RESTITUTA.

A Poet's Vision and a Prince's Glorie. Dedicated to the high and mightie Prince James, King of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland. Written by Thomas Greene, Gentleman.

Imprinted at London for William Leake. 1603.

Quarto. pp. 22.

His

NEITHER dedication nor preface appears before this little production by T. GREENE, who seems as much unknown to our recorders of the poets of his period, as his contemporary, R. Greene, is well known. name indeed occurs in the second volume of Mr. Beloe's Anecdotes of Literature, and in the index to that work; but this has proved to be a misprint for the name of Thomas Greepe, who was the real celebrator of the exploits of Sir Francis Drake, in 1587.

This poem, complimentary to King James, is introduced under the trite fiction of a poetic nap, during which the author hears a lady singing, and the burden of her song was" I pray thee, write." This awakens hin; but he soon after seems to have a waking dream,

VOL. IV.

and espies a lady sitting with a laurel crown and an ivory lute, who proves to be one of the Muses. To him she condescendingly both plays and sings, and then they enter into a long colloquy, of which the following is the most interesting passage.

In Boeotia, my Sisters eight and I,

Which once (said she) were elevated high,
And well esteem'd in former ages past,
Untill these dead corrupted times came last;
And ev'ry yeare to us had tribute paide
By choycest wits, for lending them our aide,
Have long instead of tribute beene disgrac't,
And all our names from memory displac't;
For want whereof we all were growne so poore,
That we could scarce keepe miserie from our doore.
The chiefest pay we had to set us forth

In all our wants, came from the princely North:
And some from hence from worthie Delia's store,
From sweete Idea, and from some fewe more:
All which so short of that we had before,
To those rich times so slender and so poore,
That with it we ourselves could scarce sustaine;
Our number was so great, so small our gaine.
Others here are, which with their railing Muse
Offend grave ears, and do our names abuse
In bringing forth such monsters to the light,
Whose ougly shapes doe terrifie our sight.

But why should such my peacefull gall excite?
Well they may barke, but the, shall never bite.
The whips are made shal yerk them from their places,
Whose roomes shall be adorn'd with better graces.

But now, O ever blest, eternall sweete!

The lawrell and a triple crowne doth meete:

Now commeth in our long-detained Spring,
Reduced back by a victorious King,

Whose triple crowne, to adde more glorious praise,
Is triply crowned with a triple bayes,

Which is the richest crowne a King can have;

It keepes him from oblivion of the grave.
His other crowne, that guilded but the eye,
Will quickly fade, when fadeth majestie.
But this, so long as heaven lends a breath,
Shall freshly spring, in spite of fate and death.
To be a prince it is an honour'd thing,
Yet ev'ry poet to himselfe's a king :
But where in one they both commixed be,
He then is equall with a deitie.

This caus'd us all to leave our Helicon,
Our double-topped hill, our Citharon,
That were nigh ruinated with disgrace,
And hither come to a more worthy place;
Where on the top of an imperious* throne
We will build up another Helicon.

The hilles we left were all compos'd of mould,
But we will here erect a hill of gold,

Which, where it stands, shall to such height arise,
As it shal keepe the starres from mortal eyes;
And by these names it shall be call'd above,
The Muses' tent, the golden walke of Jove.'

The flattery here paid to James, as a poet and a patron, seems to rival that which he received from others, as a monarch and a man. In the mention of "Delia's store, and sweete Idaa," it may be supposed

Imperious is here used in the sense of imperial; and occasionally was so in the time of Elizabeth and James.

that the writer alludes to the sonnets of Daniel and Drayton. In conclusion, the Lady Muse urges T. G. no longer to hide his talents from the light, but "prays him to take up his pen, and write." This he declines to do from various considerations, relating to others and to himself: but she again stimulates him in the following lines, and his resolutions melt away.

Fie, fie, (said she) you are too criticall,
And dost consent unto thine owne dread fall.
Admit thy worth were under the degree
Of toleration, which I knowe not to be;
Suppose that millions doe deserve more praise,
Wilt thou for this forsake Apollo's baies?
O doe not so! thy Muse may once be blest,
And gently fost'red in a kingly brest.

What though the world sawe never line of thine,
Ne're can the Muse have a birth more divine.
And where those ougly, imitating apes
Which, as thou saist, doe but usurp men's shapes,
Have so defil'd this land: the time's now come
Those bawling fooles shall quite be stricken dombe:
Or, should they talke, what can it hurt the wise?
It is well knowne, they but idolatrise;
For when true judgement shall their errors find,
'Twill add more honour to the vertuous mind.
Sweet Philomela, that sings in the Spring,
Would lose some grace, did not the Cuckowe sing.
Therefore, no longer hide thy Muse from light,
But pray thee, pray thee, take thy pen and write.
With these enforcements was I wonne at length,
Convinced wholly by her powrefull strength,
And newe inspired with a sacred light,
Agreed to write what I had seen to-night :

And if this prosper but successefullie,
I will herein my further fortunes trie.

This intention of the author may probably have been intercepted by the scanty encouragement which his first performance obtained: having no very prominent merit of any kind. Its rarity would seem to add some strength to this casual conjecture.

T

EXCERPTA POETICA.

From WHETSTONE'S "Heptameron of civill Discourses: containing the Christmasse Exercise of sundrie well courted Gentlemen and Gentlewomen."

CARE, care, go pack; thou art no mate for me,

1582.

Thy thorny thoughts the heart to death doth wound;

Thou mak'st the fair seem like a blasted tree,

By thee green years with hoary hairs are crown'd,
Which makes me sing, to solace mine annoy,
Care, care, adieu !-my heart doth hope for joy.

Care, care, adieu! thou rival of delight!

Return into the cave of deep despaire:
Thou art no guest to harbour near my spright,
Whose poison'd sighs infect the very air :
Wherefore I sing, to solace mine annoy,

Care, care, adieu !-my heart doth hope for joy.