Now commeth in our long-detained Spring, Whose triple crowne, to adde more glorious praise, Which is the richest crowne a King can have; This caus'd us all to leave our Helicon, The hilles we left were all compos'd of mould, Which, where it stands, shall to such height arise, 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, What though the world sawe never line of thine, Which, as thou saist, doe but usurp men's shapes, And if this prosper but successefullie, 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, Care, care, adieu! thou rival of delight! Care, care, adieu!-my heart doth hope for joy. Care, care, adieu! and welcome pleasure now; Let time or chance be pleased or be wroth: FROM THE SAME. Farewell, bright Gold! thou glory of the world, 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: Slander, farewell! which pryest with lynx's eyes, And farewell, World! since nought in thee I find 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, 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, And make the rinced soule twice brighter faire. Contemne the world, where nought but griefe is found, Eternall teares the drink, and howles the sound, And discontent the fire, our selves the wood; From whose great flames black vapours doe arise, But lie below, where never tempest blows, Seek out some narrow place where thou maist weepe, On day remember griefe, in silent sleepe Dreame of thy faults, and those deserved woes No thunder may thy cottage overturne, Nor thus bedew'd with teares can lightning burne, While mightie cedars feel the tempests wrack, |