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Have all these done-and yet I miss
The swan so relish'd Pancharis-5
And shall not I my Celia bring,
Where men may see whom I do sing?
Though I, in working of my song,
Come short of all this learned throng,
Yet sure my tunes will be the best,
So much my subject drowns the rest.

XLVI.

A SONNET,

TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY MARY WROTH.

THAT have been a lover, and could shew it, Though not in these, in rhymes not wholly dumb,

6

Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become

A better lover, and much better poet.

merits since, besides Jonson, he is mentioned with praise by others of his contemporaries, and placed immediately after Spenser by Judicio, in the Return from Parnassus:

"Sweet Constable doth take the wondering ear,

And lays it up in willing prisonment."

5 And yet I miss

The swan so relish'd Pancharis.] This was the French poet Bonefons or Bonefonius; who, in imitation of Secundus, wrote Basia, in the praise of his mistress Pancharis. He has a character for tenderness and delicacy. WHAL.

Since I exscribe your sonnets, &c.] The allusion is probably to lady Wroth's Urania, a pastoral romance published in 1621. This, in imitation of her uncle's (sir Philip Sidney's) Arcadia, is interspersed with songs, sonnets, and other little pieces of poetry, which our author, who seems to have been favoured with the MS., was permitted to copy. The Urania has long been forgotten, and no revolution in taste or manners can ever revive its memory; yet it was once in considerable vogue; it did not, perhaps, like Tetrachordon, number good intellects, yet it certainly counted many bright

Nor is my Muse or I asham'd to owe it

To those true numerous graces, whereof some
But charm the senses, others overcome

Both brains and hearts; and mine now best do know it:
For in your verse all Cupid's armory,

His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow,
His very eyes are yours to overthrow.

But then his mother's sweets you so apply,

eyes, among its admirers. The poetical part of Urania is rather above than below the usual standard of ladies' rhymes, and though the chariest maid of these times may read it without the smallest peril, (except of her patience) it was looked upon as inflammatory by the combustible damsels of James's days:

"The lady Wroth's Urania is complete

With elegancies; but too full of heat,"

sir Aston Cokayne says; and he was not singular in his opinion. The following sonnet may serve as a specimen of the poetry which our author exscribed: it is neither the best nor the worst of the collection :

SONNET.

"Late in the forest I did Cupid see,

Cold, wet, and crying, he had lost his way;
And being blind was farther like to stray :
Which sight a kind compassion bred in me.
I gently took and dried him, while that he,

Poor child, complain'd he starved was with stay,
And pined for want of his accustom'd prey;
For none in that wild place his host would be.
I glad was of his finding, thinking sure
This service should my freedom still procure;

And to my breast I took him then unharm'd,
Carr'ing him safe unto a myrtle bower:
But in the way he made me feel his power,

Burning my heart, who had him kindly warm'd."

Sir Robert Wroth, the husband of this celebrated lady, was also a poet fortunately his genius was turned to wit, as hers to love; so that the respective pursuits of this tuneful pair did not clash, and the domestic harmony continued unbroken to the end:

Felices ter et amplius

Quos irrupta tenet copula, nec malis

Divulsus querimoniis

Suprema citius solvet amor die!

Her joys, her smiles, her loves, as readers take For Venus' ceston every line you make.

XLVII.

A FIT OF RHYME AGAINST RHYME.

HYME, the rack of finest wits,
That expresseth but by fits
True conceit,

Spoiling senses of their treasure,
Cozening judgment with a measure,
But false weight;

Wresting words from their true calling;
Propping verse for fear of falling
To the ground;

Jointing syllabes, drowning letters,
Fastening vowels, as with fetters
They were bound!

Soon as lazy thou wert known,
All good poetry hence was flown,
And art banish'd:

For a thousand years together,

All Parnassus' green did wither,

And wit vanish'd!

Pegasus did fly away,

At the wells no Muse did stay,

But bewailed,

So to see the fountain dry,

And Apollo's music die,

All light failed!

Starveling rhymes did fill the stage,

Not a poet in an age

Worthy crowning.

Not a work deserving bays,

Nor a line deserving praise,

Pallas frowning:

Greek was free from rhyme's infection,
Happy Greek, by this protection,
Was not spoiled.

Whilst the Latin, queen of tongues,
Is not yet free from rhyme's wrongs,
But rests foiled.

Scarce the hill again doth flourish,
Scarce the world a wit doth nourish,
To restore

Phoebus to his crown again;

And the Muses to their brain;
As before.

Vulgar languages that want

Words, and sweetness, and be scant

Of true measure,

Tyrant rhyme hath so abused,

That they long since have refused,

Other cesure.

He that first invented thee,

May his joints tormented be,

Cramp'd for ever;

Still may syllabes' jar with time,
Still may reason war with rhyme,
Resting never!

May his sense when it would meet
The cold tumour in his feet,

Grow unsounder;

And his title be long fool,

That in rearing such a school

Was the founder !

'Still may syllabes.] Whalley reads syllables here and in the preceding page, but injuriously in both places. Jonson uses syllabe almost invariably; for which he is commended by Horne Tooke.

XLVIII.

AN EPIGRAM

ON WILLIAM LORD BURLEIGH, LORD HIGH

TREASURER OF ENGLAND.

8

F thou wouldst know the virtues of mankind,
Read here in one, what thou in all canst

find,

And go no further: let this circle be

Thy universe, though his epitome.

Cecil, the grave, the wise, the great, the good,
What is there more that can ennoble blood?
The orphan's pillar, the true subject's shield,
The poor's full store-house, and just servant's field.
The only faithful watchman for the realm,
That in all tempests never quit the helm,
But stood unshaken in his deeds and name,

And labour'd in the work; not with the fame :

That still was good for goodness' sake, nor thought Upon reward, till the reward him sought.

Whose offices and honours did surprise,

Rather than meet him and before his eyes

Clos'd to their peace, he saw his branches shoot,
And in the noblest families took root,

Of all the land: Who now at such a rate,

Of divine blessing, would not serve a state?

8 An Epigram, &c.] "Presented (the fol. says) upon a plate of gold to his son Robert earl of Salisbury, when he was also Treasurer." Lord Burleigh died in August, 1598. There are no means of ascertaining the date of this epigram: if it was written on the same occasion as that noble one, p. 177, it was produced in 1608. But whatever might be the period of its appearance, it was equally worthy of the poet, and the patron, who must have been highly gratified with the judicious and characteristic applause bestowed on the great statesman to whose honours he succeeded.

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