Fetch'd from Engaddi spice, from Jewry balm,
And bound her brows with Idumæan palm;
Now, old, hath her last voyage made, and brought
To royal harbour this her sacred fraught:
Who to her king bequeathes the wealth of kings;
And dying, her own epicedium sings.

Extract from an Address "Deo Opt. Max." at the end of the same volume.

OH! who hath tasted of thy clemency

In greater measure, or more oft than I ?
My grateful verse thy goodness shall display.
O thou who went'st along in all my way
To where the Morning with perfumed wings
From the high mountains of Panchæa springs;
To that new-found-out world, where sober Night
Takes from th' Antipodes her silent flight;
To those dark seas, where horrid winter reigns,
And binds the stubborn floods in icy chains;

To Libyan wastes, whose thirst no showers assuage,
And where swoln Nilus cools the lion's rage.
Thy wonders in the deep have I beheld;
Yet all by those on Junah's hills excell'd:
There where the Virgin Son his doctrine taught,
His miracles and our redemption wrought :
Where I, by thee inspir'd, his praises sung,
And on his sepulchre my offering hung :

Which way soe'er I turn my face or feet,

I see thy glory and thy mercy meet.

Met on the Thracian shores; when in the strife
Of frantic Simoans thou preserv'd'st my life.

Thou sav'd'st me from the bloody massacres
Of faithless Indians, from their treacherous wars,
From raging fevers, from the sultry breath
Of tainted air, which cloy'd the jaws of death,
Preserv'd from swallowing seas, when towering waves
Mix'd with the clouds and open'd their deep graves.

Then brought'st me home in safety, that this earth
Might bury me, which fed me from my birth:
Blest with a healthful age, a quiet mind,
Content with little, to this work design'd:
Which I at length have finish'd by thy aid,
And now my vows have at thy altar paid.

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

Or this author little appears to be known, except that he was probably a native of Lincolnshire, an actor, and one of the most voluminous writers that ever attempted dramatic composition, as he himself reckons one hundred and twenty plays, in which, says he, "I have had either an entire hand, or at least a main finger." Of these, however, only twenty-four remain, for a catalogue of which, as well as his other works, recourse may be had to the Biographia Dramatica and Langbaine. The latter regards him as "a general scholar, and an indifferent linguist," and informs us 66 'he has borrowed many ornaments from the ancients." The following extracts are taken from his Pleasant Dialogues and Drammas," &c., 1637, 12mo.

SONG.

PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft,
To give my love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing,

To give my love good-morrow!
To give my love good-morrow,
Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin-red-breast,
Sing birds in every furrow;

And from each hill let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird, and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow!
To give my love good-morrow,

WE that have known no greater state
Than this we live in, praise our fate :
For, courtly silks in cares are spent,
When country's russet breeds content.
The power of sceptres we admire,
But sheep-hook for our use desire.
Simple and low is our condition,
For here with us is no ambition;
We with the sun our flocks unfold,
Whose rising makes their fleeces gold.
Our music from the birds we borrow,
They bidding us, we them, good-morrow.

Our habits are but coarse and plain, Yet they defend from wind and rain;

As warm too, in an equal eye,

As those be stained in scarlet dye.
Those that have plenty wear, we see,
But one at once, and so do we.
The shepherd with his home-spun lass
As many merry hours doth pass
As courtiers with their costly girls,
Though richly deck'd in gold and pearls ;
And, though but plain, to purpose woo,
Nay, oft-times, with less danger too.
Those that delight in dainties store
One stomach feed at once, no more :
And, when with homely fare we feast,
With us it doth as well digest;
And many times we better speed,
For our wild fruits no surfeits breed.
If we sometimes the willow wear,

By subtle swains that dare forswear,
We wonder whence it comes, and fear
They've been at court, and learnt it there.