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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 Joye.'

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 Idæa," 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.

EXCERPTA POETICA.

From WHETSTONE'S "Heptameron of civill Discourses: containing the Christmasse Exercise of sundrie well courted Gentlemen and Gentlewomen." 1582.

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

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.

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." [FRANCIS 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,

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