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After the death of Sir F. Wolley, his next protector was Sir Robert Drury, whom he accompanied on an embassy to France. His wife, with an attachment as romantic as poet could wish for, had formed the design of accompanying him as a page. It was on this occasion, and to dissuade her from the design, that he addressed to her the verses beginning, “ By our first strange and fatal interview." Isaak Walton relates, with great simplicity, how the poet, one evening, as he sat alone in his chamber in Paris, saw the vision of his beloved wife appear to him with a dead infant in her arms, a story which wants only credibility to be interesting. He had at

last the good fortune to attract the regard of King James ; and, at his majesty's instance, as he might now consider that he had outlived the remembrance of his former follies, he was persuaded to become a clergyman. In this capacity he was successively appointed chaplain to the king, lecturer of Lincoln's Inn, vicar of St. Dunstan's Fleet Street, and dean of St. Paul's. His death, at a late age, was occasioned by consumption. He was buried in St. Paul's, where his figure yet remains in the vault of St. Faith's, carved from a painting for which he sat a few days before his death, dressed in his winding-sheet.


SWEETEST love, I do not go
For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter love for me.
But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best
Thus to use myself in jest
By feigned death to die.

Must business thee from hence remove?
0, that's the worst disease of love!
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busy man.
He which hath business and makes love, doth do
Such wrong as when a married man doth woo.


Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here to-day ;
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way :
Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Hastier journeys, since I take
More wings and spurs than he.

IMAGE of her whom I love more than she Whose fair impression in my faithful heart Makes me her medal, and makes her love me As kings do coins, to which their stamps impart The value-go, and take my heart from hence, Which now is grown too great and good for me. Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense Strong objects dull ; the more, the less we see. When you are gone, and reason gone with you, Then phantasy is queen, and soul, and all ; She can present joys meaner than you do, Convenient, and more proportional. So if I dream I have you, I have you, For all our joys are but fantastical, And so I ’scape the pain, for pain is true; And sleep, which locks up sense, doth lock out all. After such a fruition I shall wake, And, but the waking, nothing shall repent ; And shall to love more thankful sonnets make, Than if more honour, tears, and pains, were spent. But, dearest heart, and dearer image, stay ; Alas! true joys at best are dreams enough. Though you stay here you pass too fast away, For even at first life's taper is a snuff. Filld with her love, may I be rather grown Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.


Sray, oh sweet! and do not rise :
The light that shines comes from thine eyes ;
The day breaks notmit is my heart,
Because that you and I must part.
Stay, or else my joys will die,
And perish in their infancy.

Tis true, it's day--what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me ?
Why should we rise because 'tis light?
Did we lie down because 'twas night?
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should, in despite of light, keep us together.



Light hath no tongue, but is all eye ;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say,
That, being well, I fain would stay,
And that I loved my heart and honour so,
That I would not from her that had them go.

Fair soul ! which wast not only, as all souls be,
Then when thou wast infused, barmony,
But didst continue so, and now dost bear
A part in God's great organ, this whole sphere;

If looking up to God, or down to us,
Thou find that any way is pervious
'Twixt heaven and earth, and that men's ac-

tions do
Come to your knowledge and affections too,
See, and with joy, me to that good degree
Of goodness grown, that I can study thee;
And by these meditations refined,
Can unapparel and enlarge my mind ;
And so can make, by this soft extacy,
This place a map of heaven, myself of thee.
Thou see'st me here at midnight now all rest,
Time's dead low-water, when all minds divest

To-morrow's business, when the lab'rers have
Such rest in bed, that their last churchyard grave,
Subject to change, will scarce be a type of this.
Now, when the client, whose last hearing is
To-morrow, sleeps ; when the condemned man,
(Who, when he opes his eyes, must shut them, then,
Again by death!) although sad watch he keep,
Doth practise dying by a little sleep.
Thou at this midnight seest me, and as soon
As that sun rises, to me midnight's noon;
All the world grows transparent, and I see
Through all, both church and state, in seeing thee.


Of this author I have been able to obtain no farther information, than that he belonged to the Inner Temple, and translated a great number of John Owen’s Latin epigrams into English. His

songs, sonnets, and elegies, bear the date of 1631. Indifferent as the collection is, entire pieces of it are pilfered.

FROM SONGS, SONNETS, AND ELEGIES, BY T. PICKE. The night, say all, was made for rest ;

Say, gentle dames, what moved your mind And so say I, but not for all;

To shine so

ght above your wont ? To them the darkest nights are best,

Would Phæbe fair Endymion find, Which give them leave asleep to fall ;

Would Venus see Adonis hunt ! But I that seek my rest by light,

No, no, you feared by her sight, Hate sleep, and praise the clearest night. To lose the praise of beauty bright. Bright was the moon, as bright as day,

At last for shame you shrunk away, And Venus glitter'd in the west,

And thought to reave the world of light ; Whose light did lead the ready way,

Then shone my dame with brighter ray, That led me to my wished rest ;

Than that which comes from Phæbus' sight; Then each of them increased their light,

None other light but hers I praise, While I enjoy'd her heavenly sight.

Whose nights are clearer than the days.


(Born, 1593. Died, 1632-3.)

“ Holy George Herbert,” as he is generally said to have consulted him about some of his called, was prebendary of Leighton Ecclesia, a writings, his memory is chiefly indebted to the village in Huntingdonshire. Though Bacon is affectionate mention of old Isaak Walton.


8vo. 1633. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, The bridal of the earth and sky,

A box where sweets compacted lie ;
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,

My music shows you have your closes,
For thou must die.

And all must die.
whose hue, angry and brave,

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Like season'd timber, never gives,
Thy root is ever in its grave,

But when the whole world turns to coal,
And thou must die.

Then chiefly lives.


(Died, 1634.)

This writer was the antagonist of Jonson in when puns were scattered from the pulpit, to the drama, and the rival of Bishop Hall in have been as lively as an indifferent comedy. satire*, though confessedly inferior to them both Marston is the Crispinus of Jonson's Poetaster, in their respective walks of poetry. While none where he is treated somewhat less contemptuously of his biographers seem to know anything about than his companion Demetrius (Dekker); an him, Mr. Gifford (in his Memoirs of Ben Jonson) | allusion is even made to the respectability of his conceives that Wood has unconsciously noticed birth. Both he and Dekker were afterwards him as a gentleman of Coventry, who married reconciled to Jonson ; but Marston's reconcileMary, the daughter of the Rev. W. Wilkes, ment, though he dedicated his Malcontent to his chaplain to King James, and rector of St. Martin, propitiated enemy, seems to have been subject to in Wiltshire. According to this notice, our poet relapses. It is amusing to find Langbaine desdied at London, in 1634, and was buried in the canting on the chaste purity of Marston as a church belonging to the Temple. These par writer, and the author of the Biographia Dramaticulars agree with what Jonson said to Drum tica transcribing the compliment immediately

mond respecting this dramatic opponent of his, before the enumeration of his plays, which are ' in his conversation at Hawthornden, viz. that stuffed with obscenity. To this disgraceful cha

Marston wrote his father-in-law's preachings, racteristic of Marston an allusion is made in and his father-in-law Marston's comedies. Mar “ The Return from Parnassus," where it is said, ston's comedies are somewhat dull; and it is not

“Give him plain naked words stript from their shirts, difficult to conceive a witty sermon of those days, That might beseem plain-dealing Aretine." 1


ACT V. SCENE U. SOPHONISBA, the daughter of Asdrubal, bas been wooed Let me not kneel to Rome ; for though no cause ! by Syphax and Massinissa, rival kings of Africa,'and both

Of mine deserves their hate, though Massinissa the allies of Carthage. She prefers Massinissa; and Syphax, l'indignant at her refusal, revolts to the Romans. Massi

Be ours to heart, yet Roman generals 1 nisssa, on the night of his marriage, is summoned to the Make proud their triumphs with whatever captives.

assistance of the Carthaginians, on the alarm of Scipio's O ’tis a nation which from soul I fear, invasion. The senate of Carthage, notwithstanding Mas

As one well knowing the much-grounded hate I sinissa's fidelity, decree that Syphax shall be tempted back to them by the offer of Sophonisba in marriage. Sopho- They bear to Asdrubal and Carthaye blood ! nisba is on the point of being sacrificed to the enforced

Therefore, with tears that wash thy feet with hands nuptials, when Massinissa, who had been apprised of the Unused to beg, I clasp thy manly knees. treachery of Carthage, attacks the troops of Syphax, joins

O save me from their fetters and contempt, the Romans, and brings Syphax a captive to Scipio's feet. Syphax, in his justification to Scipio, pleads, that his love

Their proud insults, and more than insolence ! for Sophonisba alone had tempted him to revolt from Or if it rest not in thy grace of breath Rome. Scipio therefore orders that the daughter of Asdru To grant such freedom, give me long-wish'd death; bal, when taken prisoner, shall belong to the Romans alone.

For 'tis not much-loathed life that now we craveLelins and Massinissa march on to Cirta, and storm the palace of Syphax, where they find Sophonisba.

Only an unshamed death and silent grave,

We will now deign to bend for. The cornets sounding a march, Massinissa enters with

Mass. Rarity! his beaver up.

By thee and this right hand, thou shalt live free ! Moss. March to the palace!

Soph. We cannot now be wretched. Soph. Whate'er man thou art,

Mass. Stay the sword ! Of Lybia thy fair arms speak, give heart

Let slaughter cease! sounds, soft as Leda's breast, To amazed weakness : hear her that for long time

[Soft music. Hath seen no wished light. Sophonisba,

Slide through allears ! this night be love's high feast. A name for misery much known, 'tis she

Soph. O'erwhelm me not with sweets; let me Intreats of thy graced sword this only boon:

not drink .

* He wrote the Scourge of Villany; three books of Till my breast burst! () Jove! thy nectar, thinkAntires, 1594. He was also author of the Metamorphosis

[Shi sinks into MASSINISSA's arins. of Piginalion's Image, and certain Satires, published 1598, which makes his date as satirist nearly coeral with that

Mass. She is o'ercome with joy. of Bishop Hall.

Soph. Help, help to bear


Some happiness, ye powers ! I've joy to spare Soph. Bondage !
Enough to make a god ! O Massinissa!

Mass. Bondage ! Roman bondage !
Mass. Peace:

Soph. No, no ! A silent thinking makes full joys increase.

Mass. How, then, have I vow'd well to Scipio ? Enter LELIUS.

Soph. How, then, to Sophonisba ? Lel. Massinissa !

Mass. Right : which way? Mass. Lelius !

Run mad !-impossible—distraction ! Lel. Thine ear.

Soph. Dear lord, thy patience : let it 'maze all Mass. Stand off!

power, Lel. From Scipio thus: by thy late vow of faith,

And list to her in whose sole heart it rests, And mutual league of endless amity,

To keep thy faith upright. As thou respect'st his virtue or Rome's force,

Mass. Wilt thou be slaved ? Deliver Sophonisba to our hand.

Soph. No, free. Mass. Sophonisba !

Mass. How, then, keep I my faith? Lel. Sophonisba.

Soph. My death Soph. My lord

Gives help to all ! From Rome so rest we free; Looks pale, and from his half-burst eyes a flame

So brought to Scipio, faith is kept in thee. Of deep disquiet breaks ! the gods turn false

Enter Page with a bowl of wine.' My sad presage.

Mass. Thou darest not die-some wine—thou Mass. Sophonisba !

darest not die ! Lel. Even she.

Soph. Mass. She kill'd not Scipio's father, nor his uncle, [She takes a boul, into which MASSINISSA puts poison.] Great Cneius.

Behold me, Massinissa, like thyself, Lel. Carthage did.

A king and soldier; and, I pray thee, keep Mass. To her what's Carthage ?

My last command. Lel. Know 'twas her father Asdrubal, struck off

Mass. Speak, sweet. His father's head. Give place to faith and fate.

Soph. Dear! do not weep. Mass. 'Tis cross to honour.

And now with undismay'd resolve behold, Lel. But 'tis just to state.

To save you—-you—(for honour and just faith So speaketh Scipio : do not thou detain

Are most true gods, which we should much adore) A Roman prisoner due to this great triumph, With even disdainful vigour I give up As thou shalt answer Rome and him.

An abhorr'd life ! (She drinks.) You have been Mass. Lelius,

good to me, We are now in Rome's power. Lelius,

And I do thank thee, Heaven. O my stars ! View Massinissa do a loathed act

I bless your goodness, that, with breast unstain’d, Most sinking from that state his heart did keep. Faith pure, a virgin wife, tied to my glory, Look, Lelius, look, see Massinissa weep !

I die, of female faith the long-lived story ; Know I have made a vow more dear to me Secure from bondage and all servile harms, Than my soul's endless being. She shall rest But more, most happy in my husband's arms. Free from Rome's bondage !

Lel. But thou dost forget
Thy vow, yet fresh thus breathed. When I desist
To be commanded by thy virtue, Scipio,

Or fall from friend of Rome, revenging gods
Amict me with your tortures !

Representing the afiction of fallen greatness in A NDRUGIO, Mass. Lelius, enough :

Duke of Genoa, after he has been defeated by the Salute the Roman-tell him we will act

Venetians, proscribed by his countrymen, and left with What shall amaze him.

only two attendants in his flight. Lel. Wilt thou yield her, then ?

Enter ANDRUGIO in armour, Lucio with a shepherd's gorcm Mass. She shall arrive there straight.

in his hand, and a Page. Lel. Best fate of men

And. Is not yon gleam the shuddering morn, To thee !

that flakes Mass. And, Scipio, have I lived, 0 Heavens ! With silver tincture the east verge of heaven ! To be enforcedly perfidious!

Luc. I think it is, so please your excellence. Soph. What unjust grief afflicts my worthy lord? And. Away! I have no excellence to please.

Mass. Thank me, ye gods, with much beholding- Prithee observe the custom of the world, For, mark, I do not curse you.

[ness; That only flatters greatness, states exalts; Soph. Tell me, sweet,

And please my excellence ! Oh, Lucio, The cause of thy much anguish.

Thou hast been ever held respected, dear, Mass. Ha! the cause

[neck, ! Even precious to Andrugio's inmost love. Let's see-wreathe back thine arms, bend down thy Good, flatter not. Nay, if thou givest not faith Practise base prayers, make fit thyself for bondage. | That I am wretched; oh, read that, read that.





And murmur to sustain the weight of arms :
My thoughts are fix'd in contemplation

Ghastly amazement, with upstarted hair,
Why this huge earth, this monstrous animal,

Shall hurry on before, and usher us,
Thateats her children,shouldnot have eyes and ears. Whilst trumpets clamour with a sound of death.
Philosophy maintains that Nature's wise,

Luc. Peace, good my lord, your speech is all
And forms no useless or imperfect thing.

too light,
Did nature make the earth, or the earth nature ? Alas! survey your fortunes, look what's left
For earthly dirt makes all things, makes the man

Of all your forces, and your utmost hopes,
Moulds me up honour; and, like a cunning Dutch A weak old man, a page, and your poor self


And. Andrugio lives, and a fair cause of arms;
Paints me a puppet even with seeming breath,

Why that's an army all invincible.
And gives a sot appearance of a soul.

He, who hath that, hath a battalion royal,
Go to, go to ; thou liest, philosophy ;

Armour of proof, huge troops of barbed steeds,
Nature forms things imperfect, useless, vain.

Main squares of pikes, millions of arquebuse.
Why made she not the earth with eyes and ears? Oh, a fair cause stands firm and will abide ;
That she might see desert, and hear men's plaints: Legions of angels fight upon her side.
That when a soul is splitted, sunk with grief,

Luc. Then, noble spirit, slide in strange disguise He might fall thus upon the breast of earth,

Unto some gracious prince, and sojourn there, [He throws himself on the ground.

Till time and fortune give revenge firm means. And in her ear, hallow his misery,

And. No, I'll not trust the honour of a man : Exclaiming thus : Oh, thou all-bearing earth,

Gold is grown great, and makes perfidiousness Which men do gape for, till thou cramm’st their

A common waiter in most princes' courts : mouths,

He's in the check-roll : I'll not trust my blood : And choak'st their throats with dust : open thy I know none breathing but will cog a dye breast,

For twenty thousand double pistolets. And let me sink into thee. Look who knocks ;

How goes the time? Andrugio calls. But, oh! she's deaf and blind.

Luc. I saw no sun to-day. A wretch but lean relief on earth can find.

And. No sun will shine where poor Andrugio

breathes : Luc. Sweet lord, abandon passion, and disarm. Since by the fortune of the tumbling sea,

My soul grows heavy: boy, let's have a song;
We are roll'd up upon the Venice marsh,

We'll sing yet, faith, even in despite of fate.
Let's clip all fortune, lest more low’ring fate-
And. More low’ring fate ? Oh, Lucio, choke

that breath.
Now I defy chance. Fortune's brow hath frown'd,
Even to the utmost wrinkle it can bend :
Her venom's spit. Alas, what country rests,

Andr. Come, Lucio, let's go eat—what hast thou
What son, what comfort that she can deprive ?
Triumphs not Venice in my overthrow ?

Roots, roots ? Alas ! they're seeded, new cut up. Gapes not my native country for my blood ? O thou hast wronged nature, Lucio ; Lies not my son tomb'd in the swelling main ? But boots not much, thou but pursu'st the world, And is more low'ring fate? There's nothing left That cuts off virtue 'fore it comes to growth, Unto Andrugio, but Andrugio

Lest it should seed, and so o'errun her son, And that nor mischief, force, distress, nor hell, can Dull, pore-blind error. Give me water, boy ; take.

There is no poison in't, I hope ? they say Fortune my fortunes, not my mind shall shake. That lurks in massy plate ; and yet the earth

Luc. Spoke like yourself : but give me leave, Is so infected with a general plague, 1 my lord,

That he's most wise that thinks there's no man fool, To wish your safety. If you are but seen,

Right prudent that esteems no creature just : Your arms display you ; therefore put them off,

Great policy the least things to mistrust. And. Wouldst have me go unarm’d among

Give me assay. How we mock greatness now !

Luc. A strong conceit is rich, so most men deem ;
my foes ?

If not to be, 'tis comfort yet to seem.
Being besieged by passion, entering lists,
To combat with despair and mighty grief ;

Andr. Why, man, I never was a prince till now.
My soul beleaguer'd with the crushing strength

'Tis not the bared pate, the bended knees, Of sharp impatience. Ah, Lucio, go unarm'd ?

Gilt tipstaves, Tyrian purple, chairs of state, Come soul, resume the valour of thy birth;

Troops of pied butterflies, that flutter still Myself, myself, will dare all opposites :

In greatness' summer, that confirm a prince ; I'l muster forces, an unvanquish'd power ;

'Tis not th' unsavoury breath of multitudes, Cornets of horse shall press th’ ungrateful earth,

Shouting and clapping with confused din,
That makes a prince. No, Lucio, he's a king,
A true right king, that dares do ought save wrong,



got ?

And take

This hollow wombed mass shall inly groan,

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