Hope. Parent's lawes must beare no weight,

When they happinesse prevent;
And our sea is not so streight,

But it roome hath for content.

Feare. Thousand hearts as victims stand
At the altar of her eyes:

And will partiall she command,
Onely thine for sacrifice?

Hope. Thousand victims must returne;
Shee the purest will designe:
Choose Castara which shall burne,
Choose the purest, that is mine." 8

In a short address" to The Thames," p. 32, he speaks of Faire Seymors, on the banks of Marlow." P. 43, is a poem "to Seymors, the house

in which Castara resided."

In p. 39, a poem to Mr. George Talbot begins with the following noble lines:

"Thrice hath the pale-fac'd empresse of the night Lent in her chaste increase her borrowed light To guide the vowing marriner: since mute, Talbot, th' ast beene, too slothfull to salute Thy exil'd servant. Labour not t'excuse This dull neglect: love never wants a muse. When thunder summons from eternall sleepe Th' imprison'd ghosts, and spreads o' th' frighted deepe

8 Ep. 2^, 21.

A veile of darknesse, penitent to be

I may forget; yet still remember thee,

Next to my faire, under whose eye-lids move,
In nimble measures, beauty, wit, and love."

In p. 50, are some lines to Lady Eleanor Powis, Castara's mother, in which he appeals to the superiority of her judgment over the glitter of wealth and station; and demands, if rich with a little, they may not be lifted by mutual love, to a greatness above what riches can confer. He dares not, he says, when he surveys the beauty of Castara's hand, ascribe the brightness of its veins to the blood of Charlemaigne, which flows in them through her, or the united streams of Marmion, Rosse, Parr, Fitzhugh, and St. Quintin, which add their lustre to the Pembroke family. Would that Castara were the daughter of some mountain-cottager, who could leave her no other dower than what she derived from the bounty of nature! He would then lead her to the temple, rich in her own wealth.

That fortune, them t'enrich, made others want,
Should set themselves out glorious in her stealth,
And trie if that could parallel this wealth."

P. 52, is a poem,

"To the honourable Mr.

Wm. E." reprinted in Headley's 2d vol. pp. 19, 20.

In another poem, "To Castara, on the Vanity of Avarice," p. 56, he says,

"I'de rather like the violet grow
Unmarkt i' th' shaded vale,

Than on the hill those terrors know
Are breath'd forth by an angry gale;

There is more pompe above, more sweete below."

The verses, p. 38, are to his "honoured friend and kinsman, R. St. Esquire." It does not give me pain, says he, if what I write is held no wit at court. Let those who teach their muse the art of winning on easy greatness, or the spruce young lawyer, who is all impudence and tongue,' endeavour to divulge their fames, by which the one may get employ, and the other fees, I embrace silence, and that fate which placed my birth so happily, that I am neither depressed by want, nor flattered by riches into pride. Why are some poets always railing, and steeping their rhymes in gall; as if there was no crime that called so loudly for the vengeance of heaven as the poverty of a few writers? It is true, that Chapman's reverend ashes have been mingled with the vulgar dust for want of a tomb; yet we need not despair, that some devout lover of poetry may yet build him a monu

ment.

1

"Since Spencer hath a stone; and Drayton's browes Stand petrefied: th' wall, with laurell bowes

Yet girt about: and nigh wise Henrie's hearse,
Old Chaucer got a marble for his verse.
So courteous is Death; Death poets brings
So high a pompe to lodge them with their kings;
Yet still they mutiny."

"If some please their patrons with hyperboles, or mysterious nonsense, and then complain, if they are not noticed, that the state neglects men of parts; and seem to think all other kinds of excellence unworthy of reputation, let us set so just a value on knowledge, that the world may trust the sentence of a poet.

"I write to you, Sir, on this theame, because
Your soule is cleare, and you observe the lawes
Of poesie so justly, that I chuse

Yours onely the example to my muše.

And till my browner haire be mixt with grey,
Without a blush, I'le tread the sportive way
My muse directs; a poet youth may be,

But age doth dote without philosophie."

The 1st part closes at pp. 65-67, with a poem so simple, so chaste, so elegant, harmonious, and happy, as to exceed my powers of praise.

"The Description of Castara.

"Like the violet, which alone
Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknowne,
To no looser eye betray'd;

For shee's to herselfe untrue,

Who delights i' th' publicke view.

Such her beauty, as no arts

Have enricht with borrowed grace,
Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place:

Folly boasts a glorious blood;
She is noblest, being good.

Cautious, she knew never yet,
What a wanton courtship meant:
Not speaks loud to boast her wit,
In her silence eloquent.

Of herselfe survey she takes,

But 'tweene men no difference makes,

She obeyes with speedy will

Her grave parents' wise commands;

And so innocent, that ill,

She nor acts, nor understands.

Women's feet runne still astray,
If once to ill they know the way.