Care, care, adieu! and welcome pleasure now ;
Thou wish of joy, and ease of sorrow both :
To wear thy weed I make a solemn vow,

Let time or chance be pleased or be wroth:
And therefore sing, to solace mine annoy,
Care, care, adieu!-my heart doth hope for joy.

FROM THE SAME.

Farewell, bright Gold! thou glory of the world,
Fair is thy show, but foul thou mak'st the soul:
Farewell, proud Mind! in thousand fancies twirl'd,
Thy pomp is like the stone that still doth roll.

Farewell, sweet Love! thou wish of worldly joy,

Thy wanton cups are spic'd with mortal sin: Farewell, dire Hate! thou dost thyself annoy,

Therefore my heart's no place to harbour in.

Flattery, farewell! thy fortune doth not last,

Thy smoothest tales concludeth with thy shame:
Suspect, farewell! thy thoughts thy entrails waste,
And fear'st to wound the wight thou fain would'st blame."

Slander, farewell! which pryest with lynx's eyes,
And can'st not see thy spots when all are done :
Care, Care, farewell! which like the cockatrice,
Dost make the grave that all men fain would shun.

And farewell, World! since nought in thee I find
But vanity, my soul in hell to drown:

And welcome Philosophy, who the mind

Dost with content and heavenly knowledge crown.

FROM "Thule, or Vertue's Historie, by F. R." [FRAN CIS ROUS] 1598.

PLUNGE deepe in teares, to wash thy spotted skin,
In Jordan's waters seven times thee clense,

To purge the leprosie that lyes within:

Let sighs still offer up a sweet incense;

And where with foule contagion of sin

Those filthie fumes have wrought the soule's offence,
There let that heavenly sacrifice repaire,

And make the rinced soule twice brighter faire.

Contemne the world, where nought but griefe is found,
Where sighs the ayre, and sorrow is the food,
Eternall teares the drink, and howles the sound,
Whose gastly notes we heare, while dropping blood
Makes seas of woe within our heart abound,

And discontent the fire, our selves the wood;

From whose great flames black vapours doe arise,
Which, turn'd to clouds, doe rain downe from our eyes.

But lie below, where never tempest blows,

Seek out some narrow place where thou maist weepe,
Where solitariness invested goes:

On day remember griefe, in silent sleepe

Dreame of thy faults, and those deserved woes
Which in a prison do thy sad thoughts keepe:

No thunder may thy cottage overturne,

Nor thus bedew'd with teares can lightning burne,

While mightie cedars feel the tempests wrack,
Each little shame, as winter's timeless frost,

Makes them all bare, and doth uncloth their back,
While they, below, smile at their garments lost.
Each of their faults, and each unlawfull act
Is seene to all, and they are learned most,
Which in these great men's crimes a lesson reade,
And tell their fellowes any lawless deede.

While we in silence pass our silent dayes,

No ill on earth, nor sorrow after death,

We feare not envious tongues, nor black disprayse;
While they (though soothed in this lively breath)
After their time are punisht many wayes,
Each swelling heart his hate unburtheneth,
And wisheth that the earth may heavie lie,
And presse them deeply with her gravitie.

FROM "Breton's Melancholike Humours." 1600.

A CONCEITED FANCY.

PURE colours can abide no staine,

The sun can never lose his light;

And vertue bath a heavenly vaine,
That well may claime a queenely right

So give my mistresse but her due,
Who told me all these tales of you.

From heaven on earth the sunne doth shine,
From vertue comes discretion's love;

They both are in themselves divine,

Yet worke for weaker heart's behove:

So would my mistresse had her due,
To tell me still those tales of you.

But, oh! the sunne is in a clowde,

And vertue lives in sweetes unseene:
The earth with heaven is not allow'd,
A beggar must not love a queene:
So must my mistresse have her due,
To tell mee still these tales of you.

Then shine, faire sunne, when clouds are gon:
Live vertue in thy queenely love:
Choose some such place to shine upon,

As may thy Paradise approve ;

That when my mistresse hath her due,
I may heare all this heaven in you.

THE following sarcastic flings at CORIAT and STONE occur in "Epigrams served up in fifty-two several dishes. By J. C. Gent." (circa 1604).

ON CORIAT THE TRAVELLER.

Ficus was fat in body and in purse,
And unto sea is gone himself to purge;
Some fifteene hunderd marks he did disburse,
To receive three for one: a tempting scourge
To whip my gallant up the surging seas,
And daunce to Venice with a whistling winde,
There to evacuate, for stomach's ease,

The home-bred Crudities his flesh did bind.
VOL. IV.

C

Of him we have not heard unto this day,
That I believe he's purged all away!

OF STONE THE JESTER.

Looke at what time pomgranats do wax scant,
At the same time Stone witty jests doth want;
Then 'gainst Paule's pillers or some other post
He leanes, to finde his chapman who'll give most.
I oftentimes, and others, muse at it,

So great a head should have so little wit:

The miracle's not so great, the jest once knowne,-
Who is't would look for wit in any Stone?

A funerall Oration upon the death of the late deceased Princess of famous memorye, Elizabeth, by the grace of God, Queen of England, France, and Ireland. Written by Infelice Academico Ignoto. Wherunto is added, the true order of her Highnes imperiall Funerall.

London, printed for E. White, dwelling neere the little north doore of Paule's Church, at the signe of the Gun. 1603.

Quarto. pp. 22.

THIS posthumous tribute to the memory of Queen Elizabeth is perhaps one of the most rare that was put forth on that occasion. Such indeed is its rarity, as to have escaped the observation of Mr. Nichols, and