and near,

Brave huntress; but no beast shall prove thy quarries here;

Save those the best of chase, the tall and lusty red,
The stag for goodly shape, and stateliness of head,
Is fitt'st to hunt at force. For whom, when with his
hounds

The labouring hunter tufts the thick unbarbed grounds,
Where harbour'd is the hart; there often from his feed
The dogs of him do find; or thorough skilful heed,
The huntsman by his slot,1 or breaking earth, per-
ceives,

Or ent'ring of the thick by pressing of the greaves, Where he had gone to lodge. Now when the hart doth hear

The often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret lair,
He rousing rusheth out, and through the brakes doth

drive,

As though up by the roots the bushes he would rive. And through the cumb'rous thicks, as fearfully he

makes,

He with his branched head the tender saplings shakes, That sprinkling their moist pearl do seem for him to

Until the noble deer, through toil bereav'd of strength,
His long and sinewy legs then failing him at length,
The villages attempts, enraged, not giving way
To anything he meets now at his sad decay.
The cruel ravenous hounds and bloody hunters near,
This noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but fear,
Some bank or quick-set finds; to which his haunch

opposed,

He turns upon his foes, that soon have him inclosed. The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at

bay,

And as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin they lay, With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth deadly

wounds.

The hunter, coming in to help his wearied hounds, He desperately assails; until opprest by force, He who the mourner is to his own dying corse, Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears lets falll To forests that belongs.

Then looking wide, as one that newly wak'd had been, Saluted from the north, with Nottingham's proud

height,

So strongly is surpris'd, and taken with the sight,
That she from running wild, but hardly can refrain,
To view in how great state, as she along doth strain,
That brave exalted seat beholdeth her in pride,
As how the large-spread meads upon the other side,
All flourishing in flowers, and rich embroideries

dress'd,

In which she sees herself above her neighbours bless'd. As wrap'd with the delights, that her this prospect

brings,

In her peculiar praise, lo thus the river sings:
'What should I care at all, from what my name I
take,

That thirty doth import, that thirty rivers make;
My greatness what it is, or thirty abbeys great,
That on my fruitful banks, times formerly did seat;
Or thirty kinds of fish that in my streams do live,
To me this name of Trent, did from that number give!
What reck I let great Thames, since by his fortune he
Is sovereign of us all that here in Britain be;
From Isis and old Tame his pedigree derive;
And for the second place, proud Severn that doth

strive,

Fetch her descent from Wales, from that proud mountain sprung,

Plinillimon, whose praise is frequent them among,
As of that princely maid, whose name she boasts to

bear,

Bright Sabrin, whom she holds as her undoubted heir, Let these imperious floods draw down their long de

scent

From these so famous stocks, and only say of Trent,

1 The hart weepeth at his dying; his tears are held to be preThat Moreland's barren earth me first to light did bring,

Which though she be but brown, my clear complexion'd spring

Gain'd with the nymphs such grace, that when I first did rise,

The Naiads on my brim danc'd wanton hydagies, And on her spacious breast (with heaths that doth abound)

Encircled my fair fount with many a lusty round: And of the British floods, though but the third I be, Yet Thames and Severn both in this come short of me, For that I am the mere of England, that divides

The north part from the south, on my so either sides, That reckoning how these tracts in compass be extent, Men bound them on the north, or on the south of

And crown my winding banks with many an anadem;
My silver-scaled sculls about my streams do sweep,
Now in the shallow fords, now in the falling deep:
So that of every kind, the new spawn'd numerous fry
Seem in me as the sands that on my shore do lie.
The barbel, than which fish a braver doth not swim,
Nor greater for the ford within my spacious brim,
Nor (newly taken) more the curious taste doth please;
The grayling, whose great spawn is big as any pease;
The perch with pricking fins, against the pike pre-

par'd,

As nature had thereon bestow'd this stronger guard,
His daintiness to keep (each curious palate's proof)
From his vile ravenous foe: next him I name the
ruff,

His very near ally, and both for scale and fin,
In taste, and for his bait (indeed) his next of kin,
The pretty slender dare, of many call'd the dace,
Within my liquid glass, when Phœbus looks his face,
Oft swiftly as he swims, his silver belly shows,

But with such nimble flight, that ere ye can disclose
His shape, out of your sight like lightning he is shot;
The trout by nature mark'd with many a crimson spot,
As though she curious were in him above the rest,
And of fresh-water fish, did note him for the best;
The roach whose common kind to every flood doth fall;
The chub (whose neater name which some a chevin
call)

Food to the tyrant pike (most being in his power), Who for their numerous store he most doth them

stream,

Then being in his kind, in me his pleasure takes,
(For whom the fisher then all other game forsakes)
Which bending of himself to th' fashion of a ring,
Above the forced wears, himself doth nimbly fling,
And often when the net hath drag'd him safe to land,
Is seen by natural force to 'scape his murderer's hand;
Whose grain doth rise in flakes, with fatness inter-
larded,

Of many a liquorish lip, that highly is regarded.
And Humber, to whose waste I pay my wat'ry store,
Me of her sturgeons sends, that I thereby the more
Should have my beauties grac'd with something from

him sent;

Not Ancum's silver'd eel excelleth that of Trent; Though the sweet smelling smelt be more in Thames than me,

The lamprey, and his lesse, in Severn general be;

From all the rest alone, whose shell is all his bones: For carp, the tench, and bream, my other store among,

To lakes and standing pools that chiefly do belong, Here scouring in my fords, feed in my waters clear, Are muddy fish in ponds to that which they are here.'

From Nottingham, near which this river first begun This song, she the meanwhile, by Newark having run, Receiving little Synte, from Bever's bat'ning grounds, At Gainsborough goes out, where the Lincolnian bounds.

Yet Sherwood all this while, not satisfied to show Her love to princely Trent, as downward she doth

flow,

For ought to her might chance, by others love or hate,

With resolution arm'd against the power of fate,
All self-praise set apart, determineth to sing
That lusty Robin Hood, who long time like a king
Within her compass lived, and when he list to range
For some rich booty set, or else his air to change,
To Sherwood still retired, his only standing court,
Whose praise the Forest thus doth pleasantly report:
'The merry pranks he play'd, would ask an age to tell,
And the adventures strange that Robin Hood befel,
When Mansfield many a time for Robin hath been

laid,

How he hath cousen'd them, that him would have betray'd;

How often he hath come to Nottingham disguised,
And cunningly escaped, being set to be surprised.
In this our spacious isle, I think there is not one,
But he hath heard some talk of him and Little John;
And to the end of time, the tales shall ne'er be done,
Of Scarlock, George-a-Green, and Much the miller's son,
Of Tuck the merry friar, which many a sermon made
In praise of Robin Hood, his outlaws, and their trade.
An hundred valiant men had this brave Robin Hood,
Still ready at his call, that bowman were right good,
All clad in Lincoln green, with caps of red and blue,
His fellow's winded horn, not one of them but knew,

When setting to their lips their little beugles shrill The warbling echoes waked from every dale and hill: Their bauldricks set with studs, athwart their shoulders cast,

To which under their arms their sheafs were buckled fast,

A short sword at their belt, a buckler scarce a span, Who struck below the knee, not counted then a man: All made of Spanish yew, their bows were wond'rous strong;

They not an arrow drew, but was a cloth yard long. Of archery they had the very perfect craft,

With broad-arrow, or but, or prick, or roving shaft, At marks full forty score, they used to prick, and rove, Yet higher than the breast, for compass never strove; Yet at the farthest mark a foot could hardly win :

At long-buts, short, and hoyles, each one could cleave

the pin:

Their arrows finely pair'd, for timber, and for feather, With birch and brazil pieced, to fly in any weather; And shot they with the round, the square, or forked

And now before young David could come in,
The host of Israel somewhat doth begin

To rouse itself; some climb the nearest tree,
And some the tops of tents, whence they might see
How this unarmed youth himself would bear

Against the all-armed giant (which they fear):
Some get up to the fronts of easy hills;

That by their motion a vast murmur fills

The neighbouring valleys, that the enemy thought
Something would by the Israelites be wrought
They had not heard of, and they longed to see
What strange and warlike stratagem, 't should be.
When soon they saw a goodly youth descend,

Himself alone, none after to attend,
That at his need with arms might him supply,
As merely careless of his enemy:
His head uncovered, and his locks of hair
As he came on being played with by the air,
Tossed to and fro, did with such pleasure move,
As they had been provocatives for love:
His sleeves stript up above his elbows were,
And in his hand a stiff short staff did bear,
Which by the leather to it, and the string,
They easily might discern to be a sling.

Suiting to these he wore a shepherd's scrip,
Which from his side hung down upon his hip.
Those for a champion that did him disdain,

Cast with themselves what such a thing should mean;

Some seeing him so wonderously fair

(As in their eyes he stood beyond compare),
Their verdict gave that they had sent him sure
As a choice bait their champion to allure;
Others again, of judgment more precise,
Said they had sent him for a sacrifice.

And though he seemed thus to be very young,
Yet was he well proportioned and strong,
And with a comely and undaunted grace,
Holding a steady and most even pace,

This way nor that way, never stood to gaze;
But like a man that death could not amaze,
Came close up to Goliah, and so near

As he might easily reach him with his spear.

Which when Goliah saw, 'Why, boy,' quoth he,
'Thou desperate youth, thou tak'st me sure to be
Some dog, I think, and under thy command,
That thus art come to beat me with a wand:
The kites and ravens are not far away,

Nor beasts of ravine, that shall make a prey
Of a poor corpse, which they from me shall have,
And their foul bowels shall be all thy grave.'

Uncircumcised slave,' quoth David then,
That for thy shape, the monster art of men;
Thou thus in brass comest arm'd into the field,
And thy huge spear of brass, of brass thy shield:
I in the name of Israel's God alone,

That more than mighty, that eternal One,
Am come to meet thee, who bids not to fear,
Nor once respect the arms that thou dost bear,
Slave, mark the earth whereon thou now dost stand,
I'll make thy length to measure so much land,
As thou liest grov'ling, and within this hour
The birds and beasts thy carcase shall devour.'

In meantime David looking in his face,
Between his temples, saw how large a space
He was to hit, steps back a yard or two:
The giant wond'ring what the youth would do:
Whose nimble hand out of his scrip doth bring
A pebble-stone and puts it in his sling;
At which the giant openly doth jeer,

And as in scorn, stands leaning on his spear,
Which gives young David much content to see,
And to himself thus secretly saith he:
'Stand but one minute still, stand but so fast,
And have at all Philistia at a cast."

Then with such sleight the shot away be sent,
That from his sling as 't had been lightning went;
And him so full upon the forehead smit,

Which gave a crack, when his thick scalp it hit,
As't had been thrown against some rock or post,
That the shrill clap was heard through either host.
Staggering awhile upon his spear he leant,

Till on a sudden he began to faint;

When down he came, like an old o'ergrown oak,
His huge root hewn up by the labourers' stroke,
That with his very weight he shook the ground;
His brazen armour gave a jarring sound

Like a crack'd bell, or vessel chanced to fall
From some high place, which did like death appal
The proud Philistines (hopeless that remain),
To see their champion, great Goliah, slain:
When such a shout the host of Israel gave,
As cleft the clouds; and like to men that rave
(O'ercome with comfort) cry, 'The boy, the boy!
O the brave David, Israel's only joy!
God's chosen champion! O most wondrous thing!
The great Goliah slain with a poor sling!'
Themselves encompass, nor can they contain;
Now are they silent, then they shout again.
Of which no notice David seems to take,
But towards the body of the dead doth make,

li

With a fair comely gait; nor doth he run,
As though he gloried in what he had done;
But treading on the uncircumcised dead,
With his foot strikes the helmet from his head;
Which with the sword ta'en from the giant's side,
He from the body quickly doth divide.

Now the Philistines, at this fearful sight,
Leaving their arms, betake themselves to flight,
Quitting their tents, nor dare a minute stay;
Time wants to carry any thing away,
Being strongly routed with a general fear;
Yet in pursuit Saul's army strikes the rear
To Ekron walls, and slew them as they fled,
That Sharam's plains lay cover'd with the dead :
And having put the Philistines to foil,
Back to the tents retire and take the spoil

Of what they left; and ransacking, they cry, 'A David, David, and the victory!'

When straightway Saul his general, Abner, sent For valiant David, that incontinent

He should repair to court; at whose command
He comes along, and beareth in his hand

The giant's head, by the long hair of his crown,
Which by his active knee hung dangling down.
And through the army as he comes along,
To gaze upon him the glad soldiers throng:
Some do instyle him Israel's only light,
And other some the valiant Bethlemite.
With congees all salute him as he past,
And upon him their gracious glances cast :
He was thought base of him that did not boast,
Nothing but David, David, through the host.
The virgins to their timbrels frame their lays
Of him; till Saul grew jealous of his praise.

EDWARD FAIRFAX.

[Description of Armida and her Enchanted Girdle.]

☐ And with that word she smiled, and ne'ertheless
Her love-toys still she used, and pleasures bold :
Her hair (that done) she twisted up intress,
And looser locks in silken laces roll'd;
Her curls, garland-wise, she did up dress,
Wherein, like rich enamel laid on gold,
The twisted flow'rets smil'd, and her white breast
The lilies there that spring with roses drest.

The jolly peacock spreads not half so fair
The eyed feathers of his pompous train;
Nor golden Iris so bends in the air

Her twenty-coloured bow, through clouds of rain :
Yet all her ornaments, strange, rich, and rare,
Her girdle did in price and beauty stain;
Not that, with scorn, which Tuscan Guilla lost,
Nor Venus' cestus could match this for cost.

Of mild denays, of tender scorns, of sweet
Repulses, war, peace, hope, despair, joy, fear;
Of smiles, jests, mirth, woe, grief, and sad regret,
Sighs, sorrows, tears, embracements, kisses dear,
That, mixed first, by weight and measures meet;
Then, at an easy fire, attempered were;
This wondrous girdle did Armida frame,

And, when she would be loved, wore the same.

[Rinaldo at Mount Olivet and the Enchanted Wood.]

It was the time, when 'gainst the breaking day,
Rebellious night yet strove, and still repined,
For in the east appear'd the morning grey,
And yet some lamps in Jove's high palace shined,
When to Mount Olivet he took his way,
And saw, as round about his eyes he twined,
Night's shadows hence, from thence the morning's shine,
This bright, that dark; that earthly, this divine.
Thus to himself he thought: how many bright
And 'splendent lamps shine in heaven's temple high!
Day hath his golden sun, her moon the night,
Her fix'd and wand'ring stars the azure sky;
So framed all by their Creator's might,
That still they live and shine, and ne'er will die,
Till in a moment, with the last day's brand
They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and land.
Thus as he mused, to the top he went,

And there kneel'd down with reverence and fear;
His eyes upon heaven's eastern face he bent;
His thoughts above all heavens uplifted were-
The sins and errors which I now repent,
Of my unbridled youth, O Father dear,

Remember not, but let thy mercy fall
And purge my faults and my offences all.
Thus prayed he; with purple wings up-flew,
In golden weed, the morning's lusty queen,
Begilding with the radiant beams she threw,
His helm, the harness, and the mountain green :
Upon his breast and forehead gently blew
The air, that balm and nardus breath'd unseen;
And o'er his head, let down from clearest skies,
A cloud of pure and precious dew there flies.
The heavenly dew was on his garments spread,
To which compar'd, his clothes pale ashes seem,
And sprinkled so that all that paleness fled,
And thence of purest white bright rays outstream:
So cheered are the flowers, late withered,
With the sweet comfort of the morning beam;

And so return'd to youth, a serpent old

Adorns herself in new and native gold.
The lovely whiteness of his changed weed
The prince perceived well and long admired;
Toward the forest march'd he on with speed,
Resolv'd, as such adventures great required:
Thither he came, whence, shrinking back for dread
Of that strange desert's sight, the first retired;
But not to him fearful or loathsome made
That forest was, but sweet with pleasant shade.
Forward he pass'd, and in the grove before,
He heard a sound, that strange, sweet, pleasing was ;
There roll'd a crystal brook with gentle roar,
There sigh'd the winds, as through the leaves they pass,
There sang the swan, and singing died, alas!
There lute, harp, cittern, human voice he heard,
And all these sounds one sound right well declared.

103

A dreadful thunder-clap at last he heard,
The aged trees and plants well nigh, that rent,
Yet heard the nymphs and syrens afterward,
Birds, winds, and waters sing with sweet consent;
Whereat amazed, he stay'd and well prepar'd
For his defence, heedful and slow forth-went,
Nor in his way his passage ought withstood,
Except a quiet, still, transparent flood:

On the green banks, which that fair stream inbound,
Flowers and odours sweetly smil'd and smell'd,
Which reaching out his stretched arms around,
All the large desert in his bosom held,
And through the grove one channel passage found;
This in the wood, that in the forest dwell'd:
Trees clad the streams, streams green those trees aye
made,

And so exchang'd their moisture and their shade.

SIR JOHN HARRINGTON.

The first translator of Ariosto into English was SIR JOHN HARRINGTON, a courtier of the reign of Elizabeth, and also god-son of the queen. He was the son of John Harrington, Esq., the poet already noticed. Sir John wrote a collection of epigrams, and a Brief View of the Church, in which he reprobates the marriage of bishops. He is supposed to have died about the year 1612. The translation from Ariosto is poor and prosaic, but some of his epigrams are pointed.

Of Treason.

Treason doth never prosper; what's the reason? For if it prosper none dare call it treason.

Of Fortune.

Fortune, men say, doth give too much to many, But yet she never gave enough to any.

Against Writers that carp at other Men's Books.

The readers and the hearers like my books,
But yet some writers cannot them digest;
But what care I? for when I make a feast
I would my guests should praise it, not the cooks.

Of a Precise Tailor.

A tailor, thought a man of upright dealing-
True, but for lying-honest, but for stealing,
Did fall one day extremely sick by chance,
And on the sudden was in wondrous trance;
The fiends of hell mustering in fearful manner,
Of sundry colour'd silks display'd a banner
Which he had stolen, and wish'd, as they did tell,
That he might find it all one day in hell.
The man, affrighted with this apparition,
Upon recovery grew a great precisian :
He bought a bible of the best translation,
And in his life he show'd great reformation;
He walked mannerly, he talked meekly,
He heard three lectures and two sermons weekly ;
He vow'd to shun all company unruly,
And in his speech he used no oath but truly;
And zealously to keep the Sabbath's rest,
His meat for that day on the eve was drest;
And lest the custom which he had to steal
Might cause him sometimes to forget his zeal,
He gives his journeyman a special charge,
That if the stuff, allowance being large,
He found his fingers were to filch inclined,
Bid him to have the banner in his mind.
This done (I scant can tell the rest for laughter)
A captain of a ship came three days after,

And brought three yards of velvet and three quarters,
To make Venetians down below the garters.
He, that precisely knew what was enough,
Soon slipt aside three quarters of the stuff;
His man, espying it, said in derision,
Master, remember how you saw the vision!
Peace, knave! quoth he, I did not see one rag
Of such a colour'd silk in all the flag.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

SIR HENRY WOTTON, less famed as a poet than as a political character in the reigns of Elizabeth and James I., was born at Bocton Hall, the seat of his ancestors, in Kent, in 1568. After receiving his education at Winchester and Oxford, and travelling for some years on the continent, he attached himself

Sir Henry Wotton.

to the service of the Earl of Essex, the favourite of Elizabeth, but had the sagacity to foresee the fate of that nobleman, and to elude its consequences by withdrawing in time from the kingdom. Having afterwards gained the friendship of King James, by communicating the secret of a conspiracy formed against him, while yet only king of Scotland, he was employed by that monarch, when he ascended the English throne, as ambassador to Venice. A versatile and lively mind qualified Sir Henry in an eminent degree for this situation, of the duties of which we have his own idea in the well-known punning expression, in which he defines an ambassador to be an honest gentleman sent to lie abroad for the good of his country.' He ultimately took orders, to qualify himself to be provost of Eton, in which situation he died in 1639, in the seventy-second year of his age. His writings were published in 1651, under the title of Reliquiæ Wottoniana; and a memoir of his very curious life has been published by Izaak Walton.

To his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia.
You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light!
You common people of the skies!
What are you, when the sun shall rise t

You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your voices understood
By your weak accents! what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?