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, To which I pay this debt of due thanksgiving; 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 "Though dusty wits of this ungrateful time, Then let not envy stop thy vein of rhyme; Nor let thy function make thee shamed of it: 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; That unto honest sports will grant no space. The wholesom'st meats, that are, will breed satiety, In musick notes must be some high, some base. To work in men's ill manners good amendment. 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, Famous for counsel much, and much for arms: In well grac'd stile and phrase hath it reveal'd. England, be kind, enrich'd with such a book; Both give due honour to that noble dame, 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; 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, 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; There we complain of one rare roasted chick; That think there is no great delight in war! ART, |