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I find that all my wildest oats are sown,
And joy to see what now I see at last; And since that love was cause I trode awry, I here take off his bells, and let him fly.
SIR JOHN HARINGTON,
The translator of Ariotso's “ Orlando Furioso;" a work much admired, at that time, though inaccurate and feeble. In the same volume are generally found four books of epigrams, the first part of which, was separately printed, in 1615, and the three last in 1618. Many of these are excellent. His poetical version of the “ Schola Salerni," printed in 1609, a work very little known, is curious from its subject, to which the style is extremely well adapted. He also composed a complete metrical version of the Psalms, which was never printed, but is now preserved in
Mr. Douce's very curious library. Sir John Harington was born about 1561, at Kelston, near
Bath ; was knighted by Lord Essex, in 1590, and died in 1612.
Whence comes my love, oh heart, disclose!
The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
Why thus, sweet love, so kind bespeak
The son of a music-master, born in 1562. He seems to have been early distinguished by his poetical talents, and to have received either a pension, or some valuable presents, from Queen Elizabeth; to whom he acknowledges his obligations in the dedication to his works, 1602. In the following reign, he was Groom of the Chamber to the
Queen. He died in 1619. His “ Delia,” and “ Complaint of Rosamond,” were first
published in 1592; the first four books of his “ Civil “ Wars," in 1595; the fifth, in 1599; the sixth, in 1002, and the seventh and eighth, in 1609. Many other pieces are included in his poetical works, which were collected by
his brother, and printed in 1623. Daniel's sonnets are very beautiful. His “ Civil Wars"
are rather distinguished by elegance, than sublimity of expression; but they contain many curious, and some highly poetical, passages. His prose “ History of England” was once highly esteemed for the purity and conciseness of its style.
Look, Delia, how w’esteem the half-blown rose,
The image of thy blush and summer's honour; Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose
That full of beauty, time bestows upon her.
No sooner spreads her glory in the air,
But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to . decline; She then is scorn'd that late adorn’d the fair;
So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine.
No April can revive thy wither'd flowers,
Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now: Swift speedy time, feather’d with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow. Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain, But love now whilst thou may’st be lov'd again,
If this be love to draw a weary breath,
* - * * * With downward looks, still reading to the earth
The sad memorials of my love's despair ;
If this be love, to war against my soul,
Lie down to wail, rise up to sigh and grieve, The never-resting stone of care to roll,
Still to complain my griefs, whilst none relieve;