxiliaries, and frequently re- 
 
 * Music.
 
 INTRODUCTION. XK 
 
 tains in her service to the neglect of higher excellencies; in 
 the infancy of an art they seldom appear : the older poets 
 disdained stooping to the character of syllable-mongers; as 
 their conceptions were vigorous, they trusted to the simple 
 provision of nature for their equipment ; and though often 
 introduced into the world ragged, they were always healthy. 
 To cull words, vary pauses, adjust accents, diversify cadence, 
 and by, as it were, balancing the line, make the first part of 
 it betray the second ; was an employment reserved for the 
 leisure and coolness of after-times, whose poetical establish- 
 ment was about to consist of a suite of traditional imagery, 
 hereditary simihes, readiness of rhyme, and volubihty of 
 syllables. 
 
 We are now come to Style, Sentiment, and Imagery, in- 
 cluding the very soul of composition. From the paucity of 
 models in the beginning of the art, every writer, as he was 
 unable to indulge his idleness by paraphrasing, and replenish 
 his stores at the expense of another, became compelled to 
 think immediately for himself: to the august tlierefore and 
 endless volume of nature he turned his eye, and transcribed 
 more or less, according to his necessities, from her eventful 
 and important page: his descriptions, of course, were the re- 
 flected images of what he was a witness to ; when the pas- 
 sions were to be exhibited, as they had not yet appeared 
 cither sophistically tricked out, or truly delineated through 
 the medium of books, to his own heart only or actual ob- 
 servation he had recourse for intelligence. This produced 
 abstracted instead of general terms, and, in short, energy, 
 character, and truth ; and gave the contents of his pages an 
 air of a proof-impression. Succeeding artists, happy to find 
 their labour facilitated, and a mass of materials ready formed 
 to their hands, thought it convenient to adopt much, and 
 add a little; and, as literature always grows confident like 
 other tilings, in proportion to its age and advances, their
 
 Xt INTRODUCTION, 
 
 posterity ran still greater hazards in acquiescing with, and 
 taking upon trust, what they found thus regularly handed 
 down to them. Ideas thus circulated must lose much of 
 their primary complexion, as the distance from their original 
 source is more or less ; some must be distorted, others frit- 
 tered away, and many totally new-vampt, in opposition to 
 their former signification ; as the volatile spirit of an exqui- 
 site essence insensibly evaporates in the course of being trans- 
 ferred from one phial to another. To a process not very 
 dissimilar to this, I am inclined to attribute the frequent life- 
 lessness of modern poetry, which too often resembles an ar- 
 tificial nosegay, the colours of which, though splendid, are 
 yet tawdry, and heightened far beyond the modesty of na- 
 ture, without any pretensions to fragrance; while that of a 
 century and an half back, appears as a garland fresli from 
 the gardens of nature, and still moist and glittering with the 
 dews of the morning. We have few better opportunities of 
 forming a comparative estimate of ancient and modern 
 poetry, than by recurring to those subjects which later 
 writers have undertaken to modernize, as in the Fables of 
 Dryden, and the Nut-brown Maid of Prior ; the original of 
 which latter performance I cannot help preferring to Matt's 
 elegant versification-piece, in which decision I cannot think 
 myself misled by a blind predilection for antiquity. It 
 should be remembered, that simplicity, though frequently 
 naked, is not consequently poor, her nakedness may be that 
 of a Grace and not of a beggar. Numerous are the in- 
 stances which must occur on an attentive perusal of both the 
 poems, where the effect of minute beauties in the original is 
 lost from expansion in the paraphrase. Prior has filled up 
 the outline too implicitly; he has left the mind of itself, 
 under every change of emotion, nothing to conceive or to 
 supply, every thing is ready expressed and done for the rea- 
 der, and we may justly allege, in the language of Cicero,
 
 INTRODUCTION. Xxi 
 
 ** Ea sunt omnia non a naturd sed a Magistro.*" As an 
 instance in point, the following stanza includes the finest cir- 
 cumstance in the whole, whic h is imagined with surprising 
 delicacy. The hand of Shakspeare could not possibly have 
 gone higher, or have touched a situation with greater nicety. 
 The Nut-brown Maid, on resolving to accompany her ba- 
 nished lover, adheres to her determination with unalterable 
 firmness ; in the course of the whole dialogue, no dastardly 
 symptom of irresolution escapes her, no selfish fear of the 
 impending dangers she was to eucounter, and no regret at 
 the comforts she had renounced. After acknowledging her 
 intention, she says, 
 
 I shall as now do more for yon 
 Than longeth to womanhede ; 
 To short my hair, a bow to bear, 
 To shoot in time of need. 
 
 But on a sudden the consequences that might ensue to 
 probably an aged and affectionate mother, who must deeply 
 feel her absence, and the rasiiness of her conduct, come 
 across her ; it is the exquisite pang of a moment, and will 
 not bear dwelling upon. Hear her exclamation, which is 
 continued from the above quoted lines : 
 
 O, my sweet mother, before all other, 
 For you I have most dread. 
 
 Her courage and resolution return. She goes on: 
 
 But now adieu ! I must ensue, 
 Where fortune doth me lead- 
 
 This is that ardent and artless language of nature that 
 baffles simulation, and fixes an indelible impression on the 
 heart, and on the memory. Prior has passed over all this 
 in silence. 
 
 * Oratio pro Munsna.
 
 XXU INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I will indulge myself still further in quoting an incident 
 from another ballad, of certainly not inferior merit to the 
 last. A mother, who is forsaken by the object of her af- 
 fections, pondering the infelicity of her lot, thus exclauns 
 over her sleeping infant : 
 
 Lie sf ill, my darlin;, sleep awhile, 
 And vviien tliou wakest sweetly smile ; 
 But smile nae as thy father did 
 To cozen maids, nay God forbid ! 
 
 J^Mdy Bothwell's Lament. 
 .Select Scot. Ball. Vol. I. 
 
 He who has a single nook in his heart for sensibility must 
 prefer such passages as this to pages of declamatory sorrow, 
 tricked out in all her most studied formalities: how would 
 these lines bear translating into what is called elegant mo- 
 dern versification ; stuffed out with general epithets, and 
 distorted with tragic apostrophe ? In the theatric depart- 
 ment, if we turn our attention to the list of performances 
 that for the last year only have been exhibited at the the- 
 atres of our capital, and compare the later pieces in that 
 list, with the very few ancient plays that still, "to the credit 
 of our fastidious taste, keep their ground amongst them, 
 we shall clearly see to what little effect Criticism, with her 
 regular code of laws, has operated ; in spite of the edicts 
 of Aristotle, the boasted improvements of style and of lan- 
 guage, and the strictest adherence to the unities, the tears 
 that fall at modern stories are easily numbered, and scarce to 
 be traced to the heart ; that key, which is most beautifully 
 feigned by the poet* to have been given by nature to Shak- 
 speare, and which was likewise in the hands of some few of 
 his contemporaries, " that oped the sacred source of sym- 
 
 * Gray's Progress of Poetrj'.
 
 INTHODUCTION. XXIM 
 
 pathetic tears," seems now, and has done for a century past, 
 irrecoverably lost. One of the most material requisites in 
 our older poets is economy, which is to composition pre- 
 cisely what conduct is to life ; we are frequently palled by 
 an opulence of description, an exuberance of imagery, and 
 a maze of allegory, without any relief whatever, unless by 
 imbecilities, prolix, uninteresting, and vulgar in the extreme. 
 This inequality of parts pervades antiquity ; a judicious re- 
 gard to the distribution of ornament, the art of blending the 
 brilliant with the chaste, of softening, strength of colours 
 with mild and corrective shades, together with the niceties 
 of method, connection, and arrangement^ are the tardy and 
 perhaps most valuable produce of later times. Though the 
 poetry of Addison assumed little or no tincture from his 
 taste for our obscurer writers (for a taste on this head he 
 undoubtedly possessed, much superior to any of his con- 
 temporaries), he still merits the thanks of every poetical 
 reader, for his elegant efforts to revive the beauties of the 
 Paradise Lost, his critique on Chevy Chase, and various 
 scattered notices of a congenial nature in his periodical 
 papers. A. Johnston, who republished the Earl of Ster- 
 line's Works in 1720, has a passage in his preface much 
 in point : he there says, " That he had the honour of 
 transmitting the author's Works to the great Mr. Addison 
 for the perusal of them, and he was pleased to signify his ap- 
 probation in these candid terms : That he had read them 
 with the greatest satisfaction ; and was pleased to give it as 
 his judgment, that the beauties of our ancient English 
 poets are too slightly passed over hy the modern writers, 
 who, out of a peculiar singularity, had rather take pains 
 to find fault than endeavour to excel." Of Tickell, the 
 friend and the editor of Mr. Addison (and who as such may 
 with propriety be mentioned after him), it has been said by 
 Goldsmith, that through all his works there is a strain of
 
 XXIV INTROBUCTION. 
 
 ballad-thinking to be found : the remark is just, and to 
 that strab he is indebted for the reception he has met with. 
 Whether he had it from reading or from nature we have still 
 to learn, as no memoirs of his life, hitherto published, are sa- 
 tisfactory enough to inform us of his ])articular studies. 
 The well-known lines which Dr. Percy has taken for a molto 
 to his Reliqucs, speak the opinion of Rowe on su<-li subjects 
 clearly ; the intention likewise which he is known to irave 
 had of publishing the Plays of Massinger, to whom he owes 
 many obligations, and from whom, indeed, he borrowed the 
 plan of his Fair Penitent*, proves his relish for old litera- 
 ture. Not to monition his edition of Shakspeare. From 
 these sources he gathered a style of dialogue which has been 
 much approved, a style, which, though not so pure as the 
 models that suggested it, yet soft, easy, and captivating, is 
 greatly preferable to, and of a very different texture from 
 the inflated and declamatory vein, which for some time past 
 has taken entire possession of our stage. It has been often 
 alleged against Pope, that he was not averse to pilfering, 
 snug, from obscure poetry : an attentive perusal of his works 
 soon confirms the justice of the charge; yet he appears ra- 
 ther to have satisfied himself with what accident threw in his 
 way, than to have deviated into a systematic or serious exa- 
 mination of such sort of reading. The sketch f he has left 
 for " A discourse on the Rise and Progress of EngUsh 
 Poetry," imperfect as it is, may fairly be supposed to contain 
 names of more authors that he had heard of than he had 
 read. Young, a poet of infinite originality both as to style 
 and matter, has no marks of obscure reading whatever; the 
 fertility of his own resources was more than equal to his 
 wants; this might preclude him from all recourse to such as- 
 sistance. If we may judge of his poetry by internal evi- 
 
 * See Fatal Dowry, M. Mason's edition. 
 t See Ruffhead.
 
 INTRODUCTION. XXY 
 
 dence, he should seem to have composed with great rapidity, 
 and little after-correction. The prose of Young has more 
 imagery than the poetry of Pope. Had Akenside been a 
 worse scholar, he had been a better poet ; to an imagina- 
 tion like bis, that understood selection, the Gothic system 
 would have been far more productive than the heathen my- 
 thology. In Thomson it is difficult to discover any material 
 tracer of imitation, or even to conjecture who were his fa- 
 vourites among the poets of his country. His Seasons dif- 
 fer as widely in their style, which has in it a peculiar swell, 
 as in their contents, from every other poet. When such 
 inconsiderable advances towards I'escuing from oblivion the 
 several writers, from whom the contents of these volumes 
 are drawn, were made by those, who from their situation 
 and abilities were best suited to the task ; when brother 
 bards were not only remiss in restoring them to popularity, 
 but by their neglect and silence seemed to insinuate they 
 were undeserving of it ; we must not be surprised that their 
 merits remained so long unobserved, and that little solicitude 
 was expressed at their fate by the body of the people, 
 
 I cannot conclude without noticing the late very incom- 
 plete and careless edition of the English Poets, commonly 
 called Johnson's Edition, in which so few of our older 
 classics appear. It is well known, that the Doctor was ever 
 glad to escape the censure which the work had fallen un- 
 der, by alleging that he had nothing to do with the selec- 
 tion ; he had engaged himself only to furnish a set of Lives 
 to such a list as the booksellers, who were the responsible 
 pubUshers of the work, should think proper. The excuse 
 is probably true, but surely most unsatisfactory. Johnson 
 was at the time no hungry hireling of a bookseller ; he most 
 deservedly revelled in the praise of the public, and a com- 
 petency was secured to him for life by a pension. Was it
 
 XXVi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 not, therefore, incumbent on him, in a work which bore so 
 close a relation to the honour of his country, which, from 
 its elegance and magnitude, afforded the happiest opportu- 
 nity of uniting our poets, both ancient and modern, in one 
 comprehensive view, and of combining their respective ex- 
 cellencies in one common interest ? ancient poetry, in thus 
 being exhibited to the public eye, would soon have made 
 good her claims to notice, and of herself recovered the long- 
 lost verdure of her bays ; whilst the justice of that latitude 
 which is commonly assigned to later improvements, from a 
 fair opportunity of a comparative examination, might have 
 been more strictly ascertained. Dr. Johnson gave up his 
 life to the literature of his country ; a portion of it would 
 not have been thrown away, had it been dedicated to the 
 completion of such an undertaking. Not that I consider 
 the turn of his mind as pecuUarly qualifying him for a critic 
 of oUch subjects*, which require more imagination than 
 judgment (by no means the Doctor's case) ; but that what 
 he had to say even on things which he did not properly 
 understand, is always worth hearing, and that the lustre of 
 his great mind seldom beamed on any thing without lighting 
 us to some new truth, latent trait of character, or peculiarity 
 hitherto unobserved ; and let his strictures liave been ever 
 so injurious, an elegant edition of the text was at all events 
 secured. In the esteem of the booksellers he stood very 
 high, perhaps higher than any man of his age; and there 
 cannot be a doubt, but that the management of the work, 
 on the least desire intimated by him, would have been vest- 
 ed in his hands with the utmost gratitude and confidence. 
 
 * The acrimony of Dr. Johnson's poetical censures has been uni- 
 versally reprobated ; but the unaccountable infelicity with which he 
 has dealt out his costive praise to particular quotations in the course 
 of bis Lives is still more extraordinary.
 
 INTRODUCTION. XXVU 
 
 The imperfections of the work are still further, to be re- 
 gretted, when we recollect, that such works are seldom ha- 
 zarded above once in fifty years ; the public cannot digest a 
 repetition of them. As the matter stands, however, a most 
 unworthy rabble have gained a passport to the Temple of 
 Fame, much after the following ridiculous predicament, so 
 well described on a very different occasion by Mr. Burke, 
 whose words we may literally apply. " He put together a 
 piece of joinery so closely indented, and whimsically dove- 
 tailed ; a cabinet so variously inlaid ; such a piece of diversi- 
 fied mosaic, such a tesselated pavement, without cement, 
 here a bit of black stone, and there a bit of white, ***** 
 that it was indeed a very curious show, but utterly unsafe to 
 touch, and unsure to stand on; the colleagues whom he had 
 assorted at the same board, stared at each other, and were 
 obliged to ask. Sir, your name !" To have shed their twink- 
 ling radiance the miscellanies o'er, was the highest hohour 
 many of those, who are here adopted as legitimate and es- 
 tablished poets, could affect ; to a more conspicuous and 
 dignified hemisphere they had not the slightest pretensions. 
 The many dogmatical and injurious censures contained in the 
 lives themselves, for which we have scarce the shadow of a 
 reason assigned, but are generally silenced with the old apoph- 
 thegm of Homer, AiocriS' ttsKsUlo jSaAij, have additionally 
 contributed to the unpopularity of the work ; though, as fine 
 pieces of nervous writing, pregnant with valuable detached 
 opinions, happy illustrations, nice discussions, and a variety 
 of curious incidental information, they will ever attract no- 
 tice : but as judicious and impartial critiques on the merits 
 of the respective writers, as just and discriminative represen- 
 tations of the subjects in question, they will never be con- 
 sidered by the generality of readers. Such, however, is the 
 fate of the work, that we seldom see it entire, but meet
 
 XXViii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 with its contents wandering separately and disjointed in 
 every catalogue. Like discordant atoms, which, when 
 driven together by a superior force, meet but for a moment 
 to show their dissimilarity, and, from a natural opposition, 
 refuse to coalesce ; but on the cessation of the cause which 
 brought them originally together, hastily fly back again to 
 their pristine conditions.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 The abstract accounts here given, from the narrow limits of my plan, 
 must be superficial, and calculated rather to excite curiosity than to 
 gratify it ; they do not affect to convey any fresh information, or to 
 abound in anecdotes hitherto unnoticed : it is hoped, however, that 
 they will be deemed necessary by common readers, and no unaccept- 
 nble relative appendage to the several extracts. 
 
 SIR JOHN BEAUMONT, 
 
 1 HE best of whose works is his Bosworth Field, which merits 
 re-publication for the easy flow of its numbers, and the spirit 
 with which it is written. In the early part of his life he dedi- 
 cated many of his hours to various translations, which, together 
 with other pieces, were all collected and published after his 
 death by his son. He was descended from an ancient family 
 at Grace-Dieu, in Leicestershire, and was admitted, at fourteen 
 years of age, a gentleman commoner of Broadgate Hall, Oxon. 
 In 1596 he removed from hence to one of the inns of court, 
 but soon quitted the study of the law, and, retiring to his na- 
 tive place, married one of the Fortescue family. He was 
 knighted in 1626 by King Charles, and died in 1628. His 
 poems were ushered into the world by complimentary verses 
 from Tho. Nevill, Th. Hawkins, Ben. Jonson, M. Drayton, 
 and Ph. King. 
 
 WILLIAM BROWNE. 
 
 The basest metals are frequently, in the ore, the most beauti- 
 ful, and catch the eye the soonest. The Italian writers were his 
 models ; and he was either too young or too injudicious to re- 
 sist the contagion of forced allusions and conceits, and the rest 
 of that trash which an incorrect age not only endured but
 
 XXX BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 practised and approved. His descriptions are sometimes pue- 
 rile, and at other times over-wrought ; one while lost in a pro- 
 fusion of colours, and at another bald and spiritless: yet he 
 seems to have been a great admirer, and no inattentive ob- 
 server, of the charms of nature, as his works abound in minute 
 rural imagery, though indiscriminately selected. From the 
 verses prefixed to his book he should seem to have written very 
 early in life. Had it been otherwise, and chaste and whole- 
 some models been thrown in his way, much might have been 
 expected from his natural powers. The praise he has received 
 from Selden, Davies, Jonson, and Drayton, and the notice he 
 obtained from Milton, are real honours that almost counterba- 
 lance oblivion ; at least, they prove that he did not deserve it. 
 The memoirs of his life are imperfect ; he appears to have 
 been born at Taystock, in Devonshire; to have spent some 
 time both at Exeter College, Oxon, and the Middle Temple; 
 he afterwards became a retainer to the house of Pembroke. 
 The passage that Winstanley quotes as a specimen of his man- 
 ner is injurious to his merits, and by no means characteristic of 
 Browne ; it even blemishes the unsatisfactory narratives of that 
 miserable biographer. The following testimony Drayton has 
 left of him : 
 
 Then the two Beaumonts and my Browne arose, 
 My dear companions, whom I freely chose 
 My bosom friends ; and, in their several ways, 
 
 Rightly born poets . 
 
 Of Poets atid Poesy. 
 
 The verses prefixed to Massinger's Duke of Milan, signed 
 W. B. I cannot agree with Mr. Reed in supposing to mean 
 William Browne. I will conclude this article with a poetical 
 picture which Browne has left us of himself : it is iu his usual 
 fantastic manner : 
 
 Among the rest, a shepherd (tliough but young. 
 Yet hartned to his pipe) with all the skill 
 His few years could, began to fit his quill. 
 By Tav^s speedy sixeam he fed his flock, 
 Where when he sat to sport him on a rock. 
 The water-nymphs would often come unto him, 
 And for a dance with many gay gifts woo him, 
 Now posies of this flow'r, and then of that. 
 Now with fine shells, then with a rushy hat,
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. XXxi 
 
 With coral or red stones brought from the deep 
 To make him bracelets or to mark his sheep. 
 Willy he hight, who by the ocean's queen 
 More che^r'd to sing tiian such young lads had been. 
 Took his best-framed pipe, and thus gan move 
 His voice of Walla, Tavy's fairest love. 
 
 Book ii. Song 3. 
 
 WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT. 
 
 A POET worthy of notice, though unequal to that profusion 
 of praise with which his contemporaries have loaded him. 
 The wits of his day seem to have vied with each other in say- 
 ing fine things of him, as may be seeft from the prefatory 
 verses to his works in 1651. But, setting aside panegyric, his 
 proficiency in polite letters deservedly places him in the first 
 rank among the wits of his age; and, from what we may now 
 judge from what he has left, we may- trust the testimonies of 
 his biographers as to his being both an orator and a philosopher. 
 Good-sense and solidity are the most prominent features of his 
 poetry ; in elegance, or even neatness of style, he is deficient. 
 The place of his birth is uncertain. Lloyd, in his memoirs, 
 attributes it to Burford in Oxfordshire ; Wood, to Northway in 
 Gloucestershire: the former places his birth in 1615, and the 
 latter in l6ll. He was, however, elected from Westminster a 
 student of Christ-church, Oxford, in 1628; and, dying during 
 his proctorship, Nov. 29, 1643, was buried, according to 
 Wood, " towards the upper end of the south isle joyning to 
 the choire of the cathedral of Christ-church." Towards 
 Government he appears to have been particularly well-affected, 
 and to have suffered but few public occasions to pass without 
 exhibiting a specimen of his loyalty. Whether his Latin com- 
 positions have ever been collected, I know not ; the following 
 pieces are all that I am able to point out ; the list, I have no 
 doubt, might be considerably enlarged. In the " Musarum 
 Oxoniensium Charisteria," &c. 1638, he has a copy of long 
 and short verses. In the " Britanniae Natalis," Oxon. 1630, 
 a copy of Iambics. In the " Britannic! Perigaeum," Oxon. 
 1638, another copy of Iambics. In the " Protelia Anglo-Ba- 
 tava," Oxon. 1641, a copy of Alcaics ; in the " Mus. Oxonien- 
 sium E7rC1>7p," &c. 1643, another copy of Alcaics ; these were
 
 XXXII BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 written during his proctorship. In the same collection are a 
 copy of long and short verses, signed Tho. Cartwright, ex xde 
 Ch. perhaps a relation of our autiior's. In " Death Repeal'd, 
 by a thankful memorial sent from Christ-church in Oxford, 
 celebrating the noble Deserts of the Right Hon. Paule late 
 Lord Viscount Bayning," a copy of long verses and Iambics. 
 In the " Mus. Oxon. pro Rege suo Soteria," 1633, a copy of 
 Iambics. In the " Vitis Carolinae Gemma altera," &c. 1633, 
 a short copy of Alcaics. In the edition, 1631, of Cartwright's 
 Poems and Piays, there are some verses wanting in the copy on 
 the death of Sir B. Grevill, p. 303; the deficiency may be sup- 
 plied from a copy, published with many others on the same 
 occasion at Oxford, printed in 1644; they are there signed W. 
 C. the initials of Cartwright's name. There is likewise, in the 
 same pamphlet, another copy with the same signature, but 
 whether by him or no is uncertain. 
 
 RICHARD CORBET, 
 
 Geneeous, witty, and eloquent. James the First, who was 
 struck with him, made him Dean of Christ-church ; he was 
 afterwards successively Bishop of Oxford and Norwich. He 
 appears, from Wood, to have been of that poetical party who, 
 by inviting B. Jonson to come to Oxford, rescued him from 
 the arms of a sister university, who has long treated the Muses 
 with indignity, and turned a hostile and disheartening eye on 
 those who have added most celebrity to her name *. We do 
 
 Spenser, whose college disappointments forced him from the 
 university. Milton is reported to have even received corporal pu- 
 nishment there. Dryden has left a testimony, in a prologue spoken 
 at Oxford, much against bis own university. Tlie incivility, not to 
 give it a harsher appellation, which Mr. Gray met with, is well 
 knovni. That Alma Mater has not remitted her wonted illiberality 
 is to be fairly presmued from a passage in her present most poetic 
 son, Mr. Mason: 
 
 Science there 
 
 Sat musing : and to those that lov'd the lore 
 Pointed, with mystic wand, to truths involv'd 
 In geometric symbols, scorning those 
 Perchance too much who woo'd the thriftless muse. 
 
 English Gwden.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. XXXUi 
 
 not find that Ben expressed any regret at the change of his 
 situation: companions, whose minds and pursuits were similar 
 to his own, are not always to be found in the gross atmosphere 
 of the muddy Cam, though easily met with on the more genial 
 banks of the Isis. 
 
 Xargior hie campos aether , 
 
 Corbet's verses have considerable humour, feeling, and neat- 
 ness. His Poetica Stromata, 1647, 8, were written when very 
 young, and not designed for publication. His Iter Boreale 
 seems a sort of imitation of Horace's Brandusian Journey. 
 Davenant has " A Journey into Worcestershire," p. 215, fol. 
 edit, in a similar vein. Corbet's name appears amongst the 
 list of wags who prefixed mock commendatory verses to Co- 
 ryate's Crudities. He was, in 1582, born at Ewel in Surrey, ' 
 educated at Westminster, and thence elected a student of 
 Christ-church, Oxford, and died in 1635. The following anec- 
 dotes are extracted from Aubrey's MSS. in the Ashmolean 
 Museum, verbatim. They form a clue to Corbet's character, 
 and as such deserve preservation. " After he was D. of Divi- 
 nity, he sang ballads at the Crosse at Abingdon; on a market- 
 day he and some of his comerades were at the taverne by the 
 Crosse (which, by the way, was then the finest of England, I 
 remember it when I was a freshman, it was admirable curious 
 Gothicque architecture, and fine figures in the nitches, 'twas 
 one of those built by King * for his queen). The bal- 
 lad-singer complayned he had no custome, he could not put off 
 his ballads. The jolly Dr. puts off his gowne, and puts on the 
 ballad-singer's leathern jacket, and being a handsome man, and 
 a rare full voice, he presently vended a great many, and had a 
 great audience. After the death of Dr. Goodwin, he was 
 made Deane of Christ-church. He had a good interest with 
 great men, as you may finde in his poems ; and that with the 
 then great favourite the Duke of Bucks, his excellent wit ever 
 'twas of recommendation to him. I have forgot the story, but 
 at the same time Dr. Fell thought to have carried it. Dr. Cor- 
 bet put a pretty trick on him to let him take a journey to Lon- 
 
 * Camden says it was erected (as was reported) in the reign of 
 Henry VI. by the fraternity of St. Cross, which he instituted. .See 
 Camden, by Gilwon, p. 138. 
 
 VOL. I. d
 
 tXXlV BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 don for it, when he had alreadie the graunt of it. llis con- 
 versation was extreme pleasant. Dr. Stubbins was one of his 
 cronies; he was a jolly, fat Doctor, and a very good honse- 
 keeper: as Dr. Corbet and he were riding in Lob-lane in wet 
 weather ('tis an extraordinarie deepe dirty lane) the coach fell, 
 and Dr. Corbet said, that Dr. S. was up to the elbows in mud, 
 and he was up to the elbows in Stubbins. A. D. 1628, he was 
 made Bishop of Oxford, and I have heard that he had an ad- 
 mirable grave and venerable aspect. One time as he was con- 
 firming, the country people pressing in to see the ceremonie, 
 said he, * Beare off there, or ile confirm ye with my staffe.' 
 Another time, being to lay his hand on the head of a man very 
 bald, he turns to his chaplaine, and said, * Some dust, Lushing- 
 ton,' to keepe his hand from slipping. There was a man with 
 a great venerable beard; said the Bishop, ' You behind the 
 beard.' His chaplaine, Dr. Lushington, was a very learned 
 and ingeniose man, and they loved one another. The Bishop 
 would sometimes take the key of the wine-cellar, and he and 
 his chaplaine would go and lock themselves in and be merry ; 
 then first he layes down his episcopal hood, There laves the 
 Doctor;' then he puts off his gowne, ' There layes the Bishop ;' 
 then 'twas, * Here's to thee, Corbet;' ' Here's to thee, 
 Lushington'." 
 
 THOMAS CAREW. 
 
 The consummate elegance of this gentleman entitles him to 
 very considerable attention. Sprightly, polished, and per- 
 spicuous, every part of his works displays the man of sense, 
 gallantry, and breeding; inded, many of his productions have 
 a certain happy finish, and betray a dexterity both of thought 
 and expression much superior to any thing of his contempora- 
 ries, and, on similar subjects, rarely surpassed by his succes- 
 sors. Carew has the ease without the pedantry of Waller, 
 and perhaps less conceit. He reminds us of the best manner 
 of Lord Lyttelton. Waller is too exclusively considered as the 
 first man who brought versification to any thing like its present 
 standard. Carew's pretensions to the same merit are seldom 
 sufficiently either considered or allowed. Though Love had 
 long before softened us into civility, yet it was of a formal,
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. XXXV 
 
 ostentatious, and romantic cast ; and, with a very few excep- 
 tions, its effects upon composition were similar to those on 
 manners. Something more light, unaffected, and alluring, 
 was still wanting ; in every thing but sincerity of intention it 
 was, deficient. Panegyric, declamatory and nauseous, was 
 rated by those to whom addressed, on the principle of Ru- 
 bens's taste for beauty, by its quantity, not its elegance. Satire, 
 dealing in rancour rather than reproof, was more inclined to 
 lash than to laugh us out of our vices ; and nearly counter- 
 acted her intentions by her want of good manners, Carew and 
 Waller jointly began to remedy these defects. In them, gal- 
 lantry, for the first time, was accompanied by the Graces, the 
 fulsomeness of panegyric forgot in its gentility, and the edge 
 of satire rendered keener in proportion to its smoothness. Suck- 
 ling says of our author, in his Sessions of the Poets, that 
 
 the issue of his brain 
 
 Was seldom brought forth but with trouble and pain. 
 
 In Lloyd's Worthies *, Carew is likewise called " elaborate 
 and accurate." However the fact might be, the internal evi- 
 dence of his poems says no such thing. Hume has properly 
 remarked, that Waller's pieces " aspire not to the sublime, still 
 less to the pathetic." Carew, in his beautiful Masque, has 
 given instances of the former; and in his Epitaph on Lady 
 Mary Villiers, eminently of the latter. It appears, that in the 
 former part of his life he had been intimate with the Earl of 
 Clarendon, as his character is drawn in his Life and Conti- 
 nuation f. The most material circumstances are the follow- 
 ing : " He was very much esteemed by the most eminent per- 
 sons of the court, and well looked upon by the King himself, 
 some years before he could obtain to be sewer to the King ; 
 and when the King conferred that place upon him, it was not 
 without the regret of the whole Scotch nation, which united 
 themselves in recommending another gentleman. Clarendon 
 adds, what it would be injuring the cause of virtue to conceal, 
 " But his glory was, that, after fifty years of his life, spent 
 with less severity or exactness than it ought to have been, he 
 died with the greatest remorse for that licence, and with the 
 
 P. 159, fol. edit. 
 
 t Vol. I. p. 36. Sir W. Davenant has a copy of verses to CarWj 
 p. 252, foUo edit.
 
 XXXVJ BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 greatest manifestation o<" Christianity that his best friends could 
 desire." This proves, likewise, that he did not die young, as 
 has been commonly represented. Phillips says of Carew, that 
 " he was reckoned among the chiefest of his lime for delicacy 
 of wit and poetic fancy ; by the strength of which his extant 
 poems still maintain their fame amidst the curious of the pre 
 sent age." Theat. Poet, p. 174, edit. 1660. The Biographia 
 Britannica and Dr. Percy place his death in 1039. The Bio- 
 graphia adds, that he was a member of Corpus Christi Col- 
 lege, O.xfordj though he took no degree. 
 
 RICHARD CRASHAW, 
 
 A POET who deserves preservation for better reasons than his 
 having accidentally attracted the notice of Pope. He has ori- 
 ginality in many parts, and as a translator is entitled to the 
 highest applause. Of this, Milton was sensible, as every 
 reader of his Sospito ifHerode will instantly perceive. With a 
 peculiar devotional cast, he possessed one of those ineifable 
 minds which border on enthusiasm, and, when fortunately di- 
 rected, occasionally produce great things *. But he had too 
 much religion to devote his whole strength to poetry ; he trifled 
 for amusement, and never wrote for fame. To his attainments, 
 which were numerous and elegant, all his biographers have 
 borne witness. He was educated at the Charter House, after 
 previously sharing the beneficence of Sir H, Yelverton and Sir 
 Randolph Crewf, and afterwards became scholar of Pem- 
 broke, and from thence fellow of Peter House, Cambridge. 
 For reasons best known to himself, which it would at all times 
 have been impertinent, and is now fruitless to inquire after, he 
 renounced the religion of the Church of England, and died, in 
 the year 1630, canon of Loretto, to use the words of Cowley, 
 both a " poet and a saint J." 
 
 * Henry More, the platonic pliilosopher, one of the first men of 
 this or any other country, is an instance in point. His poetry is 
 very moderate ; but his prose works highly deserve republication for 
 their acuteness, imagination, and style. 
 
 t Lloyd's Memoirs, p. 618. 
 
 t See bis Verses on the Death of Crashaw.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 SIR JOHN DAVIES, 
 
 A MAN of low extraction, who, by dint of natural abilities, 
 made his way to great worldly, as well as literary eminence. 
 The extent of his honours was, to be appointed Lord Chief 
 Justice of the King's Bench ; but he died suddenly before he 
 was sworn in. Wood says, " He was held in great esteem by 
 the noted scholars of his time ; among whom were, William 
 Camden, Sir Jo. Harrington, the poet, Ben Jonson, Jo. Selden, 
 Facete Hoskyns, R. Corbet of Christ Church, and others, who 
 esteemed him to be a person of a bold spirit, of a sharp and ready ' 
 wit, and completely learned, but in truth more a scliolar than 
 a lawyer." He has preserved a list of his publications, which, 
 exclusive of his poetry, are very numerous. His Nosce Teip- 
 sum is the earliest philosophical poem this country has pro- 
 duced ; the language is pure, demonstrative, and neat to a 
 degree. The authoress of the Muses' Library has well re- 
 marked, " There is a peculiar happiness in his similies, being 
 introduced to illustrate more than adorn, which renders them 
 as useful as entertaining, and distinguishes his from those of 
 every other author*." The following instance, which is most 
 happy, will sufficiently prove the truth of Mrs. Cowper's re- 
 mark : 
 
 " But as Noah's pigeon, which returrfd no more, 
 Did show the footing ground for all ttie tlood ; 
 So when good souls departed through death's door 
 Come not again, it shows their dwelling's good;" 
 
 This poem was republished in 1714, by Tate, and addressed 
 to the Earl of Dorset, who was very fond of Davies. There 
 was another edition in 1773. He was born at Chisgrove, in 
 Wiltshire, 1570 ; was a commoner of Queen's College, Ox- 
 ford. He studied the law at the Middle Temple, and died in 
 1626. 
 
 This remark is taken by Cibber, in the Lives of the Poets, 
 without any acknowledgment.
 
 XXXVIU BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 The dialogue between Ulysses and the Syren, from one of 
 this gentleman's plays, which Dr. Percy has given us, will 
 give the reader no very exalted opinion of the author's abili- 
 ties ; the same specimen is quoted in the Muses' Library, 
 though not singly : it is neat and unaffected. But Daniel has 
 a right to the merit of still higher excellence. Though very 
 rarely sublime, he has skill in the pathetic, and his pages are 
 disgraced with neither pedantry nor conceit. We find, both 
 in his poetry and prose, such a legitimate and rational flow of 
 language as approaches nearer the style of the 18th than the 
 16th century, and of which we may safely assert, that it will 
 never become obsolete. He certainly was the Atticus of his 
 day. It seems to have been his error to have entertained too 
 great a diffidence of his own abilities. Constantly contented 
 with the sedate propriety of good sense, which he no sooner at- 
 tains than he seems to rest satisfied, though his resources, had 
 he but made the effort, would have carried him much further. 
 In thus escaping censure, he is not always entitled to praise. 
 From not endeavouring to be great, he sometimes misses of be- 
 ing respectable. The constitution of his mind seems often to 
 have failed him in the sultry and exhausting regions of the 
 Muses; for, though generally neat, easy, and perspicuous, he 
 too frequently grows slack, languid, and enervated. In pe- 
 rusing his long historical poem we grow sleepy at the dead ebb 
 of his narrative, notwithstanding being occasionally relieved 
 with some touches of the pathetic. Unfortunate in the choice 
 of his subject, he seems fearful of supplying its defects by di- 
 gressional embellishment; instead of fixing upon one of a more 
 fanciful cast, which the natural coolness of his judgment would 
 necessarily have corrected, he has cooped himself up within 
 the limited and narrow pale of dry events; instead of casting 
 his eye on the general history of human nature, and giving his 
 genius a range over her immeasurable fields, he has confined 
 himself to an abstract diary of fortune; instead of presenting 
 lis with pictures of truth from the effects of the passions, he 
 has versified the truth of action only; he has sufficiently, 
 therefore, shown the historian, but by no means the poet. For, 
 to use a sentiment of Sir Wm. Davenant's, " Truth narrative 
 and past is the idol of historians (who worship a dead thing),
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. XXXU 
 
 and truth operative, and by its effects continually alive, is the 
 mistress of poets, who hath not her existence in matter but in 
 reason *." Daniel has often the softness of Rowe without his 
 effeminacy. In his Complaint of Cleopatra he has caught 
 Ovid's manner very happily, as he has no obscurities either of 
 style or language, neither pedantry nor affectation, all of which 
 have concurred in banishing from use the works of his contem- 
 poraries. The oblivion he has met with is peculiarly unde- 
 served; he has shared their fate, though innocent of their 
 faults. Daniel enjoyed the friendship and the praises of the 
 most eminent men of his age. Drayton thus speaks of him: 
 
 Amongst these, Samuel Daniel, whom if I 
 
 May speak of, but to censure do deny, 
 
 Only have heard some wise-men him rehearse. 
 
 To be too much historian in verse. 
 
 His rhymes were smootli, his metres well did close, 
 
 But yet his manner better fitted prose. 
 
 Of Poets and Poesy. 
 
 Edmund Bolton and Gabriel Harvey, the former a professed 
 critic, and the latter the friend of Spenser, and a promoter of 
 the literature of his country, both mention Daniel with respect, 
 as a polisher and purifier of the English language. W. Browne 
 calls him " well-Ianguag'd Daniel." B. II. Song 2.-r-Spenser 
 has left Daniel's character. See Colin Clout's come Home 
 again. Vol. IV. p. 276, Hugh. edit. Ben Jonson, in his con- 
 versation with Drummond, has observed, that through the 
 Civil Wars there is not a single battle. The remark is shrewd, 
 but not true. He likewise adds, which is still more exception- 
 able, that Daniel is no poet. There seems some envy in this, 
 Daniel has himself hinted, j^at he outlived his reputation : 
 
 but years hatli done this wrong, 
 
 To make me write too much, and live too long. 
 
 Dedicat. qf Philotas. 
 
 He was born at Taunton in Somersetshire, was a commoner 
 of Magdalen-hall, Oxon ; became gentleman extraordinary, 
 and afterwards groom of the privy-chamber to the Queen 
 Anne, James the First's consort. He succeeded Spenser (who 
 died about 1598) as Poet Laureat. He died at Beckington in 
 
 * Preface to Gondibert, p. 6, fol. edit
 
 xl BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Somersetshire in I619, and was honoured with a monument in 
 that church at the sole expense of the justly celebrated Anne 
 Countess of Pembroke, to whom he had been tutor, and to 
 whose poetry and patronage he pays many flattering and grate- 
 ful compliments in the dedication to the tragedy of Cleopatra. 
 We are told by Dr. Percy, that the same lady, in a full-length 
 of herself at Appleby Castle in Cumberland, had a small por- 
 trait of Daniel inserted. I cannot conclude this sketch without 
 submitting to my reader the following lines from his dedication 
 to the tragedy of Philotas, as they seem to contain no inconsi- 
 derable portion of prophetic truth : 
 
 And know, sweet prince, when you shall come to know, 
 That 'tis not in the power of kings to i-aise 
 A spirit for verse, that is not bom tliereto, 
 Nor are they bom in every prince's days : 
 For late Eliza's reign gave birth to more 
 Than all the kings of England did h^ore. 
 And it may he, the genius of tliat time 
 JVovld leave to her the glory in that kind, 
 . And that the utmost powers of English rhyme 
 Should be within her peaceful reign conjin'd ; 
 For since that time, our songs could never thrive. 
 But lain as if forlorn ; tiiough in the prime 
 Of this new raising season, we did strive 
 To bring the best we could unto the time. 
 
 To the Prince. 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND, 
 
 The son of Sir John Drummond, of Hawthornden, Gentle- 
 man-usher to James VI. I should think myself highly unpar- 
 donable were I to suffer any of those illiberal and envious pre- 
 judices that canker many minds, and are too often indulged 
 against a great sister-kingdom, to prevent me from enriching 
 my collection with some flowers from the other side the Tweed. 
 This gentleman, as a Scotchman, may not perhaps, strictly 
 speaking, belong to my plan. To the scholar and the wit he 
 added every elegant attainment : after forming his taste at the 
 university of Edinburgh, he enlarged his views by travelling, 
 and a cultivation of the modern languages. At first he ap- 
 pears to have studied the law, but soon relinquished it for more
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. xli 
 
 congenial pursuits. To a heart thus eminently the seat of the 
 graces, love soon found its way; we find him accordingly 
 smitten with a lady named Cunningham, of an old and honour- 
 able family : but death put a stop to his happiness ; she was 
 hastily snatched from him immediately after consenting to give 
 him her hand. This circumstance, to a mind like his, pre- 
 viously exposed by nature to the anguish of the finer feelings, 
 and by a habit of retirement to reflections of a serious and ab- 
 stracted cast, must have had no small share in tincturing his 
 compositions with that interesting and tender melancholy that 
 takes every feeling reader with an irresistible charm. From 
 the particular commendation Phillips has noticed him with, it 
 is not improbable that he retailed the opinions of his uncle Mily 
 ton, as many of Drummond's combinations, and some of his 
 phraseology, is to be traced in Milton. Phillips adds, that he 
 was " utterly disregarded and laid aside in his time *." Ben. 
 Jonson so much admired him, that he undertook a journey 
 from London on foot into Scotland, and spent some time with 
 him. Some of their conversation is preserved. Drayton thus 
 mentions him: 
 
 And my dear Dmmraond, to whom much I owe 
 For his much love, and proud was I to know, 
 His poesy, for which two worthy men, 
 I Menstryt still shall love, and Hawthomden. 
 
 Of Poets and Poesy. 
 
 "Without ostentatious praise (which is always to be suspected), 
 it is but truth to observe, that many of his sonnets, those more 
 especially which are divested of Italian conceits, resemble the 
 best Greek epigrams in their best taste, in that exquisite deli- 
 cacy of sentiment, and simplicity of expression, for which our 
 language has no single term, but which is known to all classical 
 readers by the word aJPiKua. It is in vain we lament the fate 
 of many of our poets, who have undeservedly fallen victims to 
 a premature oblivion, when the finished productions of this 
 man are little known, and still less read. May we not exclaim^ 
 in the words of Antipa^er, 
 
 Theat. Poet. p. 195. 
 
 t The residence of Sir W. Alexander, a poet whom he had just 
 mentioned, who was afterwards Earl of Stirling.
 
 x\n BrOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Mvajuocrvvaf, jua7>tf i' f|o5(^a Krt,\X6ira. 
 
 TttJv maiiuiy aj^iv aJs Siorf ^jvafxjf *. Antholog, 
 
 According to the ingenious and able Mr. Pinkerton, he was 
 born in 1S85, and died, aged 64, in 1649. Anc. Scot. Poems, 
 Vol. I. p. 123. 
 
 SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT, 
 
 The son of an Oxford vintner, who lived at the Crown Inn, 
 a house which the immortal Shakspeare frequented in his jour- 
 nies from London to Warwickshire. His mother, according to 
 the MSS. of Aubrey, was exceedingly beautiful, and very ele- 
 gant, both in her conversation and address. Davenant, in his 
 social moments, would often insinuate that Shakspeare might 
 have had his reasons for his visits there. This idea, which was 
 hazarded over a bottle (probably without the least reference to 
 his real sentiments), has been since circulated as not destitute 
 of foundation. At first setting out in life he became a page to 
 Sir F. Greville Lord Brooke, a writer himself, and a friend to 
 the Muses f. He first recommended himself, by his writings, 
 to Mr. Endymion Porter, and Mr. Henry Jermyn, afterwards 
 Earl of St. Albans, to whom he dedicated his Madagascar. 
 Amidst the various avocations that a life of incident subjected 
 him to, his mind must have been singularly fertile, and his wit 
 peculiarly ready, or we should not have had so bulky a col- 
 lection as his works afford us. He appears to have been en- 
 gaged in a variety of contradictory characters. He was by 
 turns a soldier, a projector, a manager, an envoy %, and a wit. 
 
 Periisti cnim : te autem multnm defleverimt filiae 
 Mnemosynes, mater vero prae aliis Calliope. 
 Quid deftinctis ingemimus natis, cum defendere 
 Liberis Orcum ne Diis quidem potestas ? 
 t Davenant said of him, he " was a good wit, and had been a good 
 poet in his youth. He wrote a poem in folio, which he printed not 
 till he was old, and then with too much judgement and refining 
 spoyled it, which was at first a delicate thing." Aubrey's MSS. 
 
 :j: He was sent, by advice from the Queen, to persuade Cliarles to 
 give up the Church. Davenant was impertinently forward on the 
 occasion, and was dismissed the presence with unusual reprehen- 
 sion. See Clarendon's Hist, of the Reb. Vol. Ill, p. 1.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. xlui 
 
 On the decline of the royalists, whose cause he had espoused, 
 he sought refuge in France, where he wrote part of his Gondi- 
 bert at Paris; and, after finishing little more than the first book, 
 printed it with his Epistle to Mr. Hobbes, together with the 
 answer. It was attacked in a satirical pamphlet by Sir J. Den- 
 ham, J. Doime, Sir Allen Brodrick, and others, under the fol- 
 lowing title: " Certain Verses, written by several of the Au- 
 thor's Friends, to be reprinted with the second Edition of Gon- 
 dibert." London, 1653. An answer was returned by Dave- 
 nant, with some temper, in a similar vein, intituled, " The in- 
 comparable Poem of Gondibert vindicated from the Wit-Com- 
 bats of Four Esquires, Clinias, Dametas, Sancho, and Jack 
 Pudding." London, 1655 *. During his residence abroad, at 
 the instigation of the Queen, he collected a body of unem- 
 ployed artificers, by permission of the French King, and set 
 sail for the new colony in Virginia f. He was, however, inter- 
 cepted by a ship belonging to the Parliament, and sent a pri- 
 soner to Cowes Castle. Here, with great manliness of mind, 
 he alleviated the tediousness of confinement by continuing his 
 Heroic Poem. From hence he was removed to the Tower, 
 and would most probably have sufTered, had not an accident 
 prevented it, which, as it displays humanity on the one side, 
 and great gratitude on the other, deserves recording. Dave- 
 nant, in his military capacity under the Duke of Newcastle, 
 had taken two Aldermen of York, to whom he not only ex- 
 tended every indulgence, but, on their being either unable or 
 unwilling to pay their ransom, he studiously gave them an op- 
 portunity of escaping, which they embraced J. These very 
 men, on hearing that his life was in extreme danger, hastened 
 to town, and interceded for him so successfully as to procure 
 him a pardon. Bishop Newton, in his Life of Milton, attri- 
 butes Sir William's acquittal to the interference of Milton, who, 
 on the Restoration, received a similar piece of service from 
 
 * There is a copy of verses, that probably allude to tliis circum- 
 stance, in Poems by J. Howell, Esq. 1664, p. 105, intituled, " Of 
 some, who blending their Brains together, plotted how to bespatter 
 one of the Muses choicest Sons and Servants, Sir W. Davenant, 
 Kt. and Poet." 
 
 t Cowley, in bis Verses on the two first books of Gondibert, has 
 an allusion to this excursion. 
 
 i This story is mentioned in Aubrey's MSS.
 
 Rirr BIOGBAl>HlCAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Davenant. Wood mentions Milton and the two Aldermen be* 
 fore mentioned, as being jointly concerned in it *. On obtain- 
 ing his liberty, he set about restoring to notice the insulted al- 
 tars of the Muses ; an effort which, when we take into the ac- 
 count the severity and gloominess of the times, required no in- 
 considerable share both of fortitude and address. Plays were 
 absolutely prohibited. At last, however, he partially accom- 
 plished his ends, by opening a theatre at Rutland-house, under 
 the auspices of a few men of sense, and exhibited a species of 
 dramatic interludes hastily got up for the occasion, and formed 
 partly from the Italian and partly the French style. They 
 were given out under the appellation of entertainments. 
 
 " Ex illo fluere ac retro sublapsa referri," &c. 
 
 From an innovation thus accidental and imperfect were our 
 theatrical exhibitions corrupted ; and from these paltry puppet- 
 shows, which were sufficiently well-intended as substitutes for 
 better things, the national taste received a deep and a vital 
 tincture. When the time arrived at which they became no 
 longer necessary, instead of recurring to the wholesome pro- 
 ductions of Shakspeare, Massinger, and Fletcher, which had 
 so often awakened their passions and amended their hearts but 
 a short time before, the public countenanced the continuance 
 of these pieces, or of such at least as were very little better, 
 which did but make way for and announce the inundation of 
 rhyming tragedies and other French trash which accompanied 
 Charles and the Restoration, and which seemed but prophetical 
 of that receipt in full for every folly which this nation was soon 
 to be made acquainted witii in that abominable, outlandish, 
 and unnatural monster, the Italian Opera. Dii meliora Piisf 
 
 Thus easily corrupted are the sources of public taste, and 
 thus dangerous is the slightest foreign infusion unwarranted by 
 judgment ; the quack who cannot remove a tooth-ach may poi- 
 son millions. Some good consequences, however, resulted to 
 the stage from the hand of Davenant; he was the first who, 
 after the Restoration, introduced painted scenery f, and filled 
 
 * For an account of this subject, see Dean Swift's " Essay on 
 the Life, Character, &c. of Dr. Jonathan Swift." App. p. 33. 
 
 t In Cibber's Lives, art. Davenant, the following anecdote oc- 
 curs, which deserves more attention than it seems to have gained :
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. xlv 
 
 the property-room with that apparatus which before had been 
 so much wanting, and which adds brilliancy and respect to a 
 theatre. His residence abroad had probably supplied him 
 with the hint. Through his means, the celebrated Betterton 
 was brought more immediately forward to the eye of the pub- 
 lic. We are indebted to him for the great addition which the 
 stage has received in the adoption of women, as all female cha- 
 racters were, before his time, sustained by young men. At 
 present, none of Davenant's plays keep the stage. It is to Jiis 
 Gondibert that he has to trust for his fame, and it particularly 
 merits a republication. From its total rejection of supernatural 
 agency, it has afforded the critics an ample subject of conten- 
 tion. After all, it seems but candid to examine every work by 
 those rules only which the author prescribed himself in the 
 composing of it ; every contrary step is but trying a man of 
 one country by the laws of another. What right have we, 
 therefore, to be offended at not finding the critical acts passed 
 by Aristotle originally, and re-echoed by Bossu and the French 
 critics, rigidly observed, when it was the author's professed in- 
 tention to write without them ? W^e may, nearly with the same 
 propriety, accuse Shakspeare for not adhering to the unities. 
 It was Davenant's intention to make an experiment, and let 
 him be heard in his own words: " If I be accused of innova- 
 tion, or to have transgressed against the method of the ancients, 
 I shall think myself secure in believing that a poet, who hath 
 wrought with his own instruments at a new design, is no more 
 answerable for disobedience to predecessors, than law-makers 
 are liable to those old laws which themselves have repealed *." 
 
 " Id Shakspeare's time so undecorated were the theatres, that a 
 blanket supplied the place of a curtain : and it was a good observa- 
 tion of the ingenious Mr. Chitty, a gentleman of acknowledged taste 
 in dramatic excellence, that tlie circumstance of the blanket sug- 
 gested to Shakspeare that noble image in Macbeth, where the mur- 
 derer invokes night : 
 
 Come, thick night, 
 
 And pall thee in the diinnest smoke of hell, 
 That tny keen knife see not the wound it makes ; 
 Nor heaven peep through the blanket of tlie dark, 
 To cry, 'Hold! hold'!" 
 The lines are imperfectly quoted in Cibber, probably from memory. 
 See Dr. Johnson's Rambler on this passage. 
 * Pref. p. 8.
 
 Xlvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 In Bishop Hurd our author has found a formidable accuser. 
 I transcribe the following very sensible passage from his F2ssays 
 on Chivalry and Romance: " Pagan gods and Gothic fairies 
 were equally out of credit when Milton wrote ; he did well, 
 therefore, to supply their room with angels and devils. If 
 these too should wear out of the popular creed (and they seem 
 in a hopeful way, from the liberty some late critics have taken 
 with them), I know not what other expedients the Epic poet 
 might have recourse to; but this I know, the pomp of verse, 
 the energy of description, and even the finest moral paintings, 
 would stand him in no stead : without admiration (which can- 
 not be eflfected but by the marvellous of celestial intervention, 
 I mean the agency of superior natures really existing, or by 
 the illusion of the fancy taken to be so), no Epic poem can be 
 long lived" it is to be wished (though we have no demand 
 upon him for such a condescension) that the ingenious Bishop 
 had given us his idea of a substitute, for what he here repre- 
 sents as already exploded, as well as for what he imagines as 
 soon likely to be so. Poetry, no doubt, in being thus deprived 
 of these her magical supports, will lose much of her attraction. 
 Yet, in the case of Davenant (supposing him amenable to a 
 court of criticism), many palliations may be urged in his de- 
 fence. There can scarce subsist a doubt but that, in denying 
 himself the opportunity of indulging his fancy in the appen- 
 dages of divine assistance, the dignity of the poem has been 
 considerably diminished ; yet, if we recollect the situation he 
 stood in as to time, it will appear that his conduct did not re- 
 sult from a perverse and affected determination of deviating 
 from rules long established, and long approved, but from a se- 
 rious and sensible conviction that such machinery as those 
 rules supplied him with was no longer practicable. The spirit 
 of common-sense, which in his day began to show itself, would 
 certainly have revolted against heathen mythology; the Go- 
 thic system, which the Italian school presented him with, was 
 already hacknied and worn out, and no longer fostered and 
 kept alive by the relish for chivalry, which prevailed even 
 when Spenser wrote ; the religion of his country afforded no 
 instance that might serve to keep him in countenance, or jus- 
 tify an application of such hallowed materials to so light, and 
 perhaps so unworthy, a purpose. These united objections 
 made (if I may be allowed the expression) a sort of poetical
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. xIvH 
 
 atheist of Davenant, and reduced him to the necessity of pur- 
 suing a plan of his own, and of relying on the natural powers 
 of his genius. With his pen in his hand, he seems boldly to 
 have exclaimed, in the language of Mezentius, 
 
 Dextra mihi Deus et telum quod missile libro. 
 
 On the whole (with the exception that Gondibert would 
 have received both dignity and embellishment from divine 
 agency, could the adoption of any such system have been 
 practicable), I agree with the very liberal opinions of Dr, 
 Aikin*, in whom our poet has deservedly found a warm ad- 
 mirer, and a most intelligent critic, and one who has been the 
 first to contribute to the revival of his memory. 
 
 Butler, who was a friend of Davenant's, has, with his usual 
 pleasantry, laughed at Grondibert, Hudibras, Part I. cant. ii. 
 p. 395, &c. Dr. Johnson, speaking of the Rehearsal, observes, 
 " that this farce was originally intended against Davenant, 
 who, in the first draught, was characterised by the name of 
 Bilboa. There is one passage in the Rehearsal, still remain- 
 ing, which seems to have related originally to Davenant. 
 Bayes hurts his nose, and comes in with brown paper applied 
 to the bruise : how this affected Dryden does not appear. 
 Davenant's nose had suffered such diminution, that a patch 
 upon that part evidently denoted him." Life of Dryden. In 
 the Art of Poetry, cant. i. printed in Dryden's works, some 
 lines are admitted to our author's prejudice. The piece was 
 not written by Dryden, but merely corrected by him: it is 
 strange that he suffered the lines in question to stand. Dry- 
 
 * See his Miscellaheoas Pieces. Hayley, in his Epistles on Epic 
 Peetry, has been scandalously negligent of his countrymen ; but six 
 lines are given to Spenser, and four to Davenant, of whom he ob- 
 serves in his notes, " Davenant and Voltaire have sufficient defects 
 to account for any neglect which may be their lot." Notes to 
 Epist. V. It may not be improper to remark, that Lord Kaimes is 
 for totally excluding machinery. See chap. xxii. Elem. of Crit. 
 On such a subject, the opinion of Mr. Pope is entitled to weight. 
 In his intended poem of Brutus, a plan of which is preserved in 
 Ruffhead, p. 410, we find the agency both of a gtiardian genius and 
 an evil spirit : Brutus is likewise represented as addressing the Su- 
 preme Being, who is there called God ; but does not tliis seem an 
 anachrouism ^
 
 Xlviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 den, however, as he wrote in conjunction with our autlior, had 
 the best opportunity imaginable of watching the quickness of 
 his mind ; he lias accordingly paid a just compliment to his 
 abilities in his preface to the Tempest. In Carew's Poems 
 there are three copies of verses addressed to Davenant ; and, 
 in the Olor Iscanus, Lond. 1651, by H. Vaughan, there are 
 verses on his Gondibert. 
 
 Davenant was born in 1605, was a member of Lincoln Col- 
 lege, Oxon, and held the laurel for a considerable number of 
 years. He died in 1668. 
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON, 
 
 The modern testimonies to whose merits are few when com- 
 pared with his deserts. The case is, most readers, discouraged 
 at his voluminousness, content themselves with superficially 
 skimming him over, without going deep enough to be real 
 judges of his excellence. He possessed a very considerable 
 fertility of mind, which enabled him to distinguish himself in 
 almost every species of poetry, from a tri6ing sonnet to a long 
 topographical poem. If he any where sinks below himself, it 
 is in his attempts at satire. The goodness of his heart seems 
 to have produced in him that confused kind of honest indigna- 
 tion which deprived him of the powers of discrimination : he 
 therefore lost the opportunities of seizing on those nice allu- 
 sions, situations, circumstances, and traits of character, by 
 which vice and folly are rendered odious and contemptible. 
 His Poly-Olbion is one of the most singular works this country 
 has produced, and seems to me eminently original. The in- 
 formation contained in it is in general so acute, that he is quot- 
 ed as an authority both by Hearne and Wood. His perpetual 
 allusions to obsolete traditions, remote events, remarkable facts 
 and personages, together with his curious genealogies of rivers, 
 and his taste for natural history, have contributed to render his 
 work very valuable to the antiquary. To many just objections 
 it is most certainly liable: his continual personifications of 
 woods, mountains, and rivers, are tedious; and, on the whole, 
 we must be satisfied to read rather for information than plea- 
 sure. Ben. Jonson, in his Conversation with Drummond of 
 Hawthornden, says, that " had he performed what he pro-
 
 BiOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. xlix 
 
 ftiised to write (the deeds of all the worthies), it had been ex- 
 cellent." The writer of our author's life, prefixed to the folio 
 edition of his works, speaking of the Poly-Olbion, observes, 
 that he has hitherto had no imitator. This is not strictly true ; 
 as there appeared, in 16^21, the Palje-Albion, by Will, Slay- 
 tyer, a sort of chronicle in Latin and English verse, in which 
 he has an address to Drayton that contains the following ac- 
 knowledgment: 
 
 Thy Poly-Olbion did invite 
 My Palae-Albion thus to vnite ; 
 Thine, ancient Albion's modeme glories, 
 Mine, modem Olbion's ancient stories. 
 
 The first eighteen songs^of the Poly-Olbion appeared in 
 1612, folio. A poem confined to a single point of national his- 
 tory of sufficient importance to excite curiosity, taken at the 
 same time so far back from the recesses of antiquity, as to have 
 lost that intractability which the poet invariably finds in the 
 management of recent occurrences, if well executed, bids fair 
 for success. In the Legends, and Heroical Epistles, both the 
 time and the events are properly limited ; the attention is gra- 
 tified, but not satiated. In the Barons Wars too extensive a 
 subject is opened, and the province of the historian too far 
 transgressed upon : in order to be introduced to good incident 
 and reflection, we must toil through dry facts, listen with pa- 
 tience to the developement of uncertain primary causes, and at 
 last, perhaps, are obliged to have recourse to a prose explana- 
 tion in the notes. Our author, who wants neither fire nor ima- 
 gination, possessed great command of his abilities. He has 
 written no masques; his personifications of the passions are 
 few ; and that allegorical vein, which the popularity of Spen- 
 ser's works may fairly be supposed to have rendered fashion- 
 able, and which over-runs our earlier poetry, but seldom oc- 
 curs in him. While his contemporary, Jonson, studied away 
 his fancy, and, unable to digest the mass of his reading, peo- 
 pled his pages with the heathen mythology, and gave our lan- 
 guage new idioms by the introduction of Latinisms * ; Drayton 
 
 * A strong and original vein of humour was Ben's peculiar forte ; 
 take away that, and he is undeserving of the fame he has obtained. 
 The best parts of him are written (to reverse w^t Dryden says of 
 VOL. I. e
 
 1 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 adopted a style that, with a few exceptions, the present age 
 may peruse without difficulty, and not unfrequently mistake 
 for its own offspring. In a most pedantic aera he was unaffect- 
 ed, and seldom exhibits his learning at the expense of his 
 judgment. He was born at Atherston, in Warwickshire, as it 
 is conjectured, about 1563. Aubrey's MSS. call him the son 
 of a butcher; his biographers, whether from ignorance, or dis- 
 belief of the fact, or from a ridiculous delicacy, take no notice 
 of this circumstance. He attended Sir Walter Aston as one of 
 his esquires on his being created Knight of the Bath at the co- 
 ronation of James the First*. Drayton had indulged himself 
 in forming expectations on James's coming to the throne, but 
 was disappointed : this gave him a dislike to the times, and we 
 find, in his Epistles to Brown and Sandys, a testy sort of dissa- 
 tisfaction that does him no credit; so true it is, that a man sel- 
 dom begins moralizing till he is either old, ill, or ill-treated. 
 The MSS. abovementioned tell us, that his monument in the 
 Abbey was given by the Countess of Dorset ; and that the 
 epitaph was written by F. Quarles, and not by Ben Jonson, to 
 whom it is attributed. He died in 1631. The late Lord 
 Lansdown had an original picture of him, which he highly 
 valued ; it was supposed to have been done by Peter Oliver. 
 Graing. Biog. Vol. H. p. 11. 
 
 JOHN DANCER, 
 
 Of whom I can gain no information. Langbaine mentions 
 some dramatic pieces as his. See an Account of the English 
 
 Shakspeare), not luckily, but laboriously ; he is frequently cumbrous 
 without strength, but seldom or never strong without being cum- 
 brous ; be always betrays a drudging patience, but seldom a warm 
 activity of mind ; he often grovels, and but rarely soars ; from a 
 constant habit of walking on the cratches of authority jmd imita- 
 tion, he soon lost the proper use of his legs. Not to mention bis 
 frequent crabbedneSs and obscurity : what are we to think of a 
 writer of English, to the understanding of whom a tolerable share 
 of Greek and Latin will not qualify us ? Let every ancient claim 
 his property, and Jonson will scarce have a rag left to cover bis na- 
 kedness. 
 
 In the list of English Poets, by Stow, in his Annals, he is called, 
 if I recollect aright, " M. Drayton, Esq. of the Bath."
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. U 
 
 Dramatic Poets, p. 99- He appears to have lived in the reign 
 of Charles II. What I have extracted from him has some 
 merit ; suflScient to justify us in a wish for further knowledge 
 of him. 
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Were the celebrated Mr. Pott compelled to read a lecture 
 upon the anatomy of the human frame at large, in a regular 
 set of stanzas, it is much to be questioned whether he could 
 make himself understood, by the most apprehensive auditor, 
 without the advantage of professional knowledge. Fletcher 
 seems to have undertaken a nearly similar task, as the five first 
 cantos of The Purple Island are almost entirely taken up with 
 an explanation of the title ; in the course of which the reader 
 forgets the poet, and is sickened with the anatomist. Such 
 minute attention to this part of the subject was a material er- 
 ror in judgment ; for which, however, ample amends is made 
 in what follows. Nor is Fletcher wholly undeserving of praise 
 for the intelligibility with which he has struggled through his 
 difficulties, for his uncommon command of words, and faci- 
 lity of metre. After describing the body, he proceeds to per- 
 sonify the passions and intellectual faculties. Here fatigued 
 attention is not merely relieved, but fascinated and enraptured ; 
 and, notwithstanding his figures, in many instances, are too 
 arbitrary and fantastic in their habiliments, often dispropor- 
 tioned and overdone, sometimes lost in a superfluity of glaring 
 colours, and the several characters, in general, by no means 
 sufficiently kept apart ; yet, amid such a profusion of images, 
 many are distinguished by a boldness of outline, a majesty of 
 manner, a brilliancy of colouring, a distinctness and propriety 
 of attribute, and an air of life, that we look for in vain in mo- 
 dern productions, and that rival, if not surpass, what we meet 
 with of the kind even in Spenser, from whom our author 
 caught his inspiration. After exerting his creative powers on 
 this department of his subject, the virtues and better qualities 
 of the heart, under their leader Eclecta, or Intellect, are at- 
 tacked by the vices : a battle ensues, and the latter are van- 
 quished, after a vigorous opposition, through the interference 
 of an angel, who appears at the prayers of Eclecta. The poet
 
 Hi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 here abruptly takes an opportunity of paying a fulsome and 
 unpardonable compliment to James the First (canto xii. stanza 
 55) ; on that account, perhaps, the most unpalatable passage 
 in the book. From Fletcher's dedication of this his poem, with 
 his Piscatory Eclogues and Miscellanies, to his friend Edmund 
 Benlowes, it seems, that they were written very early, as he 
 calls them " raw essays of my very unripe years, and almost 
 childhood." It is to his honour that Milton read and imitated 
 him, as every attentive reader of both poets must soon disco- 
 ver. He is eminently intitled to a very high rank among our 
 old English classics. Our author's father was Dr. Giles Fletcher, 
 who was born in Kent, bred at Eton, elected scholar at King's 
 College, Cambridge, in 1565, where he became a man of 
 learning, and " an excellent poet*." He was ambassador to 
 Russia, and published the History of that commonwealth in 
 159J, which was suppressed, lest it should give offence, but 
 afterwards reprinted in 1643. He died in tolO, leaving two 
 sons, Giles and Phineas, the latter our author, who was of 
 King's College, Cambridge, and beneficed at Hilgay, in Nor- 
 folk, on the presentation of Sir Henry Willoughby, Bart, in 
 1621. He seems to have held this twenty-nine years. See 
 Blomfield's Norfolk. Quarles, in his Verses prefixed to The 
 Purple Island, hints, that he had a poem on a similar subject 
 in agitation, but was prevented from pursuing it by finding it 
 had got into other hands. In a map to one of his Emblems 
 are these names of places : London, Finchfield, Roxwell, and 
 Hilgay; edit. 1669. 
 
 GILES FLETCHER, 
 
 The brother of Phineas, and author of Christ's Victory, a 
 poem rich and picturesque, and on a much happier subject 
 than that of his brother, yet unenlivened by personification. 
 He took the degree of bachelor of divinity, and died at AI- 
 derton in SufiFolk, in 1623, to use the emphatic expression of 
 Wood, " equally beloved of the Muses and Graces." These 
 two elegant brothers belonged to a family poetical in many of 
 its branches ; and Benlowes well observes, in his Verses to 
 
 .Wood, Ath.
 
 BfOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. liii 
 
 Phineas, " Thy very name's a poet." John Fletcher, the 
 dramatic writer was their cousin^ the son of Dr. R. Fletcher, 
 successively Bishop of Bristol, Worcester, and London, whose 
 memory will be execrated as long as the manly and pathetic 
 pages of Dr. Stuart shall endure. This officious priest had the 
 irreverence to imbitter the last minutes of the beautiful Mary 
 Queen of Scots, The following are the words of Wood, on 
 not much given to the melting mood : " At which time he, 
 being the person appointed to pray with and for her, did per- 
 suade her to renounce her religion, contrary to all Christianity 
 (as it was by many then present so taken), to her great distur- 
 bance. Wood, Ath. Ox. Vol. I. p. 734. It appears, from 
 Giles Fletcher's dedication of his poem to Dr. Nevyle, the 
 master of Trinity College, that he was under great obligations 
 to him. Speaking of the College, he says, " In which, be- 
 ing placed by your favour only, most freely, without either 
 any means from other, or any desert in myself, being not able 
 to do more, I could do no less, than acknowledge that debt 
 which I shall never be able to pay." 
 
 JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 
 
 Those who are acquainted with the lives of heroes, or the 
 history of their country, will deem every notice that I can give 
 relative to this nobleman impertinent : it will be sufficient to 
 observe, therefore, that i'n a Miscellany printed at Edinburgh 
 are some Verses attributed to him, though his claim to them is 
 perhaps doubtful. Mr. Pinkerton, in his Select Scottish Bal- 
 lads, has printed some of them. To the Verses on Charles the 
 First he has an unquestionable right ; and they are conceived 
 with the vigour and dignity of a soldier. See Lloyd's Mem. 
 p. 638, fol. edit. 
 
 GEORGE GASCOIGNE, 
 
 A WRITER whose mind, though it exhibits few m'arks of 
 strength, is not destitute of delicacy ; he is smooth, sentimen- 
 tal, and harmonious. The best of his pieces have been already 
 made public. He served with honour in the Low Country
 
 liv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 wars ; and on his return turned his attention to the study of 
 letters. Lord Gray of Wilton was his patron ; from whom he 
 acknowledges to have received particular favours. He was 
 born in Essex ; educated, according to Wood, at both Uni- 
 versities, but more particularly at Cambridge; studied at 
 Gray's Inn ; and died, a middle-aged man, at Walthamstow 
 in the Forest, which seems to have been the residence of his 
 family, in 1578. 
 
 WILLIAM HABINGTON, 
 
 Some of wbose pieces deserve being revived. I am able to 
 give no further account of him than what is furnished me by 
 Langbaine, from whose Account of the Dramatic Poets the 
 following is taken. " A gentleman that lived in the time of the 
 late civil wars ; and, slighting Bellona, gave himself up en- 
 tirely to the Muses. He was equally famous for history and 
 poetry ; of which his Edward the Fourth and Castara are suf- 
 ficient testimonies. Mr. Kirkman (who was very knowing in 
 plays) has ascribed a dramatic piece to him, which gives us 
 occasion to speak of him : it is called. Queen of Arragon, a 
 Tragi-comedy, acted at Court, and the Blackfriars, and printed 
 at London, in folio, 1640. In the Complete History of Eng- 
 land, 1706, the two first volumes of which were compiled by 
 Mr. Hughes the poet, Habington's Life of Edward is inserted 
 among other adopted lives." See note. Vol. I. Hughes's Let- 
 ters, by Buncombe. 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT, 
 
 A WRITER of the same class, though infinitely inferior to both 
 Quarles and Crashaw. His poetry is a compound of enthu- 
 siasm without sublimity, and conceit without either ingenuity 
 or imagination. The piece I have selected is perhaps the best 
 in his book. When a name is >once reduced to the impartial 
 test of time, when partiality, friendship, fashion, and party, 
 have withdrawn their influence, our surprise is frequently ex- 
 cited by pastjsubjects of admiration that now cease to strike. 
 He who takes up the poems of Herbert would little suspect that
 
 _, BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. Iv 
 
 lie had been public orator of an University, and a favourite of 
 his sovereign ; that he had received flattery and praise from 
 Donne and from Bacon ; and that the biographers of the day 
 had enrolled his name amongst the first names of his country. 
 He was born at Montgomery Castle, in Wales, April 5, 1593 ; 
 elected from Westminster to Trinity College, Cambridge; and 
 afterwards Prebendary of Lincoln, according to some verses 
 called a Memorial, prefixed to his Temple. He died about 
 1635. The additional poems, intituled The Synagogue, are 
 attributed by Granger to Crashaw ; but they are unworthy of 
 him. The title of Crashaw's poems might have been bor- 
 rowed from Herbert. Herbert's Life has been written, with his 
 usual trifling minuteness, by honest Isaac Walton. 
 
 HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY, 
 
 The first refiner of our language, and the unrivalled orna- 
 ment of his age and country : in him,- genius and gallantry 
 seem singularly to have set off each other. His writings merit 
 attention equally as compositions of real and intrinsic merit, and 
 as objects of curiosity. Charged with allegations the most frivo- 
 lous, he fell a victim, in the prime of his life, to the envy and 
 suspicion of an unworthy and barbarous King, and was exe- 
 cuted Jan. 19, 1546-7. His life and writings have been pre- 
 viously set forth with such elegance and minuteness, by the 
 happy pencils of Mr. Walpole and Mr. Warton, as to render 
 the after-strokes of a bungling dauber unnecessary. See Royal 
 Authors, Vol. J. p. 96, second edit. ; History of English Po- 
 etry, Vol, in. sect. 19. Surrey was buried in the church of 
 All Hallows Barking, Tower-street, but afterwards removed to 
 Framlingham, Suffolk, where an honourable monument was 
 erected to his memory, by his second son, Henry, Earl of 
 Northampton. Collins's Peerage, Vol. I. 
 
 HENRY KING, 
 
 Bishop of Chichester, an eminent and respectable divine, the 
 greater part of whose poetry (which was either written at an 
 early age, or as a relaxation from severer studies) is neat,
 
 Ivi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHKS. 
 
 and unconniionly elegant. He turned the Psalms into versr, 
 1651 ; and published Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes, and Sonnets, 
 Lond. 1657, which, according to Wood, were attributed, on 
 their first appearance, to Dr. Philip King, his brother, and in- 
 serted as such in the Bodleian Catalogue. Dr. King was born 
 in 1591 at Wornal, in Bucks, and educated at Thame and 
 Westminster: he was student of Christ-church, Oxford ; and 
 died in 1609. He likewise wrote various Latin and Greek 
 pieces, scattered in various books, which are now not easily to 
 be collected. 
 
 RICHARD LOVELACE, 
 
 Elegant, brave, and unfortunate, the pride of the softer sex, 
 and the envy of his own. The affecting particulars of his ac- 
 tive life are preserved to us in Wood. Many of his verses 
 were written during ccaifinement in the Gatehouse, Westmins- 
 ter, to which he was committed for carrying a petition from the 
 county of Kent to the House of Commons, for the laudable 
 purpose of restoring the king to his rights, and settling the go- 
 vernment. Andrew Marvel alludes to this circumstance in his 
 excellent verses prefixed to Lucasta. I quote the lines at large, 
 as they will serve to show the untoward temper of the times: 
 
 The air's already tainted with the swarms 
 Of insects which against you rise in arms, 
 Word-peckers, paper-rats, book-scorpions, 
 Of wit con-upted, the unfashion'd sons. 
 The barbed censurers begin to look 
 Like the grim consistory on thy book ; 
 And on each line cast a reforming eye, 
 Severer than the young Presbytery. 
 Till when in vain they have thee all perus'd, 
 You shall for being faultless be accused. 
 Some, reading your Lucasta, will allege 
 You wrong'd in her the House's privilege. 
 Some that you under sequestration are, 
 Because you write when going to tlie war. 
 And one the book prohibits, because Kent 
 Their first petition by the author sent. 
 
 His pieces, which are light and easy, had been models in 
 their way, were their simplicity but equal to their spirit : they
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. Ivii 
 
 were the offspring of gallantry and amusement, and, as such, 
 are not to be reduced to the test of serious criticism. This we 
 may infer from the verses signed F. Lenton, prefixed to his 
 hook : 
 
 Thus if thy careless draughts are call'd the best, 
 What would thy lines have been, hadst thou profess'd 
 That faculty (infiis'd) of poetry ? 
 
 Under the name of Lucasta, whiclj is the title to his poems, 
 he compliments a Miss Lucy Sacheverel, a lady, according to 
 Wood, of great beauty and fortune, whom he was accustomed, 
 during his intimacy, to call " Lux casta/' On a strong report 
 of Lovelace's having died of a wound received at Dunkirk, 
 she married. Our author was the son of Sir W. Lovelace, Knt. 
 of Woolwich, in Kent; was admitted Gentleman-commoner of 
 Gloucester Hall, Oxon, in 1634; and, after two years stand- 
 ing, on the King's coming to Oxford, was, with other men of 
 quality, created Master of Arts. He died in the most extreme 
 want and obscurity in a mean lodging in Gunpowder-alley, 
 near Shoe-lane, and was buried in St. Bride's church, London, 
 aged 40. Winstanley has, not without some degree of pro- 
 priety, compared him to Sir Philip Sidney. 
 
 THOMAS MAY. 
 
 Bare history has ever been found a very unproductive pro- 
 vince, 1 believe, for a poet; and more particularly so, where the 
 subject, from its notoriety, becomes liable to the scrutiny of 
 every eye: as the Muse, when confined to a given series of 
 events, dare not dispense with the severity of truth to reward 
 that virtue which she finds unprotected, or, with a laudable en- 
 thusiasm, disannul those decrees of fortune which had been 
 favourable to vice ; the mind naturally abhors every violation 
 of well-established historical fact, and sometimes will not even 
 bear with a sufficient admission of fiction for the mere pur- 
 poses of poesy only; it is ever inclined to exclaim, " quod- 
 cunque mihi ostendas sic incredulus odi *," Hor. 
 
 * Mr. Mason, in his Elfrida, has wantonly misrepresented histo- 
 rical fact ; for which no man should be forgives, and for which no 
 beauties in liis poetry can compensate.
 
 Iviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Under these disadvantageous circumstances, the writer be- 
 fore us will be found entitled to much praise for the manner in 
 which he has conducted such subjects as the reigns of Henry 
 the Second and Edward the Third. Daniel has been denomi- 
 nated, by Speed, the Lucan of his country : he may have 
 some pretensions to that distinction from the title of his sub- 
 ject*, but none from his execution of it. May has certainly a 
 better claim to the appellation; for, without degenerating into 
 the languor of Daniel, he has caught no small portion of the 
 energy and declamatory spirit which characterizes the Roman 
 poet, whom, as he translated, he insensibly made his model. 
 His battle-pieces highly merit being brought forward to no- 
 tice ; they possess the requisites in a considerable degree for 
 interesting the feelings of an Englishman : while in accuracy 
 they vie with a gazette, they are managed with such dexterity, 
 as to busy the mind with unceasing agitation, with scenes 
 highly diversified and impassioned by striking character, mi- 
 nute incident, and alarming situation. As dialogue is better 
 qualified for conveying sentiments, occasional speeches are in- 
 troduced, which give a very dramatic air, and add life and va- 
 riety to his subject; nor is his narrative, which is better adapt- 
 ed (as Lord Kaimes observes) to facts, by any means deficient 
 either in grandeur of manner, or elevation of language. Ac- 
 cording to Wood, he was born at Mayfield, in Sussex ; it is 
 conjectured about 1 594. He was a Fellow-commoner of Sid- 
 ney College, Cambridge, and was countenanced by Charles 
 the First, both a judge and a patron of poetry, at whose ex- 
 press command he undertook his reign of Edward the Third ; 
 but, whether from disgust at not being preferred, or from prin- 
 ciple, he took an active part in favour of Cromwell, to whose 
 parliament he was created historian. The disappointment that 
 might have more immediately affected him, and served to alie- 
 nate him from his sovereign, was Davenant's having been pro- 
 moted to the office of Queen's poet, for which May had ap- 
 plied. Wood has made him answerable for many enormities, 
 as the following extract testifies : he " was graciously counte- 
 nanced by King Charles I. and his royal consort; but he, 
 finding not that preferment from either which he expected, 
 grew discontented, sided with the Presbyterians; upon the 
 turn of the times, became a debauchee ad omnia, entertained 
 
 * History of the Civil War.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. llX 
 
 ill principles as to religion, spoke often very slightly of the 
 Holy Trinity, kept beastly and atheistical company, of whom 
 Thomas Chaloner* the regicide was one; and endeavoured to 
 his power to asperse and invalidate the king and his cause.* 
 Ath. Oxon. It is no unpleasant reflection to be able to find so 
 many elegant writers of Latin among our English Poets, in the 
 first rank of which our author stands very high. Ben Jonson, 
 Cowley, May, Milton, Marvel, Crashaw, Addison, Gray, 
 Smart, Mr. T. Warton, Sir William Jones, Jortin, and George 
 Markham, are such writers of Latin verse as any country 
 might with justice be proud of. 
 
 RICHARD NICCOLS, 
 
 A POET of great elegance and imagination, one of the orna- 
 ments of the reign of Elizabeth. The most material of his 
 works are his additions to " The Mirror for Magistrates," a 
 book most popular in its time, suggested originally by Boc- 
 cace, " De Casibus Principum," containing a series of pieces 
 by Sackville, Baldwyne, Ferrers, Churchyard, Phayer, Hig- 
 gins, Drayton. It was ultimately completed, and its contents 
 new-arranged, by Niccols, whose Supplement to the edition of 
 1610 has the following title: " A Winter Night's Vision: be- 
 ing an Addition of such Princes, especially famous, who were 
 exempted in the former Historic. By Richard Niccols, Oxon. 
 Mag. Hall, &c. &c." To this likewise is improperly subjoin- 
 ed " England's Eliza: or. The victorious and triumphant 
 Reigne of that Virgin Empresse, of sacred Memorie, Eliza- 
 beth, Queene of England, France, and Ireland, &c. &c." His 
 other writings are. The Cuckow, a Poem," Lond. 1607, dedi- 
 cated to Mr. afterwards Sir Thomas, Wroth; " Monodia: 
 or, Waltham's Complaint upon the Death of the most virtuous 
 and noble Lady, late deceased, the Lady Honor Hay." 
 Lond. 115. Our author was born of a good family in Lon- 
 
 Aubrey's MSS. in Ashmolean, say, " May was a great acquaint- 
 ance of Thomas Chaloner ; his translation of Lucan's excellent poem 
 made him in love with the republique." The same MSS. add, he 
 was " a handsome man, debauched, lodged in the little square by 
 Cannon-row, as you go through the alley."
 
 Ix BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 don ; and at eighteen years of age, anno 1602, was entered at 
 Magdalen College, Oxford. Here he stayed but a short time: 
 retiring to Magdalen Hall, he took a bachelor's degree in 1606. 
 After remaining here some years, and being esteemed amongst 
 the most ingenious men of his day, according to Wood, he 
 quitted Oxford, and Jived in London, where he obtained an em- 
 ployment suitable to his faculty. What this employment was, 
 we are left to conjecture. 
 
 FRANCIS QUARLES. 
 
 It is the fate of many to receive from posterity that com- 
 mendation which, though deserved, they missed of during 
 their lives ; others, on the contrary, take their full compliment 
 of praise from their contemporaries, and gain nothing from 
 their successors ; a double payment is rarely the lot of any one. 
 In every nation few indeed are they who, allied, as it were, to 
 immortality, can boast of a reputation sufficiently bulky and 
 well founded to catch, and to detain, the eye of each succeed- 
 ing generation as it rises. The revolutions of opinion, gradual 
 improvements, and new discoveries, will shake, if not demolish, 
 the fairest fabrics of the human intellect. Fame, like virtue, is 
 seldom stationary ; if it ceases to advance, it inevitably goes 
 backward ; and speedy are the steps of its receding, when com- 
 pared with those of its advances. 
 
 Non possiint primi esse omnes omni in tempore ; 
 Summum ad gradum cum claritatis veneris, 
 Consistis aegre, et qniim discendas decides : 
 Cecidi ego : cadet qui sequitur. Laus est publica. 
 
 Dec. Laberius. 
 
 Writers who do not belong to the first class, yet are of distin- 
 guished merit, should rest contented with the scanty praise of 
 the few for the present, and trust with confidence to posterity. 
 He who writes well leaves a xlr)/*a ij a.n* behind him : the par- 
 tial and veering gales of favour, though silent perhaps for one 
 century, are sure to rise in gusts in the next. Truth, however 
 tardy, is infallibly progressive; and with her walks justice. 
 J-et this console deserted genius ; those honours which, through 
 
 Thucydide*.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 1x1 
 
 envy or accident, are withheld in one age, are sure to be re- 
 paid, with interest, by taste and gratitude in another. These 
 reflections were more immediately suggested by the memory 
 of Quarles, which has been branded with more than common 
 abuse, and who seems often to have been censured merely 
 from the want of being read. If his poetry failed to gain him 
 friends and readers, his piety should at least have secured him 
 peace and good- will. He too often, no doubt, mistook the en- 
 thusiasm of devotion for the inspiration of fancy; to mix the 
 waters of Jordan and Helicon in the same cup was reserved 
 for the hand of Milton; and for him, and ftim only, to find 
 the bays of Mount Olivet equally verdant with those of Par- 
 nassus. Yet, as the effusions of a real poetical mind, however 
 thwarted by untowardness of subject, will be seldom rendered 
 totally abortive, we find in Quarles original imagery, striking 
 sentiment, fertility of expression, and happy combinations; 
 together with a compression of style that merits the observa- 
 tion of the writers of verse. Gross deficiencies of judgment, 
 , and the infelicity of his subjects, concurred in ruining him. 
 Perhaps no circumstance whatever can give a more complete 
 idea of Quarles's degradation than a late edition of his Em- 
 blems; the following passage is extracted from the Preface: 
 " Mr. Francis Quarles, the author of the Emblems that go un- 
 der his name, was a man of trhe most exemplary piety, and 
 had a deep insight into the mysteries of our holy religion. 
 But, for all that, the book itself is written in so old a language, 
 that many parts of it are scarce intelligible in the present age ; 
 many of his phrases are so affected, that no pei-son, who has 
 any taste for reading, can peruse them with the least degree of 
 pleasure; many of his expressions are harsh, and sometimes 
 whole lines are included in a parenthesis, by which the mind 
 of the reader is diverted from the principal object. His Latin 
 mottos under each cut can be of no service to an ordinary rea- 
 der, because he cannot understand them. In order, there- 
 fore, to accommodate the public with an edition of Quarles's 
 Emblems, properly modernised, this work was undertaken." 
 Such an exhibition of Quarles is chaining Columbus to an oar, 
 or making John Duke of Marlborough a train-band corporal. 
 His Enchiridion, Lond. 1638, consisting of select brief obser- 
 vations, moral and political, deserves republication, together 
 with the best parts of his other works. Had this little piece
 
 Ixfi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 been written at Athens, or at Rome, its author would have been 
 classed with the wise men of his country. The most striking 
 remarks in it are, 31, 39, 57. Cento 1 ; 9, 16. Cento 2; 2, 14, 
 Cento 3 ; 28, 84, Cento 4. Our author was cupbearer to the 
 Queen of Bohemia, secretary to the Primate of Ireland, and 
 chronologer to the City of London; in the mention of which 
 latter office, his widow, in her Life of him, says, " which 
 place he held to his death, and would have given that city 
 (and the world) a testimony that he was their faithful servant 
 therein, if it had pleased God to blesse him with life to per- 
 fect what he had began." His sufferings, both in mind and 
 estate, during the civil wars, were considerable. Winstanley 
 tells us, he was plundered of his books and some rare manu- 
 scripts, which he intended for the press. Mr. Walpole and 
 Mr. Granger have asserted, that he had a pension from Charles 
 the First, though they produce no authority : it is not impro- 
 bable, as the king had taste to discover merit, and generosity 
 to reward it. Wood, in mentioning a publication of Dr. 
 Burges, which was abused by an anonymous author, in a 
 pamphlet called A Whip, and answered by Quarles, styles our 
 author " an old puritanical poet, the sometimes darling of our 
 plebeian judgments." Philips says of his works, that " they 
 have been ever, and still are, in wonderful veneration among 
 the vulgar." Theat. Poet. p. 45, edit. 1660. He was born at 
 Stewards, in the parish of Rumford in Essex, in 1592; and 
 died, the father of eighteen children, in September 1644. He 
 was buried in St. Leonard's, Foster-lane. His death was la- 
 mented, in a copy of Alcaics, by J. Duport, Greek professor 
 to the University of Cambridge, and one of the first writers 
 of that tongue this country has produced. See A Relation 
 of the Life and Death of Mr. Francis Quarles, by Ursula 
 Quarles, his Widow ; to which these verses are subjoined. 
 See Lloyd's Mem. p. 621 ; Fuller's Worthies, p. 335. In an 
 obscure Book of Epigrams, by Thomas Bancroft, there is one 
 addressed to Quarles, in which he intimates that he had been 
 pre-occupied in a subject by our poet. Ep. 233. B. I. 1639.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. Ixiii 
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH, 
 
 A VOTARY of whom the Muses cannot but be proud. The 
 poetry he has left is sufficient to discover that, had he made it 
 a serious pursuit, he would have equally excelled in that, as he 
 has done in other departments of learning. The complexion 
 of Raleigh's mind was diversified by a variety of elevated, 
 and almost contradictory features : as an historian, a navigator, 
 a soldier, and a politician, he ranks with the first characters of 
 his age and country ; and his life furnishes the most unequivo- 
 cal proof that, amid the distraction of an active and adventu- 
 rous life, leisure may always be found for the cultivation of let- 
 ters. It is highly to his credit that he was the friend and the 
 patron of Spenser, who seems to have had a great opinion of 
 his poetical abilities, and, in a sonnet sent to him with his Fairy 
 Queen, styles him, with great beauty, " the summer's nightin- 
 gale." He alludes to, and compliments him again. Book III. 
 cant. i. stanz. 4 and 5; and, not improbably, under the name 
 of Colin, Daphnaida, Vol. V. p. 157, Hag. edit. Sp*. On 
 the other hand, the following lines, which are said of Spenser, 
 will serve to convince us how highly he stood in Raleigh's esti- 
 matioD : 
 
 Of me no lines are lov'd, nor letters are of price, 
 Of all which speak our English tongue, but those of thy de- 
 vice. To Spenser. 
 
 Raleigh was born at East Budeleigh, in Devonshire; entered 
 a Commoner of Oriel College, Oxon; and studied at the Mid- 
 dle Temple, once a necessary part of an elegant education. 
 He fell a sacrifice to a mean prince, and a packed jury, anno 
 1618, and niounted the scaffold with the same unconcern with 
 which others would have ascended a throne. It may be safely 
 asserted of him, that his fame has not exceeded his virtue. 
 
 * In his Colin Clont he likewise says of him, speaking of poetry, 
 ^' Himself as skilful in that art as any."
 
 Ixiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST, 
 
 Created Earl of Dorset in the reign of James the First, and 
 one of the earliest and brightest ornaments to the letters of his 
 country, and the first who produced a regular drama. Wood 
 mentions him as " having been, in his younger days, poetically 
 inclined; did write, while he continued in Oxon, several Latin 
 and English poems, which, though published either by them- 
 selves, or mixed among other men's poems ; yet I presume 
 they are lost or forgotten, as having no name to them, or that 
 the copies are worn out." Ath. Oxon. Vol. I. p. 297. It 
 should appear, from this account, that he had written smaller 
 compositions, as well as the tragedy of Gorboduc, and his in- 
 duction to the Mirrour for Magistrates; and I cannot but think 
 that the expression of Sackvj/les So?inets, in the metrical pre- 
 face to J. Heywood's Thyestes, alludes to some slighter pieces 
 of this author either lost or undistinguished, contrary to Mr, 
 Warton's note, Eng. Poet. Vol. III. p. 273. He was Lord 
 Treasurer to Elizabeth, Cliancellor of the University of Ox- 
 ford; born at Withyam, in Sussex; educated at Hart Hall; 
 had a Master's degree conferred on him by the University of 
 Cambridge; studied at the Inner Temple; and travelled. He 
 died, April 19, 1608. See more on this head, Walpole's Roy. 
 Auth. Vol. I, p. 162, 2d edit. Spenser has a sonnet with his 
 Fairy Queen addressed to this nobleman, from whom, it may 
 not be amiss to remark, that Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, 
 the well-known patron of polite literature, was lineally de- 
 scended. Mr. Upton conjectures, that the verses signed R. S. 
 prefixed to the Fairy Queen, were written by Robert Sackville, 
 Esq. eldest son of our author. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 
 
 The three little pieces by R. Southwell, which I have print- 
 ed, were first brought forward to the notice of general readers 
 of poetry, by the editor of Ben Jonson's Sad Shepherd, in his 
 notes, from whence I have taken the liberty of extracting 
 them. Obligations of this kind are but too commonly, to the
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCHES. Ixv 
 
 disgrace of literature, very industriously and ungratefully sup- 
 pressed. 
 
 There is a moral charm that will prejudice most readers of 
 feeling in favour of their author; should these volumes meet 
 with success, the publisher of them will make it his business to 
 collect and republish the better part of Southwell's poetry, 
 which is now entirely forgotten, and very scarce. Bolton, in 
 his Hypercritica, makes mention of him, " Never must be 
 forgotten St. Peter's Complaint, and tliose other serious poems 
 said to be father Southwell's : the English whereof, as it is 
 most proper, so the sharpness and light of wit is very rare in 
 them." 
 
 WILLIAM WARNER. 
 
 By far the most valuable parts of this writer have been re- 
 stored to the notice which they so much deserve by Dr. Percy, 
 Mr. Ritson, and the authoress of the Muses' Library; many 
 parts of great merit are still left, which I have availed myself 
 of. There is in Warner occasionally a pathetic simplicity that 
 never fails of engaging the heart. His tales, though often te- 
 dious, and not unfrequently indelicate, abound with all the un- 
 affected incident and artless ease of the best old ballads, with- 
 out their cant and puerility. The pastoral pieces that occur 
 are superior to all the eclogues ia our language, those of Col- 
 lins only excepted. Drayton, his contemporary, speaks in the 
 following terms of him : 
 
 Then Warner, though his lines were not so trimm'd, 
 
 Nor yet his poem so exactly limn'd, 
 
 And neatly jointed, but the critic may 
 
 Easily reprove him, yet thus let me say 
 
 For my old friend, some passages there be 
 
 In him, which I protest have taken me 
 
 With almost wonder, so fine, so clear, and new, 
 
 As yet they have been equalled by few. 
 
 Of Poets and Poesy. 
 
 He appears to have been patronised by Henry Carey, Lord 
 Hunsdon, whom he thus addresses in his preface. " Having 
 VOL. I. f
 
 Ixvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 dedicated a former booke* to him that from your Honor deri- 
 velh his birth, now also present the like to your Lordship, 
 with so much the lesse doubt, and so much the more dutie, by 
 how much the more I esteeme this my latter labour of more 
 valew, and I owe, and your Lordship expecteth especiall dutie 
 at the hands of your servant." Epist. Dedicat. Albion's Eng. 
 Lond. 1602. He is said to have been born in Warwickshire, 
 and educated at Magdalen Hall, Oxon; and is considered by 
 Meres, in his Wit's Treasury, edit. 1598, as an improver of the 
 English language. Phillips calls him, " a good honest writer 
 of moral rules and precepts in that old-fashioned kind of seven- 
 footed verse which yet sometimes is in use, tliough in different 
 manner, that is to say, divided into two. He may be reckon-, 
 ed with several other writers of the same time (i. e. Elizabeth's 
 reign), who, though inferior to Sidney, Spenser, Drayton, and 
 Daniel, yet have been thought by some not unworthy to be re- 
 membered and quoted, namely, G. Gascoign, &c." Theat. 
 Poet. p. 195. 
 
 SIR HENRY WOOTON, 
 
 Born in 1568, at Boughton Place, in Kent, the seat of his an 
 cestors, and educated at Winchester, and New College, Ox- 
 ford, where he continued till two-and-twenty years of age, and 
 took his Master's degree. From hence he visited most parts of 
 Europe; and, after continuing abroad about eight years, and 
 conciliating the friendship of many foreigners of the first rank 
 and consequence, he returned into England, and was received 
 into favour by the Earl of Essex, the celebrated favourite of 
 Queen Elizabeth, and made one of his secretaries ; but Essex's 
 popularity decliniug, Wooton found it expedient not merely to 
 relinquish his service, but to quit the kingdom ; which he had 
 no sooner left than he heard the news of Essex's execution, to- 
 gether with that of many of his adherents. In foreseeing and 
 eluding this storm much policy is discovered. An accident 
 
 * Syrinx, or a seavenfold Historie, handled with Varietie of plea- 
 sant and profitable, both commicall and tragically Argument. Loud. 
 1597.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES; IxvB 
 
 made him King James's embassador to Venice, to which he 
 was thrice sent, besides being employed in other offices of 
 trust. In return for his services, he was made Provost of Eton, 
 where heat last took orders, and died, aged 72, As a courtier 
 and a politician he probably possessed talents, which the expe- 
 rience he had must have rendered useful. His residence 
 abroad has distorted his language, and given it no small tinc- 
 ture of affectation. He appears to have been a man of consi- 
 derable thinking and reflection ; and his poetical compositions, 
 when considered in their proper light, namely, as the effusions 
 of one who merely scribbled for his amusement, will be found 
 deserving of praise. 
 
 SIR THOMAS WYAT, 
 
 Of Allington Castle in Kent ; a man popular in his day, and 
 the temporary favourite of Henry the Eighth; he deserves 
 equally of posterity with Surrey for the diligence with which 
 he cultivated polite letters. In his verses he seems to have 
 wanted the judgment of his friend Surrey, who, in imitating 
 Petrarch, resisted the contagion of his conceits. I will tran- 
 scribe a passage from The Muses' Library, in which there seems 
 great good sense : " In his poetical capacity he does not ap- 
 pear to have much imagination; neither are his verses so musi- 
 cal or well polished as Lord Surrey's. Those of gallantry, in 
 particular, seem to me too artificial for a lover, and too negli- 
 gent for a poet." p. 70. Wyat's chief merit is in the satiric 
 vein of his epistles, which have much of the familiar elegance 
 of Horace. This style of writing, however easy it may ap- 
 pear to superficial observers, requires the most extensive know- 
 ledge of mankind, and the greatest address, to manage dex- 
 terously, and which no one seems to have caught with greater 
 success than Mr. Cowper, in his Table Talk, Progress of Error, 
 Truth, &c. &c. See Vol. I. of his Poems. We have to la- 
 ment that these pieces are written in rhyme. Wyat died sud- 
 denly in 1541. His character has received every possible illus- 
 tration from Mr. Warton. Hist. Eng. Poet. Vol. IIL sect. 20. 
 After whose discriminating pencil, every touch from my hand 
 must serve rather to injure than improve the likeness. See 
 likewise Miscell. Antiq. N II, by Mr. Walpole.
 
 Uviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Drayton, in his Verses to Master George Sandys, Treasurer 
 for the English Colony in Virginia, mentions the name of a 
 Wyat, who probably might be a descendant of our poet's. 
 Sandys was related to the Wyat family. 
 
 " Of noble Wyat's health, and let me hear."
 
 69 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 THE 
 
 DEN OF THE VICES. 
 
 1 HERE in her den lay pompous Luxury, 
 Stretch'd out at length ; no vice could boast such high 
 And general victories as she had won, 
 Of which proud trophies there at large were shown. 
 Besides small states and kingdoms ruined, 
 Those mighty monarchies, that had o'erspread 
 The Spacious earth, and stretch'd their conquering arms 
 From pole to pole, by her ensnaring charms 
 Were quite consum'd ; there lay imperial Rome, 
 That vanquish'd all the world, by her o'ercome. 
 Fetter'd was th' old Assyrian lion there, 
 The Grecian leopard, and the Persian bear. 
 With others numberless lamenting by. 
 Examples of the power of luxury. 
 
 Next with erected looks Ambition stood, 
 Whose trophies all were pourtray'd forth in blood. 
 Under his feet Law and Religion 
 He trampled down ; sack'd cities there were shown, 
 Rivers and fields with slaughter overspread. 
 And stain 'd with blood which his wild sons had shed.
 
 70 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 There Ninus' image stood, who first of all 
 By lawless arms and slaughter did enthral 
 The quiet nations that hv'd free till then, 
 And first took pride to triumph over men. 
 The^e was Sesostres figured ; there the son 
 Of Philip lay, whose dire ambition 
 Not all the spacious earth could satisfy. 
 Swift as the lightning did his conquests fly 
 From Greece to furthest eastern lands, and like 
 Some dire contagion through the world did strike 
 Death and destruction ; purple were the floods 
 Of every region with their native bloods. 
 Next him that Roman lay, who first of all 
 Captiv'd his country ; there were figur'd all 
 His wars and mischiefs, and whatever woes 
 Through all the world by dire ambition rose. 
 
 Next to that fiend lay pale Revenge ; with gore 
 His ghastly visage was all sprinkled o'er. 
 The hate he bore to others had quite 'reft 
 Him of all love unto himself, and left 
 No place for nature ; o'er his den were shown 
 Such tragedies and sad destruction. 
 As would dissolve true human hearts to hear. 
 And from the Furies selves inforce a tear. 
 Those bloody slaughters there to view were brought. 
 Which Jacob's cruel sons iu Shechem wrought. 
 When all the males but newly circumcis'd 
 To their revengeful rage were sacrific'd. 
 There the slain youth of Alexandria lie 
 By CaracalUi's vengeful butchery ; 
 The captiv'd fate of Spain was there display 'd, 
 Which wrathful Julian in revenge betray'd 
 To pagan Moors, and ruiu'd so his own 
 Sad house, his country and religion.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 71 
 
 Not all these sacred bonds with him prevail, 
 
 When he beholds his ravish'd daughter wail, 
 
 Wring her white hands, and that fair bosom strike 
 
 That too much pleas'd the lustful Roderic*. ; 
 
 The next Sedition lay, not like the rest 
 Was he attir'd, nor in liis looks exprest 
 Hatred to heaven and virtue's laws; but he 
 Pretends religion, law, or liberty, 
 Seeming t' adore what he did most o'erthrow, 
 And would persuade virtue to be a foe 
 To peace and lawful power ; above his den 
 For boasting trophies hung such robes, as when 
 Old Sparta stood, her Ephori did wear, 
 And Rome's bold tribunes. Stories rarved there 
 Of his achievements numberless were seen. 
 Such as the Gracchi's factions stirs had been 
 In ancient Rome, and such as were the crimes 
 That oft wreck'd Greece in her most potent times ; 
 Such as leam'd Athens and bold Sparta knew. 
 And from their ablest soldiers oft did rue. 
 
 Next to that vice lay foul Impiety 
 At large display'd, the cursed enemy 
 Of nature's best and holiest laws ; through all 
 Her loathsome den unthankful vipers crawl. 
 Above those stories were display'd, which show 
 How much the monarchy of hell did owe 
 For people's wreck to that abhoired vice. 
 There were Mycenae's baleful tragedies, 
 
 Wring her white hands, &c.] Thus Johnson : 
 
 Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty spring ; 
 And Sedley curs'd the form that pleas'd a King. 
 
 Vanity of Human Wishes. 
 See likewise in this volume the Death of Rosamond, who has the same 
 reflection.
 
 72 DESCUIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 And all the woes that fatal Thebes had wrought. 
 
 There false Medea, when away she brought 
 
 Her own betrayed country's spoils, before 
 
 Her weeping father Oeta piecemeal tore 
 
 Her brother's limbs, and strew'd them o'er the field. 
 
 There with the same impiety she kill'd 
 
 Her own two sons, and through the air apace, 
 
 By dragons drawn, she fled from Jason's face. 
 
 There strong Alcathoe, king Nisus' town. 
 
 By Scylla's impious treason was o'erthrown, 
 
 And sack'd with tire and sword ; the wretched maid 
 
 Had from her lofty sounding tower survey'd 
 
 King Minos' b^t, and doating on her fair 
 
 Foe's face, cut off her father's purple hair. 
 
 Reigne of Henry 11. by T. May, 
 B. I. V. 466. 
 
 ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE*. 
 
 .1 HUS Orpheus, when his lost Eurydice, 
 Whom some deaf snake, that could no music hear, 
 Or some blind newt, that could no beauty see. 
 Thinking to kiss, kill'd with his forked spear : 
 
 These lines of Fletcher are a paraphrase, or rather translation, 
 from Boethius. The whole description is forcible : some of the cir- 
 cumstances perhaps arc heightened too much ; but it is the fault of 
 this writer to indulge himself in every aggravation that poetry allows, 
 and to stretch his prerogative of " quidiibet audcndi" to the utmost. 
 This subject, versified in a very inferior style, occurs in his Poetical 
 Miscellanies, p. 79, subjoined to the Purple Island. For the effects 
 of music on the Infernal Regions it may be almost impertinent to re- 
 fer the reader to the story of Orpheus, Virg. Georg. iv. ; and the very
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 7S 
 
 He, when his plaints on earth were vainly spent, 
 Down to Avemus' river boldly went. 
 And charm'd the meagre ghosts with mournful blandishment. 
 
 There what his mother, fair Calliope, 
 
 From Phoebus' harp and Muse's spring had brought him, 
 
 What sharpest grief for his Eurydice, 
 
 And love redoubling grief had newly taught him, 
 He lavish'd out, and with his potent spell 
 Bent all the rigorous powers of stubborn hell : 
 
 He first brought pity down with rigid ghosts to dwell. 
 
 Th* amazed shades came flocking round sbout. 
 Nor car'd they now to pass the Stygian ford : 
 All hell came running there (an hideous rout), 
 And dropt a silent tear for every word : 
 
 The aged ferryman sliov'd out his boat ; 
 
 But that without his help did thither float ; 
 And having ta'eu him in, came dancing on the moat. 
 
 The hungry Tantal might have fiU'd him now, 
 And with large draughts swill'd in the standing pool : 
 The fruit hung list'ning on the wond'ring bough. 
 Forgetting hell's command ; but he (ah fool !) 
 Forgot his starved taste, his ears to fill, 
 Ixion's turning wheel unmov'd stood still ; 
 But he was rapt as much with powerful music's skilL 
 
 Tir'd Sisyphus sat on his resting stone, 
 
 And hop'd at length his labour done for ever: 
 
 masterly introduction of it by Pope in his Ode on St. Cecilia's Day. 
 The same eflfect is represented by Horace as produced by the harps 
 of Sappho and Alcaeus, Lib. II. Od.xiii. 1. 33. See also his Ode to 
 Mercury, Lib. III. Od, xi. 1, 15, &c- See likewise Milton's Paradise 
 Lost, ii. 546, 555. 
 
 m
 
 74 DEDCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 The vulture feeding on his pleasing moan, 
 Glutted with music, scorn'd grown Tityus liver : 
 
 The Furies flung their snaky whips away, 
 
 And molt in tears at his enchanting lay, 
 No shrieehes now were heard ; all hell kept holyday. 
 
 , . ' , ' . :' ( 
 
 That treble dog, whose voice, ne'er quiet, fears 
 All that in endless night's sad kingdom dwell, 
 Stood pricking up his thrice two listening ears. 
 With greedy joy drinking the sacred spell; 
 
 And softly whining, pity'd much his wrongs ; 
 
 And now first silent at those dainty songs, 
 Oft wish'd himself more ears, and fewer mouths and tongues. 
 
 At length return'd with his Eurydice, 
 
 But with this law, not to return his eyes, 
 
 Till he was past the laws of Tartary ; 
 
 (Alas ! who gives love laws in miseries ? 
 
 Love is love's law ; love but to love is ty'd) 
 Now when the dawns of neighbour day he spy'd. 
 
 Ah wretch ! Eurydice he saw, and lost, and dy'd. 
 
 Purple Island, by P. Fletcher, 
 Cant. V. St. 6] 67, edit. l633.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 7^ 
 
 THE 
 
 BOWER OF BLISS*. 
 
 At the return of Spring, the Nightingale and Cuckoo, dispnting for 
 the precedence in singing, agree to refer the matter to the decision 
 of the Nymphs who inhabit the Bower of Bliss ; they accordingly 
 set out, and on their arrival we meet with the following description 
 of the place. 
 
 W ITH Philomel he took the ready way, 
 Which to the Bower of Bliss directly lay ; 
 Where in the way they both araazed stood 
 To see the pleasance of that pleasant wood. 
 There many blissful bowers they did behold ; 
 Whose dwellers, neither vex'd with heat nor cold. 
 Did there enjoy all things that might delight 
 The curious eye of any living wight : 
 For plenty there so lavish in her gift 
 Furnish'd each place in scorn of niggard thrift ; 
 There many nymphs of more than heavenly hue 
 Had their abode : although, alas ! but few 
 Amongst them all did come of heavenly kind, 
 So hard it is to gain the gifts of mind : 
 
 This description was immediately taken from Spenser's Bower of 
 Bliss, Faerie Queene, B. ii. cant. Vi. Upon ideal paradises of the 
 kind, the best poets in almost all ages and nations have lavished their 
 descriptive powers. Hom<'r has his gardens of Alcinous, and Virgil 
 his Elysium ; Ariosto his Island of Alcina, and Tasso his Garden of 
 Armida ; Camoens his Garden of Venus, Marino his Gardens of Ado- 
 nis, and, lastly, Du Rartas and Milton their Gardens of Eden. Those 
 who wish for minute and discriminative information on this subject 
 axe referred to Mickle's Dissertation, Lusiad, p. 424, 4to. edit.
 
 76 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 Yet stately portance unto them was given *, 
 
 And in proportion like the states of heaven 
 
 They bare themselves : yet want both will and power 
 
 From love's assault to shield fair beauty's bower. 
 
 And more to beautify the goodly frames 
 
 Which God and nature gave these goodly dames, 
 
 Gentry their cradles at their birth did rock, 
 
 And drew their lineage from an ancient stock : 
 
 But what, alas ! avails the fading flower 
 
 Of beauty's bud in those, that have no power 
 
 To guide the least part of the weaker sense. 
 
 And learn the lesson of pure continence ? 
 
 Or what is birth to those, that, so they win 
 
 The seeming sweetness of alluring sin. 
 
 Bastard their birth, and all tlieir stock deprave. 
 
 To gain the thing which appetite doth crave : 
 
 Beauty in such, though much, is but disgrace. 
 
 And high-born birth, though kingly, is but base. 
 
 For fair is foul, where virtue is unknown, 
 
 And birth is base, where gifts of grace are none. 
 
 From hence Dan Cuckoo with fair Philomel 
 
 (Acquainted with each passage very well) 
 
 Forward proceeded in this pleasant wood. 
 
 Until they came unto that place where stood 
 
 The Bower of Bliss itself so fairly deckt, 
 
 That never eye beheld so fair aspect : 
 
 In th' outer porch sat many a sleek-hair'd squire 
 
 Of pleasing semblance, full of loose desire, 
 
 Vet stately portance, 6fc.] Thus Milton, of Eve ; 
 
 She Delia's self 
 
 In gait surpass'd, and goddess-like deport. 
 
 Par. Lost, ix. 389. 
 Their port was more than human, as they stood. 
 
 Comus, 297,
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 71 
 
 Of feature fit to feast a lady's eye ; 
 
 But manly exercise unfit to try : 
 
 Their cunning did consist in sleights of love, 
 
 With which from loyalty they oft did move 
 
 Ladies' frail hearts : for unto many a one 
 
 They vowM themselves, tliough faithful unto none. 
 
 Unto the^secrets of the unchaste sheet 
 
 They sworn were, an oath for such unmeet : 
 
 For which their service oftentimes they fed 
 
 On ransack'd sweetness of the nuptial bed. 
 
 Mongst these there was a squire of greatest place. 
 
 And chiefest held in that great lady's grace, 
 
 Which dwelt in this same bower : for many a night 
 
 With her he stole a snatch of love's delight. 
 
 Yet he was false, disloyal to his dame : 
 
 For in his common talk, devoid of shame, 
 
 He of his lady's favour was too frank. 
 
 For which I can that lover little thank : 
 
 He was the usher to this dainty dame, 
 
 And Vanity men gave him unto name. 
 
 The inner porch seem'd entrance to entice *, 
 
 It fashion'd was with such quaint rare device ; 
 
 The top with canopy of green was spread 
 
 Thicken 'd with leaves of th' ivy's wanton head. 
 
 About the which the eglantine did twine 
 
 His prickling arms the branches to combine. 
 
 Bearing sweet flowers of more than fragrant odour. 
 
 Which stellified the roof with painted colour t; 
 
 * Tht inner porch seem'd entrance to entice."] Spenser, B. 11. 
 cant. xii. st. 5.^, 54. 
 
 t Which stellified the roof with painted colour."] A word in use 
 amongst the Poets of that day. Drayton has it in hks Legend of Ma- 
 tilda : 
 
 By him who strives to stellify her name- 
 Again, in Drummond : 
 
 With roses here she stellified the ground. Son. 41. '
 
 78 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 On either side the vine did broad dilate 
 
 His swollen veins with wreathings intricate, 
 
 Whose bunches to the ground did seem t' incline, 
 
 As freely ofF'ring of their luscious wine : 
 
 Through this same porch went many a worthy wighl 
 
 Unto the Bower of Bliss, both day and night. 
 
 Who at their entrance fresh and flush as May 
 
 Did bear themselves adorn'd in rich array : 
 
 But few retum'd without the common curse 
 
 Of strange disease, of emptiness of purse, 
 
 Who discontented with their sad mishap 
 
 Walk'd to and fro, forlorn in deep disdain 
 
 With willow branch, for prize of all their pain. 
 
 From this same porch a walk directly lay. 
 
 Which to the Bower itself did lead the way. 
 
 With fruit-trees thick beset on either side, 
 
 Whose goodly fruit themselves did seem to hide 
 
 Beneath the leaves, as lurking from the eyes ' ' fbniv/ > ; 
 
 Of strangers' greedy view, fearing surprise, ' 
 
 Whose arched boughs and leafy twigs together 
 
 With true love-knots entangled each in other, 
 
 Seem'd painted walls, on which when Zephyr blew 
 
 They spread themselves, disclosing unto view 
 
 The blossoms, buds, the birds, and painted flies, 
 
 That in their leaves lay hid from strangers' eyes : 
 
 This walk of people never empty was ; 
 
 For to the Bower of Bliss one could not pass. 
 
 But that the way did swarm with jetting jacks*,' 
 
 Who bare upon their French-diseased backs 
 
 Jetting Jacks."] The word jetting seldom occurs applied to a 
 person ; it seems here to imply that restless and unsettled state pecu- 
 liar to idleness. It is used by Quarles, describing the haggard : he 
 says, that she 
 
 Jets oft from perch to perch. B. iii. Emb. I. 
 
 Sylvester, in his translation of Du Bartas, has borrowed many of 
 Niccols' lines from this description, which he has printed with very
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 7 
 
 Whole manors, castles, towns, and lordships sold, "'* < ' ' * 
 
 Cut out in clippings and in shreds of gold : 
 
 Their chambering fortitude they did descry 
 
 By their soft: maiden voice and flickering eye *, 
 
 Their woman's manhood by their clothes perfum'd. 
 
 Coy looks, curl'd locks, and thin beards half consum'd. 
 
 Whose nice, effeminate, and base behaviour 
 
 Was counted comely, neat, and cleanly gesture. 
 
 Passing forth, one lo there they did behold 
 
 High lifted up with lofty roof of gold 
 
 The Bower of Bliss, in which there did abide 
 
 The lady's self, that should their cause decide, 
 
 On which the heavens still in a stedfast state 
 
 Look'd alway blithe, diverting froward fate, 
 
 Not suffering icy frost or scorching sun- 
 
 To vex th* inhabitants, that there did won ; 
 
 For there eternal spring doth ever dwell, 
 
 Ne they of other season ought can tell ; <' ' ; ' 
 
 They labour not with hands of industry 
 
 To furrow up the earth's fertility ; 
 
 Bubbles of sweat decline not from their brow, 
 
 Ne stooping labour makes their backs to bow : 
 
 Yet plenty of all fruits upon their ground 
 
 Seedless and artless every where is found. 
 
 slight alteratioDS, and amongst other expressions he applies this to 
 vice. It will be snificient to refer to the passage, p. 101, edit. 1641. 
 Jacks is a common expression, denoting contempt, with our older 
 writers. Thus, in the Mirror for Magistrates, we meet with 
 
 No golden churl, no elbow-vaunting jack. P. 565. 
 We still say contemptuously, " a Jack in office." 
 
 flickering eye."] A very expressive epithet; it is used by 
 
 Dyer in his truly classical poem, the Fleece, to denote the tremulous 
 and fluctuating motion of the waves : 
 
 Till, rising o'er the flickering wave, the Cape 
 
 Of Finisterre, &c. B. iv.
 
 so 1>ESCRIPTIVE PIECES* 
 
 Unto this bower Dan Cuckoo and his mate 
 
 Approaching nigh, lo standing at the gate, 
 
 Which framed was of purest ivory. 
 
 All painted o'er with many a history, 
 
 So sweetly wrought, that art in them did seem 
 
 To mock at nature as of no esteem ; 
 
 Eftsoons they heard a pleasing harmony *, 
 
 Of music's most melodious minstrelsy, 
 
 Where sweet-voic'd birds, soft winds, and water's fall. 
 
 With voice and viol made agreement all ; 
 
 The birds unto the voice did sweetly sing. 
 
 The voice did speak unto the viol's string, 
 
 That to the wind did sound now high, now low. 
 
 The wind to water's fall did gently blow. 
 
 The Cuckoo, byR. Niccols, p. 6 11^ 
 1607, 4to. 
 
 The concluding circumstances of this piece are literally taken from 
 Spenser, whose exquisite lines will not, it is hoped, be considered as 
 unnecessary here : 
 
 Eftsoons they heard a most melodious sound 
 Of all that mote delight a dainty ear, 
 Such as at once might not on living ground, 
 Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere ; 
 Right hard it was for wight which did it hear,^ 
 To read what manner music that mote be ; 
 For all that pleasing is to living ear. 
 Was there consorted in one harmony. 
 Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all agree. 
 
 The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful shade, 
 Their notes unto the voice attemper'd sweet ; 
 Th' angelical soft-trembling voices made 
 To th' instruments divine respondence meet : 
 The silver-sounding instruments did meet 
 With the base murmur of the water's fall : 
 The water's fall with difference discreet. 
 Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call : 
 The gentle-warbliog wind low answered to all. 
 
 F. Qtuenet B. II. C xii. st. 70, 71.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PifiCES. 81 
 
 THE 
 
 CAVE OF DESPAIR. 
 
 Xjre long they came near to a baleful bower. 
 
 Much hke the mouth of that infernal cave, 
 
 That gaping stood all comers to devour, 
 
 Dark, doleful, dreary, like a greedy grave, 
 
 That still for carrion carcases doth crave. 
 
 The ground no herbs but venomous did bear. 
 Nor ragged trees did leave, but every where 
 
 Dead bones and skulls were cast, and bodies hanged were. 
 
 Upon the roof the bird of sorrow sat 
 Elonging joyful day* with her sad note, 
 
 Elonging yo^z/w^ day.'] G. Fletcher has a similar term in the same 
 poem, cant. i. stan. 41 : 
 
 As when the cheerful sun clamping wide. 
 It is in vain to search for either of these expressions in the modern 
 edition, as they are there thus altered : 
 
 As when the cheerful sun, light spreading wide. 
 
 Cant. i. St. 37, edit. 1783. 
 
 Keeping iacX; Joyful day. 
 Drummond, in his prose works, uses evanishing : ^' Riches being mo- 
 mentary and euamsAing." P. 222, Edinb. 1711. 
 
 The most material features of this description are taken from Spen- 
 ser, Faerie Queene, B. I. cant. ix. st. 33, 36. This is a curious in- 
 stance of plagiarism, and serves to show us what little ceremony the 
 poets of that day laboured under in pilfering from each other. The 
 reader will be amply repaid for his trouble in turning to the passage 
 in Spenser, who seems to have put forth all his strength to render the 
 picture complete, and it is in delineations of such a hue that he pecu- 
 liarly excels. The limits of my book will not permit me to quote the 
 passage at length. See also Britannia's Pastorals by Browne, Vol. I. 
 p. 162, Thompson's edit. 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 And through the shady air the fluttering bat 
 Did wave her leather sails, and blindly float, 
 While with her wings the fatal screech-owl smote 
 Th' unblessed house ; there, on a craggy stone, 
 Celeno hung, and made his direful moan, 
 And all about the murder'd ghosts did shriek and groan. 
 
 Like cloudy moonshine in some shadowy grove. 
 Such was the light in which Despair did dwell. 
 But he himself with night for darkness strove, 
 His black uncombed locks dishevell'd fell 
 About his face, through which, as brands of hell. 
 Sunk in his skull his staring eyes did glow. 
 That made him deadly look ; their glimpse did show 
 Like cockatrices' eyes, that sparks of poison throw. 
 
 His clothes were ragged clouts, with thorns pinn'd fast, 
 
 And as he musing lay to stonie fright 
 
 A thousand wild chimeras would him cast : 
 
 As when a fearful dream, in midst of night. 
 
 Skips to the brain, and fancies to the sight 
 
 Some winged fury, straight the hasty foot. 
 
 Eager to fly, cannot pluck up his root, 
 The voice dies in the tongue, and mouth gapes without boot. 
 
 Now he would dream that he from heaven fell. 
 And then would snatch the air, afraid to fall ; 
 And now he thought he sinking was to hell. 
 And then would grasp the earth, and now his stall 
 Him seemed hell, and then he out would crawl ; 
 And ever as he crept would squint aside. 
 Lest him, perhaps, some fury had espy'd. 
 And then, alas ! he should in chams for ever bide.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 85 
 
 Therefore he softly shrunk, and stole away, 
 Ne ever durst to draw his breath for fear, 
 Till to the door he came, and there he lay 
 Panting for breath, as though he dying were. 
 And still he thought he felt their grapples tear 
 
 Him by the heels back to his ugly den ; 
 
 Out fam he would have leap'd abroad, but then 
 The heavens as hell he fear'd, that punish'd guilty men. 
 Christ's Victorie, by G. Fletcher, 
 Cant. II. St. 2328, Camb. l6iO*. 
 
 * In the edition of Christ's Victory, together with the Purple 
 Island, in 1783, many unwarrantable liberties are taken with the 
 text ; nor is the least apology for the proceeding offered, or even the 
 circumstance itself mentioned. In almost every page injuries are 
 done to the sense, where improvements were intended. The republi- 
 cation seems to have originated from a letter of Hervey's, Vol. II. 
 Let. li., and to have been executed upon the ridiculous plan he there 
 proposes. Now it is the indispensable duty of every editor of an 
 ancient poet to e:^hibit the spelling of his author in the exact state in 
 which he found it (unless indeed in such words as are evidently mis- 
 takes of the press), in order that the reader may trace the progress of 
 orthography, together with that of poetry. Where this practice is not 
 observed, a republication is not merely imperfect, but dangerous, as 
 it leads to an infinity of mistakes, and can answer no possible end but 
 that of multiplying the number of our books without adding to the 
 sources of our information t. Whoever, therefore, takes up the edi- 
 tion alluded to, for the purposes of enjoying the poetry, making an 
 extract, or a reference, can never be safe as to the authenticity of a 
 single stanza. A neat republication of all Giles and Phineas Fletcher's 
 poetry, from the old editions, faithfully reprinted, is much wanted. 
 
 + This passage of Mr. Headley's is, by the present editor, faitbfally preserved, but 
 cannot be passed over withoat remark. 
 
 That the text of an ancient English Classic shonld be scrupnlously adhered to, and 
 transmitted to posterity unmutilated, and that the alterations in the edition of Christ'i 
 Victory, 178:<, are reprehensible in the highest degree, are unquestionable ; but that 
 " it 18 the indispensable duty of every editor of an ancient poet to exhibit the spelling 
 of his author in the exact state in which he found it," may reasonably be doubted. 
 If we admit of soch a decree in the laws of criticism, what is to become of the edi- 
 torial labours of Steevens, of Malone, and of Ellis J particularly of the last-men- 
 tioned gentleman, who, by reversing the method adopted by Mr. Ileadley, has given 
 to our elder poetry a popularity, of which a considerable portion at least must have 
 been anticipated by Mr. Headley, but for this nnfortanate error in bis critical creed. 
 This argument might be extended to a length more suited to a dissertation than to 
 a note upon note ; but we shall only add, tliat even Ritson, the most laborious plod- 
 der in literary antiquities since the days of Tom Hearne, became a convert to the 
 present more enligbtetied system.
 
 S4< DBSCRIPTIVK PIECES. 
 
 DEGENERACY OF THE TIMES. 
 
 W HERE Plym and Thamar with embraces meet, 
 Thetis weighs anchor now, and all her fleet; 
 Leaving that spacious sound*, within whose arms 
 I have those vessels seen, whose hot alarms 
 Have made Iberia tremble, and her towers 
 Prostrate themselves before our iron showers. 
 While their proud builders' hearts have been inclin'd 
 To shake (as our brave ensigns) with the wind. 
 For as an Eyerie from their sedges wou'd, 
 Led u'er the plains and taught to get their food 
 By seeing how their breeder takes his prey, 
 Now from an orchard do they scare tlie Jay, 
 Then o'er the corn-fields as they swiftly fly. 
 Where many thousand hurtful sparrows lie 
 Beating the ripe grain from the bearded ear^ 
 At their approach, all overgone with fear 
 Seek for their safety ; some into the dike. 
 Some in the hedges drop, and others like 
 The thick-grown corn ; as for their hiding best, 
 And under turfs or grass most of the rest. 
 That of a flight which cover'd all the grain. 
 Not one appears, but all or hid or slain : 
 So by Heroes were we led of yore, 
 And by our drums, that tliunder'd on each shore, 
 Struck with amazement countries far and near ; 
 Whilst their inhabitants, like herds of deer 
 
 * Plymouth.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 85 
 
 By kiiigly lions chas'd, fled from our arms. 
 
 If any did oppose, instructed swarms 
 
 Of men immail'd ; Fate drew Ihera on to be 
 
 A greater fame to our got victory. 
 
 But now our leaders want, those vessels lie 
 
 Rotting, like houses through ill husbandry. 
 
 And on their masts, where oft tlie ship-boy stood, 
 
 Or silver trumpets charm'd the brackish flood, 
 
 Some wearied crow is set*; and daily seen 
 
 Their sides, instead of pitch, caulk'd o'er with green: 
 
 111 hap, alas ! have you that once were known 
 
 By reaping what was by Iberia sown. 
 
 By bringing yello\v sheaves from out their plain, 
 
 Making our bams the storehouse for their grain: 
 
 When now as if we wanted land to till, 
 
 Wherewith we might our useless soldiers fill : 
 
 Upon the hatches where half-pikes were borne 
 
 In every chink rise stems of bearded corn : 
 
 Mocking our idle times that so have wrought us, 
 
 Or putting us in mind what once they brought us. 
 
 Bear with me, shepherds, if I do digress. 
 
 And speak of what ourselves do not profess: 
 
 Can I behold a man that in the field, 
 
 Or at a breach hath taken on his shield 
 
 More darts than ever Roman f ; that hath spent 
 
 Many a cold December, in no tent 
 
 But such as earth and heaven make ; that hath been 
 
 Except in iron plates not long time seen; 
 
 * ^nd on their masts, tehere oft the ship-boy stood. 
 
 Some wearied crow is set.'} This image reminds us of a very spi- 
 rited passage in Churchill : 
 
 Let cormorants in churches make their nest, 
 And on the sails of commerce bitterns rest. Gotham. 
 
 + Mutius Scevola.
 
 86 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 Upon whose body may be plainly told 
 
 More wounds than his lank purse doth alms-deeds hold ; 
 
 O can I see this man, advent'ring all. 
 
 Be only graced with some poor hospital, 
 
 Or may be worse, entreating at his door * 
 
 For some relief whom he secur'd before, 
 
 And yet not show my grief? first may I learn 
 
 To see, and yet forget how to discern ; 
 
 My hands neglectful be at any need 
 
 Or to defend my body or to feed, 
 
 Ere I respect those times that rather give him 
 
 Hundreds to punish, than one to relieve him. 
 
 Britannia's Pastorals, by W. Browne, 
 B. II. Song 4, edit. 1772, 3 vols. 
 
 THE POET 
 
 CONDUCTED BY SORROW TO THE INFERNAL REGIONS. 
 
 l5uT lo, while thus amid the desert dark, 
 We passed on with steps and pace unmeet, 
 A rumbling roar confus'd with howl and bark 
 Of dogs, shook all the ground under our feet, 
 And struck the din within our ears so deep. 
 
 As half distraught unto the ground I fell. 
 
 Besought return, and not to visit hell. 
 
 * intreating at his door 
 
 For some relief whom he secured before.^ A striking circum- 
 stance, perfectly similar to a well-known passage of Young : 
 Some for hard masters, broken under arms, 
 In battle lopt away, with half their limbs, 
 Beg bitter bread through realms their valour sav'd. 
 
 Night I.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 87 
 
 But she forthwitli uplifting me apace 
 Remov'd my dread, and with a stedfast mind 
 Bad me come on, for here was now the place, 
 The place where we our travel's end should find. 
 Wherewith I rose, and to the place assign'd 
 
 Astoynde 1 stalk'd, when straight we approached near 
 The dreadful place, that you will dread to hear. 
 
 An hideous hole all vast, withouten shape. 
 Of endless depth, o'erwhelm'd with ragged stone, 
 With ugly mouth, and griesly jaws doth gape, 
 And to our sight confounds itself in one. 
 Here enter'd we, and yeding forth, anon 
 
 A dreadful loathly lake we might discern 
 
 As black as pitch, that cleped is Averne. 
 
 - 
 A deadly gulf where nought but rubbish grows, 
 
 With foul black swelth in thicken'd lumps that lies, 
 
 Which up in th' air such stinking vapours throws 
 
 That over there may fly no fowl but dies, 
 
 Chok'd with the noisome savours that arise. 
 
 Hither we come, whenceforth we still did pace. 
 
 In dreadful fear amid the dreadful place. 
 
 And first within the porch and jaws of h^ll 
 
 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 brought,
 
 88 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 So was her mind continually in fear, 
 
 Tossed and tormented with 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 proffer'd here and there, 
 Benumb'd of speech, and with a ghastly look 
 Search'd every place all pale and dead for fear. 
 His cap borne up with starting of his hair f , 
 
 Stoi/n'd and amaz'd at his own shade for deed, 
 And fearing greater dangers than was need. 
 
 And next within the entry of this lake 
 
 Sat fell Revenge gnashing her teeth for ire. 
 
 Devising jneans how she may vengeance take. 
 
 Never to rest till she have her desire : 
 
 But frets within so far forth with the fire 
 
 Of wreaking flames, that now determines she 
 To die by death, or 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, 
 
 Wishing for death, and yet she could not die."] So in the Purple 
 Island : 
 
 Prayers are idle, death is woo'd in vain ; 
 
 In midst of death poor wretches long to die. Cant. vi. st. 37. 
 
 No poet has exceeded Milton on this subject, whose lines are far 
 too well known to be here quoted. 
 
 t His cap borne up with starting of his hair."] A very original in- 
 cident. Mr. Hogarth, in his figure of Richard the Third, in the tent 
 scene, has represented the ring of the tyrant as having started beyond 
 the joint of his finger with the violent agitation of his frame. The in- 
 cident is such as a man of genius only could have conceived, though 
 many look at the picture without attending to the sublimity of it.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 89 
 
 Till in our eyes another sight we met : 
 When from my heart a sigh forthwith Ifet, 
 
 Racing, 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 1 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 shoulder 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 daintly would he fare ; 
 His drink the running stream; his cup the bare 
 
 Of his palm clos'd ; his bed the hard cold ground : 
 
 To this poor life was Misery yhound. 
 
 Whose wretched state when we had well beheld. 
 
 With tender ruth on him and on his feeres, 
 
 In thoughtful cares, forth then our pace we held : 
 
 And by and by, another shape appears 
 
 Of greedy Care, still brushing up the breers. 
 
 His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dented in. 
 With tawed hands, and hard ytanned skm. 
 
 The morrow gray no sooner hath begun 
 To spread his light even peeping in our eyes. 
 When 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
 
 90 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, 
 But hath his caudles to prolong his toil. 
 
 By him lay heavy Sleep, 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 travailes ease, the still night's feere was he*. 
 And of our life in earth the better part, 
 Ruin of sight, and yet in whom we see 
 Things oft that tide, and oft that never be. 
 Without respect esteeming equally 
 King Crcesus' 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, 
 As on the place where nature him assigned 
 To rest, when that the Sisters had untwin'd 
 
 His vital thread, and ended with their knife 
 The fleeting course of fast declining life. 
 
 * . ...the still night\s feere teas he."] i. e. companion. Sbakspeare's 
 eulogium on sleep deserves a place here, as well for its beauty as its 
 resemblance in some degree to Sackvllle's : 
 
 the innocent sleep, 
 
 Sleep, that knits up the ravel'd sleeve of care, 
 The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, 
 Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course. 
 Chief nourisher in life's feast. Macbeth.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 9^ 
 
 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 forewast. 
 
 Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek I 
 
 And to be young again of Jove beseek. 
 
 But, and the cruel Fates so fixed be. 
 That time forepast cannot return again. 
 This one request of Jove yet prayed he : 
 That in such withred plight, and wretched pain, 
 As Eld (accompanied with his loathsome train) 
 
 Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief. 
 
 He might awhile yet Unger forth his life. 
 
 And not so soon descend into the pit, 
 
 Where Death, when he the mortal corpse hath slain, 
 
 With retchless hand in grave doth cover it, 
 
 Thereafter jpever 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 mus'd and marvell'd much whereon 
 This wretched Age should life desire so fain. 
 And knows full well life doth but length his pain*. 
 
 The infirmities of age are no where more emphatically enume- 
 rated than in Juvpnal, Sat. x. 1. 190, &c, Churchill, who has an ex- 
 clusive right to the title of the British Juvenal, has some good linee 
 en thig subject. Gotham, B. I.
 
 92 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 Crookback'd he was, toothshaken, and blear-ey'd. 
 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 forlore : 
 His withred 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 plac'd. 
 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 tum'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 gnawn on every where, 
 AH full of holes, that I ne mought refrain 
 From tears, to see how she her arms could tear. 
 And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain : 
 When all for nought she fain would so sustain 
 
 Her starved 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 uails snatcluDg at all she saw :
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 93 
 
 With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay 
 
 Be satisfied 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. 
 
 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 
 Enthrilling it to reave 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. 
 
 A'e peers, ne princes, nor no mortal wight, , 
 
 iVe 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 per diet 
 The naked shape of man there saw I plain, 
 All save the flesh, the sinew, and tlie vein. 
 
 Lastly stood War, in glittering arms yclad. 
 With visage grim, stem looks, and blackly hued. 
 In his right hand a naked sword he had. 
 That to the hilts was all with blood embrued : 
 And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued)
 
 5>4 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. * 
 
 Famine and fire he held, and therewithal 
 
 He razed towns, and threw down towers and all. 
 
 Cities he sack'd, and realms that whilome flower'd 
 In honour, glory, and rule above the best, 
 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. 
 
 In midst of which, depainted there we found 
 
 Deadly Debate, all full of snaky hair, 
 
 That with a bloody fillet was yhound. 
 
 Out breathing nought but discord every where. 
 
 And round about were pourtray'd here and there 
 The hugy hosts, Darius and his power. 
 His kings, princes, his peers, and all liis flower ; 
 
 Whom great Macedo vanquish'd there in fight, 
 With deep slaughter despoiling all his pride, 
 Pierc'd through his realms, and daunted all his might. 
 Duke Hannibal beheld I there beside, 
 In Canna's field, victor how he did ride. 
 
 And woeful Romans that in vain withstood, 
 And Consul Paulus covered all in blood. 
 
 Yet saw I more, the fight at Trasimene, 
 
 And Treberie field, and eke when Hannibal 
 
 And worthy Scipio last in arms were seen , 
 
 Before Carthago gate, to try for all 
 
 The world's empire, to whom it should befal. 
 
 There saw I Pompey, and Caesar clad in arms, 
 Their hosts allied, and all their civil harms.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 9^ 
 
 With conquerors' hands forbath'd in their owp blood, 
 
 And Caesar weeping over Ponipey's head. 
 
 Yet saw I Scylla and Marius where they stood, 
 
 Their great cruelty, and the deep bloodshed 
 
 Of friends : Cyrus I saw and his host dead. 
 
 And how the Queen with great despite hath flung 
 His head in blood of them she overcome. 
 
 Xerxes the Persian King yet saw I there, 
 With his huge host that drank the rivers dry. 
 Dismounted hills, and made the vales uprear. 
 His host and all yet saw I slain perdie. 
 Thebes I saw all raz'd how it did lie 
 
 In heaps of stones, and Tyrus put to spoil, 
 With walls and towers flat even'd with the soil. 
 
 But Troy, alas! (methought) above them all, 
 
 It made mine eyes in very tears consume: 
 
 When I beheld the woeful word befal. 
 
 That by the wrathful will of God was come : 
 
 And Jove's unmoved sentence and foredoom 
 On Priam King, and on his town so bent, 
 I could not lin, but I must there lament. 
 
 And that the more, sith dest'ny was so stem 
 
 As force perforce, there might no force avail, 
 
 But she must fall : and by her fall we learn. 
 
 That cities, towers, wealth, world, and all shall quail. 
 
 No manhood, might, nor nothing mought prevail, 
 
 All were there press'd, full many a prince and peer. 
 And many a knight that sold his death full dear. 
 
 Not worthy Hector, worthiest of them all. 
 Her hope, her joy, his force is now for nought 
 O Troy, Troy, there is no boote but bale,
 
 i)6 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 The hugie horse within thy walls is brought : 
 Thy turrets fall, thy knights that whilome fought 
 In arms amid the field, are slain in bed, 
 Thy gods defil'd, and all thy honour dead. 
 
 The flames upspring, and cruelly they creep 
 From wall to roof, till all to cinders waste. 
 Some fire the houses where the wretches sleep. 
 Some rush in here, some run in there as fast. 
 In every where, or sword or fire they taste. 
 
 The walls are torn, the towers whirl'd to the ground, 
 There is no mischief but may there be found. 
 
 Cassandra yet there saw I how they hailed 
 From Pallas' house, with sparkled tresse undone, 
 Her wrists fast bound, and with Greeks rout empaled : 
 And Priam eke in vain* how he did run 
 
 And Priam eke in vain, &c.] The death of Polites, Virg. jEn.Il. 
 526, 557, which affords an excellent subject for a picture ; but the 
 poet in his general account of the sacking of Troy, preceding this 
 particular description, has a circumstance relative to the dearth of old 
 Priam not sufficiently attended to as a beauty, yet eminently fine, 
 and which is one of those few strokes that at once evince the supe- 
 riority of poetry over painting : ^ 
 Vidi Hecubam, centumque nams Priamumque per aras 
 Sanguine foedantem, quos ipse sacraverat ignes. L. 501. 
 A skilful painter might have judiciously selected a few of the most 
 interesting and most melancholy spectacles of the night ; he might, 
 by a proper disposition of them, have successfully conveyed ta our 
 minds the distress of Hecuba and her female attendants, at the sight 
 of Pyrrhus and the two sons of Atreus ; all our finer feelings might 
 have been fully excited by the dead body of Priam himself, at the 
 foot of the altar: but to have told us, that this very altar to which he 
 had vainly fled for protection, and near which he now lay dead, had 
 formerly, in the hour of peace and prosperity, been consecrated by 
 his own hand, would have baflled the powers of his pencil, and have 
 forced from him a confession to this effect ; " Nobis non licet esse tam 
 disertis !" Dr. Blair in his Lectures on Rhetoric, in his remarju on
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 97 
 
 To arms, whom Pyrrhus with despite hath done 
 To cruel death, and bath'd him in the baine 
 Of his son's blood before the altar slain. 
 
 But how can I describe the doleful sight, 
 
 That in the shield so lively fair did shine ? 
 
 Sith in this world I think was never wight 
 
 Could have set forth the half, not half so fine. 
 
 I can no more but tell how there is seen 
 
 Fair Ilium fall in burning red gledes down. 
 And from the soil great Troy Neptunus town. 
 
 Herefrom, when scarce I could mine eyes withdraw, 
 
 That fill'd with tears as doth the springing well. 
 
 We passed on so far forth till we saw 
 
 Kude Acheron, a loathsome lake to tell, 
 
 That boils and bubs up swelth as black as hell. 
 
 Where griesly Charon at their fixed tide 
 
 Still ferries ghosts unto the further side. 
 
 The aged god no sooner Sorrow spied, 
 But hasting straight unto the bank apace. 
 With hollow call unto the rout he cried. 
 To swarve apart, and give the goddess place. 
 Straight it was done, when to the shore we pace, 
 
 Where hand in hand as we then linked fast. 
 
 Within the boat we are together plac'd. 
 
 And forth we launch fall fraughted to the brink. 
 When with th' unwonted weight, the rusty keel 
 Began to crack as if the same should sink. 
 
 Virgil's talents for poetical description, expressly selects this passage, 
 and observes, that " The death of Priam, especially, may be singled 
 out as a masterpiece of description." Vol. III. p. 169. But this 
 the most material circumstance seems to have escaped him. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 We hoise up mast and sail, that ia a ^vhile 
 We fet the shore, where scarcely we had while 
 For to arrive, but that we heard anon 
 A three sound bark confounded all in one. 
 
 We had not long forth past, but that we saw 
 Black Cerberus, the hideous hound of hell, 
 With bristles rear'd, and with a three-mouth'd jaw, 
 Foredinning th' air with his horrible yell. 
 Out of the deep dark cave where he did dwell. 
 The goddess straight he knew, and by and by 
 He peast and couched, while that we passed by. 
 
 Thence come we to the horror and the hell. 
 The large great kingdoms, and the dreadful reign 
 Of Pluto in his throne where he did dwell. 
 The wide waste places, and the hugie plain : 
 The wailings, shrieks, and sundry sorts of pain: 
 
 The sighs, the sobs, the deep and deadly groan, 
 Earth, air, and all, resounding plaint and moan. 
 
 Thence did we pass the three-fold empery 
 To th' utmost bounds, where Radamanthus reigns. 
 Where proud folk wail their woeful misery. 
 Where dreadful din of thousand dragging chains. 
 And baleful shrieks of ghosts in deadly pains 
 Tortur'd eternally are heard most brim. 
 Through silent shades of night so dark and dim. 
 
 From hence upon our way we forward pass, 
 And through the groves and uncouth paths we go. 
 Which lead unto the Cyclops' walls of brass : 
 And where that main-broad flood for aye doth flow. 
 Which Darts the gladsome fields from place of woe.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE riECliS. Q'J 
 
 Whence none shall ever pass t' Elysium plain. 
 Or from Elysium ever turn again. 
 
 With Sorrow for my guide, as there I stood, 
 A troop of men the most in arms bedight, 
 In tumult cluster'd 'bout both sides the flood : 
 Mongst whom, who were ordain'd t' eternal night, 
 Or who to blissful peace and sweet delight, 
 
 I wot not well, it seem'd that they were all 
 Such as by death's untimely stroke did fall. 
 
 Some headless were, some body, face, and hands, 
 With shameful wounds despoil'd in eyerj- part : 
 Some strangled, some that died in captive bands, 
 Some smother'd, drown'd, some stricken through the heart 
 With fatal steel, all drown'd in deadly smart : 
 
 Of hast'ned death, with shrieks, sobs, sighs, and tears. 
 Did tell the woes of their forepassed years. 
 
 We sta^d us straight, and with a rueful fear 
 
 Beheld this heavy sight, while from mine eyes 
 
 The vapoured tears down stilled here and there. 
 
 And Sorrow eke in far more woeful wise, 
 
 Took on with plaint, upheaving to the skies 
 
 Her wretched hands, that with her cry the rout 
 'Gan all in heaps to swarm us round about. 
 
 Induction to the Mirour for Magistrates, 
 by Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, p. 260 
 270, 1610, 4to.
 
 100 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 BATfLE OF CRESSY. 
 
 IviNG Philip, follow'd by the bravest host 
 
 That e'er before the realm of France could boast. 
 
 In confidence of conquest to succeed. 
 
 And to revenge the late disgrace, with speed 
 
 (Although advis'd at Abbeville to stay 
 
 And rest his army) marches thence away. 
 
 Thou sweetest Muse of all th' Aonian Springs, 
 
 Fair-hair 'd Calliope, that best canst sing 
 
 Of kings' high deeds, and godlike heroes' fames. 
 
 Declare King Philip's power, recite the names 
 
 Of all (beside the native chivalry 
 
 Of France, and flower of her nobility) 
 
 The foreign lands, that shar'd in that great day. 
 
 And royal princes that did there display 
 
 Their dreadful colours in the aid of France, 
 
 And forward thence to Cressy field advance. 
 
 Within the van, with Charles of Alen^on, 
 
 The royal banner of Bohemia shone. 
 
 With which did Lodowick, her old martial king. 
 
 His furious horse and weli-try'd lances bring. 
 
 His glittering plume, that many an honour'd field 
 
 Had known, and many a dreadful fight beheld, 
 
 Wav'd there unhappily, ordained to be 
 
 A lasting fame to Edward's victory*. 
 
 * ordaifCd to be 
 
 A lasting fame to Edward's victory.'] His crest was three ostrich 
 feathers ; and his motto these German words, Ich dien, I serve ; which 
 the Prince of Wales and his successors adopted in memorial of this 
 jreat victory. Hume.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. It31 
 
 Along with him march'd Charles, bis princely son; 
 For whom the Fates a fairer thread had spun, 
 Sav'd, to preserve the name and ancient stem. 
 And after wear th' imperial diadem. 
 Thither from far Majorca's monarch brings 
 His light-arm'd soldiers, from whose fatal slings, 
 As from strong bows, death's carried ; nor of yore 
 Were Cretan shafts or Parthian feared more. 
 With fifteen thousand mortal crossbows there 
 The stout Grimaldi and Antonio* were. 
 Two noble chiefs from stately Genoa, 
 Whose gallies had in many a naval fray 
 Against proud Venice wrestled long to gain 
 The rule of all the Midland Ocean. 
 Stout John of Heinault to King Philip's side 
 His forces brings, although so near allied 
 To England's King (as uncle to the Queen), 
 And had by Edward highly honour'd been. 
 He now had chang'd his faith, and for the gold 
 Of France his mercenary valour sold. 
 There march those warlike Flemings, that attend 
 Their Earl of Flanders, Lewis, a constant friend 
 To France : but no strong number could he get, 
 Nor o'er his subjects was his power so great. 
 They honour'd Edward's worth, and to his side - 
 Had been, without their Earl's consent, ally'd. 
 There Charles of Blois leads on his martial train 
 In glittering armour : Bourbon, and Lorrain. 
 To whom, whilst all the army march'd away, 
 Brings Savoy's Duke a thousand men of arras. 
 Whom from the lofty Alps the loud alarms 
 
 * Antonio Dorta. Speed.
 
 102 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 Of this great war had drawn with dismal fate. 
 
 Too soon, alas ! arriv'd, though seeming late. 
 
 How many men does fortune bring from far 
 
 Their parts to suffer in this tragic war? 
 
 How many lands their several shares of woe 
 
 Must contribute to Philip's overthrow? 
 
 Perchance 'cause Edward will his force advance 
 
 No further than the continent of France, 
 
 She fear'd his fame would be no further known, 
 
 But circumscribed where the deed was done : 
 
 Nor therefore suffers France to bleed alone. 
 
 The sad Bohemian wives, that live upon 
 
 Great Albi's banks, and drink fair Molda's stream, 
 
 Mast make this battle their lamented theme. 
 
 Those that beyond the clouded Alps do dwell, 
 
 And Netherlanders, shall be forc'd to tell 
 
 Great Edward's honour, while their own dear wounds 
 
 They count, received on Cressy's fatal grounds. 
 
 While thus the French march on in rich array, 
 In Cressy park encamped Edward lay : 
 His firm battalia on well-chosen ground 
 Was clos'd behind, and barricado'd round 
 With strongest fences made by plashing trees. 
 And placing there the weightiest carriages. 
 Thither were all the leaders' horses brought 
 To cut off hope of flight, and leave no thought 
 In English breasts but death or victory. 
 Their resolutions, that before were high. 
 By this strict means were more ascertain'd* there. 
 Their minds were cheerful, fresh their bodies were, 
 
 * In the time of May, a variety of words were unsettled as to their 
 accent, and were used either short or long, according to the will or 
 necessity of the poet. For instance :
 
 DESCaiPTIVE PIECES. 103 
 
 And fit t' encounter their approaching foes. , 
 
 In three battahas does the king dispose* 
 
 His strength, which all in ready order stand, 
 
 And to each other's rescue near at hand. 
 
 The first in rank, that early blooming flower 
 
 Of fame, Prince Edward leads, a warrior 
 
 Before a man ; no down had clotli'd his chin. 
 
 Nor seventeen springs had this young soldier seen. 
 
 Within his battle famous leaders are. 
 
 Brave Warwick, Stafford, Harcourt, Delawar, 
 
 There Beauchamp, Bourchier, Clifford, Chandois wield 
 
 Their active arms, whom many an honour'd field 
 
 Had fam'd before : the second squadron by 
 
 Northampton's Earl was led : there Willoughby, 
 
 There Arundel, Lord Ross, and Basset stand. 
 
 Men that could well obey, and well command. 
 
 Within the third King Edward means to fight: 
 
 The great French army now approach'd their sight. 
 
 By this strict means were more ascertain'd there. 
 
 Must contribute to Philip's overthrow. P. 26. 
 
 Thus, in Browne's Pastorals : 
 
 Not that by mind's commerce, and joint estate. 
 
 B. I. Song 2. 
 In three battalias, &c.] Holinshed's account of the disposition 
 of the English army is as follows: " Then he ordained three battels: 
 in the first was the Prince of Wales, and with him the Earl of War- 
 wicke, the Lord Godfrey of Harecourt, the Lord Stafford, the Lord 
 De la Ware, the Lord Bourchier, the Lord Thomas Cliiford, the Lord 
 Reginald Cobham, the Lord Thomas Holland, Sir John Chandos, Sjr 
 Bartholomew Browash, Sir Robert Nevill. They were eight hundred 
 men of armes, and two thousand archers, and a thousand of others, 
 with the Welshmen. In the second battel was the Earle of North- 
 ampton, the Earle of Arundell, the Lords Ros and Willowbie, Bas- 
 set, S. Albine, Multon, and others.- The third battel the King led 
 himself, having with him seven hundred men of armes, and two thousand 
 archers; and in the other battel even to the number of eight thousand 
 men of armes, and twelve hundred archers. Thus was the English army 
 marshalled according to the report of Froissard." Chron. p. 37 1.,
 
 104 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 Dark grew tlic troubled air* as if it stfove 
 
 Within the soldiers' furious breasts to move 
 
 A sad presage of what would then ensue, 
 
 Nor longer could the golden Phoebus shew 
 
 Jlis cheerful face: the lightning's flashy light 
 
 And loudest claps of thunder 'gan affright 
 
 The darken'd welkin ; which in tears apace 
 
 Dissolv'd, to fall upon the tragic place. 
 
 Another darkness more portentous rose 
 
 O'er both the amazed camps, whole shoals of crows 
 
 And croakmg ravens, that obscure the sky. 
 
 From all the neighbouring fields to Cressy fly, 
 
 (As thick as cranes in winter, that forsake. 
 
 To drink warm Nile, the frozen Strymon's lake) 
 
 And muster there themselves, in hopes to prey 
 
 Upon the slaughter of so great a day. 
 
 From these ostents are deep impressions wrought; 
 
 The soldiers' fancies, as each breast is fraught 
 
 With passions various, variously surmise ; 
 
 Presaging murmurs through ail parts arise. 
 
 In some the thirst of fight increas'd, in some 
 
 Appear'd the paleness of a death to come. 
 
 Yet none so much on their owu danger thought 
 
 As they divin'd, after this field was fought. 
 
 About their king's and nation's changed fate : 
 
 Nor had they time to fear their private state. 
 
 'Twixt both the marshals, one on either side, 
 Through every battle did great Edward ridef, 
 
 Dark greto the troubled air, &c.] Both Speed and Holinshed 
 mention this. The following extract is from the latter : " Also at the 
 same instant there fell a great raine, and an eclipse with a terrible 
 thunder; and before the raine theie came flieng over both armies a 
 great number of crowes, for feare of the tempest coming." P. 372. 
 
 * 'Ticixt both thf, marshals, &c.] Thus placed to the best advan- 
 tage, King Edward visiteth the ranckes in person, riding upon a plea-
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 105 
 
 Whose royal presence with fresh vigour fill'd 
 
 The soldiers' cheerful bosoms, and exil'd 
 
 Even from the coldest hearts all thoughts of fear. 
 
 No long persuasive oratory there 
 
 Did that short lime afford, or Edward need ; 
 
 Few exhortations serv'd, that did proceed , 
 
 From such a prince. He briefly bids them crown. 
 
 That day, their nation's honour and their own ; 
 
 And sets before the common soldiers' eyes 
 
 How great, how glorious was Iheir valour's prize, 
 
 How many princes' wealthy spoils would be 
 
 The recompense of that day's victory. 
 
 But when, approaching, Philip had beheld 
 His English foes embattled in the field. 
 And that the war admitted no delay. 
 He vainly joy'd to see the wish'd-for day, 
 That might redeem the honour France had lost, 
 And straight drew on his rich and numerous host. 
 In which so many several nations fought. 
 By their own sovereigns there in person brought. 
 And now those foreign princes every where 
 With fitting language briefly 'gan to cheer 
 Their armed subjects : ' that in this day's fight 
 As well their country's honour, as the right 
 Of Philip, lay; that all great France would fame 
 And thank their conquering hands ; how great a shame 
 It were for them to shrink in such a war. 
 To which for honour they had come so far. 
 
 sant hobby (having onely a white rod in his hand, as if he woald 
 chastise fortune), betweene the two marshalls of his field: whose very 
 presence, with a few seasonable and unenforced words on behalfe of 
 God and his right, insteed of long orations, did inspire the faintest 
 hearts among them with freshest vigour and alacritie. 
 
 Speed, p. 577.
 
 106 > DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 And left their dearest pledges, whom if they 
 Again would see, it in their valours lay.' 
 But most does Philip his French troops excite, 
 As most of all engaged in the fight, 
 * By nature's laws, and all the love they bare 
 To their dear native soil, whose freedom there 
 Or shameful conquest into question came; 
 That 'twas a stain already to the name 
 Of France, a petty king that claim durst make. 
 Or their great kingdom's conquest undertake ; 
 Which they must wipe off by their valours now, 
 And for his pride chastise th' ambitious foe ; 
 That easy 'twas to do, since Edward's po^er 
 So few in number, not one hand 'gainst four 
 Of fighting men, was able there to show : 
 And to revenge their fellow soldiers now. 
 Who near to Sluce, on Neptune's wat'ry main, 
 Had been before by English Eldward slain.' 
 With such like speeches all their hearts are fir'd. 
 And now a signal every where desir'd. 
 Which given, on both sides a loud shout arose, 
 And Death began to deal his fatal blows. 
 Far off at first his winged message flies. 
 While the strong-armed English archer plies 
 His bloody task; while Genoan crossbows back 
 Return their fury, and the air grows black 
 With shafts, as erst with wmged fowl it did. 
 The English vanguard which Prince Edward led, 
 Rank'd in the figure of an hearse came on. 
 'Gainst which the furious Charles of Alen^on, 
 King Philip's brother, with Bohemia's King, 
 The strength of all the cavalry did bring. 
 But ere the horse came on in full career. 
 The Genoan crossbows, that stood foremost, were
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. lOf 
 
 To pour their storms of fury on the foe. 
 
 But there began the fatal overthrow 
 
 Of that huge army: for the late great fall 
 
 Of rain (although it did no hurt at all 
 
 To th' English bow-strings) spoil'd the Genoans quite, 
 
 And made their crossbows useless in the fight : 
 
 Who, weary 'd with their morning's march so far, 
 
 And griev'd with disrespect, had ta'en no care 
 
 How to preserve their strings ; which seeing, * On, 
 
 On, Chevaliers,' cries hot Count Aien9on, 
 
 And o'er yon lazy Genoans' bellies make 
 
 Your way to victory ; let soldiers take 
 
 The van from useless breasts.' With that they ride 
 
 Upon them furiously : by their own side 
 
 The wretched Genoans are trod down and slain. 
 
 But nothing by that act the horsemen gain : 
 
 For o'er their bodies some are tumbled down, 
 
 The rest that stand, in that confusion 
 
 Are gall'd with arrows, that incessant fly 
 
 From th' English fresh and gallant archery. 
 
 Which did almost the whole battalia rout, 
 
 The whiles the dying Genoans round about 
 
 Might see, before their latest gasp of breath, 
 
 Their own revenge wrought in the horsemen's death ; 
 
 And for the wrong, which their own side did do, 
 
 Are quickly righted by the valiant foe. 
 
 But loth far off t' endure the archer's force. 
 Count Alen9on with his approaching horse 
 Within Prince Edward's battall strives to bring 
 The fight : and thither the old Bohemian King 
 With his brave troop does even ranked ride, 
 Whose reins are all fast to each other tied, 
 As if they meant to mow tlie .enemy 
 By squadrons down. So chained bullets fly,
 
 108 DESBRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 And sweep a field, as those Bohemian hors 
 
 Close link'd together came. And now their force 
 
 Within the archer's foremost rank had got, 
 
 Tliere the encounter grows more closely hot ; 
 
 There battle-axes, swords, and lances stand ; 
 
 There foot to foot, and furious hand lo hand, 
 
 The men at arms maintain a constant war. 
 
 And now Prince Edward's battall too too far 
 
 Began to be oppress'd ; to succour whom 
 
 The second battall of the English come, 
 
 In w hich, with other lords, Northampton stood ; 
 
 And all too little in this scene of blood 
 
 That succour seems to be. Up to the hill 
 
 On which King Edward with his battall, still 
 
 Untouch'd, kept stand, the lords have sent to crave 
 
 Aid for the Prince in this sad storm ; but have 
 
 This answer (past their expectation) made : 
 
 * While he's alive send not to me for aid ; 
 
 TTis he must wear this honour, nor will I 
 
 Be Edward's rival in the victory ; 
 
 Or fear so much his danger, to step in 
 
 And seize those bays, which he alone will wia/ 
 
 From this heroic answer of a king, 
 
 In every bosom did fresh vigour spring. 
 
 That answer might have wrought despairing fear; 
 
 But that young Edward and the nobles there 
 
 The worth and wisdom of the King did know, 
 
 And he their spirits whom he sent it to. 
 
 Now does the day grow blacker than before ; 
 
 The swords that glister'd late, in purple gore 
 
 Now all distain'd, their former brightness lose : 
 
 Whilst high the tragic heap of slaughter rose. 
 
 Swords meeting swords, and breaking lances sound, 
 
 Clattering of armed breasts that fell to ground,
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 109 
 
 And dying soldiers' groans, are only heard, 
 
 Horror in all her saddest shapes appear'd*. 
 
 But long the fury of a storm so strong 
 
 Could not endure, nor fortune waver long 
 
 In such a trial ; but at last must show 
 
 Which way her favours were decreed to go. 
 
 The English swords with slaughter reeking all 
 
 At last had carved in the Frenchmens* fall 
 
 Their way to victory; who now apace 
 
 Are beaten down, and strew the purple place; i 
 
 Where like their own pale fading lilies, lie 
 
 The flower of all the French nobility. 
 
 There Alenfjon, striving to cure in vain 
 
 The wound of France, is beaten down and slabi. ^^ 
 
 There dies Majorca's King, who from his home 
 
 So far had sail'd to find a foreign tomb. 
 
 And dearly that alliance (which he thought 
 
 So safe to him) in this fierce battle bought. 
 
 Lewis, Earl of Flanders, that to Philip's state 
 
 Had been so constant a confederate, 
 
 Whom no conditions to King Edward's side 
 
 Could ever draw, on Edward's weapons died, 
 
 Sealing in blood his truth to France, to lie 
 
 A wailed part of her calamity. 
 
 There Savoy's Duke, the noble Amy, lay 
 
 Welt'ring in gore, arriv'd but yesterday 
 
 Horror in all her saddest shapes appeared."] , Sir P. Sidney has a 
 very sublime description of a field of battle : " And now the often 
 changing fortune began also to change the hue of the battels; for, at 
 the first, though it were terrible, yet terror was decked so bravely 
 with rich furniture, gilt swords, shining armours, pleasant pencils, 
 that the eye with delight had scarce leisure to be afraid : but now all 
 universally defiled with dust, broken armour, mangled bodies, took 
 away the mask, and stt forth Horror in his own horrible manner. 
 
 Arcadia, B. HI. 446.
 
 110 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 At Philip's hapless camp, as short an aid 
 As Rhaesus prov'd to falling Troy, betray 'd 
 The first sad night, and by Tydides liand 
 Slain, ere his steeds had graz'd on Trojan land, 
 Or drunk at all of Xanthus' silver stream. 
 But most the warlike monarch of Boheme*, 
 Old Lewis fam'd, who on that honour'd ground 
 Chain'd to the foremost of his troops was found, 
 And charging at the head of all was slain. 
 His cold dead hand did yet that sword retain t 
 
 * But most the warlike monarch of Boheme, &c.] The circum- 
 stance of his valiant death, and the flight of his son, is thus men- 
 tioned by Holinshed : " The valiant King of Bohem, being almost 
 blind, caused his men to fasten all the reins of the bridels of their 
 horses ech to other, and so he being bimselfe amongst them in the fore- 
 most ranke, they ran on their enemies. The Lord Charles of Boheme, 
 Sonne to the same king, and late elected emperour, came in good or- 
 der to the battel ; but when he saw how the matter went awrie on 
 their part, he departed and saved himself. His father, by the means 
 aforesaid, went so far forward, that, joining with his enemies, he 
 fought right valiantlie, and so did all his companie: but finallie being 
 entered within the prease of their enemies, they were of them in- 
 closed and slaine, together with the king their master, and the next 
 daie found dead, lieng about him, and their horses all tied ech to 
 other." P. 372, 
 
 + The attitude May has represented the brave old King as found in, 
 is a very fine one : 
 
 His cold dead hand did yet that sword retain. 
 Which living erst it did so bravely wield. 
 
 One of the finest of the Marlborough gems, a copy of which col- 
 lection was some short time since presented by the Duke to the Bod- 
 leian Library, is a dying Amazon ; she is drawn as just falling from 
 her horse, and supported by an attendant, in all the languor of death, 
 but still grasping her bow in her right hand. In the very elegant ex- 
 planation that accompanies the plate are these words : Penthesileam 
 esse creditur : quee licet spiritum tpgre trahens nondum tamen arcum e 
 manu emisit. Gem 48. Some of the most remarkable and most striking 
 beauties in poetry, painting, and statuary, are taken immediately 
 from the agonies of death. Virgil has a circumstance in this way full 
 of horrid minuteness, which is by some considered as a blemish, but 
 surely too fastidiously :
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. Ill 
 
 Which living erst it did so bravely wield. 
 
 His hopeful son, young Charles, had left the field 
 
 When he perceiv'd that fortune quite was gone 
 
 To Edward's side, his father's blood alone 
 
 Was too too great a sacrifice to be 
 
 Bestow'd on France : whose dying valiancy 
 
 Made all men more desire his son to live. 
 
 And that the branch of snch a tree might thrive. 
 
 There was the noble Bourbon, there Lorraine, 
 
 Aumall, Nevers, and valiant Harcourt, slain. 
 
 In vain had Philip now (whose princely soul 
 In all those deaths did bleed) strove to control 
 By highest valour what the Fates would do. 
 Wounds not in mind alone, but body too 
 (Unhorsed twice), did th' active King receive. 
 As much asham'd no blood at all to leave 
 In such a field, although enforc'd to part 
 Himself from thence ; at last his struggling heart 
 Is to necessity content to yield, 
 And flies with speed fronr that unhappy field. 
 With whom the Frenchmen all the fight forsake. 
 And o'er the country flight disorder'd take. 
 
 By this had night her sable mantle spread 
 Upon the earth, by whose protection fled 
 
 Te decisa suum, liaridc, dextera quaerit 
 Semianimesque micant d\gii\ ferrumque retractant. 
 
 JEn. X. 395. 
 The same poet, in describing the arms of Minerva, represents the Mo- 
 dusa on her breastplate as still rolling its eyes after the head is se- 
 vered from the neck : 
 
 ipsamque in pectore Di?ae 
 
 Gorgona, desecto vertentem lumina collo. ^n. viii. 437. 
 For remarks on similar subjects, see Mr. Spence's most excellent 
 Essay on the Odyssey, p. 44, 45.
 
 112 DESCRIPTIVE PIECESr, 
 
 The vanquish'd French with more security. 
 A most complete and glorious victory * 
 The English had obtain'd ; yet would not now 
 Disrank themselves to chase the flying foe. 
 But in that field, which tliey alone possest. 
 Resolve to give their weary'd bodies rest, 
 Till morning's light display those wealthy spoils. 
 That must reward the conquering soldier's toils. 
 
 Now great King Edward from the Windmill Hill ^ 
 Came down, where his untouch 'd battalia still 
 Had stood, till all the fight below was done. 
 And in his arms embrac'd his armed son. 
 Who now with blood and sweat was all distain'd ; 
 Then gratulates his early honour gain'd 
 In such a field of danger, joy'd to see 
 His blooming years thus flush'd in victory. 
 Well did that day presage the future glory 
 And martial fame of this great prince, whose story 
 
 A most complete and glorious victory.'] " The slaughter of tlie 
 Frenchmen was great and lamentable, namelie for the losse of so 
 manie nobleman, as were slaine at the same battel!, fought between 
 Cressie and Broy on the Saturdaie next following the feast of Sabit. 
 Bartholomew, being (as that yeare fell) the 26th of August, Among 
 others which died that daie, these I find roistered by name as cheefest : 
 John King of Boheme, Rafe Duke of Lorraine, Charles of Alanso, 
 brother germane to King Philip, Charles Earle of Blois, Lewis Earl 
 of Flanders, also the Earle of Harecourt, brother to the Lord Geof- 
 frie of Harcourt; with the Earles of Aussere, Aumerle, and Saint 
 Poule, besides diverse other of the nobilitie." 
 
 Ilolinsked^s Chron. p. 372. 
 
 The number of the slain (according to Hume) was as follows : ",On 
 the day of battle, and on the ensuing, there fell, by a moderate com- 
 putation, twelve hundred French knights, fourteen hundred gentle- 
 men, four thousand men at arms, besides about thirty thousand of in- 
 ferior rank." On the side of the English, he says, " there were killed 
 in it only one esquire and three knights, and a very few of inferior 
 rank."
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 113 
 
 With admiration afler-times shaU bear. 
 
 Like ojiracles his conquest* shall appear 
 
 In France achiev'd ; nor shall that kingdom bound 
 
 His sword's great deeds ; whose fame shall further sound. 
 
 And royal trophies of Black Edward's praise , 
 
 Beyond the Pyrenaean mountains raise. 
 
 Reigne of Edward HI. by T. May, 
 B.III. Edit. 16'35. 
 
 THE 
 
 SHEPHERD'S LIFE?. 
 
 J- HRICE, oh thrice happy shepherd's life and state, 
 
 When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns ! 
 
 His cottage low, and safely humble gate 
 
 Shuts out proud fortune, with her scorns and fawns : 
 No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep : 
 Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep; 
 
 Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep. 
 
 No Serian worms he knows, that witli their thread 
 Draw out their silken lives; nor silken pride: 
 
 * Three beautiful lines seem to have suggestod the plan of a most 
 exquiritp littl piece called The Ilamkt, by Mr. T. Warton, which 
 coiitains such a .sslfctiou of beautiful rural images, a-; perhaps no other 
 po::ni of equal length in oar language presents us with. Tiie latter 
 part of it more c'obcl^ reminds us of Fletcher, A sliephcrd's life is 
 to bi' found ill Spenser's Fairi>> Queene, B. VI. Cant. ix. stan. "iO. 
 S' e liJtewise J. Sylvester's translation of Du Cartas. Edit. 1641, 
 p. 20, 30. 
 
 VOL. I, I
 
 114 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 His Iambs warm fleece weH fits his little need. 
 Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dy'd : 
 
 No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright; 
 
 Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite : 
 But sweet content exiles both misery and spite. 
 
 Instead of music and base flattering tongues. 
 
 Which wait to first salute my Lord's uprise ; 
 
 The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs, 
 
 And birds sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes : 
 In country plays is all the strife he uses. 
 Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses ; 
 
 And, but in music's sports, all difference refuses. 
 
 His certain life^ that never can deceive him. 
 Is full of thousand sweets and rich content: 
 The smooth-leav'd beeches in the field receive him 
 With coolest shades, till noon-tide's rage is spent: 
 His life is neither tost in boist'rous seas 
 Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease : 
 Pleas'd and full bless'd he lives, when he his God can please. 
 
 His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, 
 While by his side his faithful spouse hath place: 
 His little son into his bosom creeps, 
 The lively picture of his father's face : 
 
 Never his humble house or state torment him ; 
 
 Less he could like, if less his God had sent him; 
 And when he dies, green turfs with grassy tomb content him. 
 
 Purple Island, by P. Fletcher, 
 Cant. XII. St. 26.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PILCES. .115 
 
 MORTIMER, EARL OF MARCH, 
 
 > 
 
 THE MURDERER OF EDWARD II. AND THE FAVOURITE 
 OF HIS QUEEN ISABELLA, IS SURPRISED IN THE 
 CASTLE OF NOTTINGHAM, AND TAKEN PRISONER 
 BY KING EDWARD III. 
 
 W ITHOUT the castle, in the earth is found * 
 A cave, resembling sleepy Morpheus' cell. 
 In strange meanders winding under ground. 
 Where darkness seeks continually to dwell, 
 Which with such fear and horror doth abound. 
 As though it were an entrance into hell; 
 
 * It may not be amiss to set before the reader a few extracts from 
 our old historians, relative to the castle of Nottingham, and the cap- 
 ture of Mortimer there. " There was in the castle of Nottingham 
 (and at this day is), a certaine secret way or mine cut through a rocke 
 upon which the said castle is built, one issue whereof openeth toward 
 the river Trent, which runnes under it, and the other venteth itselfe 
 farre within upon the surface, and is (at this present) called Morti- 
 mer's hole ; through this the young King, well armed and strongly 
 seconded, was conducted with drawne swords, by some his trusty and 
 sworne servants (among which was that brave Montacute, whom his 
 virtues under this King raised to the Earldome of Salisbury, &c. &c.) 
 up to the Queene's chamber, whose dore (so fearless is blinded affec- 
 tion) was unshut, and with her was Mortimer ready to <!;oe to bed, 
 whom, with the slaughter of a knight, and one or two that resisted, 
 they laid hold upon. This was not reputed a slender enterprise, in 
 regard that in Mortimer's retinue were not fewer (they say) then one 
 hundredth and fourscore knights, besides esquires and gt-ntlemen." 
 
 Speed's Chron. Ed. 1627, p. 580. 
 
 Leland, in his Itinerary, gives a very particular account of the place, 
 
 but too long for insertion here. What directly relates to Mortimer is 
 
 this: " The dungeon or kcpe of the Castel stondith by Soutii and Est, 
 
 and id exc>eding strong tt natura loci et optrt, Ther is an old fair
 
 Il6 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 By architects to sen^e the castle made, 
 Wlien as the Danes this island did invade. 
 
 chapelle, and a welle of a gret depthe; and there is also a chochlei^ 
 with a turret over it, wher the kcpers of the Castella say Edwarde 
 the thirdes band cam up thorough the rok, and toke tho Earlc Morty- 
 mer prisoner. Ther is yet a faire staire to go downe by the rok to 
 the ripe of line." Hearne's edit, p, 3, 1745. 
 
 Holinshed's account is the following: " In a parlement holden at 
 Notingham, about Saint Luke's tide, Sir Rog' r Mortimer,- the Earle 
 of March, was apprehended the seventeenth day of October, witliin 
 the castell of Notinghain, where the king with the two queenes, his 
 mother and his wife, and divrse other, were as then lodged; and 
 though the keies of the castell of Notingham were dailie and nighllie 
 in the custodie of the said Earle of March, and thai his power was 
 such, as it was doubted how be might be arrestrd (for he had, as some 
 writers affirme, at that present in retinue nine score kniglits, besides 
 esquires, gentlemen and yeomen), yet at length by the king's hdpe, the 
 Lord William Montacute, the Lord Humfrie de Bohun, and his brother 
 Sir William, the Lord Ilafe Stafford, the Lord Robert Clifford, the 
 Lord William Clinton, the Lord John Nevill of Ilornbie, and diverse 
 other, which had accused tiie said Farle of March for the murther of 
 King Edward the Second, found means by intelligence had with Sir 
 William de Cland, constable of the castell of Notingham, to take the 
 said Earle of March, with his sonne the Lord Roger or Geffrey Morti- 
 mer, and Simon Bereford, with other. Sir Hugh Trumpington (or 
 Turriugton as some copies have), that was one of his cheefest frrends, 
 with certaine other, were slaine as they were about to resist against 
 the Lord Montacute and his company in taking of the said earle. 
 The manner of his taking I passe over, because of the diversitie in re-. 
 por thereof by sundrie writers. From Notingham he was sent up to 
 Loadon with his sonne the Lord Roger or Geoffry de Mortimer, Sir 
 Simon Bereford, and the other prisoners, where they wre committed 
 to prison in the Tower. Shortlie after was a parlement called at 
 Westminster, cheefelie (as was thought) for reformation of things 
 disordered through the misgovernance of the Earle of March. But 
 whosoever was glad or sorie for the trouble of the said earle, suerlie 
 the queene mother took it most heavilie above all other, as she that 
 loved him more (as the fame went) than stood with her honour. For, 
 as some write, she was found to be with child by him. They kept, as 
 it were, house togither; foi the eaile, to have his provision the better 
 cheape, laid his penie with hirs, so that hir takers served him as well 
 as they did hir, both of vittels and carriages; of which misusage (all 
 regard to honour and estimation neglected) eyerie subject spoke 
 ahame. For their manner of dealing, tending to such evill purposes
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 117 
 
 Now on along the crankling path doth keep, 
 Then by a rock turns up another way, 
 Rising towards day, then falling tow'rds the deep, 
 On a smooth level then itself doth lay, , ' ' 
 
 Directly then, then obliquely doth creep. 
 Nor in the course keeps any certain stay ; 
 Till in the castle, in an odd by-place. 
 It casts the foul mask from its dusky face. 
 
 By which the king, with a selected crew 
 Of such as he with his intent acquainted, 
 Which he affected to the action knew, 
 And in revenge of Edward had not faiflted, ^^ 
 That to their utmost would the cause pursue. 
 And with those treasons that had not been tainted, 
 Adventured the labyrinth t' assay. 
 To rouze the beast which kept them all at bay. 
 
 Long after Phoebus took his lab'ring team 
 To lus pale sister and resign'd his place, 
 To wash his couples in the ocean stream. 
 And cool the fervour of his glowing face ; 
 And Phoebe, scanted of her brother's beam. 
 Into the west went after him apace. 
 
 Leaving black darkness to possess the sky, 
 
 To fit the time of that black tragedy. 
 
 What time by torch-light they attempt the cave, 
 Which at their entrance seemed in a fright. 
 
 as they continuallie thought ujjoii, could not be secret from the etes of 
 the people, and their offense hecrein was so much the more heinous, be- 
 cause tiiey were persons of an extraordinarie degree, and were the 
 more narrowlie marked of the multitude or common people." P. .'i49.
 
 118 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 With the leflectiou that tlieir armour gave. 
 
 As it till then had ne'er seen any light; 
 
 Which, striving there preheiiiinence to have. 
 
 Darkness therewith so daringly doth light. 
 
 That each confounding other, both appear. 
 As darkness light, and light but darkness were. 
 
 The craggy cliffs, which cross them as they go. 
 Made as their passage they would have deny'd. 
 And threat'ned them their journey to foreslow, 
 As angry with the path that was their guide, 
 And sadly seera'd their discontent to show 
 To the vile hand that did them first divide ; 
 
 Whose cumb'rous falls and risings seem'd to say, 
 So ill an action could not brook the day. 
 
 And by the lights, as they along were led, 
 Their shadows then them following at their back. 
 Were like to mourners carrying forth their dead. 
 And as the deed, so were they, ugly black. 
 Or like to fiends that them had followed. 
 Pricking them on to bloodshed and to wrack; 
 Whilst the light look'd as it had been amaz'd 
 At their deformed shapes, whereon it gaz'd. 
 
 The clatt'ring arms their masters seem'd to chide. 
 As they would reason wherefore they should wound, 
 And struck the cave in passing on each side. 
 As they were waning with the hollow ground. 
 That it an act so pitiless should hide ; 
 Whose stony roof lock'd in their angry sound, 
 And hanging in the creeks, drew back again, 
 As williusr them from murder to refrain.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 119 
 
 The night wax'd old (not dreaming of these things), 
 
 And to her chamber is the queen withdrawn, 
 
 To whom a choice musician plays and sings. 
 
 While she sat under an estate of lawn*. 
 
 In night-attire more god-like glittering. 
 
 Than any eye had seen the cheerful dawn. 
 Leaning upon her most lov'd Mortimer, 
 Whose voice, more than the music, pleas'd her ear. 
 
 Where her fair breasts at liberty were let. 
 
 Whose violet veins in branched riverets flow, 
 
 And Venus' swans and milky doves were set 
 
 Upon those swelling mounts of driven snow; 
 
 Whereon whilst Love to sport himself doth get, ^ 
 
 He lost his way, nor back again could go; 
 
 But with those banks of beauty set about. 
 He wander'd still, yet never could get out. 
 
 Her loose hair look'd like gold (O word, too base ! 
 
 Nay, more than sin, but so to name her hair) 
 
 Declining, as to kiss her fairer face, 
 
 No word is fair enough for thing so fair, 
 
 Nor ever was there epithet could grace 
 
 That, by much praising which we must impair; 
 
 And where the pen fails, pencils cannot show it, 
 Only the soul may be suppos'd to know it. 
 
 She laid her fingers on his manly cheek, 
 The Gods pure sceptres and the darts of love. 
 That with their touch might make a tig^r meek, 
 Or might great Atlas from his seat remove ; 
 
 an estate of latcn.'] That is, a canopy of lawn. State 
 
 was the word more commonly used. 
 
 His high throne which under state 
 
 Of richest texture. P. Lost, x. 441.
 
 120 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 So white, so soft, so delicate, so sleek, 
 
 As sheSiiad worn a lilly for a glove ; 
 
 As might beget life where was never none. 
 And put a spirit into the hardest stone. 
 
 The fire of precious wood ; the light perfume, 
 
 Which left a sweetness on each thing it shone, 
 
 As ev'ry thing did to itself assume 
 
 The scent from them, and make the same their own: 
 
 So that the painted flowers within the room 
 
 Were sweet, as if they naturally had grown ; 
 
 ^he liglit gave colours, which upon tliem fell, 
 And to the colours the perfume gave smell. 
 
 When on those sundry pictures they devise, 
 And from one piece they to another run. 
 Commend that face, that arm, that hand, those eyes. 
 Show how that bird, how well that flow'r was done ; 
 How this part shadow'd, and how that did rise. 
 This top was clouded, how that trail was spun. 
 The limdscape, mixture, and delineatings, 
 And in that art a thousand curious things : 
 
 Looking upon proud Phaeton wrapt in fire, 
 The gentle Queen did much bewail his fall ; 
 But Mortimer commended his desire. 
 To lose one poor life, or to govern all ; 
 ' What though (quoth he) he madly did aspire. 
 And his great mind made him proud Fortune's thrall ; 
 Yet in despite, when she her worst had done, 
 He perish 'd m the chariot of the sun.' 
 
 ' Phoebus (she said) was overforc'd by art. 
 
 Nor could she find how that ejiibrace could be ;' 
 
 But JVlortimer then took the painter's part :
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 121 
 
 Why thus, bright Empress, thus and thus (quoth he): 
 That baud doth hold his back, and this his heart ; 
 Thus their arms twine, and thus their hps, you see : 
 
 Now are you Phoebus, Hyaciuthus I ; 
 
 It were a life thus every hour to die.' 
 
 When by that time, into the castle-hall 
 Was rudely enter'd that well armed rout. 
 And they within, suspecting nought at ail. 
 Had then no guard to watch for them without : ' 
 See how mischances suddenly do fall, 
 And steal upon us, being farth'st from doubt ! 
 Our life's uncertam, and our death is sure, 
 And tow'rds most peril man is most secure. 
 
 Whilst youthful Nevil and brave Turrington, 
 To the briglit queen that ever waited near. 
 Two with great March much credit that had won, 
 That in the lobby with the ladies were. 
 Staying dehght, whilst time away did run 
 With such discourse as women love to hear ; 
 
 Charg'd on the sudden by the armed train, 
 
 Were at their entrance jniserably slain. 
 
 When, as from suow-crown'd Skiddow's lofty cliffs. 
 Some fleet-wing'd haggard, tow'rds her preying hour. 
 Amongst the teal and moor-bred mallard drives, 
 And th' air of all her feather'd flock doth scower. 
 Whilst to regain her former height she strives, 
 (Tlie fearful fowl all prostrate to her power :) 
 
 Such a sharp shriek did ring throughout the vault. 
 Made by the women at the tierce assault. 
 
 Unarm'd was March (she only in his arms. 
 Too soft a shield to bear their boist'rous blows),
 
 122 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 Who least of all suspected such alarms. 
 And to be so encounter'd by liis foes. 
 When he was most improvident of harms. 
 O, had he had but weapons to his woes ! 
 
 Either his valour had his life redeem'd. 
 
 Or in her sight died happily esteem'd. 
 
 But there about him looking for the king. 
 
 Whom he suppos'd his judgment could not miss; 
 
 Which when he found, by his imagining 
 
 Of those most perfect Uneaments of his : 
 
 Quoth he, * The man that to thy crown did bring 
 
 Thee, at thy hands might last have look'd for this ; 
 
 And in this place the least of all the rest, 
 
 Where only sacred Solitude is blest. 
 
 * Her presence frees th' offender of this ill, 
 
 Whose godlike greatness makes the place divine ; 
 , And canst thou, King, thus countermand her will. 
 
 Who gave to thee the power that now is thine, 
 
 And in her arms in safety kept thee still, 
 
 As in a most inviolated shrine ? 
 
 Yet dar'st thou irreligiously despise, 
 And tlius profane these sacred liberties ?' 
 
 But e'en as when old Ilion was surpris'd. 
 The Grecians issuing from the wooden horse. 
 Their pride and fui-y roughly exercis'd, 
 Op'ning the wide gates, letting in their force. 
 Putting in act what was before devis'd. 
 Without all human pity or remorse ; 
 
 Ev'n so did they, with whose confused sound 
 Words were not heard, and poor complaints were 
 drown'd.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 123 
 
 Dissolv'd to tears, she follow'd him : (O tears ! 
 Eiixir-like, turn all to tears you touch ; 
 To weep with her, the hard wall scarce forbears. 
 The woeful words she uttered were such, ' 
 
 Able to wound th' impenetrablest ears. 
 Her plaints so piercing, and her grief so much :) 
 And to the king, when she at last had come. 
 Thus to him spake, though he to her were dumb. 
 
 * Dear son,' quoth she, ' let not Ids blood be spilt. 
 
 So often ventur'd to redeem thy crown ; i 
 
 In all his Hfe can there be found that guilt? 
 
 Thuik of his love, on which thou once should'st frown ; 
 
 'Twas he thy seat that so substantial built. 
 
 Long with his shoulder sav'd from shaking down ; ' 
 
 ^Twas he the means that first for thee did find. 
 To pass for France, to exercise thy mind.* 
 
 ' E'en for the love thou bear'st to that dear blood 
 From which (my son) thou didst receive thy life. 
 Play not the niggard in so small a good. 
 With her to whom thy bounties should be rife, 
 Begg'd on those knees at which thou oft hast stood: 
 O, let ray up-held hands appease this strife! 
 
 Let not the breath, from this sad bosom sent. 
 
 Without thy pity be but vainly spent.' 
 
 When in the tumult, with the sudden fright. 
 
 Whilst ev'ry one for safety sought about. 
 
 And none regarded to maintain the light. 
 
 Which being over-wasted, was gone out, 
 
 It being then the mid -time of the night, 
 
 Ere they could quit the castle of the rout ; 
 The queen alone (at least, if any near. 
 They were her women, almost dead with fear:)
 
 124 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 When horror, darkness, and her inward woe, 
 Began to work on her afflicted mind, 
 Upon her weakness tyrannizing so, 
 As they would do their utmost in tlieir kind ; 
 And as than those she need no other foe. 
 Such pow'r her fortune had to thera assign'd, 
 
 To rack her conscience (by their torture due) 
 Itself t' accuse of whatsoe'er it knew. 
 
 O God ! (thought she) is yet an hour scarce"past. 
 
 Since that my greatness, my command more high. 
 
 And eminency wherein I was plac'd 
 
 Won me respect in ev'ry humble eye? 
 
 How am I now abused! how disgrac'd! 
 
 Did ever queen in my dejection lie? 
 
 These things she ponder'd, as despair still brought 
 Their sundry forms into her troubled thought. 
 
 To London thus they March a prisoner led, 
 Which there had oft been courted by the queen. 
 From whom his friends and his late followers fled, 
 Of many a gallant foUow'd that had been. 
 Of which, there was not one durst show his head. 
 Much less t' abet his side that durst be seen; 
 
 Wliich at his fall made them to wonder more, 
 W^ho saw the pomp wherein he liv'd before. 
 
 O misery ! where once thou art possest. 
 See but how quickly thou canst alter kind, 
 And, like a Circe, metamorpliosest 
 The man that hath not a most god-like mind : 
 The fainting spirit, O how thou canst infest ! 
 Whose yielding frailty eas'ly thou canst find.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 125 
 
 And by thy vicious presence, with a breath, 
 Give him up fetter'd, basely /earW, to death. 
 
 Barons' Wars, by M. Drayton, 
 B. VI. St. 4777, fol, edit. 
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT, 
 
 BY ANOTHER HAND. 
 
 x\nd now SO far had their discourses gone. 
 
 That day was vanish'd, and the hour drew on. 
 
 Which for the king's design was set; from whom 
 
 A trusted squire to Montague was come. 
 
 Arm'd as he was, the youthful Lord arose, 
 
 And forth with courage flew: the like did those 
 
 That were alike engaged; a gallant band 
 
 About the person of their prince they stand. 
 
 'Mongst whom brave Edward in rich armour dight 
 
 His early manhood shows: wit,h such a bright 
 
 Heroic visage does the blue-ey'd maid 
 
 Appear, in all her warlike tire array'd. 
 
 For yet no golden down had cloth'd his chin. 
 
 Nor twice nine pauited summers had he seen. 
 
 And yet those young, those maid-like frowns, as there 
 
 They show'd, the genius of great France might fear : 
 
 Much more in them the sure and present fall 
 
 Of guilty Mortimer was read by all. 
 
 Far from that castle on the side of Trent 
 
 A cave's dark mouth was found, of deep descent;
 
 126 DESCRIPTIVE PIFXES. 
 
 Upon the brink of which there grew around 
 So close a thicket, as quite hid the ground 
 From sight ; the cave could be descry 'd by none. 
 And had remain'd for many years unknown ; 
 Whose hollow womb did far from thence exteud. 
 And under ground an uncouth passage lend 
 Into the castle. This dark vault was made 
 To serve the fort, when Danes did first invade 
 This fertile island ; now not thought uppn. 
 For the remembrance, as the use, was gone 
 Of such a place, until of late it chauc'd 
 Sir Robert Holland, to that charge advanc'd. 
 Surveying all his castle's nooks, had try'd 
 That horrid way, and closely certify 'd 
 The king the truth of all : with store of light 
 The noble troop arrived there by night ; 
 There void of fear into the dark descent 
 With his brave train heroic Edward went. 
 And through the ragged entrails of the cave* 
 And baleful paths did fierce Rhamnusia wave 
 Her flaming brand, to guide their passage right, 
 And vanquish all the terrors of the night. 
 Her champions pass with fresh and sprightly chear 
 Those mouldy vaults, and air unstirred, where 
 So many years no human foot had trod, 
 Nor living thing but toads and bats abode. 
 Yet full of hazard did th' attempt appear. 
 So great a train had pompous Mortimer. 
 
 * And through the ragged entrails of the cave.'] Thus Shakspeare, 
 in a much-admired simile : 
 
 Which like a taper in some monument 
 
 Doth shine upon the dead man's earthy cheeks. 
 
 That shows the ragged entrails of this pit. 
 
 Titus And. Scone vi.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 127 
 
 I 
 
 But they, secure of any danger nigh, 
 
 Within the castle some in jollity 
 
 Consum'd that hour of night, and some m sleep, 
 
 (For the earl himself the castle's keys did keep). 
 
 In such a fearless but a fatal plight 
 
 The wooden horse surpris'd old Troy by night. 
 
 Into her chamber the fair queen was gone, 
 
 Where with her minion Mortimer alone 
 
 She sat ; but not his dearest company. 
 
 Nor love's sweet thoughts, which wont to give so high 
 
 A relish to them, now could bring delight : 
 
 They both were sad on that portentous night ; 
 
 (The fates, it seem'd, into their souls had sent 
 
 A secret notice of their dire intent) 
 
 Which she could not conceal; nor Mortimer, 
 
 Although he often strove, by courting her. 
 
 To hide the inward sadness of his breast. 
 
 Caernarvon Edward's manes had possest* 
 
 The roon^ : and many strange ostents declar'd 
 
 Th' approaching ruin : in the castle yard 
 
 The dogs were heard unusually to howl : 
 
 About their windows the ill-boding owl. 
 
 Night-jars and shreiches with wide-stretched throats 
 
 From yews and hoUys sent their baleful notes. 
 
 And (which increas'd their sad and ominoas fears) 
 
 The beauteous queen relates, while standing tears 
 
 Began to dazzle her bright starry eyes. 
 
 That ghastly dream that did last night surprise 
 
 Her frighted fancy; ' Mortimer,' quoth she, 
 
 ' Methought the sky was wondrous clear, when we 
 
 Caernarvon EdwartTs manes had possest 
 
 The room, Sfc] On Mortimer's impeachment, the first of the 
 five articles laid to his charge was, " That he had procured Edward 
 of Caernarvon, the king's father, to be murthered, in most heinous and 
 tyrannoui manner, within the castel of Berklie." Holinshed, p. 349.
 
 128 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 Together walk'd in yonder court alone ; 
 
 The gentle air seem'd undisturb'd : anon 
 
 Rose sudden storms, a dark and pitchy cloud 
 
 Obscur'd heaven's face, and thunder roar'd aloud: 
 
 The trembling earth about us moved round, " 
 
 At last it open'd, and from under-ground 
 
 Rose Edward's pale and dismal ghost, his hand 
 
 Arm'd with a flaming sword, a threatning band 
 
 Of furies did upon the ghost attend : 
 
 He cry'd " Revenge!" With that they all 'gan bend 
 
 Their force 'gainst us, and thee methought they slew : 
 
 At which I frighted wak'd, and hardly knew 
 
 (So great the terror was) whether we were 
 
 Alive or not/ Ambitious Mortimer, 
 
 Scorning to show from any dream a fear. 
 
 Strove to divert so bad a theme, and chear 
 
 The queen with amorous discourse again. 
 
 While thus he flatters his own fate in vain, 
 
 A boist'rous noise about the doors they hear ; 
 
 The maids without, that waited, shriek'd for fear ; 
 
 Clashing of steel, and groaris of dying men, 
 
 Approach'd their ears : for in the lobby then 
 
 Stout Turrington and Nevil both were slam, 
 
 That durst by force resist the armed train ; 
 
 And in the chamber, ere the queen and he 
 
 Had time to doubt what this strange storm should be. 
 
 Sent from the king, the armed troops appear, 
 
 By whose command they seize on Mortimer; 
 
 And in an instant hurry him away : 
 
 (For at the chamber door did Edward stay) 
 
 The woeful queen at first amazed stands; 
 
 But quickly recollected wrings her hands. 
 
 Strikes her fair breast, and after them she hies 
 
 To the next lobby, weeps, and kneeling cries,
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 129 
 
 * Dear son (for well she knew her son was there*) 
 
 Oh pity, pity gentle Mortimer. 
 
 Let no accusers raise thine anger so ; 
 
 Nor wicked counsel make thee prove a foe 
 
 To him that well deserves : oh, pull not down 
 
 So true, so strong a pillar of thy crown.' 
 
 But when she sees him gone, and no reply 
 
 Vouchsaf 'd to her (for Edward's modesty. 
 
 Because his justice her fond suit denied, 
 
 For fear his tongue should be enforc'd to chide 
 
 A mother's crime or folly, words forbears) 
 
 A grief too great to be express'd by tears 
 
 ConfounfJs her sense, as in an ecstasy 
 
 She falls to ground, and helpless seems to lie, , 
 
 Until the maids and ladies of her train 
 
 Had to her chamber borne her back again. 
 
 The Reigne of Edward III. by T. May, B. I. 
 
 * Dear son {for tcell she knew her son was there), &c. &c. J May 
 seems here to have consulted Stow in his account. " Upon a certaine 
 night, the king lying without the castle (Nottingham), both he and his 
 friends were brought by torch light through a secret way under 
 ground, beginning far off from the sayde castle, till they came even to 
 the Queenes chamber, which they by chance found open : they there- 
 fore being armed with naked swords in their hands, went forwards 
 leaving the king also armed without the doore of the chamber, least 
 that his mother shoulde cspie him: they which entered in slew Hugh 
 Turpington, knight, who resisted them. Master John Nevel of Horn, 
 by giving him his deadly wound. From thence they went toward the 
 Queene Mother, whom they found with the Earle of March readie to 
 have gone to bedde: and having taken the sayde earle, they ledde him 
 out into the hall, after whom the Queene followed, crying, Beljih, 
 ayes pitie de gentil Mortimer: Good sonne, good sonne, take pitie 
 upon gentle Mortimer, for she suspected that her sonne was (here, 
 though she saw him not." Chron. p. 229. fol. IG15, 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 130 DESCRIPTIVE pieces; 
 
 THE 
 ALARM OF SATAN, 
 
 WITH THE INSTIGATION OF HEROD*. 
 
 JDelow the bottom of the great abyss, 
 There where one centre reconciles all things, 
 The world's profound heart pants ; there placed is 
 Mischiefs old master, close about him clings 
 A curl'd knot of embracing snakes, that kiss 
 His correspondent cheeks : these loathsome strings 
 Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties 
 Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies. 
 
 The Judge of Torments, and the King of Tears; 
 He fills a burnish'd throne of quenchless fire : 
 
 * The particular relation that the whole of this piece bears to 
 many passages in Milton's Paradise Lost, and the great sublimity of 
 the poetry, are reasons sufficient to make it acceptable to every rea- 
 der of taste, notwithstanding its being a translation. Of the Sospetto 
 D^Herode, it is to be lamented that poetical readers in general know 
 so little; from the specimen here produced, every English reader must 
 be inclined to wish for more. A very intelligent correspondent in 
 Maty's Review for March, 1785, (Article, Phillip's edition of Cra- 
 shaw) has told us, that the whole poem has already been rendered into 
 English verse, and that the title-page of the translation stands thus, 
 *' The Slaughter of the Innocents by Herod; written in Italian by the 
 famous poet the Cavalier Marino, in four books, newly Englished, 
 1675; to which i* added in my copy, in writing, ' Englished by T. 
 R;' to whom the initials T. R. belong I know not; but the translation 
 seems superior to Crashaw." An epitome of the 2d book is then 
 given. Surely this translation would be highly worth republishing, 
 particularly if executed in a superior style to Crashaw, which seems 
 to me hardly possible. 
 
 I
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 131 
 
 And for his old fair robes of light, he wears 
 A gloomy mantle of dark flames, the tire 
 That crowns his hated head on high appears; 
 Where seven tall horns (his empire's pride) aspire. 
 
 And to make up hell's majesty, each horn 
 
 Seven crested Hydras horribly adorn. 
 
 His eyes, the sullen dens of Death and Night*, 
 
 Startle the dull air with a dismal red : 
 
 Such his fell glances as the fatal light 
 
 Of staring comets, that look kingdoms dead: 
 
 From his black nostrils, and blue lips, in spite 
 
 Of hell's own stink, a worser stench is spread. 
 
 His breath hell's lightning is : and each deep groan 
 Disdains to think that heav'n thunders alone. 
 
 His flaming eyes' dire exhalation 
 
 Unto a dreadful pile gives fiery breath; 
 
 Whose unconsum'd consumption preys upon 
 
 The never-dying life of a long death. .\ 
 
 In this sad house of slow destruction, 
 
 (His shop of flames) he fries himself, beneath 
 
 His ei/es, the sullen dens of Death and Night, Sac.'} Milton give* 
 him 
 
 eyes 
 
 That sparkling blaz'd. P. Lost, I. 193. 
 
 Milton has this simile of a comet in his second Book : 
 
 on th' other side, 
 
 Incens'd with indignation, Satan stood, ' 
 
 Unterrified ; and like a comet burn'd. 
 
 That fires the length of Opiuchus huge 
 
 In th' Arctic sky, and from his horrid hair 
 
 Shakes pestilence and war. Ibid. 710. 
 
 Again, he compares him to the sun in an eclipse, Paradise Lost, I. 
 598.
 
 132 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 A mass of woe, his teeth for torment gnash. 
 
 While his steel sides sound \vith his tail's strong lash*. 
 
 Three rigorous virgins waiting still behind, 
 Assist the throne of th' iron-sceptered king : 
 With whips of thorns and knotty vipers twin'd 
 They rouse hun, when his rank thoughts need a sting: 
 Their locks are beds of uncomb'd snakes, that wind 
 About their shady brows in wanton rings. 
 
 Thus reigns the wrathful king, and while he reigns. 
 His sceptre and himself both he disdains. 
 
 Disdainful wretch ! how hath one bold sin cost 
 
 Thee all the beauties of thy ouce bright eyes ? 
 
 How hath one black eclipse cancell'd and crost 
 
 The glories that did gild thee in thy rise ? 
 
 Proud morning of a perverse day ! how lost 
 
 Art thou unto thyself, thou too self-wise 
 
 Narcissus ! foolish Phaeton ! who for all 
 
 Thy high-aim'd hopes, 'gaind'st but a flaming fall. 
 
 From death's sad shades to the life-breathing air, 
 
 This mortal enemy to mankind's good 
 
 Lifts his malignant eyes, wasted witli care. 
 
 To become beautiful in human blood. 
 
 Where Jordan melts his crystal, to make fair 
 
 The fields of Palestine, with so pure a flood, 
 
 There does he fix his eyes : and there detect 
 New matter, to make good his great suspect. 
 
 While his steel sides sound with his taiVs strong lash."] Thus, Mil- 
 ton, speaking of the Old Dragon, upon the very same occasion : 
 Swinges the scaly horror of his tail. 
 
 Hymn of the Nativity ^ stan. 18.^ 
 
 I
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 133 
 
 He calls to mind th' old quarrel, and what spark 
 
 Set the contending sons of heav'n on fire : 
 
 Oft in his deep thought he revolves the dark 
 
 Sybil's divining leaves : he does inquire 
 
 Into th' old prophecies, trembling to mark 
 
 How many present prodigies conspire 
 
 To crown their past predictions, both he lays 
 Together, in his pond'rous mind both weighs. 
 
 Heaven's golden-winged herald late he saw 
 
 To a poor Galilean Virgin sent : 
 
 How low the bright youth bow'd, and with what awe 
 
 Immortal flow'rs to her fair hand present. 
 
 He saw th' old Hebrew's womb neglect the law 
 
 Of age and barrenness, and her babe prevent 
 
 His birth, by his devotion, who began 
 
 Betimes to be a saint, before a man. 
 
 He saw rich nectar thaws release the rigour* 
 Of th' icy North, from frost-bound Atlas' hands 
 His adamantine fetters fall : green vigour 
 Gladding the Scythian rocks and Lybian sands. 
 He saw a vernal smile sweetly disfigure 
 Winter's sad face, and through the flow'ry lands 
 Of fair Engaddi, honey- sweating fountains. 
 With manna, milk, and balm, new broach the mountains. 
 
 He saw rich nectar thatcs release the rigour, &c.] For an op- 
 posite picture to this, see Shakspeare's Midsummer Night^s Dream: 
 
 hoary-headed frosts 
 
 Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose ; 
 And on old Hyem's chill and icy crown 
 An od'rous chaplet of sweet summer buds 
 Is as in mockery set. Act II. Sc. iu
 
 134 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.' 
 
 He saw how io that bless'd day-bearing night 
 The heaven-rebuked shades made haste away ; 
 How bright a dawu of angels with new light 
 Amaz'd the midnight world, and made a day 
 Of which the morning knew not, mad with spite. 
 He mark'd how the poor shepherds ran to pay 
 Their simple tribute to the Babe, whose birth 
 Was the great business both of heav'n and earth. 
 
 He saw a threefold sun, with rich increase. 
 
 Make proud the ruby portals of the East : 
 
 He saw the Temple sacred to sweet Peace 
 
 Adore her Prince's birth, flat on her breast : 
 
 He saw tlie falling idols all confess 
 
 A coming Deity* : he saw the nest 
 
 Of pois'nous and unnatural loves, earth-nurst, 
 Touch'd with the world's true antidote, to burst. 
 
 He saw heaven blossom with a new-born light, 
 On which, as on a glorious stranger, gaz'd 
 The golden eyes of Night ; whose beam made bright 
 The way to Beth'lem, and as boldly blaz'd 
 
 * He sate the falling idols all confess 
 
 A coming Deity."] Soe Milton's Hymn on the Nativity, where 
 these particiiLirs are most sublimely enumerated, Stan. ix. &c. Among 
 other portentf, that of the Oracles having been all struck dumb is not_ 
 the mo&t inconsiderable. G. Fletcher, in his Christ's Victory, pub- 
 lished in 1610, some time before Milton could possibly have coiupused 
 his Ode, has a similar idea on the same occasion : 
 
 The angels caroU'd loud their sons;s of peace, 
 The cursed Oracles were strucken dumb; 
 To see tlieir Shepherd, the poor shepherds press. 
 To see their King, the kingly Sophys come. 
 
 Cant. i. Stan. 82. 
 For the fullest information on this subject, see Mr. JT. Warton's 
 edition of Milton's Minor Poems, p. 280, to which this passage may 
 be added.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 135 
 
 (Nor ask'd leave of the sun) by day as night. 
 
 By whom (as heaven's illustrious handmaid) rais'd, 
 
 Three kings, or (what is more) three wise men, went 
 Westward, to find the world's true Orient. 
 
 Struck with these great concurrences of things, 
 Symptoms so deadly, unto Death and him : 
 Fain would he have forgot what fatal strings 
 Eternally bind each rebellious limb. 
 He shook himself, and spread his spacious wings*, 
 Which Uke two bosom'd sails embrace the dim 
 
 Air, with a dismal shade, but all m vain, 
 
 Of sturdy adamant is his strong chain. 
 
 While thus heaven's highest councils, by the low 
 Footsteps of their effects, he trac'd too well, 
 He toss'd his troubled eyes, embers (hat glow 
 Now with new rage, and wax too hot for hell. 
 With his foul claws he fenc'd his furrow'd brow. 
 And gave a ghastly shriek, whose horrid yell 
 
 Ran trembling through the hollow vaults of Night, 
 The while his twisted tail he gnaw'd for spite. 
 
 Yet on the other side fain would he start 
 
 Above his fears, and think it cannot be. 
 
 He studies scripture, strives to sound the heart, 
 
 And feel the pulse of every prophecy. 
 
 He knows (but knows not how, or by what art) 
 
 The heav'n-expecting ages hope to see 
 
 A mighty Babe, whose pure unspotted birth 
 From a chaste virgin womb should bless the eafth. 
 
 * He shook himself, and spread his spacious wings, ^c] In the 
 same style Milton talks of his sail-broad vans. Paradise Lost, II.
 
 136 DESClirPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 But these vast mysteries his senses smother, 
 And reason (for what's faith to him ?) devour, 
 How she that is a maid should prove a mother, 
 Yet keep inviolate her virgin flow'r ; 
 How God's eternal Sou should be man's brotlier, 
 Poseth his proudest intellectual pow'r ; 
 
 How a pure spirit should incarnate be, 
 And Ufe itself wear death's frail livery. 
 
 That the great angel-blinding light should shrink 
 His blaze, to shine in a poor shepherd's eye ; 
 That the unmeasur'd God so low should sink. 
 As prisoner in a few poor rags to lie ; 
 That from his mother's breast he milk should drink. 
 Who feeds with nectar heaven's fair family ; 
 
 That a vile manger his low bed should prove, 
 Who in a throne of stars thunders above; 
 
 That he whom the sun serves should faintly peep 
 Through clouds of infant flesh : that he, the old 
 Eternal Word, should be a child, and weep : 
 That he who made the fire should fear the cold : 
 That heaven's high majesty his court should keep 
 In a clay cottage, by each blast control'd : 
 
 Tliat glory's self should serve our griefs and fears ; 
 
 And free eternity submit to years : 
 
 And further, that the Law's eternal giver 
 
 Should bleed in his own law's obedience; 
 
 And to the circumcising knife deliver 
 
 Himself, the forfeit of his slaves' offence. 
 
 That the unblemish'd Lamb, blessed f'Nc^ver, 
 
 Should take the mark of sin, and pain of sense : 
 These are the knotty riddles, whose dark doubt 
 Entangles his lost thoughts, past getting out.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 137 
 
 While new thoughts boil'd in his enraged breast, 
 
 His gloomy bosom's darkest character 
 
 Was in his shady forehead seen express'd. 
 
 The forehead's shade in grief's expression there. 
 
 Is what in sign of joy among the bless'd. 
 
 The face's lightning or a smile is here. 
 
 Those stings of care that his strong heart oppress'd, 
 A desperate, ' Oh me,' drew from his deep breast. 
 
 * Oh me ! (thus bellow'd he) Oh me ! what great 
 Portents before mine eyes their pow'rs advance? 
 And serves my purer sight, only to beat 
 Down my proud thought, and leave it in a trance? 
 Frown I ; and can great nature keep her seat ? 
 And the gay stars lead on their golden dance ? 
 
 Can his attempts above still prosp'rous be. 
 
 Auspicious still, in spite of hell and me ? 
 
 ' He has my heav'n (what would he more ?) whose bright 
 And radiant sceptre this bold hand should bear. 
 And for the never-fading fields of light. 
 My fair inheritance, he confines me here 
 To this dark house of shades, horror, and night, 
 To draw a long-liv'd death, where all my cheer 
 Is the solemnity my sorrow wears, 
 That mankind's torment waits upon my tears. 
 
 ' Dark, dusky man, he needs would single forth, 
 To make the partner of his own pure ray : 
 And should we pow'rs of heav'n, spirits of worth. 
 Bow our bright heads before a king of clay ? 
 It shall not be, said I, and clomb the north, 
 Where never wing of angel yet made way.
 
 13d DESCIIIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 What though I miss'd my blow*? yet I struck high, 
 And to dare somethiug i^ some victory. 
 
 * Is he not satisfied? means he to wrest 
 Hell from me too, and sack my territories? 
 Vile human nature, means he not t' invest 
 (O my despite!) with his divinest glories? 
 And rising with rich spoils upon his breast, 
 With his fair triumphs fill all future stories ? 
 
 * What though I missed my blow, &c.] Thus, Milton: 
 
 what though the field be lost ? 
 
 All is not lost ; th' unconquerable will, 
 
 And study of revenge, immortal hate. 
 
 And courage never to submit or yield. P. Lost, I. 
 
 Pbineas Fletcher thus, in a similar spirit, describes the Dragon; 
 Yet full of malice and of stubborn pride, 
 Though oft had strove, and had been foil'd as oft, 
 Boldly his dpath and Ct rtain fate defy'd : 
 And mounted on his flaggy sails aloft, 
 
 "W ith boundless spite he long'd to try again 
 A second loss, and new death ; glad and fain 
 To show his pois'nous hate, though ever show'd in vain. 
 
 So up he rose upon his stretched sails. 
 Fearless expecting his approaching death ; 
 So up he rose, that th' air starts, and fails, 
 And overpressed sinb^ his load beneath : 
 
 So up he rose, as does a thunder-cloud, 
 Which all the earth with shadows black does shroud : 
 So up he rose, and through the weary air row'd. 
 
 Purple Island, Can. xii. st. 58. 
 See also a very spirited speech in G. Fletcher's Christ's Triumph, 
 Part I. Stan. 20. 
 
 See Milton, B. T. 225. The original is to be found in Spenser's 
 F, Queene, B. I. Cant. xi. stan. 18, where the air is represented as 
 too light to support the weight of the Old Dragon^v. Sound was never 
 more completely rendered an echo to sense than in the last line of the 
 second stanza which I have quoted from P. Fletcher : 
 
 So up he rose, and through the weary air row'd.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 139 
 
 Must the bright arms of heav'n rebuke these eyes? 
 Mock rae, and dazzle my dark mysteries ? 
 
 * Art thou not Lucifer ? he to whom the droves 
 Of stars that gild the morn, in charge were given? 
 The nimblest of the lightning-winged loves ? 
 The fairest, and the first-born smile of heav'n? 
 Look in what pomp the mistress planet moves 
 Rev'rently circled by the lesser seven : 
 
 Such, and so rich, the flames that from thine eyes 
 Oppress'd the common people of the skies. 
 
 * Ah, wretch ! what boots thee to cast back thy eyes, 
 Where dawning hope no beam of comfort shows? 
 While the reflection of thy forepast joys 
 
 Renders thee double to thy present woes; 
 
 Rather make up to thy new miseries, 
 
 And meet the raisclnef that upon thee grows. 
 
 If hell must mourn, heav'n sure shall sympathise; 
 
 What force cannot eflisct, fraud shall devise. 
 
 * And yet whose force fear I ? have I so lost 
 Myself? my strength too with my innocence ? 
 
 Come try who dares, heav'n, earth, whate'er dost boast, 
 
 A borrow'd being uiak^ thy bold defence : 
 
 Come thy Creator too, what though it cost 
 
 Me yet a second fall ? we'd try our strengths: 
 
 Heav'n saw us struggle once, as brave a fight 
 Earth now shail see^ and tremble at the sight.' 
 
 Thus spoke th' impatient prince, and made a pause, 
 His tbul hags rais'd their heads, and clapp'd their hands; 
 And all the powers of hell in full apptwuse 
 Flourish d their snakes, aud tost their flaming brands,
 
 1 10 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 * We (said the horrid sisters) wait thy laws, 
 Th' obsequious handmaids of thy high commands, 
 Be it thy part, hell's mighty lord, to lay 
 On us thy dread commands, ours to obey. 
 
 * What thy Alecto, what these hands can do. 
 Thou mad'st bold proof upon the brow of heav'n. 
 Nor shouldst thou bate in pride, because that now 
 To these thy sooty kingdoms thou art driven: 
 Let heaven's Lord chide above louder than thou 
 In language of his thunder, thou art even 
 
 With him below : here thou art lord alone 
 Boundless and absolute : hell is thine own. 
 
 ' If usual wit and strength will do no good. 
 Virtues of stones, nor herbs; use stronger charms. 
 Anger and love, best hooks of human blood: 
 If all fail, we'll put on our proudest arras, 
 And pouring on heaven's face the sea's huge flood. 
 Quench his curl'd ; fires we'll wake with our alarms 
 
 Ruin, where'er she sleeps at Nature's feet ; 
 
 And crush the world till his wide comers meet.' 
 
 Reply'd the proud king, ' O my crown's defence! 
 
 Stay of my strong hopes, you, of whose brave worth 
 
 The frighted stars took faint experience. 
 
 When 'gainst the thunder's mouth we marched forth ; 
 
 Still you are prodigal of your love's expense 
 
 In our great projects, both 'gainst heaven and earth : 
 
 I thank you all, but one must single out; 
 
 Cruelty, she alone shall cure my doubt.' 
 
 Fourth of the cursed knot of Hags is she, 
 Or rather all the other three in one ;
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 141 
 
 Hell's shop of slaughter she does oversee, 
 
 And still assist the execution : 
 
 But chiefly there does she delight to be, 
 
 Where hell's capacious cauldron is set on ; 
 
 And, while the black souls boil in their own gore. 
 To hold them down, and look that none seeth o'er. 
 
 Thrice howl'd the caves of Night, and thrice the sound, 
 Thund'ring upon the banks of those black lakes. 
 Rung through the hollow vaulte of hell profound ; 
 At last her list'uing ears the noise o'ertakes, 
 She lifts her sooty lamps, and, looking round, 
 A general hiss from the whole tire of snakes 
 
 Rebounding, through hell's inmost caverns came, 
 
 la answer to her formidable name. 
 
 'Mongst all the palaces in hell's command 
 
 No one so merciless as this of hers ; 
 
 The adamantine doors for ever stand 
 
 Impenetrable, both to pray'rs and tears; 
 
 The walls inexorable steel, no hand 
 
 Of Time or teeth of hungry Ruin fears. 
 
 Their ugly ornaments are the bloody stains 
 
 Of ragged limbs, torn skulls, and dash'd-out brains. 
 
 There has the purple Vengeance a proud seat, 
 Whose ever-brandish'd sword is sheath'd in blood : 
 About her Hate, Wrath, War, and Slaughter sweat, 
 Bathing their hot limbs in life's precious flood. 
 There rude impetuous Rage does storm and fret : 
 And there, as master of this murd'ring brood, 
 
 Swinging a huge scythe, stands impartial Death, 
 With endless business almost out of breath *. 
 
 * The image of Deatli, who ia here described as master of this mur*
 
 142 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 For hangings and for curtains, all along 
 
 The walls (abominable ornaments !) 
 
 Are tools of wrath, anvils of torments hung ; 
 
 Fell executioners of foul intents. 
 
 Nails, hammers, hatchets sharp, and halters strong, 
 
 Swords, spears, with all the fatal instruments 
 
 Of Sin and Death, twice dipp'd in the dire stains 
 Of brothers' mutual blood, and fathers' brains. 
 
 The tables furnish 'd with a cursed feast, 
 
 Which Harpies, with lean Famine, feed upon, 
 
 Uufili'd for ever ; here among the rest 
 
 Inhuman Erisicthon too makes one ; 
 
 Tantalus, Atreus, Progne, here are guests : 
 
 Wolvish Lycaon here a place hath won. 
 
 The cup they drink in is Medusa's skull*. 
 
 Which mix'd with gall and blood they quaff brimful. 
 
 The foul queen's most abhorred maids of honour, 
 Medea, Jezebel, many a meagre witch. 
 With Circe, Scylla, stand to wait upon her ; 
 But her best housewives are the Parcae, which 
 Still work for her, and have their wages from her; 
 They prick a bleeding heart at every stitch f. 
 
 derous group, being almost out of breath with endless business, can 
 never be sufficiently commended. 
 
 * The cup they drink in is Medusa's skull.'] This circumstance re- 
 minds us of a passage in a Runic Ode, preserved by Olaus Wor- 
 mius. The old Scandinavian warrior Lodbrog, disdaining life, and 
 thinking on the joys of immortality, which he was soon about to share 
 in the hall of Odin, exclaims in a high spirit of savage sublimity, 
 Bibemus cerevisiam 
 Ex concavis craniorum crateribus. 
 
 + TTiey prick a bleeding heart at every stitch."] This line must im- 
 mediately recal to the minds of the lovers of Gray his Fatal Sisters, 
 ao Ode translated from the Norse.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 143 
 
 Her cruel clothes of costly threads they weave, 
 Which short-cut lives of murder'd infants leave. 
 
 The house is hears'd about with a black wood 
 Which nods with many a heavy-headed tree * : 
 Each flower's a pregnant poison, try'd and good : 
 Each herb a plague : tlie wind's sighs timed be 
 By a black fount, which weeps into a flood. 
 Through the thick shades obscurely might you see 
 Minotaurs, Cyclopses, with a dark drove 
 Of dragons, hydras, sphinxes, fill the grove. 
 
 Here Diomed's horses, Phereus' dogs appear, 
 
 With the fierce lions of Therodamas ; 
 
 Busiris has his bloody altar here, 
 
 Here Scylla his severest prison has ; 
 
 The Lestrigonians here their table rear; 
 
 Here strong Procrustes plants his bed of brass ; 
 Here cruel Scyron boasts his bloody rocks. 
 And hateful Schinas hb so feared oaks. 
 
 Whatever schemes of blood, fantastic frames 
 
 Of death, Mezentius or Geryon drew; 
 
 Phalaris, Ochus, Ezelimus, names 
 
 Mighty in mischief, with dread Nero too. 
 
 Here are they all, here all the swords or flames 
 
 Assyrian tyrants, or Egyptian knew. 
 
 Such was the house, so furnish'd was the hall. 
 Whence the fourth Fury answer 'd Pluto's call. 
 
 a black wood. 
 
 Which nods with many a heavy-headed tree."] 
 
 And lowbrow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps. 
 
 Pope's Eloiitt,
 
 144 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 Scarce to this monster could the shady king 
 The horrid sum of his intentions tell ; 
 But she (swift as the momentary wing 
 Of lightning, or t *e words he spoke) left hell: 
 She rose, and with her to our world did bring 
 Pale proof of her fell presence. Th' air too well 
 With a chang'd countenance witness'd the sight. 
 And poor fowls intercepted in their flight. 
 
 Heav'n saw her rise, and saw hell in the sight. 
 
 The fields' fair eyes saw her, and saw no more. 
 
 But shut their flow'ry lids, for ever night 
 
 And winter strew her wa} ; yea, such a sore 
 
 Is she to nature, that a general fright. 
 
 An universal palsy spreading o'er 
 
 The face of things, from her dire eyes had run. 
 Had not her thick snakes hid them from the sun. 
 
 Now had the Night's companion from her den. 
 Where all the biisy day she close doth lie, 
 With her soft wing wip'd from the brows of men 
 Day's sweat, and by a gentle tyranny, 
 And sweet oppression, kindly cheating them 
 Of all their cares, tam'd the rebellious eye 
 
 Of Sorrow*, with a soft and downy hand. 
 
 Sealing all breasts in a Lethaean band. 
 
 When the Erynnis her black pinions spread. 
 And came to Bethlem, where the cruel king 
 Had now retir'd himself, and borrowed 
 His breast awhile from Care's unquiet sting. 
 
 tam'd the rebellious eye 
 
 Of SorroK."] An expression of infinite beauty and force. It is 
 used by some one of our latter poets ; but I am now unable to turn 
 to the passage.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 145 
 
 Such as at Thebes' dire feast she show'd her head. 
 
 Her sulphur-breathed torches brandishing. 
 
 Such to the frighted palace now she comes, 
 And with soft feet searches the silent rooms. 
 
 By Herod now was borne 
 
 The sceptre, which of old great David sway'd. 
 Whose right by David's lineage so long worn, 
 Himself a stranger to, his own had made : 
 And from the head of Judah's house quite torn 
 The crown, for which upon their necks he laid 
 A sad yoke, under which they sigh'd in vain, 
 And, lookmg on then: lost state, sigh'd again. 
 
 Up through the spacious palace passed she, ', 
 
 To where the King's proudly-reposed head 
 
 (If any can be soft to Tyranny -^ 
 
 And self-tormenting Sin) had a soft bed. 
 
 She thinks not fit such he her face should see. 
 
 As it is seen by Hell, and seen with dread * : 
 To change her face's style she doth devise. 
 And in a pale ghost's shape to spare his eyes. 
 
 Herself awhile she lays aside, and makes 
 
 Ready to personate a mortal part ; 
 
 Joseph the King's dead brother's shape she takes ; 
 
 What he by nature was, is she by art. 
 
 She comes to th' King, and with her cold hand slakes 
 
 His spirits, the sparks of life, and chills his heart. 
 
 * She thinks not Jit such he her face should see, 
 
 As it is seen by Hell, and seen with dread."] The reverse of this, 
 that is, in a good sense, is Virgil's : s 
 
 qualisque videri 
 
 Caelicolis et quanta solet. jEn. II. 
 
 VOL. I. I.
 
 14,6 DESCRIPTIVE PIECBS. 
 
 Life's forge ; feign'd is her voice, and false too be 
 Her words, ' Sleep'st thou, fond man ? sleep'st thou ?' 
 said she. 
 
 * So sleeps a pilot whose poor bark is prest 
 With many a merciless o'er-mast'ring wave ; 
 For whom (as dead) the wrathful winds contest 
 Which of them deep'st shall dig her watry grave. 
 Why dost thou let thy brave soul lie supprest 
 
 In death-hke slumbers, while thy dangers crave 
 A waking eye and hand ? look up and see 
 The Fates rip in their great conspiracy. 
 
 * Know'st thou not how of th' Hebrew's royal stem 
 (That old dry stock) a despair'd branch is spriuig 
 
 A most strange Babe ! who here conceal'd by them 
 
 In a neglected stable Ues, among 
 
 Beasts and base straw : already is the stream 
 
 Quite turn'd : the' ungrateful rebels this their young 
 Master (with voice free as the trump of Fame) 
 Their new King, and thy successor, proclaim. 
 
 * What busy motions, what wild engines, stand 
 On tiptoe in their giddy brains ' they've fixe 
 Already m their bosoms ; and their hand 
 Already reaches at a sword : they hire 
 Poisons to speed thee ; yet through all the land 
 What one comes to reveal what they conspire ? 
 
 Go now, make much of these ; wage still their wars, 
 And bring home on thy breast more thankless scars. 
 
 ' Why did I spend my life, and spill ray blood. 
 That thy firm hand for ever might sustain 
 A well-pois'd sceptre ? does it now seem good 
 Thy brother's blood be spilt, life spent in vain ;
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES, 147 
 
 'Gainst thy own sons and brothers thou hast stood 
 
 In arms, when lesser cause was to complain : 
 
 And now cross Fates a watch about thee keep, 
 Canst thou be careless now, now canst thou sleep ? 
 
 Where art thou, man ? what cowardly mistake ' 
 
 Of thy great self, hath stol'n King Herod from thee ? 
 O call thyself home to thyself, wake, wabe. 
 And fence the hanging sword heav'n throws upon thee : 
 Redeem a worthy wrath, rouse thee, and shake 
 Thyself into a shape that may become thee : 
 
 Be Herod, and thou shalt not miss from me 
 Immortal stings to thy great thoughts and thee/ 
 
 So said, her richest snake, which to her wrist 
 
 For a beseeming bracelet she had ty'd, 
 
 (A special worm it was, as ever kiss'd 
 
 The foamy lips of Cerberus) she apply'd 
 
 To the King's heart ; the snake no sooner hiss'd 
 
 But Virtue heard it, and away she hied. 
 
 Dire flames diflTuse themselves through ev'ry vein. 
 This done, home to her hell she hied amain. 
 
 He wakes, and with him (ne'er to sleep) new fears : 
 His sweat-bedewed bed had now betray 'd him 
 To a vast field of thorns, ten thousand spears 
 All pointed in his heart seem'd to invade him : 
 So mighty were th' amazing characters 
 With which his feeling dream had thus dismayed him. 
 
 He his own fancy- framed foes defies; 
 
 In rage, ' My arms ! give me my arms !' he cries. 
 
 As when a pile of food-preparing fire 
 The breath of artificial lungs embraves,
 
 148 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 The cauldron-prison'd waters straight conspire, 
 
 And beat the hot brass with rebellious waves ; 
 
 He murmurs and rebukes their bold desire ; 
 
 Th' impatient liquor frets, and foams, and raves ; 
 Till his o'erflowing pride suppress the flame 
 Whence all his high spirits and hot courage came. 
 
 So boils the fired Herod's blood-swol'n breast, 
 Not to be slak'd but by a sea of blood. 
 His faithless crown he feels loose on his crest, 
 Which on false tyrant's head ne'er firmly stood. 
 The worm of jealous Envy and unrest, 
 To which his gnaw'd heart is the growing food. 
 Makes him impatient of the ling'ring light, 
 Hate the sweet peace of ^1-composing Night. 
 
 A thousand prophecies, that talk strange things. 
 Had sown of old these doubts in his deep breast ; 
 And now of late came tributary kings. 
 Bringing him notliing but new fears from th' East, 
 More deep suspicions, and more deadly stings. 
 With which his fev'rous cares their cold increas'd. 
 
 And now his dream (hell's firebrand) still more Iwight, 
 Show'd hun hb fears, and kill'd him with the sight. 
 
 No sooner, therefore, shall the morning see 
 
 (Night hangs yet heavy on the Uds of day) 
 
 But all his counsellors must sumraon'd be. 
 
 To meet .their troubled lord ; without delay 
 
 Heralds and messengers immediately 
 
 Are sent about, who posting every way 
 
 To th' heads and officers of every band. 
 Declare who sends, and what is bis command.
 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 149 
 
 Why art thou troubled, Herod ? what vain fear 
 Thy blood-revolviug breast to rage doth move ? 
 Heaven's King, who doffs Tiimself weak flesh to wear, 
 Comes not to rule in wrath, but serve in love; 
 Nor would he this thy fear'd crown from thee tear, 
 But give thee a better with himself above. 
 
 Poor Jealousy ! why should he wish to prey 
 Upon thy crown, who gives his own away. 
 
 Make to thy reason, man ; and mock thy doubts ; 
 
 Look how below thy fears their causes are ; 
 
 Thou art a soldier, Herod ; send thy scouts, 
 
 See how he's fumish'd for so fear'd a war. 
 
 What armour does he wear ? a few thin clouts ; ^ 
 
 His trumpets ? tender cries ; his men, to dare 
 
 So much ? rude shepherds ; what his steeds ? alas, 
 Poor beasts ! a slow ox, and a simple ass. 
 
 Translated from Marino, by R. Crashaw, 
 Edit. 1670.
 
 150 
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 THE 
 
 DEATH OF ROSAMOND. 
 
 P AIR Rosamond witliin her bower of late 
 (While these sad storms had shaken Henry's state, 
 And he from England last had absent been) 
 Retir'd herself; nor had that star been seen 
 To shine abroad, or with her lustre grace 
 The woods or walks adjoining to the place. 
 
 About those places, while the times were free, 
 Oft with a train of her attendants she 
 For pleasure walk'd ; and, like the huntress queen, 
 With her light nymphs, was by the people seen. 
 Thither the country lads and swains, that near 
 To Woodstock dwelt, would come to gaze on her. 
 Their jolly May-games there would they present. 
 Their harmless sports and rustic merriment, 
 To give this beauteous paragon delight. 
 Nor that officious service would she slight ; 
 But their rude pastimes gently entertain. 
 When oft some forward and ambitious swain, 
 That durst presume (unhappy lad !) to look 
 Too near that sparkling beauty, planet-struck
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 151 
 
 Return'd from thence, and his hard hap did wail. 
 What now, alas ! can wake or fair avail 
 His love-sick mind ? no Whitsun-ale can please. 
 No jingling Morris-dances give him ease; 
 The pipe and tabor have no sound at all, 
 Nor to the may-pole can his measures call; ' 
 ' Although invited by the merriest lasses, 
 How little for those former joys he passes ? 
 But sits at home with folded arms* ; or goes 
 To carve on beeches barks his piercing woes. 
 And too ambitious love. Cupid, they say, 
 Had stol'n from Venus then: and, lurking, lay 
 About the fields and villages, that nigh 
 To Woodstock were, as once in Arcady 
 He did before, and taught the rural swains 
 Love's oratory, and persuasive strains. . 
 But now fair Rosamond had from the sight 
 Of all withdrawn ; as in a cloud, her light 
 Enveloped lay, and she immured close 
 Within her bower, since these sad stirs arose, 
 For fear of cruel foes ; relying on 
 The strength and safeguard of the place alone: 
 If any place of strength enough could be 
 Against a queen's enraged jealousy. 
 
 Now came that fatal day, ordain'd to see 
 Th' eclipse of beauty, and for ever be 
 
 * But sits at home with folded arms.] Shakspeare, who above all 
 others has the power of giving to common circumstances an air the 
 most uncommon, has a pretty image of this kind. Ariel is describing 
 to Prospero in what manner he had executed his orders; amongst 
 other things he adds. 
 
 The King's son have I landed by himself, 
 
 Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs 
 
 In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting 
 
 His arms in this sad knot. Tempest.
 
 152 PATHETIC-PIECES. 
 
 Accurs'd by woeful lovers, all alone- 
 
 Into her chamber Rosamond was gone ; _ 
 
 Where (as if Fates into her soul had sent 
 
 A secret notice of their dire intent) 
 
 Afflicting thoughts possess'd her as she sate. 
 
 She sadly weigh'd her own unhappy state. 
 
 Her feared dangers, and how far, alas ! 
 
 From her relief engaged Henry was. 
 
 But most of all, while pearly drops distain'd 
 
 Her rosy cheeks, she secretly complain'd. 
 
 And wail'd her honour's loss, wishing in vain 
 
 She could recal her virgin state again * ; 
 
 When that unblemish'd form f, so much admir'd. 
 
 Was by a thousand noble youths desir'd. 
 
 And might have mov'd a monarch's lawful flame. 
 
 Sometimes she thought how some more happy dame 
 
 By such a beauty, as was hers, had won. 
 
 From meanest birth, the honour of a throne ; 
 
 And what to some could highest glories gain. 
 
 To her had purchas'd nothing but a stain. 
 
 There, when she foimd her crime, she check 'd again 
 
 That high-aspiring thought, and 'gan complain 
 
 How much, alas ! the too too dazzling light 
 
 Of royal lustrp had misled her sight ; 
 
 . * tcishing in vain 
 
 She could recal Aer virgin state again."} Thus Rowe, in his Jabe 
 Shore : 
 
 In vain, with tears, her loss she may deplore; 
 ' In vain look back to what she was before. 
 
 t fVhen that unblemish'd form.] Thus Milton, in his Coraus: 
 
 And thou unblemish'd form of Chastity, 1. 215. 
 
 He had originally written, ^^ 
 
 And thou unspotted form of Chastity. 
 How far this expression of May might influence him in the alteratioR 
 it is impossible to determine.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 153 
 
 O ! then she wish'd her beauties ne'er had been 
 Renown'd *; that she had ne'er at court been seen: 
 Nor too much pleas'd enamour'd Henry's eye. 
 While thus she sadly mus'd, a ruthfui cry 
 Had pierc'd her tender ear, and in the sound 
 Was nam'd (she thought) unhappy Rosamond. 
 (The cry was utter 'd by her grieved maid. 
 From whom that clew was taken, that betray 'd 
 Her lady's life), and while she doubting fear'd, \ 
 Too soon the fatal certainty appeared ; 
 For with her train tlie wrathful queen was there ; 
 Oh! who can tell what cold and killing fear 
 Through every part of Rosamond was struck ? 
 The rosy tincture her sweet cheeks forsook f , 
 And, like an ivory statue did she show 
 Of life and motion reft, had she been so 
 Transform'd in deed, how kind the Fates had been, 
 How pitiful to her ! nay, to the queen ! 
 Even she herself did seem to entertain 
 Some ruth; but straight revenge retum'd again, 
 And fiU'd her furious breast. ' Strumpet (quoth she), 
 I need not speak at all ; my sight may be 
 Enough expression of my wrongs, and what 
 The consequence must prove of such a hate. 
 
 * O ! then she tvish^d her beauties ne'er had been 
 
 iJenofcn'd.] I cannot resist the opportunity of quoting a few 
 fine lines from Daniel on this occasion, and on this very subject: 
 Did nature (for this good) ingeniate, 
 To show in thee the glory of her best ; 
 Framing thine eye the star of thy ill fate. 
 Making thy face the foe to spoil the rest ? 
 O Beauty, thou an enemy profest 
 
 -^To Chastity, and us, that love thee most. 
 Without thee how w' are loath'd, and with thee lost? 
 Complaint of Rosamond. 
 + The To&y tincture her sweet cheeks forsook,'] Thus Milton : 
 What need a vermeiUtinctur'd lip for that. Comtu,
 
 154 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 ' Here, take this poison'd cup (for in her hand " 
 A poison'd cup she had), and do not stand 
 To parley now : but drink it presently. 
 Or else by tortures be resolv'd to die. 
 Thy doom is set.' Pale trembling Rosamond 
 Receives the cup, and kneeling on the ground, 
 Wlien dull amazement somewhat had forsook 
 Her breast, tUus humbly to the queen she spoke : 
 * I dare not hope you should so far relent. 
 Great queen, as to forgive the punishment 
 Thnt to ray foul offence is justly due. 
 Nor will I vainly pflead excuse, to show 
 By what strong arts I was at first betray 'd, 
 Or tell how many subtle snares were laid 
 To catch mine honour. These, though ne'er so true, 
 Can bring no recompence at all to you, 
 Nor just excuse to ray abhorred crime. 
 Instead of sudden death, I crave but time, 
 Wliich shall be styled no time of life but death, 
 In which I may with my condemned breath. 
 While grief and penance make me hourly die, 
 Pour out ray prayers for your prosperity : 
 Or take revenge on this offending face. 
 That did procure you wrong, and my disgrace. 
 Make poisonous leprosies o'erspread my skin ; 
 And punish that, that made your Henry sin. 
 Better content will such a vengeance give 
 To you, that he should loath me whilst I live. 
 Than that he should extend (if thus I die) 
 His lasting pity to my memory, 
 And you be forc'd to see, when I am dead. 
 Those tears, perchance, which he for me will shed: 
 For though my worthless self deserve from him 
 No tears in death; yet when he weighs my crime.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 155 
 
 Of which he knows how great a part was his, 
 And what I suffer as a sacrifice 
 For that offence, 'twill grieve his soul to be 
 The cause of such a double tragedy/ 
 
 * No more (reply'd the furious queen) ; have done ; 
 Delay no longer, lest thy choice be gone, 
 And that a sterner death for thee remaui.' 
 No more did Rosamond entreat in vain ; 
 But, forc'd to hard necessity to yield. 
 Drank of the fatal potion that she held. 
 And with it enter'd the grim tyrant Death : 
 Yet gave such respite, that her dying breath 
 Might beg forgiveness from the heavenly throne. 
 And pardon those that her destruction 
 Had doubly wrought. ' Forgive, oh Lord, (said she,) 
 Him that dishonour'd, her that murder'd me. 
 Yet let me speak, for truth's sake, angry queen : 
 If you had spar'd my life, I might have been 
 In time to come th' example of your glory ; 
 Not of your shame, as now ; for when the story 
 Of hapless Rosamond is read, the best 
 And holiest people, as they will detest 
 My crime, and call it foul, they will abhor. 
 And call unjust the rage of Eleanor. 
 And in this act of yours it will be thought 
 King Henry's sorrow, not his love, you sought.' 
 And now so far the venom's force assail'd 
 Her vital parts, that life with language fail'd. 
 That well-built palace where the Graces made 
 Their chief abode, where thousand Cupids play'd 
 And couch'd their shafts, whose structure did delight 
 Ev'n nature's self, is now demolish'd quite, 
 Ne'er to be rais'd again; th' untimely stroke 
 Of death that precious cabinet has broke.
 
 156 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 That Henry's pleased heart so long had held. 
 With sudden mounting now the house is fill'd ; 
 Nor can tlie queen's attendants, though they fear 
 Her wrath, from weeping at that sight forbear. 
 By rough north blasts so blooming roses fade ; 
 So crushed falls the lily's tender blade. 
 Her hearse at Godstow Abbey they inter, 
 Where sad and lasting monuments of her 
 For many years did to the world remain. ^ 
 Nought did the queen by this dire slaughter gain, 
 But more her lord's displeasure aggravate ; 
 And now when he return'd in prosperous state, 
 This act was cause, together with that crime 
 Of raising his unnatural sons 'gainst him, 
 That she so long in prison was detain'd. 
 And whilst he lived, her freedom never gain'd *. 
 
 Reigne of Henry 11. by T. May, B. V. 
 
 * The tale of Fair Rosamond is altogether most happily adapted 
 to the purposes of poetry, nor has it escaped the notice of our older 
 poets ; for (exclusive of May), Warner, Drayton, and Daniel, have 
 each tried their respective powers upon it. P. Fletcher, in his Purple 
 Island, alludes to one of them, though it is uncertain which, Cant. v. 
 St. 45. Both Drayton and Daniel mention the circumstance of King 
 Henry's having presented Rosamond, the night before her ruin, with 
 a casket wrought with the story of Neptune and Amymone : this little 
 incident is most probably from history. The necessary curious informa- 
 tion for illustrating the whole story may be found in Dr. Percy's Re- 
 liques, Vol. II. p. 141, who has entirely anticipated me on the subject. 
 
 It may be necessary to apprise some readers, that the word bower 
 was formerly used with considerably greater latitude than at present ; 
 and when applied to the residence of Rosamond, as it frequently is, 
 means simply, retreat, private abode ; it annexes with it an idea of 
 retirement, bt no further. Thus Spenser, in his Sonnet 70, invokeg 
 the Spring : 
 
 Go to my love, where she is careless laid. 
 Yet in her Winter's bower not well awake. 
 
 The term occurs in almost every page of our old poets, vpith the 
 fame general signification. The word cabin is used in a similar man- 
 er.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 157 
 
 CLEOPATRA WITH THE ASPS BEFORE HER, ' 
 
 DEBATING ON HER OWN DESTRUCTION. 
 
 * And here I sacrifice these arms to Death, 
 That lust late dedicated to delights : ' 
 
 OfF'ring up for my last, this last of breath, 
 The compliments of my love's dearest rites.' 
 
 With that she bares her arm, and offer makes 
 To touch her death, yet at the touch withdraws; 
 
 And seeming more to speak, occasion takes. 
 Willing to die, and willing too to pause. 
 
 Look, how a mother at her son's departing * 
 For some far voyage, bent to get him feme, . 
 
 Doth entertain him with an idle parling, 
 
 And still doth speak, and still speaks but the same : 
 
 Now bids farewell, and now rea|,ls him back ; 
 
 Tells what was told, and \Ms again farewell. 
 And yet again recals ; for still doth lack 
 
 Something that love would fain, and cannot tell. 
 
 Pleas'd he should go, yet cannot let him go : 
 So she, although she knew there was no way 
 
 But this, yet this she could not handle so, 
 But she must show that Ufe desir'd delay. 
 
 * Look how a mother, Stc."] See Browne's Brit. Past B. II. 
 Song 4, first lines.
 
 158 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 Fain would she entertain the time as now. 
 
 And now would fain that Death would seize upon her. 
 Whilst I might see presented in her brow 
 
 The doubtful combat try'd 'twixt Life and Honour. 
 
 Life bringing legions of fresh hopes with her, 
 
 Ami'd with the proof of Time, which yields, we say, 
 
 Comfort and help to such as do refer 
 All unto liun, and can admit delay. 
 
 But Honour scorning Life, lo forth leads he 
 
 Bright Immortality in shining armour : 
 Thorough the rays of whose clear glory, she 
 
 Might see Life's baseness, how much it mjght harm her. 
 
 Besides, she saw whole armies of Reproaches, 
 
 And base Disgraces, Furies fearful sad, 
 Marching with Life, and Shame that still encroaches 
 
 Upon her face, in bloody colours clad. 
 
 Which representments seeing, worse than Death 
 She deem'd to yield to Life, and therefore chose 
 
 To render all to Honour, heart and breath ; 
 And that with speed, lest that her inward foes. 
 
 False Flesh and Blood, joining with Life and Hope, 
 
 Should mutiny against her resolution. 
 And to the end she would not give them scope : 
 
 She presently proceeds to th' execution ; 
 
 And sharply blaming of her rebel powers, 
 
 * False Flesh,' saith she, * and what dost thou conspire 
 With Caesar too, as thou wert none of ours, 
 
 To work my shame, and hinder my desire ?
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 159 
 
 Wilt thou retain in closure of thy veins 
 
 That enemy, base Life, or let my good ? 
 No ; know there is a greater power constrains. 
 
 Than can be countercheck'd with fearful blood. 
 
 For to the mind that's great, nothing seems great : 
 
 And seeing Death to be the last of woes, * 
 And Life lasting disgrace, which I shall get, 
 
 What do I lose, that have but life to lose ?' 
 
 Tragedy of Cleopatra, by S. Daniel, Act V. Sc. i. 
 Poetical Works, 1718, 12rao. 
 
 A LADY, 
 
 BEING WRONGED BY FALSE SUSPECT, AND ALSO 
 WOUNDED BY THE DURANCE OF HER HUSBAND, 
 DOTH THUS BEWRAY HER GRIEF. 
 
 (jrivE me my lute in bed now as I lie. 
 And lock the doors of mine unlucky bower : 
 
 So shall my voice in mournful verse descry 
 The secret smart which causeth me to lower : 
 
 Resound you, walls, an echo to my moan ; 
 
 And thou, cold bed, wherein I lie alone, 
 
 Bear witness yet what rest thy lady takes, 
 
 Wheu others sleep which may enjoy their makes *. 
 
 * When other* sleep which may enjojf their makes.} A common
 
 / 
 l60 PATHETIC PIECES. ^ 
 
 In prime of youth, when Capid kindled fire, 
 
 And warni'd my will with flames of fervent love,. 
 
 To further forth the fruit of my desire, 
 
 My friends devis'd tliis mean for my behove. 
 
 They made a match according to my mind, 
 
 And cast a snare my fancy for to bhnd : ' 
 
 Short tale to make, the deed was almost done 
 
 Before I knew which way the work begun. 
 
 And with this lot I did myself content, 
 
 I lent a liking to my parents' choice ; 
 With hand and heart I gave my free consent, 
 
 And hung in hope for ever to rejoice. 
 I liv'd aud lov'd long time in greater joy 
 Than she which held King Priam's son of Troy : 
 But three lewd lots have chang'd ray heaven to hell. 
 And those be these, give ear and mark them well. 
 
 First Slander, he which always beareth hate 
 To happy hearts in heavenly state that bide : 
 
 'Gan play his part to stir up some debate. 
 Whereby suspect into my choice might glide. 
 
 And by his means the slime of false Suspect 
 
 Did (as I fear) my dearest friend infect. 
 
 Thus by these twain long was I plung'd in pain, 
 
 Yet in good hope my heart did still remain. 
 
 But now, ah me ! the greatest grief of all, 
 
 Sound loud my lute, and tell it out my tongue. 
 
 The hardest hap that ever might befal ; 
 The only cause wherefore this song is sung, 
 
 expression for mates. Thus Spenser, in his fine Sonnet to the 
 Spring : 
 
 Where every one that misseth then her make. Son, 70.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. l6l 
 
 Is this, alas ! my love, my lord, my roy. 
 My chosen pheare*, my gem, and all my joy f, 
 Is kept perforce out of my daily sight. 
 Whereby I lack the stay of my delight. 
 
 In lofty walls, in strong and stately towers, 
 
 With troubled mind in solitary sort, 
 
 My lovely Lord doth spend his days and hour^ 
 
 A weary life devoid of all disport. 
 
 And I poor soul must lie here all alone. 
 
 To tire my truth, and wound my will with moan ; 
 
 Such is my hap to shake my blooming time 
 
 With winter's blasts before it pass the prime. 
 
 Now have you heard the sum of all my grief, 
 Whereof to tell my heart (oh !) rents in twain, 
 Good ladies yet lend you me some relief, 
 And bear a part to ease me of my pain. 
 My sores are such, that weighing well my truth. 
 They might provoke the craggy rocks to ruthy 
 And move these walls with tears for to lament, 
 The loathsome life wherein my youth was spent. 
 
 But thou, my Lute, be still, now take thy rest. 
 Repose thy bones upon this bed of down, 
 Thou hast discharg'd some burthen from my breast, 
 Wherefore take thou my place, here lie thee down ; 
 
 * My chosen pheare.] Sometimes spelt /ere, and is used indif- 
 ferently for husband, lover, or companion. 
 
 t ... .my gem, and all my joy.] An expression of endearment of 
 i;reat beauty. Thus, Antony says, in Shakspeare : 
 Have I my pillow left unpress'd in Rome, 
 Forborne the getting of a lawful race. 
 And by a gem of women. So. xi. 
 
 VOL.1. M
 
 ]6'2 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 And let me walk to tire my restless mind, 
 Until I may entreat some courteous wind 
 To blow these words unto my noble make, 
 That he may see I sorrow for his sake. 
 
 G. Gascoigne's Poems, p. 141, 
 1387, 4to. 
 
 DORACLES AND DAPHLES. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 IviNG Aganippus, ere his death, had with his lords decreed 
 His only daughter Daphles should in empire him succeed. 
 A fairer lady liv'd not then, and now her like doth lack. 
 And nature, think I, never will a second she compact. 
 The king intombed, Daphles of his sceptre was possest : 
 And one there was, a nobleman, that could it not digest ; 
 Who (for he was of fame and force) did bid her battle, and 
 In doubtful end of victory their civil quarrels stand. 
 At length the Argive maiden queen she Doracles subdued : 
 But (Cacus) of this stratagem a tragedy ensued. 
 Now loves, not launces, came in ure ; the man that lost the day. 
 And lies in chains, left her in cares, her conquest was his prey. 
 Full often did she blame herself for loving him her foe, 
 But oftner thought she it more blame not to have erred so. 
 Thus whom in camp she loathed late, in chains she loved now. 
 And thought liim sure, because so sure. To princes prisoijjers 
 
 bow. 
 Thinks she : and watching fitting time, unto the prison went. 
 Where at the door of such bis lodge a many tears she spent.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. l63 
 
 But, ent'ring, when her eyes beheld the image of her heart. 
 To her still peerless, though his bands had altered him in part. 
 She casting down her bashful eyes stood senseless then a^ 
 
 space *, 
 Yet what her tongueless love adjourn'd was extant in her 
 
 face: 
 And now the gaoler left to her the prisoner and the place., 
 
 * Then, cheering careful Doracles, let it suffice (quoth she) 
 That I repent me of thy bands, and frankly set thee free : 
 And let that grace, grace out the rest (for more remains be- 
 hind 
 Than, being said, may decent seem to such as faults will find) : 
 Myself, my land, my love, my life, and all what so is mine, 
 Possess: yet love, and save my life, that now have saved 
 
 tliine.' 
 Then swoons she at his sullen feet, that yet abode in thrall : 
 Which to avoid, he faintly rubs his liver on his gall: 
 And with his hand, not with his heart, did rear her sinking 
 
 down. 
 And, feigning to approve her choice, had promise of the 
 
 crown. 
 But neither crown, nor country's care, nor she (worth all the 
 
 rest) 
 Nor grace, nor duty, reconcile whom envy had possess'd. 
 No sooner was he got at large, and wealth supply 'd his lack, 
 But he to seek her overthrow to foreign aids did pack. 
 Demand not how the wronged queen digested such her wrong ; 
 But ask if she, the tidings told, to hear them liv'd so long. 
 She liv'd indeed, yet swooned oft, and, swooning overpast. 
 From her mistempered head she tears her lovely tresses fast. 
 
 * She canting down her bashful eyes, &c.] These two lines contain 
 the very soul of simplicity : they are in the writer's best manner, and 
 may safely vie with any modern lines on a similar subject.
 
 l6"4 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 And beatcth on her ivory breasts, and casts her on the ground. 
 And wrings her hands, and shrieketh out, and flingeth up 
 
 and down. 
 Her ladies pitying her distress had got their queen to rest : 
 From whenceforth outward signs and sighs her inward grief 
 
 express'd : 
 Her sparing diet, seldom sleep, her silence, and what not. 
 Had fram'd her now right lover-like, when thus lo him she 
 
 wrote. 
 ' What fault of mine hath caus'd thy flight doth rest in clouds 
 
 to me, 
 But faultless have I heard of none, and faulty may I be. 
 Yet not my sceptre, but myself, have kingly suitors sought : 1 
 Did all amiss, save thou alone, that settest both at nought? > 
 At nought, said I ? yea well I said, because so easily caught. ) 
 One crime but cite, and I for it will shed a million tears: 
 And to be penitent of faults with it a pardon bears. 
 Ah, Doracles, if our extremes, thy malice and my love. 
 The former's ever ill shall not the latter's good remove ! 
 I hear thou dost frequent the wars, and war thou wilt with ^ 
 
 me. 
 Forgetful that my Argive men impatient warriors be : 
 Sweet, hazard not the same to sword, that love doth war- 
 rant thee 
 Each spear that shall but cross thy helm hath force to craese 
 
 my heart: 
 But if thou bleed, of that thy blood my faulting soul hath 
 
 part. 
 With thee I live, with thee I die, with thee I lose or gain. 
 Live safe therefore, for in thy life consist the lives of twain *. 
 
 Live safe therefore, for in thy life consist the lives of twain.'] Simi- 
 larity of situation must unavoidably produce similarity of sentiment, 
 and ronsequrntly of expression. Perhaps few readers will peruse 
 this line without immediately calling to mind the conclusion of a song 
 considerably ttfo popular to be here introduced.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. l65 
 
 Most wisely valiant are those men that back their armed 
 
 ^ steeds 
 In beaten paths, o'er boarded tilts, to break their staif-like 
 
 reeds : 
 Where not the dint of wounding lance, but some device of 
 
 love, 
 Sans danger, hath sufficient weight their manhoods to approve, 
 Where brave aspects of lovely dames tantara to the fight*. 
 Whose forms perhaps are wedg'd in hearts, when favours wag 
 
 in sight. 
 Whereas the victor's prize is praise, and trumpets sound each 
 
 blow. 
 Where all is well, that seems but well, in courage or in show, 
 Where ladies doff their champions helms, and kiss where 
 
 beavers hid, 
 And parley under canopies how well or ill they did; 
 Retire therefore, sweet-heart, retire: or, if thou wilt be arm'd. 
 Then fight as these, where all things make that all escape 
 
 unharm'd. 
 Such manhood is a merriment : things present are regarded : 
 Not perilous wounds in war, but here wars peril is rewarded. 
 In few, the wars are full of woes, but here even words of war 
 Have braver grace than works themselves, for courts from 
 
 camps be far. 
 Than are the vaUant, who more vain? than cowards who 
 
 more wise : 
 Not men that travel Pegasus, but fortune's fools, do rise. 
 Methinks I see how churlish looks estrange thy cheerful face, 
 Metiiinks thy gestures, talk, and gait, have chang'd their 
 
 wonted grace : 
 
 * Warner has here taken an opportunity of ridiculing the taste for 
 Tilts and Tournaments, then so much in fashion : 
 
 tantara to the fight. 
 
 Thtu, Sylvester, in his translation of Du Bartas : 
 A heavenly tmmp, a shrill tantara bIow.
 
 l66 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 Metliiiiks tby sometimes nimble liinbs with armour now are 
 
 lame: 
 Metliinks I see how scars deform where swords before did 
 
 maim; 
 I see thee faint with summer's heat, and droop with winter's ^ 
 
 cold: I 
 
 I see thee not the same thou art, for young thou seemest V 
 
 old: I 
 
 I see not, but my soul doth fear, m fight tliou art too bold. J 
 I sorrow lastly, to have seen whom now I wish to see, 
 Because I see love's oratress pleads tediously to thee. 
 If words, nor weepings, love, nor hues, if ease, nor toils in 
 
 light. 
 May wean thee from a pleasing ill, yet come thou to my sight: 
 Perchance my presence may dissuade or partnership delight. 
 But woe am I, dead paper pleads, a senseless thing of woe: 
 It cannot weep nor wring the hands, but say that she did so ; 
 And sayeth so uncredited, or if, then thought of course : 
 Thus, thus, because not passionate, to paper fails remorse. 
 O that my griefs, my sighs and tears, might muster to thy 
 
 view, 
 The woes, not words ; then pain, not pen, should vouch my 
 
 writing true. 
 Yet fare thou well, whose fare-well brings such fare-ill unto 
 
 me; 
 Thy fare-well lacks a welcome home, and welcome shalt thou 
 
 be.' 
 These lines, subscribed with her name, when Doracles did 
 
 view. 
 He was so far from liking them, that loathing did ensue. 
 And, lest that hope should ease her heart, or he not seem 
 
 unkind. 
 In written tables he to her returned thus his mind.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 1^7 
 
 * The best of bees do bear, beside sweet lioney, smarting 
 
 stings, 
 And beauty doth not want a bait that to repentance brings. 
 Content thee, Daphles, moles take mads, but menlvnow 
 
 moles to catch, 
 And ever wakes the Daulian bird * to ward the sloe-worm's 
 
 watch. 
 I have perus'd, I wot not what, a scroll, forsooth, of love, 
 As if to Dirus in his tent should Cupid cast his glove. 
 A challenge proper to such sots as you would fashion me, 
 But I disdain to talk of love, much more in love to be. 
 Nor think a queen, in case of love, should tie me to consent, 
 But hold the contrary more true, and it no consequent : 
 For persons must in passions jump, else love it proveth lame ; 
 Nor think I of a woman's grant, but as a woer's game. 
 Your sex withstands not place and speech ; for be she base 
 
 or high, 
 A woman's eye doth guide her wit, and not her wit her eye. 
 Then senseless is he, having speech, that bids not for the best ; 
 Ev'n carters malkbs will disdain when gentry will digest. 
 The better match the braver mart, and willinger is sought : 
 And willing suit hath best event; so Vulcan Venus caught. 
 I argue not of her estate, but set my rest on this ; 
 That opportunity can win the coyest she that is. 
 Then he that rubs her gamesome vein, and temper toys with 
 
 art, 
 Brings love that swimmeth at her eyes to dive into her heart. 
 But since the best, at best, is bad, a shrew or else a sheep, 
 Just none at all are best of all, and I from all will keep. 
 
 Daulian bird."] So Ovid : 
 
 Sola virum non ulta pie mcestissiina matcr 
 
 Concinit Ismarium Dauliui ales Itjii. 
 Ales Ityn, Sappho descrtos caatat ainoivs 
 Hactenus, ut media caetera noctc silent. 
 
 Saph. Ph. 15:?.
 
 > 
 
 168 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 Admit I come, and come I then because I come to theti ? 
 No, wlieu I come, my coming is contrary sights to see. 
 My leisure serves me not to love till fish as falcons fly, 
 Till sea shall flame, till sun shall freeze, till mortal men 
 
 not die, , 
 
 And rivers, climbing up their banks, shall leave their chan- I 
 nels dry. J 
 
 When these shall be, and I not be, then may I chance to love. 
 And then the strangest change will be that I a lover prove. 
 Let beavers hide, not busses hurt, my lips, for lips unfit: 
 Let scarred limbs, not careful loves, to honour honour get. 
 I scorn a face effeminate, but hate his bastard mind 
 That, bom a man, preposterously by art doth alter kind: 
 With fingers lady-Uke, with locks, with looks, and gauds in 
 
 print. 
 With fashion's barbing formless beards, and robes that brook 
 
 no lint. 
 With spear in wrest, like painted Mars, from thought of "^ 
 
 battle free. 
 With gait, and grace, and every gaud, so womanly to see, 
 As not in nature, but in name, their manhood seems to 
 Yea sooner than that maiden hairs bud on his boyish chin, 
 The fury of the fiery God doth in the fool begin. 
 And yet to win^ whom would be won, these vow with lesser 
 
 speed, 
 Than might be won a town of war, the crop not worth tlie, 
 
 seed. 
 But let them travel till they tire, and then be rid for jades, . 
 If gamesters fair, if soldiers mild, or lovers true of maids? 
 Who love in sport, or leave in spight, or if they stoop to lure. 
 Their kindness must have kindly use ; faults only make them 
 
 sure. 
 Did fancy ? no, did fury ? yea, hang up the Thracian maid. 
 The wonders seven should then be eight, couM lov& thee s* 
 
 persuade. 
 
 lee, ( 
 be.)
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 1^9 
 
 But love or hate, fare ill or well, I force not of thy fare ; 
 My welcome, which thou dost pretend, shall prove a tliank- 
 less care/ 
 When Daphles heard him so unkind, she held herself ac- 
 curst; 
 And little lacked of so well but that her heart did burst; 
 And where she read the churlish scroll, she fell into a swoon; 
 But, brought again, upon a bed herself she casteth down, 
 Not rismg more : and so her love and life together end : 
 Or (if I so may guess) in death her soul did live his friend. 
 
 The queen interr'd, and obit kept (as she in charge did give), 
 A knight was shipped to Calidon, where Doracles did live. 
 To offer him, as her bequest, the Argive throne and crown. 
 Not that we force or fear (quoth he) thy favour or thy frown 
 We move this peace, or make thee prince; but Daphles 
 
 swore us so, 
 Who, loving more than thou could'st hate, nor liv'd nor died 
 
 thy foe. 
 And is she dead (quoth Doracles) that lived to my wrong? 
 I gladly do accept the news, expected for of long. 
 
 The lord and legate were erabark'd, and ship ran under 
 sail, 
 Until the Argive strand the mariners did hail. 
 To Daphles, by adoption, there enthronized a king. 
 He divers years good fortune had successive in each thing, 
 All friends, no foes, all wealth, no want, still peace and never 
 
 strife, 
 And what might seem an earthly heaven to Doracles was rife. 
 A subject, but a nobleman, did richly feast the king. 
 And after meat presented him with many a sight and thing. 
 There was a chamber, in the which, portrayed to the quick. 
 The picture of Queen Daphles was; and deeply did it prick 
 The king his conscience, and he thought her like did not re- 
 main: 
 So whom her person could not pierce, her picture now did pain.
 
 170 PATHETIC PIBCKS. 
 
 A kissing Cupid, breatliing love into her breast, did hide 
 Her waiid'ring eyes, whilst to her heart his hand a death 
 
 did guide; 
 Non mcerens morior, for the mott, enchased was beside. 
 Her courtesy and his contempt he calleth then to mind, 
 And of her beauty in himself he did a chaos find. 
 Recalling eke his late degree, and reck'ning his desert. 
 He could not think (or faintly thought), his love to stem 
 
 her heart ; 
 And to the maker of the feast, did such his thoughts im- 
 part. J 
 ' And doubts your grace (the feaster said) if Daphles lov'd 
 or no ? 
 I wish (I hope I wish no harm) she had not loved so, 
 Or you more liked than you did, then she had lived yet : 
 To what her latest speech did tend I never shall forget. 
 Myself, with divers noblemen, whose tears bewray 'd our care, 
 Was present, when her dying tongue of you did thus declare ; 
 My hap (quoth she) is simply bad that cannot have, nor hope ; 
 Was ever wretch (I wretch except) held to so scant a scope ? 
 I see him rove at other marks, aud I unmark'd to be : 
 I find ray fault, but follow it,* while death doth follow me. 
 Ah death (my lords), despair is death, and death must ran- 
 som bliss, 
 Such ransom pleaseth Doracles, and Daphles pliant is. 
 Not bootless then (since breathless straight) sweet love doth 
 
 flames contrive. 
 The which shall bum me up at once that now do burn alive. 
 Alas (then did she pause in tears), that Doracles were by, ) 
 To take it from his eyes, not ears, that 1 for him do die ; > 
 At least, perhaps, he would confess my love to be no lie. ) 
 
 I find my fault, but foliate it, &c.] Thus, Pope: 
 
 I view my crime, but kindle at the view. Eloisa.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 171 
 
 But (want-wit I) offensive sights to Doracles I crave ; 
 
 Long live, dear heart, not minding me when I am laid in grave. 
 
 And you (my lords); by those same gods, whose sight I hope 
 
 anon, 
 I conjure that ye him invest your king when I am gone. 
 And only say I liv'd and died to him a lover true. 
 And that my parting ghost did sound, sweet Doracles adieu. 
 A sigh concluding such her words, she closed up her eye ; 
 Not one of us, beholding it, that seemed not to die. 
 Thus to your grace I leave to guess how tragic Daphles died ; 
 lu love, my lord, yea loving you, that her of love denied.' 
 
 The picture, and this same discourse, afford sufficient woe 
 To him, that, maimed in his mind, did to his palace go. 
 There Doracles did set abroach a world of things forgot ; 
 What mean'st thou, man? (ah frantic man) how art thou 
 
 overshot * 
 (He said) to hate the substance then, and love the shadow now. 
 Her painted board, whose amorous heart did break whilst I 
 
 not bow .'' 
 And could'st thou, churlish wretch, contemn the love of such 
 
 a queen? 
 O gods, I grant for such contempt I justly bide your teene. 
 Her only beauty (worthy Jove, that now on me hath power) 
 Was worthy of far worthier love, without a further dower. 
 But gaze thou on her, senseless sign, whose self thou mad'st 
 
 thy prey. 
 And gazing perish ; for thy life is debt to her decay. 
 Time going on, grief it grew on, of dolour sprung despair, 
 When Doracles to Daphles' tomb did secretly repair: 
 There (tears a preface to the rest) these only words he- 
 
 spake ; 
 
 ' Thy love was loss, for loss my Ufe in recompense do take. 
 Dear Daphles;' so a dagger's stab a tragedy did make. 
 
 Albion's England, by W. Warner, 
 Chap. ix. Edit. l6"02.
 
 178 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 ODE TO MARS. 
 
 \J FIERCE and furious God! whose harmfull heart 
 
 Rejoiceth most to shed the guiltless blood : 
 
 Whose heady will doth all the world subvert. 
 
 And doth envy the pleasant merry mood 
 
 Of our estate that erst in quiet stood; 
 
 Why dost thou thus our harmless town annoy, 
 
 Which mighty Bacchus governed in joy ? 
 
 Father of war and death ! that dost remove 
 With wrathful wreck from woeful mother's breast 
 The trusty pledges of her tender love ; 
 So grant the gods, that for our tinal rest. 
 Dame Venus' pleasant looks may charm thee best. 
 Whereby when thou shall all amazed stand. 
 The sword may fall out of thy trembling hand. 
 
 And thou may'st prove some other way full well 
 The bloody prowess of thy mighty spear, 
 Wherewith thou raisest from the depths of hell 
 The wrathful sprites of all the furies there, 
 Who, when they wake, do wander every wlere, 
 And never rest to range about the coasts, 
 T* enrich their pit with spoils of damned ghosts. 
 
 And when thou hast our fields forsaken thus, 
 Let cruel Discord bear thee company, 
 Engirt with snakes, and serpents venomous.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 173 
 
 E'en she, that can with red vermilion dye 
 The gladsome green, that flourish'd pleasantly, 
 And make the greenly ground a drinking cup. 
 To sup the blood of murder'd bodies up. 
 
 Jocasta, by G. Gascoigne, Act II. Scene the 
 last, from his Poems, 1577, 4to. 
 
 ODE TO CONCORD. 
 
 \J BLISSFUL Concord, bred in sacred breast 
 Of him that rules the restless-rolling sky. 
 That to the earth, for man's assured rest, 
 From height of heavens vouchsafest down to fly I 
 In thee alone the mighty power doth lie, 
 With sweet accord to keep the frowning stars, 
 And every planet else, from hurtful wars. 
 
 In thee, in thee, such noble virtue bides, 
 As may command the mightiest gods to bend ; 
 From thee alone such sugar'd friendsliip slides 
 As mortal wights can scarcely comprehend. 
 To greatest strife thou sett'st delightliil end. 
 O holy Peace, by thee are only found 
 The passing joys that every where abound ! 
 
 Thou, only thou, tlirougli thy celestial might, 
 Didst first of all the heavenly pole divide 
 From th' old confused heap, that Chaos hight:
 
 17'4 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 Thou niadst the sun, the moon, the stars, to glide 
 With order'd course, about this world so wide : 
 Thou hast ordain'd Dan Tytan's shining light 
 By dawn of day to change the darksome night. 
 
 When tract of time returns the lusty Ver, 
 By thee alone the buds and blossoms spring, 
 The fields with flowers be garnish'd every where. 
 The blooming trees abundant fruit do bring. 
 The cheerful birds melodiously do sing: 
 Thou dost appoint the crop of summer's seed, 
 For man's relief, to serve the winter's need. 
 
 Thou dost inspire the hearts of princely peers. 
 By providence proceeding from above. 
 In flow'ring youth to choose their proper feares. 
 With whom they live in league of lasting love, 
 Till fearful death doth flitting life remove ; 
 And look how fast to death man pays his due ! 
 So fast again dost thou his stock renew. 
 
 By thee the basest thing advanced is ; 
 Thou every where dost graft such golden peace, 
 As filleth man with more than earlhly bliss: 
 The earth by thee doth yield her sweet increase, 
 At beck of thee all bloody discords cease. 
 And nn'ghtiest realms in quiet do remain. 
 Whereas thy hand doth hold the royal rein. 
 
 Jocastn, by G. Gascoigu^*, 
 Act IV. Scene the last.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 175 
 
 MATILDA THE FAIR, 
 
 AFTER RESISTING THE IMPORTUNITIES OFKING JOHN, 
 WHO HAD DISGRACED AND BANISHED HER FATHER, 
 RETIR ES TO THE ABBEY OF DU NMOW, AND IS THERE 
 POISONED BY AN ASSASSIN FROM THE KING. 
 
 MATILDA SPEAKS. 
 
 VV HERE I alone, and to his tale expos'd, 
 
 (As one to him a willing ear that lent) 
 
 Himself to me he but too soon disclos'd. 
 
 And who it was that thither had him sent, 
 
 From point to point relating his intent; 
 
 Who, whilst I stood struck dumb with this invasion. 
 He thus pursues me strongly with persuasion. 
 
 ' Hear hut (saith he) how blindly thou dost err, 
 
 Fondly to doat upon thine own perfection. 
 
 When as the king thee highly will prefer, 
 
 Nay, and his power attendeth thy protection ; ' 
 
 So indiscreetly sort not thy election. 
 To shut that in a melancholy cell, 
 Which in a court ordained was to dwell. 
 
 Yet further think how dang'rous is his offer, 
 If thy neglect do carelessly abuse it: 
 Art thou not mad, that thus do'st see a coffer 
 Fili'd up with gold, and proffer'd, to refuse it ? 
 So far that thou want'st reason to excuse it, 
 
 Thyself condemning in thine ow n good hap, 
 
 Spilling the treasure cast into thy lap.
 
 176 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 Wrong not thy fair youth, * nor the world deprive 
 Of tliese rare parts which nature hath thee lent, 
 'Twere pity thou by niggardise should'st thrive, 
 Whose wealth by waxing craveth to be spent ; 
 For which, thou of the wisest shall be shent. 
 
 Like to some rich churl hoarding up his pelf. 
 Both to wrong others, and to starve himself. 
 
 What is this vain and idle reputation, 
 
 Which to the show you seemingly respect ? 
 
 Only the weakness of imagination. 
 
 Which in conclusion worketh no efl'ect, 
 
 And lesser can the worshippers protect : 
 
 That only standeth upon fading breath. 
 And hatii at once the being and the death; 
 
 A fear that grew from doating superstition, 
 To which your weak credulity is prone, 
 And only since maintained by tradition. 
 Into our ears impertinently blown, 
 By folly gatliered, as by error sown; 
 
 Which us still threat'ning hind'reth our desires, 
 
 Yet all it shows us be but painted tires. 
 
 Persuade thyself this monast'ry to leave. 
 Which youth and beauty justly may forsake ; 
 Do not thy prince of those high joys bereave. 
 Which happy him, more happy thee, may make, 
 Who sends me else thy life away to take : 
 
 For dead to him if need'sly thou wilt prove, 
 
 Die to fhyself, be bury'd with his love.' 
 
 Wrong not thy fair youth, &c.] See this argument pursued at 
 large in Milton's Comus, 737, &c.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 177 
 
 Rage, which resum'd the likeness of his face, 
 Whose eye seem'd as the basilbk to kill ; 
 The horror of the solitary place, 
 Being so fit wherem to work his will, 
 And at the instant he my life to spill ; 
 
 All seem'd at once my overthrow to further. 
 
 By fear dissuaded, menaced by murther. 
 
 In this so great and peremptory trial. 
 
 With strong temptations sundry ways afflicted. 
 
 With many a yielding, many a denial, 
 
 Ofttimes acquitted, oftentimes convicted. 
 
 Terror before me lively stood depicted; 
 
 When as it was, that but a little breath 
 Gave me my life, or sent me to my death. 
 
 But soon my soul had gather'd up her powers. 
 
 Which in this need might friend-like give her aid. 
 
 The resolution of so many hours, 
 
 Whereon herself she confidently stay'd 
 
 In her distress, whose helps together lay'd. 
 
 Making the state which she maintained. good, 
 Expell'd the fear usurping on my blood ; 
 
 And my lock'd tongue did liberally enlarge. 
 From those strict limits wherein long confin'd 
 Care had it kept, my bosom to discharge. 
 And my lost spirits their wonted strength assigu'd. 
 Into mine eyes which coming as refin'd. 
 
 Most bravely there mine honour to maintain, 
 Check'd his presumption with a coy disdain. 
 
 Who finding me inviolably bent, 
 And for my answer only did abide ; 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 Having a poison miird'ring by the scent, 
 If to tlie organ of that sense apply'd. 
 Which for the same, when fittest time he spy'd, 
 Into my nostrils forcibly did strain, 
 Which in an instant wrought my deadly bane. 
 
 With his rude touch my veil disorder'd then. 
 My face discovering, my delicious cheek 
 Tincted with crimson *, faded soon again. 
 With such a sweetness as made death seem meek. 
 And was to him beholding it most like 
 
 A little spark extinguish'd to the eye. 
 
 That glows again ere suddenly it die. 
 
 And whilst thereat amazed he doth stand. 
 Wherein he then such excellency saw, 
 Rueing the spoil done by his fatal hand. 
 What nought before, him this at last could awe, 
 From his stem eyes as though it tears would draw. 
 Which wanting them, wax'd suddenly as dead, 
 Grieving for me that they had none to shed. 
 
 When life, grown faint, hies lastly to my heart, 
 
 The only fort to which she had to take. 
 
 Feeling cold death to seize on every part, 
 
 A strong invasion instantly to make : 
 
 Yet ere she should me utterly forsake. 
 
 To him who sadly stood me to behold, 
 Thus in mild words my grief I did unfold. 
 
 * my delicious cheek 
 
 Tincted mth crimson.'] Expressed with a delicate felicity, su- 
 perior to Milton's " vermeil-tinctur'd lip," which it might have con- 
 tributed perhaps originally to suggest. But Milton's very epithet oc- 
 curs in the poetry of Ed. Benlowes, Cant. I. stanza 21, 1652, fol. 
 Crouch low ! O vermeil-tinctur'd cheek.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 179 
 
 ' Is this the gift the king on me bestows. 
 
 Which in this sort he sends thee to present me ? 
 
 I am his friend, what gives he to his foes. 
 
 If this in token of his love he sent me? 
 
 But 'tis his will, and must not discontent me : 
 Yet after, sure, a proverb this will prove. 
 The gift King John bestow'd upon his love. 
 
 When all that race in memory are set, 
 And by their statues, their achievements done, 
 Which won abroad, and which at home did get. 
 From son to sire, from sire again to son, 
 Grac'd with the spoils that gloriously they won : 
 Oh! that of him it only should be said. 
 This was King John, the murth'rer of a maid ! 
 
 Oh ! keep it safely from the mouth of Fame, 
 That none do hear of his unhallow'd deed ; 
 Be secret to him, and conceal his shame, 
 Lest after-ages hap the same to read. 
 And that the letters showing it do bleed J 
 
 Oh ! let the grave mine innocency hold, 
 
 Before of him this tyranny be told !' 
 
 Thus having spoke, my sorrows to assuage. 
 The heavy burthen of my pensive breast, 
 The poison then that in my breast did rage, 
 His deadly vigour forcibly exprest, 
 Not suff'ring me to stand upon the rest, 
 
 Longer for hira it was no time to stay ; 
 
 And Death call'd on, to hasten me away. 
 
 Thus in my closet being left alone, 
 Upon the floor uncomfortably lying,
 
 180 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 The fact committed, and the murth'rer gone, 
 Arrived at the utmost point of dying, 
 Some of the sisters me by chance espying, 
 
 Call'd ail the rest, tliat in most woeful plight 
 
 Came to behold that miserable sight. 
 
 Thus like a rose by some unkindly blast, 
 'Mongst many buds that round about it grow. 
 The with' ring leaves improsp'rously doth cast. 
 Whilst all the rest their sovereign beauties show : 
 Amidst this goodly sisterhood even so, 
 
 Nipt with cold death untimely did I fade. 
 Whilst they about me piteous waihng made. 
 
 And my sad soul upon her sudden flight. 
 
 So soon forsaken of each several sense. 
 
 With all the horror death could her affright, 
 
 Strongly disturbed at her parting hence. 
 
 All comfort fled her ; for her last defence, 
 
 Doth to her spotless innocence betake her, 
 Which left her not, when all the rest forsake her 
 
 To show our pleasures are but children's toys. 
 And as mere shadows, or like bubbles pass, 
 As years increase, so waning are our joys. 
 Forgotten as our favours in a glass*, 
 A very tale of that which never was: 
 
 Forgotten as our favours in a glass."] A thought peculiarly in 
 the style of Shakspeare, yet, to the best of my knowledge, unbor- 
 rowed from him. What follows, namely, his comparing the plea- 
 sures of life to 
 
 A very tale of that which never was, 
 is an improvement, I think, upon Shakspeare's comparison of life to 
 
 a tale 
 
 Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. 
 
 Signifying nothing. Macbeth, Act V. Scene v.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 181 
 
 Even so. Death us and our delights can sever. 
 Virtue alone abandoneth us never *. 
 
 Legend of Matilda, by M. Drayton. 
 
 Speed gives the following relation of this story : " King John 
 disherited some noblemen without judgment of their peeres, and he 
 would have destroyed Ranulph Earle of Chester, for th^t he re- 
 proched him with this, that he should use the wife of his brother Gef- 
 frey, Earle of Brytaine, whom Ranulph Earle of Chester had mar- 
 ried, and from whom Ranulph was divorced by the council of King 
 John, and the said Earle had married the daughter of the Earle Fer- 
 rers. King John being now in extremity, and mindinge to impute the 
 fault to them that would not appease his fury aforetime, reprehended 
 sometimes one, and sometimes another of his nobility, as traytors, 
 calling them jealous, whose beds (as he bragged) he had defiled, and 
 devoured their daughters. The Chronicle of Dunmow saith, this dis- 
 cord arose betwixt the king and his barons because of Mawde, called 
 the faire, daughter to Robert Fitz Walter, whom the king loved, but 
 her father would not consent, and thereupon ensued war throughout 
 England. The king spoiled especially the castle Baynard in London, 
 and other holds, and houses of the Barons. Robert Fitz Walter, Ro- 
 ger Fitz Robert, and Richard Mount Fitchet, passed over into France; 
 some also went into Wales, and some into Scotland, and did great 
 damage to the king. Whilest Mawde the Faire remained at Dunmow, 
 there came a messenger unto her from King John about his suit in 
 love ; but because she would not agree, the messenger poisoned a 
 boiled or potched egge against she was hungerie, whereof she died, 
 and was buried in the quire at Dunmow." 
 
 Stowe's Annalest p. 170, Edit. 1615.
 
 IH PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 ROBERT, DUKE OF NORMANDY, 
 
 ELDEST SON OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR, AND HEIR 
 TO THE ENGLISH THRONE, AT HIS RETURN FROM 
 THE CRUSADES, ON THE DEATH OF HIS BROTHER 
 WILLIAM RUFUS, WHO HAD USURPED HIS KINGDOM, 
 IS VANQUISHED BY HENRY THE FIRST, AND CON- 
 FINED A PRISONER IN CARDIFF CASTLE. 
 
 A s bird ill cage debarr'd the use of wings, 
 Her captiv'd life as nature's chiefest wrong, 
 In doleful ditty sadly sits and sings, 
 And mourns her thralled liberty so long. 
 Till breath be spent in many a sithful song : 
 So here captiv'd I many days did spend 
 In sorrow's plaint, till death my days did end. 
 
 Where as a prisoner though I did remain ; 
 
 Yet did my brother grant this liberty, 
 
 To quell the common speech, which did complain 
 
 On my distress, and on his tyranny, 
 
 That in his parks and forests joining by, 
 
 When I did please I to and fro might go. 
 Which in the end was cause of all my woe. 
 
 For on a time, when as Aurora bright 
 Began to scale heaven's steepy battlement. 
 And to the world disclose her cheerful light. 
 As was my wont, I with my keeper went 
 To put away my sorrow's discontent :
 
 PATHETIC PIECES, 183 
 
 Thereby to ease me of my captive care, 
 And solace my sad thoughts in th' open air. 
 
 Wand'ring through forest wide, at length we gain 
 A steep cloud-kissing rock, whose horned crown 
 With proud imperial look beholds the main, 
 Where Severn's dangerous waves run rolling down, 
 From th' Holmes into the seas, by Cardiff town, 
 
 Wliose quick devouring sands so dangerous been 
 To those, that wander Amphytrite's green : 
 
 As there we stood, the country round we ey'd* 
 To view the workmanship of nature's hand. 
 There stood a mountain, from whose weeping side 
 A brook breaks forth into the low-lying land. 
 Here lies a plain, and there a wood doth stand, 
 
 Here pastures, meads, corn-fields, a vale do crown, 
 A castle here shoots up, and there a town. 
 
 Here one with angle o'er a silver stream 
 With baneful bait the nibbling fish doth feed, 
 There in a plough'd-land with his painful team, 
 The ploughman sweats, in hope for labour's meed : 
 
 ' Here sits a goatherd on a craggy rock. 
 And there in shade a shepherd with his flock. 
 
 The sweet delight of such a rare prospect 
 
 Might yield content unto a careful eye; 
 
 Yet down the rock descending in neglect 
 
 Of such delight, the sun now mounting high, 
 
 I sought the shade in vale, which low did lie, * 
 
 As there tee stood, the country round we ej/'rf.] If we consider 
 the time in wliich this was written, we cannot but admire the Justness 
 and propriety of the rural scenery here selected.
 
 184 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 Where we repos'd us on a green wood side, 
 A'front the whicli a silver stream did glide. 
 
 There dwelt sweet Philomel, who never more 
 May bide the abode of man's society, 
 Lest that some sterner Tereus than before. 
 Who cropt the flower of her virginity, 
 Gainst her should plot some second villany ; 
 
 Whose doleful tunes to mind did cause me call 
 
 The woeful story of her former fall. 
 
 The redbreast, who in bush fast by did stand 
 As partner of her woes, his part did ply, 
 For that the gifts, with which Autumnus' hand 
 Had grac'd the earth, by winter's wrath should die. 
 From whose cold cheeks bleak blasts began to fly. 
 Which made me think upon my summer past 
 And winter's woes, which all my life should last. 
 
 My keeper, with compassion mov'd to see 
 How grief's impulsions in my breast did beat. 
 Thus silence broke, ' Would God (my Lord), quoth he, 
 This pleasant land, which nature's hand hath set 
 Before your eyes, might cause you to forget 
 Your discontent, the object of the eye 
 Ofttimes gives ease to woes which inward lie. 
 
 Behold upon that mountain's top so steep, 
 Which seems to pierce the clouds and kiss the sky. 
 How the grey shepherd * drives his flock of sheep 
 
 * How the grey shepherd, Sec] The epithet grey refers to his dresi, 
 and not his age. Thus Drayton describes the same character : 
 The shepherd ware a sheep-^re^/ cloak, 
 Which was of the finest lock 
 That could be cut with sheer. Dowsabel.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 185 
 
 t)own to the vale, and how on rocks fast by 
 
 The goats frisk to and fro for jollity; 
 
 Give ear likewise unto these birds' sweet songs. 
 And let them cause you to forget your wrongs.' 
 
 To this I made reply: * Fond man,' said 1, 
 * What under heav'n can slack th' increasing woe. 
 Which in my grieved heart doth hidden lie ? 
 Of choice delight what object canst thou show, 
 But from the sight of it fresh grief doth grow ? 
 What thou didst whilome point at to behold, 
 The same the sum of sorrow doth enfold. 
 
 That grey-coat shepherd, whom from far we see, 
 
 I liken unto thee, and those his sheep 
 
 Unto my wretched self compar'd may be : 
 
 And though that careful pastor will not sleep. 
 
 When he from ravenous wolves his flock should keep ; 
 
 Yet here, alas ! in thrall thou keepest me, 
 
 Until that wolf my brother hungry be. 
 
 Those shag-hair'd goats upon the craggy hill. 
 
 Which thou didst show, see how they frisk and play. 
 
 And every where do run about at will ; 
 
 Yea when the lion marks them for his prey, 
 
 They over hills and rocks can fly away : 
 But when that lion fell shall follow me 
 To shed my blood, O whither shall I flee ? 
 
 Those sweet-voic'd birds, whose airs thou dost commend, 
 To which the echoing woods return reply. 
 Though thee they please, yet me they do oflfend .- 
 For when I see, how they do mount on high 
 Waving their out-stretchM wings at liberty;
 
 186 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 Then do I think how bird-like iu a cage 
 My life I lead, and grief can never suage.' 
 
 A Winter Night's Vision, by R. Niccols. 
 See The Mirour for Magistrates, 
 p. 650 653, l6lO, 4to. 
 
 RICHARD THE SECOND, 
 
 DELUDED BY THE ARTIFICE, AND OVERPOWERED BY 
 THE AMBITION OF HENRY BOLINGBROKE, DUKE OF 
 LANCASTER, MAKES HIS PUBLIC ENTRY INTO LON- 
 DON, IN THE TRAIN OF THE LATTER, AND IS MET 
 BY HIS YOUNG gUEEN ISABEL, WHO STUDIOUSLY 
 THROWS HERSELF IN HIS WAY. 
 
 i>l ow Isabel, the young afflicted queen, 
 (Whose years had never showM her but delights, 
 Nor lovely eyes before had ever seen 
 Other than smiling joys, and joyful sights : 
 Born great, match'd great, liv'd great, and ever been 
 Partaker of the world's best benefits), 
 Had plac'd herself, hearing her lord should pass 
 That way, where she unseen in secret was ; 
 
 Sick of delay, and longing to behold 
 
 Her long-niiss'd love in fearful jeopardies : 
 To whom, although it had in sort been told 
 Of their proceeding, and of his surprise ; 
 Yet thinking they would never be so bold, 
 To lead their lord in any shameful wise ;
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 187 
 
 But rather would conduct him as their king, 
 As seeking but the state's reordering. 
 
 And forth she looks, and notes the foremost train ; 
 And grieves to view some there she wish'd not there- 
 Seeing the chief not come, stays, looks again. 
 And yet she sees not him that should appear. 
 Then back she stands; and then desires, as fain 
 Again to look, to see if he were near : 
 At length a glittering troop far off she spies, 
 Perceives the throng, and hears the shouts and cries : 
 
 * Lo yonder ! now at length he comes,* saith she ; 
 
 * Look, my good women, where he is in sight ; 
 Do you not see him ? yonder, that is he ! 
 Mounted on that white courser, all in white ; 
 There where the thronging troop of people be. 
 I know him by his seat : he sits upright. 
 
 Lo, now he bows ! dear lord, with what sweet grace ! 
 How long have I long'd to behold that face ! 
 
 * O what delight my heart takes by mhie eye ! 
 
 I doubt me when he comes but something near, * 
 
 I shall set wide the window .what care I 
 
 Who doth see me, so him I may see clear ?* 
 Thus doth false joy delude her wrongfully, 
 (Sweet lady ! ) in the thing she held so dear : 
 For, nearer come, she finds she had mistook, 
 And him she mark'd was Henry Bolingbroke. 
 
 Then envy takes the place in her sweet eyes, 
 
 Where sorrow had prepar'd herself a seat ; 
 
 And words of wrath, from whence complaints should rise.
 
 188 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 Proceed from eager looks, and brows that threat. 
 
 * Traitor/ saith she, * Is't thou, that in this wise 
 To brave thy Lord and King art made so great ? 
 And hare mine eyes done unto me tin's wrong 
 To look on thee ? for this stay'd I so long ? 
 
 * Ah ! have they grac'd a perjur'd rebel so^ 
 Well, for their error, I will weep them out, 
 And hate the tongue defil'd tliat prais'd my foe, 
 And loath the mind that gave me not to doubt. 
 What ! have I added shame unto my woe ? 
 
 I'll look no more Ladies, look you about; 
 
 And tell me if my lord be in this train. 
 Lest my betraying eyes should err again.' 
 
 And in this passion turns herself away : 
 The rest look all, and careful note each wight ; 
 Whilst she, impatient of the least delay. 
 Demands again : ' And what ! not yet in sight ? 
 Where is my lord ? what ! gone some other way ? 
 
 I muse at this O God, grant all go right.' 
 
 Then to the window goes again at last, 
 And sees the chiefest train of all was past ; 
 
 And sees not him her soul desir'd to see : 
 And yet hope spent makes her not leave to look. 
 At last her love-quick eyes, which ready be, 
 Fastens on one ; whom though she never took 
 Could be her lord, yet that sad cheer which he 
 Then show'd, his habit and his woeful look. 
 The grace he doth in base attire retain, 
 Cai^'d her she could not from his sight refrain.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 189 
 
 * What might he be/ she said, * that thus alone* 
 Rides pensive in this universal joy ? 
 Some, I perceive, as well as we, do moan : 
 All are not pleas'd with every thing this day. 
 It may be, he laments the wrong is done 
 Unto my lord, and grieves ; as well he may. 
 Then he is some of ours ; and we of right 
 Must pity him, that pities our sad plight. 
 
 * This public entry of Henry and Bolingbroke is thus introduced 
 and described by Shaltspeare : 
 
 Scene III. Tht Duke of Vork''s Palace. 
 Enter York and his Duchess. 
 
 Duch. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, 
 "When weeping made you break the story off, 
 Of our two cousins coming into London. 
 
 York. Where did I leave ? 
 
 Duch, At that sad stop, my lord, 
 Where rude misgovern'd hands, from window-tops, 
 Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head. 
 
 York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, 
 Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, 
 Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know, 
 With slow but stately pace kept on his course : 
 While all tongues cry'd, ' God save thee, Bolingbroke !' 
 You would have thought the very windows spake ; 
 So many greedy looks of young and old 
 Through casements darted their desiring eyes 
 Upon his visage ; and that all the walls 
 With painted Imag'ry had said at once, 
 ' Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!' 
 Whilst he, from one side to the other turning, 
 Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed's neck. 
 Bespoke them thus : ' I thank you, countrymen ;' 
 And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along. 
 
 Duch. Alas ! poor Richard, where rides he the while ? 
 York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men, 
 After a weli-grac'd actor leaves the stage, 
 Are idly bent on him that enters next,
 
 190 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 * But stay : isH not my lord himself I see ? 
 In trutli, if 'twere not for his base array^ 
 I verily should think that it were he : 
 And yet his baseness doth a grace bewray. 
 
 Yet God forbid let me deceived be; 
 
 And be it not my lord, although it may : 
 Let my desire make vows against desire, 
 And let my sight approve my sight a liar. 
 
 * Let me not see him but himself, a king. 
 
 For so he left me so he did remove ; 
 
 This is not he, this feels some other thing, 
 A passion of dislike, or else of love, 
 
 O yes, 'tis he! that princely face doth bring 
 
 The evidence of majesty to prove ; 
 
 That face I have conferr'd, which now I see. 
 
 With that within my heart, and they agree.' 
 
 Thus, as she stood assur'd, and yet in doubt, 
 Wishmg to see, what seen she griev'd to see ; 
 
 Thinking his prattle to be tedious : 
 
 Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes 
 
 Did scowl on Richard; no man cry'd, ' God save him !* 
 
 No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home; 
 
 But dust was thrown upon his sacred head ; 
 
 Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, * 
 
 His face still combating with tears and smiles, 
 
 The badges of his grief and patience ; 
 
 That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd 
 
 The hearis of men, they must perforce have melted. 
 
 And barbarism itself have pitied him. 
 
 But Heaven hath a hand in these events. 
 
 To whose high will we bound our calm contents. 
 
 To Bolingbroke arc we sworn subjects now. 
 
 Whose state and honour I for aye allow. 
 
 King Richard II.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 191 
 
 Having belief, yet fain would be without ; 
 Knowing, yet striving not to know 'twas he : 
 Her heart relenting ; yet her heart so stout, 
 As would not yield to think what was, could be ; 
 Till quite condemned by open proof of sight, 
 She must confess, or else deny the light. 
 
 For whether love in him did sympathize. 
 Or chance so wrought to manifest her doubt ; 
 Ev'n just before where she thus secret pries. 
 He stays, and with clear face looks all about. 
 When she * 'Tis, O ! too true I know his eyes : 
 Alas ! it is my own dear lord !" cries out : 
 And with that cry sinks down upon the floor; 
 Abundant grief lack'd words to utter more. 
 
 Sorrow keeps full possession in her heart, 
 
 Locks it within, stops up the way of breath ; 
 
 Shuts senses out of door from every part. 
 
 And so long holds there, as it hazardeth 
 
 Oppressed nature, and is forc'd to part, 
 
 Or else must be constrain'd to stay with death: 
 
 So by a sigh it lets in sense again, 
 
 And sense at length gives words leave to explain. 
 
 Then, like a torrent had been stop'd before, 
 
 Tears, sighs, and words, doubled together flow ; 
 
 Confus'dly striving whether should do more. 
 
 The true intelligence of grief to show. 
 
 Sighs hinder'd words ; words perish'd in their store ; 
 
 Both, intermix'd in one, together grow : 
 
 One would do all, the other more than's part. 
 
 Being both sent equal agents from the heart.
 
 192 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 At length, when past the first of sorrow's worst. 
 When calm'd confusion better form affords ; 
 Her heart commands, her words should pass out first, 
 And then her sighs should interpoint her ^vords : 
 The whiles her eyes out into tears should burst, 
 This order with her sorrow she accords ; 
 Which orderless, all form of order brake, 
 So then began her words, and thus she spake : 
 
 * What ! dost thou thus return again to me ? 
 Are these the triumphs for thy victories * ? 
 Is this the glory thou dost bring with thee. 
 From that unhappy Irish enterprise ? 
 And have I made so many vows to see 
 Thy safe return, and see thee in this wise ? 
 Is this the look'd-for comfort thou dost bring. 
 To come a captive, that went'st out a king ? 
 
 ' And yet, dear lord, though thy ungrateful land 
 Hath left thee thus ; yet I will take thy part ; 
 I lo remain the same, under thy hand; 
 Thou still dost rule the kingdom of my heart : 
 If all be lost, that government doth stand, 
 And that shall never from thy rule depart ; 
 And so thou be, I care not how thou be ; 
 Let greatness go, so it go without thee. 
 
 ' And weleome come, how-so unfortunate ; 
 I will applaud what others do despise. 
 
 * Are these the triumphs for thy victories ?] In the same spiri 
 with Virgil's 
 
 Hi nostri reditus, expectatique triumphi .* JEn. XI. 54.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 19$ 
 
 I love thee for thyself, not for thy state ; 
 More than thyself is what without thee lies : 
 Let that more go, if it be in thy fate. 
 And having but thyself, it will suffice. 
 I married was not to thy crown, but thee, 
 And thou, without a crown, all one to me. 
 
 * But what do I here lurking, idly moan, 
 And wail apart ; and in a single part 
 
 Make several grief? which should be both in one; 
 The touch being equal of each other's heart. 
 Ah ! no, sweet lord, thou must not moan aIon, 
 For without me thou art not all thou art ; 
 Nor my tears without thine are fully tears, 
 For thus unjoin'd, sorrow but half appears. 
 
 * Join then our plaints, and make our grief full grief. 
 Our state being one, let us not part our care ; 
 Sorrow hath only this poor bare relief. 
 
 To be bemoan'd of such as woeful are. 
 And should I rob thy grief, and be the thief 
 To steal a private part, and sev'ral share. 
 Defrauding sorrow of her perfect due ? 
 No, no, my lord ; I come to help thee rue.' 
 
 Then forth she goes a close concealed way, 
 (An grieving to be seen not as she was) ; 
 Labours f attain his presence all she may, 
 Which, with most hard ado, was brought to pass : 
 For that night understanding where he lay. 
 With earnest 'treating she procur'd her pass 
 To come to him. Rigour could not deny 
 These tears (so poor a suit), or put her by. 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 I^ PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 Ent'ring the chamber, where he was alone 
 (As one whose former fortune was his shame) 
 Loathing th' upbraiding eye of any one 
 That knew him once, and knows him not the same : 
 When having given express command that none 
 Should press to him ; yet hearing some that came. 
 Turns angrily about his grieved eyes. 
 When lo ! his sweet afllicted Queen he spies. 
 
 Straight clears his brow, and with a borrow'd smile, 
 * What ! my dear Queen ! welcome my dear/ he says ; 
 And (striving his own passion to beguile. 
 And hide the sorrow which his eye betrays) 
 Could speak no more ; but v^rings her hands the while, 
 And then ' Sweet lady !' and again he stays. 
 Th' excess of joy and sorrow both affords 
 Affliction none, or but poor niggard words. 
 
 She that was come with a resolved heart. 
 And with a mouth full stor'd, with words well chose ; 
 Thinking, this comfort will I first impart 
 Unto my lord, and thus my speech dispose ; 
 Then thus I'll say ; thus look ; and with this art 
 Hide mine own sorrow, to relieve his woes ; 
 When being come, all this prov'd nought but wind ; 
 Tears, looks, and sighs do only tell her mind. 
 
 Thus both stood silent, and confused so, 
 Their eyes relating how their hearts did mourn ; 
 Both big with sorrow, and both great with woe. 
 In labour with what was not to be borne : 
 This mighty burthen wherewithal they go 
 Dies undeliver'd, perishes unborn ;
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 195 
 
 Sorrow makes Silence her best orator. 
 
 Where words may make it less, not show it more. 
 
 Civil War, by S. Daniel, B. II. st. 6692. 
 P. Works, 17I8, 12mo. 
 
 THE QUESTION. 
 
 BEING ASKED THE OCCASION OF HIS WHITE HEAD, HB 
 ANSWERETH THUS: 
 
 VV HERE seething sighs and sorrow sobs 
 Hath slain the slips that nature set: 
 And scalding showers with stony throbs. 
 The kindly sap from them hath fet : 
 What wonder then though that you see 
 Upon my head white hairs to be. 
 
 Where thouglrt hath thrill'd and thrown his spears, 
 To hurt the heart that harmeth him not : 
 And groaning grief hath ground forth tears. 
 Mine eye to stain, my face to spot : 
 What wonder then though that you see, 
 Upon my head white hairs to be. 
 
 Where pinching pain himself has plac'd, 
 There peace with pleasures were possess'd : 
 And where the walls of wealth lie waste, 
 And poverty in them is press'd :
 
 T^ PATHETIC PIECESF, 
 
 What wonder then though that you see 
 Upon my head white hairs to be. 
 
 Where wretched woe will weave her web, 
 Where care the clue can catch aud dust : 
 And floods of joy are fallen to ebb, 
 So low, that life may not long last : 
 What wonder then though that you see 
 Upon my head white hairs to be. 
 
 These hairs of age are messengers *, 
 Which bid me fast, repent, and pray ; 
 They be of death the harbingers, 
 That doth prepare and dress the way. 
 Wherefore I joy that you may see 
 Upon my head such hairs to be. 
 
 They be the lines that lead the length, 
 How far my race is for to nm : 
 They say my youth is fled with strength, 
 And how old age is weak begun. 
 The which I feel, and you may see 
 Upon my head such lines to be. 
 
 
 They be the strings of sober sound. 
 Whose music is harmonical : 
 Their tunes declare a time from ground 
 I came, and how thereto I shall : 
 
 * These hairs of age are messengers, &C.3 See Dr. Percy's Re- 
 liques, who has printod the following fine traditional lines, being part 
 of an old song which be professes to have received from a, friend : 
 
 his reverend locks 
 
 In comely curls did wave ; 
 And on his aged temples grew 
 
 The blossoms of the grave. Vol. II. p. 160.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 1^7 
 
 Wherefore I joy that you may see 
 Upon my head such strings to be. 
 
 God grant to those that white hairs have, 
 No worse them take than I have meant : 
 That after they be laid in grave, 
 Their souls may joy their Hves well spent. 
 Ood grant likewise that you may see 
 Upon your head such hairs to be. 
 
 From the Paradise of Dainty Devises, 
 fol. 1, 4, signed W. Himis. 
 
 RICHARD THE THIRD, 
 
 BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BOSWORTH. 
 
 1 HE king (whose eyes were never fully clos'd. 
 Whose mind, oppress'd with fearful dreams, suppos'd 
 That he in blood had wallow'd all the night) 
 Leaps from his restless bed before the light : 
 Accursed Tyrell is the first he spies, 
 Whom threat'ning with his dagger, thus he cries : 
 * Hew dar'st thou, villain, so disturb my sleep, 
 Were not the smother'd children buried deep*? 
 And hath the ground again been ript by thee, 
 That I their rotten carcases might see ?' 
 
 * Were not the smother d children buried deep ?] There is much 
 aature in this spirited interrogation.
 
 198 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 The wretch astonish'd hastes away to slide, 
 
 (As damned ghosts themselves in darkness hide) 
 
 And call up three, whose counsels could assuage 
 
 The sudden swellings of the prince's rage : 
 
 Ambitious Lovell, who, to cain his grace. 
 
 Had stain 'd the honour of his noble race ; 
 
 Perfidious Catesby, by whose curious skill 
 
 The law was taught to speak his master's will : 
 
 And RatclifF, deeply learn'd in courtly art, 
 
 Who best could search into his sovereign's heart : 
 
 Affrighted Richard labours to relate 
 
 His hideous dreams, as signs of hapless fate : 
 
 ' Alas (said they), such fictions children fear, 
 
 These are not terrors showing danger near. 
 
 But motives sent by some propitious power. 
 
 To make you watchful at this early hour; 
 
 These prove that your victorious care prevents 
 
 Your slothful foes, that slumber in their tents ; 
 
 This precious time must not in vain be spent. 
 
 Which God (your help) by heavenly means hath lent.' 
 
 He (by these false conjectures) much appeas'd. 
 
 Contemning fancies which his mind diseas'd. 
 
 Replies ; * I should have been asham'd to tell 
 
 Fond dreams to wise men : whether heav'n or hell. 
 
 Or troubled nature, these effects hath wrought, 
 
 I know, this day requires another thought: 
 
 If some resistless strength my cause should cross, 
 
 Fear will increase, and not redeem the loss ; 
 
 All dangers clouded with the mist of fear 
 
 Seem great far off, but lessen coming near. 
 
 Away, ye black illusions of the night, 
 
 If ye, combin'd with Fortune, have the might 
 
 To hinder my design : ye shall not bar 
 
 My courage seeking glorious death in war.'
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 199 
 
 Thus being cheer'd, he calls aloud for arms, 
 And bids that all should rise, whom Morpheus charms. 
 
 * Bring me (saith he) the harness that I wore 
 At Tewxbury, which from that day no more 
 Hath felt the batt'ries of a civil strife, 
 Nor stood between destruction and my life/ 
 Upon his breast-plate he beholds a dent, 
 
 Which in that field young Edward's sword did print: 
 This stirs remembrance of his heinous guilt. 
 When he that prince's blood so foully spilt. 
 Now fully arm'd, he takes his helmet bright. 
 Which, like a twinkling star, with trembling light 
 Sends radiant lustre through the darksome air*; 
 This mask will iake his wrinkled visage fair. 
 But when his head is cover'd with the steel. 
 He tells his servants, that his temples feel 
 Deep-piercing stings, which breed unusual pains. 
 And of the heavy burden much complains. 
 Some mark his words, as tokens fram'd t' express 
 The sharp conclusion of a sad success. 
 Then going forth, and finding in his way 
 A soldier of the watch, who sleeping lay ; 
 Enrag'd to see the wretch neglect his part, 
 He strikes a sword into his trembling heart. 
 The hand of death and iron dulness takes 
 Those leaden eyes, which natural ease forsakes: 
 The king this morning sacrifice commends, 
 And for example, thus the fact defends: 
 
 * I leave him as 1 found him, fit to keep 
 The silent doors of everlasting sleep.' 
 
 he takes his hf.Hhet^hright, 
 
 Which, like a tteinkling star, with trcmhling light 
 Sends radiant lustre through the darksome air."] This descrip- 
 tion of a piece of armour is as fine as any thing 1 am able to recol-
 
 5Q(f PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 Still Richmond slept : for worldly care and fear 
 Have times of pausing wbeu the soul is clear ; 
 While heaven's director, whose revengeful brow 
 Would to the guilty head no rest allow, 
 Looks on the other part with milder eyes : 
 At his command au angel swiftly flies 
 From sacred Trutli's perspicuous gate, to bring 
 A crystal vision on his golden wing. 
 This lord, thus sleeping, thought he saw and knew 
 His lamb-like uncle, whom tliat tiger slew. 
 Whose powerful words encourage him to fight : 
 * Go on, just scourge of murder. Virtue's light. 
 The combat which thou shalt this day endure. 
 Makes England's peace for many ages sure ; 
 Thy strong invasion cannot be withstood. 
 The earth assists thee with the cry of blood; 
 The heaven shall bless thy hopes, and erown thy joys. 
 See how the fiends, with loud and dismal noise 
 (Presaging vultures, greedy of their prey), * 
 
 On Richard's tent their scaly wings display.' 
 
 The holy King then offer'd to his view 
 A lively tree, on which three branches grew : 
 But when the hope of fruit had made him glad, 
 All fell to dust : at which the Earl was sad ; 
 Yet comfort comes again, when from the root 
 He sees a bough into the north to shoot. 
 Which, nourish'd there, extends itself from thence, 
 And girds this island with a firm defence : 
 
 lect of the kind. Let the reader compare it with the following lines 
 of Glover: 
 
 his glittering shield 
 
 Whose spacious orb collects th' effulgent beam 
 Which from his throne meridian Phoebus cast. 
 Flames like another sun. Leonidaa.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES, ftOl 
 
 There he beholds a high and glorious throne, 
 Where sits a king by laurel garlands known ; 
 Like bright Apollo in the Muses' quires, 
 His radiant eyes are watchful heav'niy fires j 
 Beneath his feet pale Envy bites her chain, 
 And snaky Discord whets her sting in vain. 
 * Thou seest' (said Henry) ' wise and potent James, 
 This, this is he, whose happy union tames 
 The savage feuds, and shall those lets deface, 
 Which keep the bord'rers from a dear embrace ; 
 Both nations shall, in Britain's royal crown, 
 Their diff'ring names, the signs of faction, drown; 
 The silver streams which from this spring increase 
 Bedew all Christian hearts with drops of peace. 
 Observe how hopeful Charles is bom t' assuage 
 The winds that would disturb this golden age. 
 When that great king shall full of glory leave 
 The earth as base, then may this prince receive 
 The diadem, without his father's wrong. 
 May take it late, and may possess it long : 
 Above all Europe's princes shine thou bright, 
 O God's selected care, and man's delight.' 
 
 Here gentle sleep forsook his clouded brows, 
 And full of holy thoughts, and pious vows. 
 He kiss'd the ground as soon as he arose ; 
 When watchful Digby, who among his foes 
 Had wander'd unsuspected all the night. 
 Reports that Richard is prepar'd to fight. 
 
 Bostaorth Field, by Sir J. Beaumont, 
 p. 16, Edit. 1629.
 
 202 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 RICHARD THE SECOND, 
 
 THE MORNING BEFORE HIS MURDER IN POMFRET 
 CASTLE. 
 
 Whether the soul receives intelligence, 
 By her near gtnius, of the bodj's end. 
 And so imparts a sadness to the sense, 
 Foregoing ruin, whereto it doth tend ; 
 Or whether nature else hath conference 
 With profound sleep, and so doth warning send 
 By prophetizing dreams, what hurt is near, 
 And gives the heavy careful heart to fear ; 
 
 However, so it is ; the now sad king 
 (Toss'd here and there, iiis quiet to confound) 
 Feels a strange weight of sorrows gathering 
 Upon his trembhng heart, and sees no ground; 
 Feels sudden terror bring cold shivering: 
 Lists not to eat; still muses; sleeps unsound : 
 His senses droop, his steady eyes unquick ; 
 And much he ails, aud yet he is not sick. 
 
 The morning of that day which was his last, 
 After a weary rest rising to pain. 
 Out at a little grate his eyes he cast 
 Upon those bord'ring hills, and open plain, 
 And \iews the town, and sees how people pass'd; 
 Where others' liberty makes him complain 
 The more his own, and grieves his soul the more ; 
 Conferring captive crowns, with freedom poor.
 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 205 
 
 * O happy man, (saith he,) that lo I see 
 Grazing his cattle in those pleasant fields ! 
 If he but knew his good, (how blessed he 
 That feels not what affliction greatness yields !) 
 Other than what he is he would not be, 
 
 Nor change his state with him that sceptres wields. 
 Thine, thine is that true life that is to live, 
 To rest secure, and not rise up to grieve. 
 
 * Thou sit'st at home safe by thy quiet fire, 
 And hear'st of others harms, but feelest none; 
 And there thou tell'st of kings, and who aspire, 
 Who fall, who rise, who triumph, who do moan. 
 Perhaps thou talk'st of me, and dost inquire 
 Of my restraint, why here I live alone ; 
 
 And pitiest this ray miserable fall : 
 For pity must have part: envy not all. 
 
 Thrice happy you, that look as from the shore *, 
 And have no venture in the wreck you see ; 
 No int'rest, no occasion to deplore 
 Other men's travels, while yourselves sit free. 
 
 * Thrice happy you, that look as from the shore. Sec."] 
 Suave mari magno turbaRtibus sequora ventis, 
 terra magnum alterius spectare laborem ; 
 Non quia vexari quemquam est jucunda voluptas, 
 Sed quibus ipse malis careas, quia cernere suave est. 
 
 Lucret. Lib. II. 
 
 On the subject of kindred sensations to this, I have been always 
 pleased with the following passage in Dr. Johnson's Journey to the 
 Western Islands. " We came in the afternoon to Slanes Castle, built 
 upon the margin of the sea, so that the walls of one of the towers 
 seem only a continuation of a perpendicular rock, the foot of which 
 is beaten by the waves. To walk round tlie house seemed impracti- 
 cable : from the windows the eye wanders over the sea that separates 
 Scotland from Norway, and when the winds beat with violence, must
 
 504 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 How much doth your sweet rest make us the more 
 
 To see our misery, and what we be ! ^ 
 
 Whose bhnded greatness ever in turmoil, | 
 
 Still seeking happy life, makes life a toil. a 
 
 Great Dioclesian (and more great therefore. 
 
 For yielding up that whereto pride aspires) 
 
 Reck'ning thy gardens in Illyria more * 
 
 Than all the empire, all what th' earth admires ; 
 
 Thou well didst teach, that he is never poor 
 
 That little hath, but he that much desires; 
 
 Finding more true delight in that small ground. 
 
 Than in possessing all the earth was found. 
 
 Are kings (that freedom give) themselves not free, 
 
 As meaner men, to take what they may give ? 
 
 What ! are they of so fatal a degree. 
 
 That they cannot descend from that, and live ? 
 
 Unless they still be kings, can they not be ? 
 
 Nor may they their authority survive ? 
 
 Will not my yielded crown redeem my breath ? 
 
 Still am I fear'd ? Is there no way but death ?' 
 
 Civil War, by S.Daniel, 
 B. III. St. 6269. 
 
 enjoy all the terrific grandeur of the tempestuous ocean. I would not 
 for my amusement wish for a storm ; but as storms, whether wished 
 or not, will sometimes happen, I may say, without violation of hu- 
 manity, that I should willingly look out upon them from Slanes 
 Castle." P. 36. 
 
 END OF VOL. 1. 
 
 C. WHITTINGHAM, Printer, 
 Coewell Street, Londra.
 
 
 |^- 
 
 
 *^ 
 
 *'-
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBRARY 
 
 Loa Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 
 50m-7,'69(N29684) 0-120
 
 L 005 461 264 3 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILjTJ 
 
 AA 000 056 268 6