JOSHUA SYLVESTER, In his earliest publication styles himself a merchant-adventurer. Wood could not discover whether he had received an academical education, but has borne testimony to his knowledge of the French, Spanish, Dutch, Italian, and Latin languages. His moral conduct, his piety, and his patience, appear to have been exemplary: nor was any writer honoured with more contemporary praise: but his country is said to have treated him with ingratitude, and he died at Middleburg in 1618, aged 55. The works of this laborious but unequal writer, were succes sively printed in various forms, and collected into a large volume in folio, printed in 1621, 1633, and 1641. They consist principally of translations. In p. 652 of the latter edition, is printed the "Soul's Errand," which has been attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh under the title of "The "Lie," and asserted to have been written by him on the night before his execution, Oct. 29, 1618; but this assertion is utterly incredible, as the poem appeared in Davison's "Poetical Rapsodie," ten years before. Till a more authorized claimant shall be produced, it is therefore restored to its ancient proprietor. A caution for Courtly Damsels. BEWARE, fair maid, of mighty courtiers' oaths; Take heed what gifts or favours you receive; Let not the fading gloss of silken cloaths Dazzle your virtues, or your fame bereave: For once but leave the hold you have of grace, Each greedy hand will strive to catch the flower, When none regard the stalk it grows upon; Baseness desires the fruit still to devour, And leaves the tree to fall or stand alone: But this advice, fair creature, take of me, Let none take fruit unless he'll have the tree. Believe not oaths, nor much-protesting men ; The heart doth live ten regions from the tongue: For when with oaths and vows they make you tremble, Believe them least; for then they most dissemble. A contented Mind. I WEIGH not Fortune's frown or smile, I rest so pleas'd with what I have, I quake not at the thunder's crack, I see ambition never pleas'd, I see some Tantals starv'd in store; I see gold's dropsy seldom eas'd, I feign not friendship where I hate, The Soul's Errand. Go, soul, the body's guest, Go tell the court it glows, And shines like rotten wood, Go, tell the church it shows What's good, and doth no good: If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie. Tell potentates, they live Acting by others actions, Not lov'd unless they give, If potentates reply, Tell men of high condition That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition, Tell them that brave it most, Who in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending. Tell zeal it lacks devotion, Tell age it daily wasteth, Tell honour how it alters, Tell beauty how she blasteth, Tell favour how she falters. And as they shall reply Give every one the lie, Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness: |