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CII.

TO WILLIAM EARL OF PEMBROKE.

DO but name thee, Pembroke, and I find
It is an epigram on all mankind;

Against the bad, but of, and to the good :
Both which are ask'd, to have thee understood.
Nor could the age have miss'd thee, in this strife
Of vice and virtue, wherein all great life
Almost is exercised; and scarce one knows,
To which, yet, of the sides himself he owes.
They follow virtue for reward to-day ;
To-morrow vice, if she give better pay:
And are so good, and bad, just at a price,
As nothing else discerns the virtue' or vice.
But thou, whose noblêsse keeps one stature still,2
And one true posture, though besieged with ill
Of what ambition, faction, pride can raise ;
Whose life, even they that envy it, must praise;
That art so reverenced, as thy coming in,
But in the view, doth interrupt their sin;
Thou must draw more: and they that hope to see
The commonwealth still safe, must study thee.

CIII.

TO MARY LADY WROTH.3

OW well, fair crown of your fair sex, might he That but the twilight of your sprite did see, And noted for what flesh such souls were fram'd, Know you to be a Sidney, though unnam'd?

2 But thou whose noblêsse, &c.,] i. e. nobleness, nobility. A word which we have very improvidently suffered to become obsolete. 3 To Mary lady Wroth.] She was a woman of genius, and wrote

And being nam'd, how little doth that name
Need any muse's praise to give it fame?
Which is itself the imprese of the great,
And glory of them all, but to repeat !
Forgive me then, if mine but say you are
A Sidney; but in that extend as far
As loudest praisers, who perhaps would find
For every part a character assign'd:

My praise is plain, and wheresoe'er profest,
Becomes none more than you, who need it least.

CIV.

TO SUSAN COUNTESS OF MONTGOMERY.

4

ERE they that nam'd you, prophets? did they

see,

Even in the dew of grace, what you would be? Or did our times require it, to behold

A new Susanna, equal to that old?

Or, because some scarce think that story true,
To make those faithful did the Fates send you,

a romance called Urania, printed in folio, 1621; she was wife to sir Robert Wroth, of Durance, in the county of Middlesex, and daughter to Robert earl of Leicester, a younger brother of sir Philip Sidney. WHAL.

4 To Susan countess of Montgomery.] Wife to Philip earl of Montgomery, and grand-daughter to William lord Burleigh. WHAL.

This accomplished and excellent woman, who appeared in most of Jonson's Masques at court, has been more than once noticed. She was a lady of strict piety and virtue, and wrote a little treatise called Eusebia, expressing briefly the Soul's praying robes, 1620.

It is much to the credit, or the good fortune of " that memorable simpleton," as Walpole calls him, Philip Herbert, to have married in succession two wives of such distinguished worth. His second, as the reader knows, was the high-born and high-spirited daughter of George earl of Cumberland, widow of Richard Sackville earl of Dorset.

And to your scene lent no less dignity
Of birth, of match, of form, of chastity?
Or, more than born for the comparison
Of former age, or glory of our own,
Were you advanced, past those times, to be
The light and mark unto posterity?

Judge they that can: here I have raised to show,
A picture, which the world for yours must know,
And like it too; if they look equally :
If not, 'tis fit for you, some should envy.

CV.

TO MARY LADY WROTH.

ADAM, had all antiquity been lost,

All history seal'd up, and fables crost,

That we had left us, nor by time, nor place, Least mention of a Nymph, a Muse, a Grace, But even their names were to be made anew, Who could not but create them all from you? He, that but saw you wear the wheaten hat, Would call you more than Ceres, if not that; And drest in shepherd's tire, who would not say You were the bright Enone, Flora, or May? If dancing, all would cry, the Idalian queen Were leading forth the Graces on the green; And armed to the chase, so bare her bow Diana' alone, so hit, and hunted so.

There's none so dull, that for your style would

ask,

That saw you put on Pallas' plumed cask;
Or, keeping your due state, that would not cry,
There Juno sat, and yet no peacock by :
So are you nature's index, and restore,

In yourself, all treasure lost of the age before.

CVI.

TO SIR EDWARD HERBERT.5

F men get name for some one virtue; then, What man art thou, that art so many men, All-virtuous Herbert! on whose every part Truth might spend all her voice, fame all her art? Whether thy learning they would take, or wit, Or valour, or thy judgment seasoning it, Thy standing upright to thyself, thy ends Like straight, thy piety to God, and friends: Their latter praise would still the greatest be, And yet they, all together, less than thee.

CVII.

TO CAPTAIN HUNGRY.

O what you come for, captain, with your news;
That's sit and eat: do not my ears abuse.

I oft look on false coin to know't from true; Not that I love it more than I will you.

5 Sir Edward Herbert.] Lord Herbert of Cherbury. He was a person of great learning and of many excellent qualities as a statesman, a gentleman, and a scholar. This was all that was known of him at the period when this epigram appeared; but he subsequently fell into strange contradictions: with great professions of piety he openly disavowed all belief in a divine revelation, and yet persuaded himself that his own prayers were audibly answered from heaven! He was advanced to the dignity of baron of the kingdom of Ireland, in 1625, and in 1631 was created lord Herbert of Cherbury in Shropshire, a favour which he repaid by joining the enemies of his sovereign, on the breaking out of the civil war. His death took place in 1648. "He died (Aubrey says) very serenely; asked what it was o'clock, and then, sayed he, an hour hence I shall depart!' He then turned his head to the other side, and expired."

Tell the gross Dutch those grosser tales of yours, How great you were with their two emperours; And yet are with their princes: fill them full

Of

your Moravian horse, Venetian bull.

Tell them, what parts you've ta'en, whence run

away,

What states you've gull'd, and which yet keeps you'

in pay..

Give them your services, and embassies

In Ireland, Holland, Sweden; pompous lies!
In Hungary and Poland, Turky too;

What at Ligorne, Rome, Florence you did do:
And, in some year, all these together heap'd,

For which there must more sea and land be leap'd,
If but to be believed you have the hap,
Than can a flea at twice skip in the map.

Give your young statesmen (that first make you drunk,

And then lye with you, closer than a punk,
For news) your Villeroys, and Silleries,
Ianins, your Nuncios, and your Tuilleries,
Your Archdukes agents, and your Beringhams,
That are your words of credit. Keep your names
Of Hannow, Shieter-huissen, Popenheim,
Hans-spiegle, Rotteinberg, and Boutersheim,
For your next meal; this you are sure of. Why
Will you part with them here unthriftily?
Nay, now you puff, tusk, and draw up your chin,
Twirl the poor chain you run a-feasting in.—
Come, be not angry, you are Hungry; eat:

Do what you come for, captain; there's your meat.

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