"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; No haste but good: well were they, and The godly hermit, when all means Departing said "I found you knaves, HENRY CONSTABLE. 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 "6 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, And if that Beauty had not been more kind 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, And yet, though naked, he feels more heat than cold. Ir ever sorrow spoke from soul that loves, 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 fortune, Denouncing worst to him is most his friend. bear: This care am I; this care my life hath taken, Dear to my soul! thou leave me not forsaken! THOMAS WATSON. For an account of the writings of this author, whom an eminent 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. 904, and to Vol. LXVIII. p. 669. SONNET XXVI. [From his "Hecatompathia, or Passionate Centurie of Love," no date, but licenced in the Stationers books 1581.] WHEN May is in his prime, and youthful 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 mine, And storm with sighs, to ease me as |