Sonnet. [By George Chapman, the Translator of Homer: 1595.] Muses, that sing Love's sensual empirie, And lovers kindling your enraged fires At Cupid's bonfires burning in the eye, Blown with the empty breath of vain desires; You, that prefer the painted cabinet Before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye, That all your joys in dying figures set, And stain the living substance of your glory; Abjure those joys, abhor their memory; And let my love the honour'd subject be Of love and honour's complete history! Your eyes were never yet let in to see The majesty and riches of the mind, That dwell in darkness; for your god is blind. The Woodman's Walk. [From 'England's Helicon,' 1600, where it is signed, 'Shep. Tonie."] Through a fair forest as I went, I met a woodman, quaint and gent, I marvell'd much at his disguise, But thus, in terms both grave and wise, Friend! muse not at this fond array, But list a while to me: Long liv'd I in this forest fair, My first day's walk was to the court, For falsehood sat in fairest looks, And friend to friend was coy : Court favour fill'd but empty rooks, Desert went naked in the cold, When crouching craft was fed: Sweet words were cheaply bought and sold, But none that stood in stead. Wit was employed for each man's own; Unto the city next I went, In hope of better hap; Where liberally I launcht and spent, The little stock I had in store, Methought would ne'er be done; Friends flock'd about me more and more, As quickly lost as won. For, when I spent, then they were kind; Once more for footing yet I strove, And, lest once more I should arise, And in my mind (methought), I said, Yet would I not give over so, There did appear no subtle shows, But yea and nay went smoothly ; More craft was in a buttoned cap, There was no open forgery But underhanded gleaning, Which they call country policy, But hath a worser meaning. Some good bold face bears out the wrong, Because he gains thereby; The poor man's back is crack'd ere long, Yet there he lets him lie. And no degree, among them all, And pray'd for their amending. Back to the woods I got again, There city, court, nor country too, There live I quietly alone, And none to trip my talk: Wherefore, when I am dead and gone, Think on the woodman's walk! There is a Garden in her Face. [From 'An Hour's Recreation in Music,' by Rich. Alison: 1606.] There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow; Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; Those cherries fairly do inclose Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow : Her eyes like angels watch them still; Robin Goodfellow. [Attributed, upon supposition only, to Ben Jonson.] From Oberon, in fairy land, The king of ghosts and shadows there, Am sent to view the night-sports here. Is kept about, In every corner where I go, I will o'ersee, And merry be, And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho! More swift than lightning can I fly Each thing that's done below the moon. Or ghost shall wag, Or cry, 'ware goblins ! where I go; Their feats will spy, And send them home with ho, ho, ho! Whene'er such wanderers I meet, As from their night-sports they trudge home, With counterfeiting voice I greet, And call them on with me to roam: Through woods, through lakes; To play some trick, And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho! Sometimes I meet them like a man, Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; To trip and trot about them round. My back they stride, More swift than wind away I go, I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho! When lads and lasses merry be, With possets and with junkets fine; I eat their cakes and sip their wine! I puff and snort: And out the candles I do blow: They shriek-Who's this? I answer nought but ho, ho, ho! Yet now and then, the maids to please, Their malt up still; I dress their hemp; I spin their tow; If any wake, And would me take, I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho! Away we fling; And babes new born steal as we go; We leave in stead, And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho! From hag-bred Merlin's time, have I The hags and goblins do me know; My feats have told, So vale, vale; ho, ho, ho! With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows, And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk hose, And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose; Like an old courtier, &c. With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, With good cheer enough to furnish every old room, And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb; Like an old courtier, &c. With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold, And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, Among the young courtiers of the king, Time's Alteration. When this old cap was new, But all things plenty were: (Believe me this is true); Which was not in those days, When this old cap was new. The nobles of our land, Were much delighted then, To have at their command A crew of lusty men, Which by their coats were known, Of tawny, red, or blue, With crests on their sleeves shown, Now pride hath banish'd all, The coach allows but two; Was cherish'd then of many; Now poor men starve and die, And are not help'd by any: For charity waxeth cold, And love is found in few; This was not in time of old, When this old cap was new. Where'er you travelled then, You might meet on the way Brave knights and gentlemen, Clad in their country grey; That courteous would appear, And kindly welcome you; No puritans then were, When this old cap was new. Our ladies in those days In civil habit went ; Broad cloth was then worth praise, And gave the best content: French fashions then were scorn'd; At Christmas, in each hall, And meat for great and small: The neighbours were friendly bidden, And all had welcome true; The poor from the gates were not chidden, When this old cap was new. Black jacks to every man Were fill'd with wine and beer; In those days did appear: Now each mechanical man Hath a cupboard of plate for a show; Which was a rare thing then, When this old cap was new. Then bribery was unborn, At that time hardly knew ; Nor spent poor soldier's pay; As they are at this day: When this old cap was new: Their fortunes were the best. And send him long to live: Of that which is their due: This was not in time of yore, When this old cap was new. Loyalty Confined. [Supposed to have been written by Sir Roger L'Estrange, while in confinement on account of his adherence to Charles I.] Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow; That innocence is tempest-proof; Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm ; Then strike, affliction, for thy wounds are balm. That which the world miscalls a jail, Into this private room was turned; The salamander should be burned; The cynic loves his poverty, The pelican her wilderness, I, as my mistress' favours, wear; I have some iron shackles there: Like some high-prized margarite; Am cloister'd up from public sight: And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee. Where tempting objects are not seen; Did only wound him to a cure: Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart- What though I cannot see my king, That renders what I have not, mine. Have you not seen the nightingale But though they do my corpse confine, My soul is free as ambient air, Although rebellion do my body bind, PROSE WRITERS. HE prose writers of this age rank chiefly in the departments of theology, philosophy, and historical and antiquarian information. There was, as yet, hardly any vestige of prose employed with taste in fiction, or even in observations upon manners; though it must be observed, that in Elizabeth's reign appeared the once popular romance of Arcadia, by Sir Philip Sidney; and there lived under the two succeeding monarchs several acute and humorous describers of human character. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY was born, in 1554, at Penshurst, in Kent; and during his studies at Shrewsbury, Ox This production was never finished, and, not having been intended for the press, appeared only after the author's death. His next work was a tract, entitled The Defence of Poesy, where he has repelled the ohjections brought by the Puritans of his age against the poetic art, the professors of which they contemptuously denominated 'caterpillars of the commonwealth.' This production, though written with the partiality of a poet, has been deservedly admired for the beauty of its style and general soundness of its reasoning. In 1584, the character of his uncle, the celebrated Earl of Leicester, having been attacked in a publication called Leicester's Commonwealth, Sidney wrote a reply, in which, although the heaviest accusations were passed over in silence, he did not scruple to address his opponent in such terms as the following:- But to thee I say, thou therein liest in thy throat, which I will be ready to justify upon thee in any place of Europe, where thou wilt assign me a free place of coming, as within three months after the publishing hereof I may understand thy mind.' This performance seems to have proved unsatisfactory to Leicester and his friends, as it was not printed till near the middle of the eighteenth century. Desirous of active employment, Sidney next contemplated an expedition, with Sir Francis Drake, against the Spanish settlements in America; but this intention was frustrated by a peremptory mandate from the queen. In 1585, it is said, he was named one of the candidates for the crown of Poland, at that time vacant; on which occasion Elizabeth again threw obstacles in the way, being afraid 'to lose the jewel of her times.' He was not, however, long permitted to remain unemployed; for, in the same year, Elizabeth having determined to send I military assistance to the Protestant inhabitants of the Netherlands, then groaning beneath the oppressive measures of the Spaniards, he was appointed governor of Flushing, one of the towns ceded to the English in return for this aid. Soon afterwards, the Earl of Leicester, with an army of six thousand men, went over to the Netherlands, where he was joined by Sir Philip, as general of the horse. The conduct of the earl in this war was highly imprudent, and such as to call forth repeated expressions of dissatisfaction from his nephew Philip. The military exploits of the latter were highly honourable to him; in particular, he succeeded in taking the town of Axel in 1586. His career, however, was destined to be short; for having, in September of the same year, accidentally encountered a detachment of the Spanish army at Zutphen, he received a wound, which in a few weeks proved mortal. As he was carried from the field, a well-known incident occurred, by which the generosity of his nature was strongly displayed. Being overcome with thirst from excessive bleeding and fatigue, he called for water, which was accordingly brought to him. At the moment he was lifting it to his mouth, a poor soldier was carried by, desperately wounded, who fixed his eyes eagerly on the cup. Sidney, observing this, instantly delivered the beverage to him, saying, "Thy necessity is yet greater ford, and Cambridge, displayed remarkable acuteness than mine.' His death, which took place on the of intellect and craving for knowledge. After spending 19th of October 1586, at the early age of thirty-two, three years on the continent, he returned to England was deeply and extensively lamented, both at home in 1575, and became one of the brightest ornaments of and abroad. His bravery and chivalrous magnathe court of Elizabeth, in whose favour he stood very nimity-his grace and polish of manner-the purity high. In the year 1580, his mind having been of his morals-his learning and refinement of taste ruffled in a quarrel with the Earl of Oxford, he retired-had procured for him love and esteem wherever in search of tranquillity to the seat of his brotherin-law, the Earl of Pembroke, at Wilton, and there occasionally employed himself in composing the work above-mentioned, a heroic romance, to which, as it was written chiefly for his sister's amusement, he gave the title of The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia. jpe Sidney. he was known. By the direction of Elizabeth, his remains were conveyed to London, and honoured with a public funeral in the cathedral of St Paul's. Of the poetry of Sir Philip Sidney we have spoken in a former page. It is almost exclusively as a prose writer that he deserves to be prominently men |