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* Who fareth finest, doth but feed;
“ And over-feedeth oft; “ Who sleepeth softest, doth but sleep;
“ And, sometimes, over-soft.
“ Who clads him trimmest, is but clad;
“ The fairest is but fair: “ And all but live: yea, if so long,
“ Yet not with lesser care, “ Than forms, backs, bones, and bellies, that
“ More homely cherish'd are.
“ Learn freedom, and felicity;
“ Hawks, flying where they list, “ Be kindlier and more sound, than hawks
« Best tended on the fist !"
Thus preach'd he promis’d abstinence;
And bids them come away: .
So well as they would stay.
The godly hermit, when all means
In vain he did perceive,
“ And knaves I do you leave !"
It appears from Mr. Malone's Shakspeare, Vol. X. p. 74, that
this author took his degree of A. B. at St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1579, so that he may be considered as contemporary with Warner. He is highly praised by Mr. Bolton, Ben Jonson, and others, and Mr. Warton mentions him as “ a noted sonnet writer.” Perhaps the following, though as notable sonnets as his “ Diana” could furnish, may be thought to have been scarcely worth the trouble of transcribing.
[From his Diana, 1594.]
Wonder it is, and pity is't, that she
In whom all beauty's treasure we may find,
That may enrich the body and the mind, Towards the poor should use no charity. My love is gone a begging unto thee,
And if that Beauty had not been more kind
Than Pity, long ere this he had been pined,
Love, naked boy, hath nothing on his back,
Yet maim’d he is, sith he his sight doth lack,
And yet though blind he beauty can behold,
If ever sorrow spoke from soul that loves,
As speaks a spirit in a man possess’d, In me her spirit speaks, my soul it moves, Whose sigh-swoln words breed whirlwinds in my
breast: Or like the echo of a passing bell,
Which, sounding on the water, seems to howl, So rings my heart a fearful heavy knell,
And keeps all night in concert with the owl. My cheeks with a thin ice of tears are clad,
Mine eyes, like morning stars, are blear'd and red, What resteth then but I be raging mad,
To see that she, my care's chief conduit-head, When all streams else help quench my burning
heart, Shuts up her springs, and will no grace impart.
I BEING Care, thou fliest me as ill fortúne,
Care, the consuming canker of the mind;
Th' abortive bastard of a coward mind :
Bearing the letters which contain our end;
Denouncing worst to him is most his friend. O dear! this care no interest holds in me;
But haly care, the guardian of thy fair, Thine honour's champion, and thy virtue's fee, The zeal which thee from barbarous times shall
bear: This care am I; this care my life hath taken, Dear to my soul ! thou leave me not forsaken!
For an account of the writings of this author, whom an emi.
nent critic has pronounced to be a more elegant, as well as more ancient, sonneteer, than Shakspeare, the reader is referred to the Gentleman's Magazine, Vol. LXIII. p. 204, and to Vol. LXVIII. p. 669.
(From his “Hecatompathia, or Passionate Centurie of Love,"
no date, but licenced in the Stationers books 1581.]
When May is in his prime, and yoạthful spring Doth clothe the tree with leaves, and ground with
flowers, And time of year reviveth every thing,
And lovely nature smiles, and nothing lowers; Then Philomela most doth strain her breast, With night-complaints, and sits in little rest.
This bird's estate I may, compare with mino,
To whom fond love doth work such wrongs by day, That in the night my heart must needs repine,
And storm with sighs, to ease me as I may,