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The power of them whom fortune here hath lent
Charge over vs, of right to strike the stroke ;
But true it is, that I haue always ment
Lesse to esteme them, then the common sort,
Of outward thinges that judge in theyr entent
Without regarde what inward doth resort.
I graunt, some time of glory that the fire,
Doth touch my hart. Me list not to report
Blame by honour, and honour to desire.
But how may I this honour now attaine,
That cannot dye the colour blacke a lier ?
My Poins, I cannot frame my tune to faine,
To cloke the truth, for praise without desert
Of them that list all vice for to retaine.
I cannot honour them, that set their part
With Venus and Bacchus all theyr life long.
Nor hold my peace of them, although I smart.
I cannot crouche nor knele to such a wronge ;
To worship them like God on earth alone,
That are as wolves these sely lambes among.
I cannot with my wordes complayne and mone,
And suffer nought; nor smart without complaint ;
Nor turne the word that from my mouth is gone,
I cannot speake and loke like as a saint.
Use wyles for wit, and make desceit a pleasure,
Call craft counsaile, for lucre still to paint,
I can not wrest the law to fill the coffer ;
With innocent bloud to fede my self fatte,
And do most hurt, where that most helpe I offer.
I am not he, that can allow the state,
Of hie Ceaser, and damne Cato to dye,
That with his death did scape out of the gate,
From Ceasars hands, if Livy doth not lie.
And would not live where liberty was lost;

So did his hart the common wealth apply.
I am not he, suche eloquence to bost,
To make the crow in singing, as the swanne ;
Nor call the lion of coward beastes the most,
That can not take a mouse, as the cat can ;
And he that dyeth for honger of the golde,
Call him Alexander, and say that Pan
Passeth Apollo in musike manifolde,
Praise syr Topas for a noble tale,
And scorne the story that the knight tolde ;
Praise him for counsell, that is dronke of ale ;
Grinne when he laughes, that beareth all the sway,
Frowne when he frownes, and grone when he is

pale ;

On others lust to hang both night and day. None of these pointes would ever frame in me. My wit is nought, I can not learne the way.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

BORN 1533—DIED 1603. The following ditty, or sonnet, of the Virgin Queen, is of no great value save as a curiosity, and from the secret feelings which dictated it. The reader may be amused to see how these verses are be-praised by Puttenham, the writer of the “ Arte of English Poesie,” the first regular critic

known in England. “ I find none example in English metre so well maintain

ing this figure (the Exargasia or the Gorgeous) as that dittie of her Majestie's owne making, passing sweet and harmonical,—which figure being, as its very original name purporteth, the most beautifull and gorgeous of all

others, it asketh in reason to be reserved for a last compliment, and deciphered by a ladie's penne, herself being the most beautifull, or rather beautie of queens.(a) And this was the occasion : Our sovereign ladie, perceiving how the Scotch Queen's residence within this realme, with so great liberty and ease as were scarce meet for so great and dangerous a prisoner, bred secret factions among her people, and made many of the nobility incline to favour her party, to declare that she was nothing ignorant of those secret practices, though she had long with great wisdom and patience dissembled it, writeth this dittie most sweet and sententious," &c.

A DITTY. The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy, And wit me warns to shew such snares as threaten

mine annoy. For falsehood now doth flow, and subject faith

doth ebb; Which would not be if reason ruled, or wisdom

weaved the web. But clouds of toys untried do cloak aspiring minds, Which turn to rain of late repent, by course of

changed winds, The top of hope supposed, the root of ruth will be, And fruitless all their graffed guiles, as shortly ye

shall see. Then dazzled eyes with pride, which great ambition

blinds, Shall be unseald by worthy wights, whose fore

sight falsehood finds.

(a) She was then near threescore !

The daughter of debate, that eke discord doth sow, Shall reap no gain where former rule hath taught

still peace to grow. No foreign banish'd wight shall anchor in this port, Our realm it brooks no strangers' force, let them

elsewhere resort. Our rusty sword with rest shall first his edge

employ, To pull their tops that seek such change, and

gape for joy.

THOMAS SACKVILLE,

EARL OF DORSET.

BORN ABOUT 1527-DIED 1604.

This statesman and poet was the son of Sir Richard Sack

ville of Withyam, in Sussex. He spent a long life in the service of Queen Elizabeth, by whom he was created Lord Buckhurst. After being employed on many important embassies, he was, on the death of Lord Burleigh, made Lord High Treasurer. He was through life the patron of literature, and maintained in difficult situations the character of an honest minister, and of a good, if not a brilliant man. Neither his integrity nor usefulness protected him at all times from the occasional caprice, suspicion, and arbitrary temper of his royal mistress ; nor from the intrigues of her haughty favourite Leicester, against whom Elizabeth, who united the coquette with the sovereign in a very strong degree, used to play off Sackville when she found the favourite proceeding too far or presuming too much.

An anecdote is related of the youth of Sackville, which is worth preserving. Having, by lavish and thoughtless extravagance, involved his affairs, he was forced to borrow from a rich alderman, who kept the young courtier in at. tendance so long, that, mortified by the indignity, he from that hour adopted a system of regulated economy which placed him for life above being exposed to the repetition of such behaviour. If there be such a thing as “ proper

pride," Sackville's resolution was of its best fruits. This nobleman is a subject of literary interest, as the author of the first regular English tragedy, Gordobuc, written while he was still young, and represented before the Queen. He also projected the Mirror for Magistrates, a series of heroic poems, to which several persons were to contribute each a tragic legend or tale chosen from the history of England. Sackville commenced with the history of the unfortunate Duke of Buckingham, and other writers followed; but this comprehensive design had the usual fate of all joint-stock companies : it in

creased in bulk, and lessened in value. Sackville lived to witness and promote the accession of

James I., who created him Earl of Dorset, and on all occasions treated him with great deference. He died suddenly at the council-table. Though a man of unquestionable taste, Sackville is more important in the history of English poetry than as an English poet. The picture of Winter, with which his introduction to the story of Buckingham commences, is praised by Warton, and adopted by Mr Campbell as a favourable specimen of his verse.

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