The elder of these two rich hopes increase,
Presents a royal altar of fair peace;
And, as an everlasting sacrifice,

His life, his love, his honour which ne'er dies,
He freely brings, and on this altar lays

As true oblations. His brother's emblem says,
Except your gracious eye, as through a glass,
Made perspective, behold him, he must pass
Still that same little point he was; but when
Your royal eye, which still creates new men,
Shall look, and on him, so,—then art's a liar,
If, from a little spark, he rise not fire.

The elder of these two.] These youths were the sons of Robert Rich, first earl of Warwick, by the too celebrated sister of the earl of Essex. Robert, the elder, succeeded his father, as earl of Warwick, in 1618. He protests much (like Hamlet's player-queen) in his speech, and he kept his word somewhat in the same manner. James was scarcely dead, when he deserted his successor, threw himself into the arms of the parliament, took the command of the fleet, and carried on a thriving trade, as Lord Clarendon says, "in the desperate commodity of rebellion." His brother, Henry Rich, notwithstanding his emblem, or impress, trod in Sir Robert's steps. James loaded him with favours, and not long before his death created him earl of Holland. Fresh honours were conferred upon him by Charles, in return for which he deserted and betrayed him. He was not long in receiving his reward from his new masters, who, less scrupulous than his indulgent sovereign, deprived him of his head for some alleged tergiversation, in 1649.

XXX.

AN EPISTLE TO SIR EDWARD SACKVILE.

Now earl of Dorset.

8

F, Sackvile, all that have the power to do
Great and good turns, as well could time

them too,

And knew their how, and where; we should have then

Less list of proud, hard, or ungrateful men.

8 An Epistle to sir Edward Sackvile.] At that time lord chamberlain; he succeeded his father, Thomas Sackvile, in the title of earl of Dorset, who died suddenly at the council-table in 1608.

WHAL.

We have here a cluster of mistakes. The father of sir Edward Sackvile was not Thomas, but Robert, second earl of Dorset, his son; nor did Edward succeed his father, but his elder brother Richard, third earl of Dorset, who died in 1624. What Whalley means by at that time lord chamberlain, it is difficult to say. There is no allusion to any such office in the poem, nor could there be, for the earl of Dorset was not made chamberlain till 1642, five years after the poet's death.

This sir Edward Sackvile is the person who engaged in that ferocious and fatal duel with the lord Bruce, of which the interesting account given by himself was copied into the Guardian, from the MS. in the library of Queen's College, Oxford.

This affair took place in 1613, when he was only three and twenty. Afterwards, however, he nobly redeemed his extravagancies, and became one of the brightest characters of his day. Lord Clarendon says that "his person was beautiful, graceful, and vigorous; his wit pleasant, sparkling, and sublime, and his other parts of learning and language of that lustre, that he could not miscarry in the world."

This " Epistle" was the favourite poem of Horne Tooke. He had it by heart, and delighted to quote it on all occasions. Its date may be pretty nearly ascertained by the expression "now earl of Dorset," which seems to imply that sir Edward had not long enjoyed the title. He returned to England, from Italy, on hearing of the death of his brother, which took place the 28th of March,

For benefits are ow'd with the same mind
As they are done, and such returns they find :
You then, whose will not only, but desire
To succour my necessities, took fire,

Not at my prayers, but your sense; which laid
The way to meet what others would upbraid,
And in the act did so my blush prevent,
As I did feel it done, as soon as meant ;
You cannot doubt, but I who freely know
This good from you, as freely will it owe;
And though my fortune humble me, to take
The smallest courtesies with thanks, I make
Yet choice from whom I take them; and would shame
To have such do me good, I durst not name.

They are the noblest benefits, and sink

Deepest in man, of which, when he doth think,

The memory delights him more, from whom

Than what, he hath receiv'd. Gifts stink from some,
They are so long a coming, and so hard;
Where any deed is forced, the grace is marr'd.

Can I owe thanks for courtesies received

Against his will that does them? that hath weaved
Excuses or delays? or done them scant,

That they have more opprest me than my want?
Or if he did it not to succour me,

But by mere chance? for interest? or to free
Himself of farther trouble, or the weight
Of pressure, like one taken in a strait?

All this corrupts the thanks: less hath he won,
That puts it in his debt-book ere't be done;
Or that doth sound a trumpet, and doth call
His grooms to witness or else lets it fall

1624 and the poet probably addressed him soon after 1625, when sickness and want first assailed him.

There is great vigour of thought, and strength of expression, in this rough epistle. The predilection of Horne Tooke for it throws no discredit on his judgment.

In that proud manner, as a good so gain'd,
Must make me sad for what I have obtain❜d.

No! gifts and thanks should have one cheerful face,

So each that's done, and ta'en, becomes a brace.
He neither gives, or does, that doth delay

A benefit, or that doth throw't away;

No more than he doth thank, that will receive
Nought but in corners, and is loth to leave
Least air, or print, but flies it: such men would
Run from the conscience of it, if they could.

As I have seen some infants of the sword
Well known, and practised borrowers on their word,
Give thanks by stealth, and whispering in the ear,
For what they straight would to the world for-

swear;

And speaking worst of those, from whom they

went

But then fist-fill'd, to put me off the scent.
Now, d-n me, sir, if you shall not command
My sword, ('tis but a poor sword, understand,)
As far as any poor sword in the land;
Then turning unto him is next at hand,
Damns whom he damn'd too, is the veriest gull,
Has feathers, and will serve a man to pull.
Are they not worthy to be answer'd so,
That to such natures let their full hands flow,
And seek no wants to succour; but enquire,
Like money-brokers, after names, and hire
Their bounties forth, to him that last was made,
Or stands to be in commission o' the blade?
Still, still the hunters of false fame apply
Their thoughts and means to making loud the cry,
But one is bitten by the dog he fed,

And hurt, seeks cure; the surgeon bids take bread,
And sponge-like with it dry up the blood quite,
Then give it to the hound that did him bite:

Pardon, says he, that were a way to see
All the town curs take each their snatch at me.9
O, is it so? knows he so much, and will
Feed those at whom the table points at still?
I not deny it, but to help the need
Of any, is a great and generous deed;
Yea, of the ingrateful; and he forth must tell
Many a pound, and piece, will place one well.
But these men ever want: their very trade
Is borrowing; that but stopt, they do invade
All as their prize, turn pirates here at land,
Have their Bermudas, and their Streights i' the
Strand :

Man out their boats to the Temple, and not shift
Now, but command; make tribute what was gift;
And it is paid them with a trembling zeal,
And superstition, I dare scarce reveal,
If it were clear; but being so in cloud
Carried and wrapt, I only am allow'd
My wonder, why the taking a clown's purse,
Or robbing the poor market-folks, should nurse
Such a religious horror in the breasts

Of our town-gallantry! or why there rests
Such worship due to kicking of a punk,

Or swaggering with the watch, or drawer drunk;
Or feats of darkness acted in mid-sun,

And told of with more license than they're done!
Sure there is mystery in it I not know,

That men such reverence to such actions show,
And almost deify the authors! make

Loud sacrifice of drink, for their health's sake:
Rear suppers in their names, and spend whole nights
Unto their praise in certain swearing rites!

• Pardon, says he, that were a way to see

All the town-curs take each their snatch at me.] The allusion is to a fable of Phædrus, who makes Esop the author of it. WHAL. For the Bermudas, &c. see vol. iv. p. 407.