Next, saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook,
With foot uncertain, proffered here and there;
Benumbed of speech; and, with a ghastly look,
Searched every place, all pale and dead for fear,
His cap borne up with staring of his hair;
'Stoined1 and amazed at his own shade for dread,
And fearing greater dangers than was need.
And, next, within the entry of this lake,
Sate fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire;
Devising means how she may vengeance take;
Never in rest, till she have her desire;
But frets within so far forth with the fire
Of wreaking flames, that now determines she
To die by death, or 'venged by death to be.
When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence,
Had shewed herself, as next in order set,
With trembling limbs we softly parted thence,
Till in our eyes another sight we met;
When fro my heart a sigh forthwith I fet,
Ruing, alas! upon the woful plight
Of Misery, that next appeared in sight:
His face was lean, and some-deal pined away,
And eke his hands consumed to the bone;
But what his body was, I cannot say,
For on his carcass raiment had he none,
Save clouts and patches pieced one by one;
With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast,
His chief defence against the winter's blast:
His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree,
Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share,
Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he,
As on the which full daint'ly would he fare;
His drink, the running stream, his cup, the bare
Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold ground;
To this poor life was Misery ybound.

Whose wretched state when we had well beheld,
With tender ruth on him, and on his feres,"
In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held;
And, by and by, another shape appears
Of greedy Care, still brushing up the briers;
His knuckles knobed, his flesh deep dinted in,
With tawed hands, and hard ytanned skin:
The morrow gray no sooner hath begun
To spread his light even peeping in our eyes,
But he is up, and to his work yrun;
But let the night's black misty mantles rise,
And with foul dark never so much disguise
The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while,
But hath his candles to prolong his toil.

By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death,
Flat on the ground, and still as any stone,
A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath;
Small keep took he, whom fortune frowned on,
Or whom she lifted up into the throne
Of high renown, but, as a living death,
So dead alive, of life he drew the breath:
The body's rest, the quiet of the heart,
The travel's ease, the still night's feer was he,
And of our life in earth the better part;
Reaver of sight, and yet in whom we see
Things oft that [tyde] and oft that never be ;
Without respect, esteem[ing] equally
King Croesus' pomp and Irus' poverty.
And next in order sad, Old Age we found:
His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind;
With drooping cheer still poring on the ground,
As on the place where nature him assigned
To rest, when that the Sisters had untwined
His vital thread, and ended with their knife
The fleeting course of fast declining life :

There heard we him with broken and hollow plaint
Rue with himself his end approaching fast,
And all for nought his wretched mind torment
With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past,
And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste;
Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek,
And to be young again of Jove beseek!
But, an the cruel fates so fixed be
That time forepast cannot return again,
This one request of Jove yet prayed he-
That, in such withered plight, and wretched pain,
As Eld, accompanied with his loathsome train,
Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief
He might a while yet linger forth his life,

And not so soon descend into the pit ;
Where Death, when he the mortal corpse hath slain,
With reckless hand in grave doth cover it:
Thereafter never to enjoy again

The gladsome light, but, in the ground ylain,
In depth of darkness waste and wear to nought,
As he had ne'er into the world been brought:
But who had seen him sobbing how he stood
Unto himself, and how he would bemoan
His youth forepast-as though it wrought him good
To talk of youth, all were his youth foregone-
He would have mused, and marvelled much whereon
This wretched Age should like desire so fain,
And knows full well life doth but length his pain:
Crook-backed he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed;
Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four;
With old lame bones, that rattled by his side;
His scalp all pilled, and he with eld forelore,
His withered fist still knocking at Death's door;
Fumbling, and drivelling, as he draws his breath;
For brief, the shape and messenger of Death.
And fast by him pale Malady was placed :
Sore sick in bed, her colour all foregone;
Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste,
Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone;
Her breath corrupt; her keepers every one
Abhorring her; her sickness past recure,
Detesting physic, and all physic's cure.

But, oh, the doleful sight that then we see!
We turned our look, and on the other side
A grisly shape of Famine mought we see:
With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that cried
And roared for meat, as she should there have died;
Her body thin and bare as any bone,
Whereto was left nought but the case alone.
And that, alas! was gnawen every where,
All full of holes; that I ne mought refrain
From tears, to see how she her arms could tear,
And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain,
When, all for nought, she fain would so sustain
Her starven corpse, that rather seemed a shade
Than any substance of a creature made :

Great was her force, whom stone-wall could not stay :
Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw;
With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay
Be satisfied from hunger of her maw,
But eats herself as she that hath no law;
Gnawing, alas! her carcass all in vain,
Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein.

On her while we thus firmly fixed our eyes,
That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight,
Lo! suddenly she shrieked in so huge wise
As made hell-gates to shiver with the might;
Wherewith, a dart we saw, how it did light
Right on her breast, and, therewithal, pale Death
Enthrilling it, to reave her of her breath:

1 Pilled or peeled, stripped bare.

And, by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw,
Heavy, and cold, the shape of Death aright,
That daunts all earthly creatures to his law,
Against whose force in vain it is to fight;
Ne peers, ne princes, nor no mortal wight,
No towns, ne realms, cities, ne strongest tower,
But all, perforce, must yield unto his power:

His dart, anon, out of the corpse he took,
And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see)
With great triumph eftsoons the same he shook,
That most of all my fears affrayed me;
His body dight with nought but bones, pardie;
The naked shape of man there saw I plain,
All save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein.

Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad,
With visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued:
In his right hand a naked sword he had,
That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued;
And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued)
Famine and fire he held, and therewithal

He razed towns, and threw down towers and all:

Cities he sacked, and realms (that whilom flowered
In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest)
He overwhelmed, and all their fame devoured,
Consumed, destroyed, wasted, and never ceased,
Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppressed:
His face forehewed with wounds; and by his side
There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide.

Henry, Duke of Buckingham, in the Infernal Regions. The description of the Duke of Buckingham-the Buckingham, it must be recollected, of Richard III-has been much admired, as an impersonation of extreme wretchedness.

Then first came Henry, Duke of Buckingham,
His cloak of black all pilled, and quite forworn,
Wringing his hands, and Fortune oft doth blame,
Which of a duke had made him now her scorn;
With ghastly looks, as one in manner lorn,
Oft spread his arms, stretched hands he joins as fast,
With rueful cheer, and vapoured eyes upcast.

His cloak he rent, his manly breast he beat ;
His hair all torn, about the place it lay:
My heart so molt to see his grief so great,
As feelingly, methought, it dropped away:
His eyes they whirled about withouten stay:
With stormy sighs the place did so complain,
As if his heart at each had burst in twain.

Thrice he began to tell his doleful tale,
And thrice the sighs did swallow up his voice;
At each of which he shrieked so withal,
As though the heavens rived with the noise;
Till at the last, recovering his voice,
Supping the tears that all his breast berained,
On cruel Fortune weeping thus he plained.

JOHN HARRINGTON.

Some pleasing amatory verses-exhibiting a remarkable polish for the time in which they were written, if the date be correct-by JOHN HARRINGTON (1534-1582) have been published in the Nuga Antique. This poet was imprisoned in the Tower by Queen Mary, for holding correspondence with Elizabeth; and the latter, on her accession to the throne, rewarded him with many favours. He must have been a man of taste and refined feelings, as the following specimen of his poetry will suffice to shew:

Sonnet made on Isabella Markham, when I first thought her Fair, as she stood at the Princess's Window, in goodly Attire, and talked to Divers in the Court-yard. 1564.

Whence comes my love? O heart, disclose;
'Twas from cheeks that shame the rose,
From lips that spoil the ruby's praise,
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze:
Whence comes my woe? as freely own;
Ah me! 'twas from a heart of stone.
The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
The lips, befitting words most kind,
The eye does tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say 'tis Cupid's fire;
Yet all so fair but speak my moan,
Sith nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak
Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek-
Yet not a heart to save my pain;

O Venus, take thy gifts again!
Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like your own.

ARTHUR BROOKE.

In 1562 was published The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet, the work from which Shakspeare chiefly took the story of his drama. Though professedly a translation from the Italian paraphrase, remarkable for its easy versification of Bandello, this poem by Arthur Brooke is a free and profusion of imagery. Nothing is known of its author excepting that he died by shipwreck, while passing to Newhaven, in or before the year 1563.

Friar Lawrence.

This barefoot friar girt with cord his grayish weed,
For he of Francis order was, a friar as I read;
Not as the most was he a gross unlearned fool,
But doctor of divinity proceeded he in school.
The secrets eke he knew in nature's works that lurk ;
By magic's art most men supposed that he could wonders
work.

Nor doth it ill beseem divines those skills to know,
If on no harmful deed they do such skilfulness bestow;
For justly of no art can men condemn the use,

But right and reason's lore cry out against the lewd abuse.

The bounty of the friar and wisdom hath so won
The townsfolk's hearts that well-nigh all to Friar

Lawrence run,

To shrive themselves-the old, the young, the great and small,

Of all he is beloved well and honoured much of all.

her eye

His parting steps, and he oft looketh back again,
But not so oft as he desires-warily he doth refrain.
What life were like to love, if dread of jeopardy
Y-soured not the sweet-if love were free from jealousy!

Impatient of her woe, she happed to lean one night Within her window, and anon the moon did shine so bright,

That she espied her love: her heart, revived, sprang, And now for joy she claps her hands which erst for woe she wrang.

Eke Romeus, when he saw his long desired sight, His morning cloak of moan cast off, hath clad him with delight.

Yet dare I say of both that she rejoiced more;

His care was great-hers twice as great was all the time before!

Shakspeare found the outline of his character of Mercutio-so marvellously wrought up by the dramatic poet-and also that of the garrulous old nurse, in Brooke's poem. The following lines from the passage between Romeus and the nurse are characteristic:

Now for the rest let me and Juliet alone;

To get her leave, some feat excuse I will devise anon; For that her golden locks by sloth have been unkempt, Or for, unwares, some wanton dream the youthful damsel dreamt,

Or for in thoughts of love her idle time she spent, Or otherwise within her heart deserved to be shent. 1 know her mother will in no case say her nay; I warrant you she shall not fail to come on Saturday. And then she swears to him, the mother loves her well; And how she gave her suck in youth she leaveth not to tell.

A pretty babe, quod she, it was when it was young; Lord, how it could full prettily have prated with its tongue!

A thousand times and more I laid her on my lap, &c.

A prose version of Romeo and Juliet was printed in 1567 in The Palace of Pleasure, a collection of tales, of which a previous volume had appeared in 1565, the editor of which was WILLIAM PAYNTER, clerk of the armoury to Queen Elizabeth shortly after she came to the throne. Paynter's novel is greatly inferior to Brooke's poem.

GEORGE GASCOIGNE.

GEORGE GASCOIGNE, son of Sir John Gascoigne of Essex (circa 1535-1577), is celebrated as one of the earliest contributors to the English drama, and one of our first satirists. Among the poets of the beginning of Elizabeth's reign, he deserves to rank next to Lord Buckhurst. Gascoigne's life was full of adventure. He first studied law at Gray's Inn, but was disinherited by his father for his prodigality. He then set out for Holland, and served gallantly under the Prince of Orange. Being, however, on one occasion surprised by the Spanish army, he was taken prisoner, and detained four months. At the expiration of his confinement, he returned to England, and settled at Walthamstow, where he collected and published his poems. He experienced a share of royal!

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favour, for he accompanied the Queen to Kenil worth, and supplied part of the poetical and scenic entertainment at Dudley's magnificent seat, and also at Woodstock. Three of Gascoigne's works are given in the valuable series of reprints by Edward Arber (1868)—namely: Certayne Notes of Instruction in English Verse, 1575; The Steele Glass, 1576; and The Complaynt of Philomene, 1576. The most important of these is the Steele Glass, the first experiment in English satire in blank verse:

That age is dead, and vanished long ago,

Which thought that steel both trusty was and true,
And needed not a foil of contraries,

But shewed all things, even as they were indeed. ·
Instead whereof, our curious years can find

The crystal glass, which glimpseth brave and bright,
And shews the thing much better than it is,
Beguiled with foils, of sundry subtle sights,
So that they seem and covet not to be.

The Country Gentlemen and Squires.
The gentleman which might in country keep
A plenteous board, and feed the fatherless
With pig and goose, with mutton, beef, and veal-
Yea, now and then a capon and a chick—
Will break up house and dwell in market-towns
A loitering life, and like an epicure.

But who meanwhile defends the commonwealth?
Who rules the flock when shepherds are so fled?
Who stays the staff which should uphold the state?
Forsooth, good sir, the lawyer leapeth in-
Nay, rather leaps both over hedge and ditch,
And rules the roast-but few men rule by right.

O knights, O squires, O gentle bloods y-born,
You were not born only for yourselves :
Your country claims some part of all your pains;
There should you live, and therein should you toil,
To hold up right, and banish cruel wrong;
To help the poor, and bridle back the rich,
To punish vice, and virtue to advance-
To see God served, and Beelzebub suppressed.
You should not trust lieutenants in your room,
And let them sway the sceptre of your charge,
Whiles you meanwhile know scarcely what is done,
Nor yet can yield account if you were called.

Satire on the Court Ladies.

Behold, my lord, what monsters muster here,
With angels' face and harmful hellish hearts,
With smiling looks, and deep deceitful thoughts,
With tender skins and stony cruel minds,
With stealing steps yet forward feet to fraud.
Behold, behold, they never stand content,
With God, with kind, with any help of art,
But curl their locks with bodkins and with braids,
But dye their hair with sundry subtle sleights,
But paint and slick till fairest face be foul,
But bombast, bolster, frizzle, and perfume:
They mar with musk the balm which nature made,
And dig for death in delicatest dishes.
The younger sort come piping on apace,
In whistles made of fine enticing wood,
Till they have caught the birds for whom they birded.
The elder sort go stately stalking on,
And on their backs they bear both land and fee,
Castles and towers, revenues and receipts,
Lordships and manors, fines-yea, farms and all!
What should these be? Speak you, my lovely lord.
They be not men, for why, they have no beards;
They be no boys which wear such sidelong gowns ;
They be no gods, for all their gallant gloss;
They be no devils, I trow, that seem so saintish.
What be they? Women masking in men's weeds-

With Dutchkin doublets, and with jerkins jagged, With Spanish spangs and ruffles fet out of France, With high-copt hats and feathers flaunt-a-flauntThey, to be sure, seem even wo to men, indeed!

revelations.

Gascoigne has a long poem in the ottava rima measure, extending to 207 stanzas, in which he describes scenes in the Dutch war, mixed up with his own quaint moral reflections and egotistic He is seldom wanting in sense or spirit, and uses both rhyme and blank verse with greater freedom and mastery than most of his predecessors. Some of his shorter poems are lively and graceful.

The Arraignment of a Lover.

At Beauty's bar as I did stand,
When False Suspect accused me,
'George,' quoth the judge, 'hold up thy hand,
Thou art arraigned of flattery;
Tell, therefore, how wilt thou be tried,
Whose judgment thou wilt here abide ?'

'My lord,' quod I, 'this lady here,

Whom I esteem above the rest,
Doth know my guilt, if any were;

Wherefore her doom doth please me best.
Let her be judge and juror both,
To try be guiltless by mine oath.'
Quoth Beauty: 'No, it fitteth not

A prince herself to judge the cause;
Will is our justice, well ye wot,

Appointed to discuss our laws;
If you will guiltless seem to go,
God and your country quit you so.'

Then Craft the crier called a quest,

Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere;

A pack of pickthanks were the rest,

Which came false witness for to bear;
The jury such, the Judge unjust,
Sentence was said: 'I should be trussed.'

Jealous the jailer bound me fast,

To hear the verdict of the bill;

'George,' quoth the judge, 'now thou are cast,
Thou must go hence to Heavy Hill,
And there be hanged all but the head;
God rest thy soul when thou art dead!'

Down fell I then upon my knee,

All flat before dame Beauty's face,
And cried: Good lady, pardon me!
Who here appeal unto your grace;
You know if I have been untrue,
It was in too much praising you.

'And though this judge doth make such haste,
To shed with shame my guiltless blood,

Yet let your pity first be placed

To save the man that meant you good;
So shall you shew yourself a queen,
And I may be your servant seen.'

Quoth Beauty: 'Well; because I guess
What thou dost mean henceforth to be;
Although thy faults deserve no less

Than justice here hath judged thee;
Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife,
And be true prisoner all thy life?'

"Yea, madam,' quoth I, 'that I shall;
Lo, Faith and Truth my sureties.'
"Why, then,' quoth she, 'come when I call,
I ask no better warrantise.'
Thus am I Beauty's bounden thrall,
At her command when she doth call.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554–1586) takes his rank in English literary history rather as a prose writer than as a poet. His poetry has been neglected on account of the generally cold and affected style in which he wrote. It has been justly remarked, that, 'if he had looked into his own noble heart, and written directly from that, instead of from his somewhat too metaphysico-philosophical head, his poetry would have been excellent. Yet in some pieces he has fortunately failed in extinguishing the natural sentiment which inspired him. The following are among the most poetical and graceful of his sonnets:

Sonnets of Sir Philip Sidney.

Because I oft in dark abstracted guise
Seem most alone in greatest company,
With dearth of words, or answers quite awry
To them that would make speech of speech arise,
They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies,
That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie
So in my swelling breast, that only I
Fawn on myself, and others do despise.
Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess,
Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass:
But one worse fault Ambition I confess,
That makes me oft my best friends overpass,
Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place
Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace.

With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies,
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace
To me that feel the like thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, Ó Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low.
With shield of proof shield me from out the press
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw;
O make in me those civil wars to cease:

I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed;
A chamber, deaf to noise, and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head.
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

O happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear!
I saw thee with full many a smiling line
Upon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear,
While those fair planets on thy streams did shine.
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear;
While wanton winds, with beauties so divine
Ravished, staid not, till in her golden hair
They did themselves (O sweetest prison) twine :
And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay
Have made; but, forced by Nature still to fly,
First did with puffing kiss those locks display.
She, so dishevelled, blushed. From window I,
With sight thereof, cried out: 'O fair disgrace;
Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place!',

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