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Langbaine's account of this writer is, that he was the youngest

son of Edwin Sandys, archbishop of York, and born at Bishop's-Thorp, A.D. 1577. He was entered at St. Mary Hall, in Oxford, in 1588, and in 1610 began his travels into the East. He died in 1643. His translation of Ovid, once much esteemed, was published in 1632. A tragedy, called “ Christ's Passion, translated from Hugo Grotius, and first printed in 1640, is much praised by Langbaine. The fol. lowing extract is taken from his “ Divine Poems," 1648.

Ye who dwell above the skies,
Free from human miseries;
Ye whom highest heaven embowers,
Praise the Lord with all your powers ?
Angels ! your clear voices raise,
Him your heavenly armies praise.
Sun, and moon with borrow'd light,
All ye sparkling eyes of night,
Waters hanging in the air,
Heaven of heavens, his praise declare!
His deserved praise record,
His, who made you by his word.


Made you evermore to last, you

bounds not to be past. Let the earth his praise resound! Monstrous whales, and seas profound, Vapours, lightning, hail, and snow, Storms, which, when he bids them, blow: Flow'ry hills, and mountains high, Cedars, neighbours to the sky, Trees, that fruit in season yield, All the cattle of the field, Savage beasts, all creeping things, All that cut the air with wings, Ye who awful sceptres sway, Ye, inured to obey, Princes, judges of the earth, All, of high or humble birth, Youths, and virgins, flourishing In the beauty of your spring; Ye who bow with age's weight, Ye who were but born of late ; Praise his name with one consent: O how great! how excellent !


Langbaine enumerates five-and-twenty plays written by this

voluminous author. The following extracts are taken from his “ Pleasant Dialogues and Dramas, &c.” small 12mo. 1037.


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,
Sing birds in every furrow.


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-hooks 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 bestain'd in scarlet dye.

These 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 daiuties 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.

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