1634, fol. but the fourth book had before been printed by itself in 4to. in 1615.

Sir John Harington was born 1561, and died at his seat at Kelston, near Bath, in 1612, aged 51. The NUGE ANTIQUE, which have been lately re-edited with so much elegance, and so much erudite industry, have so fully brought back his memory to the public notice, that it would be superfluous for me to repeat the circumstances of his life or character.

The epigrams, it must be confessed, although they appear to have once enjoyed some reputation, possess no poetical merit. They are flat, colloquial, rhymes, of that low tone, above which it seems to have been difficult for the genius of Harington to rise. But they may still be perused with some interest by the antiquary, the biographer, and the investigator of ancient manners, and customs; like those of Sir Aston Cokayne, which contain numerous cotemporary notices of his friends, neighbours and acquaintance. For this reason, I shall transcribe a few specimens.

The volume is dedicated to George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, in which it is said, by the publisher, (for it must be recollected that it was posthumous) "if in poetry, heraldry were admitted, he would be found in happiness of wit near allied to the great Sidney: yet but near; for the Apix of the Cœlum Empyrium is not more inaccessible, than is the height of Sydney's poesy, which by imagination we may approach, by imitation never attain to."

EPIGR.

EPIGR. 42. B. I.

An Epitaph in commendation of George Turberville, a learned gentleman.

"When times were yet but rude, thy pen endeavour'd To polish barbarism with purer style:

When times were grown most old, thy heart persever'd,
Sincere and just, unstain'd with gifts or guile.
Now lives thy soul, tho' from thy corpse dissever'd;
There high in bliss, here clear in fame the while:

To which I pay this debt of due thanksgiving;
My pen doth praise thee dead; thine grac'd me living."

EPIGR. 73. B. I.

Of his Translation of Ariosto.

"I spent some years, and months, and weeks, and days, In Englishing the Italian Ariost;

And strait some offer'd epigrams in praise

Of that my thankless pains, and fruitless cost.

But while this offer did my spirits raise,

And that I told my friend thereof in post, He disapprov'd the purpose many ways,

And with this proverb prov'd it labour lost : Good ale doth need no sign; good wine no bush ; Good verse of praisers needs not pass a rush."

EPIGR. 36. B. II.

To Dr. Harvey, of Cambridge.

"The Proverb says, 'Who fights with dirty foes,

Must needs be foil'd, admit they win or lose.'

Then think it doth a doctor's credit dash

To make himself antagonist to Nash !"*

The celebrated Tom Nash, who had a long quarrel with Gabriel Harvey.

EPIGR. 64. B. II.

To Master Bastard,* a Minister, that made a pleasani
Book of English Epigrams.

"Though dusty wits of this ungrateful time,
Carp at thy book of Epigrams, and scoff it,
Yet wise men know, to mix the sweet with profit
Is worthy praise, not only void of crime.

Then let not envy stop thy vein of rhyme;

Nor let thy function make thee shamed of it:
A poet is one step unto a prophet;

And such a step as 'tis no shame to climb.

You must in pulpit treat of matters serious;

As best beseems the person, and the place;
There preach of faith, repentance, hope, and grace;
Of sacraments, and such high things mysterious:
But they are too severe, and too imperious,

That unto honest sports will grant no space.
For these our minds refresh when those weary us,
And spur our doubled spirit to swifter pace.

The wholesom'st meats, that are, will breed satiety,
Except we should admit of some variety.

In musick notes must be some high, some base.
And this I note, your verses have intendment,
Still kept within the lists of good sobriety,

To work in men's ill manners good amendment.
Wherefore if any think such verse unseasonable,
Their stoic minds are foes to good society,
And men of reason may think them unreasonable:
It is an act of virtue and of piety,

To warn us of our sins in any sort,

In prose, in verse, în earnest, or in sport."

• Thomas Bastard, see CBNS, LIT. Vol. II. p. 238.

EPIGR.

EPIGR. 26. B. III.

In commendation of Master Lewknor's Sixth Description of Venice. Dedicated to Lady Warwick, 1595.

"Lo; here's describ'd, though but in little room,
Fair Venice, like a spouse in Neptune's arms;
For freedom, emulous to ancient Rome,

Famous for counsel much, and much for arms:
Whose story, erst written with Tuscan quill,
Lay to our English wits as half conceal'd,
Till Lewkuor's learned travel and his skill

In well grac'd stile and phrase hath it reveal'd.
Venice, be proud, that thus augments thy fame;

England, be kind, enrich'd with such a book;

Both give due honour to that noble dame,
For whom this task the writer undertook."

EPIGR. 47. B. III.

In praise of the Countess of Derby, married to the Lord Chancellor.

"This noble Countess lived many years

With Derby, one of England's greatest Peers;
Fruitful and fair, and of so clear a name,
That all this region marvell'd at her fame.
But this brave Peer, extinct by hasten'd fate,
She stay'd, ah! too, too long! in widow's state;
And in that state took so sweet state upon her,

All ears, eyes, tongues, heard, saw, and told her honour;

Alice widow of Ferdinando, Earl of Derby, daughter of Sir John 'Spencer, of Althorpe, remarried to Lord Chancellor Egerton.

Yet

Yet finding this a saying full of verity,
"Tis hard to have a patent of prosperity,'
She found her wisest way, and safe to deal,
Was to consort with him that kept the Seal."

EPIG. 6. B. IV.

Of the Wars in Ireland.

"I prais'd the speech, but cannot now abide it,' That War is sweet to those that have not tried it: For I have prov'd it now, and plainly see 't,

It is so sweet, it maketh all things sweet.

At home Canary wines and Greek grow loathsome;
Here milk is nectar, water tasteth toothsome.
There without bak'd, roast, boil'd, it is no cheer:
Biscuit we like, and bonny Clabo here.

There we complain of one rare roasted chick;
Here meat, worse cooked, never makes us sick.
At home in silken sparvers, beds of down,
We scant can rest, but still toss up and down;
Here we can sleep, a saddle to our pillow,
A hedge the curtain; canopy a willow.
There if a child but cry, O what a spite!
Here we can brook three larums in one night!
There homely rooms must be perfum'd with roses,
Here match and powder ne'er offends our noses;
There from a storm of rain we run like pullets,
Here we stand fast against a shower of bullets.
Lo! then how greatly their opinions err,

That think there is no great delight in war!
But yet for this, sweet War, I'll be thy debtor;
I shall for ever love my home the better."

ART,