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SIR JOHN DAVIES.

[Born, 1570. Died, 1626.]

SIR JOHN DAVIES wrote, at twenty-five years of age, a poem on the immortality of the soul; and at fifty-two, when he was a judge and a statesman, another on "the art of dancing*." Well might the teacher of that noble accomplishment, in Molière's comedy, exclaim, La philosophie est quelque chose-mais la danse!

Sir John was the son of a practising lawyer at Tisbury, in Wiltshire. He was expelled from the Temple for beating Richard Martin, who was afterwards recorder of London; but his talents redeemed the disgrace. He was restored to the Temple, and elected to parliament, where, although he had flattered Queen Elizabeth in his poetry, he distinguished himself by supporting the privileges of the house, and by opposing royal monopolies. On the accession of King James he went to Scotland with Lord Hunsdon, and was received by the new sovereign with flattering cordiality, as author of the poem Nosce Teipsum.

In Ireland he was successively nominated solicitor and attorney general, was knighted, and chosen speaker of the Irish House of Commons, in opposition to the Catholic interest. Two works which he published as the fruits of his observation in that kingdom, have attached considerable importance to his name in the legal and political history of Ireland§. On his return to England he sat in parliament for Newcastle-under-Lyne, and had assurances of being appointed chief justice of England, when his death was suddenly occasioned by apoplexy. He married, while in Ireland, Eleanor, a daughter of Lord Audley, by whom he had a daughter, who was married to Ferdinand Lord Hastings, afterwards Earl of Huntingdon. Sir John's widow turned out an enthusiast and a

prophetess. A volume of her ravings was published in 1649, for which the revolutionary government sent her to the Tower, and to Bethlehem Hospital.

THE VANITY OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE.

FROM "NOSCE TEIPSUM," OR A POEM ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

WHY did my parents send me to the schools, That I with knowledge might enrich my mind? Since the desire to know first made men fools, And did corrupt the root of all mankind.

What is this knowledge but the sky-stol'n fire,
For which the thieft still chain'd in ice doth sit?
And which the poor rude satyr did admire,
And needs would kiss, but burnt his lips with it.

In fine, what is it but the fiery coach

Which the youth|| sought, and sought his death withal,

Or the boy's wings¶ which, when he did approach The sun's hot beams, did melt and let him fall?

[*This is not the case; the "Poeme of Dauncing" appeared in 1596, in his twenty-sixth year, and, curious enough, with a dedicatory sonnet "To his very Friend, Ma. Rich. Martin." A copy, supposed unique, is in the Bridgewater Library. The poem was the work of fifteen days. See COLLIER'S Bibliographical Catalogue, p. 92. The poet wrote his name DAUYS.]

A respectable man, to whom Ben Jonson dedicated his Poetaster.

¡Phaeton.

Prometheus.

Icarus.

And yet, alas! when all our lamps are burn'd,
Our bodies wasted and our spirits spent ;
When we have all the learned volumes turn'd,
Which yield men's wits both strength and orna-
ment,

What can we know, or what can we discern, When error chokes the windows of the mind? The divers forms of things how can we learn, That have been ever from our birth-day blind?

When reason's lamp, that, like the sun in sky, Throughout man's little world her beams did spread,

Is now become a sparkle, which doth lie
Under the ashes, half extinct and dead.

How can we hope, that through the eye and ear,
This dying sparkle, in this cloudy space,
Can recollect these beams of knowledge clear,
Which were infused in the first minds by grace?

§ The works are "A Discovery of the Causes why Ireland was never subdued till the beginning of his Majesty's Reign," and "Reports of Cases adjudged in the King's Courts in Ireland."

So might the heir whose father hath in play
Wasted a thousand pounds of ancient rent,
By painful earning of one groat a day
Hope to restore the patrimony spent.

The wits that dived most deep and soar'd most high,
Seeking man's powers, have found his weakness such;
Skill comes so slow, and time so fast doth fly,
We learn so little and forget so much.

For this the wisest of all moral men
Said, "he knew nought but that he did not know."
And the great mocking master mock'd not then,
When he said Truth was buried deep below.'

As spiders, touch'd, seek their web's inmost part;
As bees, in storms, back to their hives return;
As blood in danger gathers to the heart;
As men seek towns when foes the country burn:

If aught can teach us aught, affliction's looks (Making us pry into ourselves so near), Teach us to know ourselves beyond all books, Or all the learned schools that ever were.

She within lists my ranging mind bath brought,
That now beyond myself I will not go :
Myself am centre of my circling thought:
Only myself I study, learn, and know.

I know my body's of so frail a kind,
As force without, fevers within can kill ;
I know the heavenly nature of my mind,
But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will.

I know my soul hath power to know all things,

4 Yet is she blind and ignorant in all ;

I know I'm one of nature's little kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life's a pain, and but a span ;
I know my sense is mock'd in every thing :
And, to conclude, I know myself a man,
Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.

We seek to know the moving of each sphere,
And the strange cause of th' ebbs and floods of Nile;
But of that clock within our breasts we bear,
The subtle motions we forget the while.

For this few know themselves; for merchants broke
View their estate with discontent and pain;
And seas are troubled, when they do revoke
Their flowing waves into themselves again.

And while the face of outward things we find
Pleasing and fair, agreeable and sweet,
These things transport and carry out the mind,
That with herself the mind can never meet.

Yet if affliction once her wars begin,

And threat the feebler sense with sword and fire,
The mind contracts herself and shrinketh in,
And to herself she gladly doth retire.

THAT THE SOUL IS MORE THAN A PERFECTION
OR REFLEXION OF THE SENSE.

ARE they not senseless, then, that think the soul
Nought but a fine perfection of the sense,
Or of the forms which fancy doth enrol,
A quick resulting and a consequence?

What is it, then, that doth the sense accuse
Both of false judgments and fond appetites?
What makes us do what sense doth most refuse,
Which oft in torment of the sense delights?

Could any powers of sense the Roman move,
To burn his own right hand with courage stout?
Could sense make Marius sit unbound, and prove
The cruel lancing of the knotty gout?

Sense outsides knows-the soul through all things

sees;

Sense, circumstance; she doth the substance view: Sense sees the bark, but she the life of trees; Sense hears the sounds, but she the concord true.

Then is the soul a nature which contains
The power of sense within a greater power,
Which doth employ and use the sense's pains,
But sits and rules within her private bower.

THAT THE SOUL IS MORE THAN THE TEMPER-
ATURE OF THE HUMOURS OF THE BODY.

IF she doth, then, the subtle sense excel,
How gross are they that drown her in the blood,
Or in the body's humours temper'd well?
As if in them such high perfection stood.

As if most skill in that musician were,
Which had the best, and best tuned, instrument ;
As if the pencil neat, and colours clear,
Had power to make the painter excellent.

Why doth not beauty, then, refine the wit,
And good complexion rectify the will?
Why doth not health bring wisdom still with it?
Why doth not sickness make men brutish still?

Who can in memory, or wit, or will,
Or air, or fire, or earth, or water, find;
What alchymist can draw, with all his skill,
The quintessences of these from out the mind?

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THOMAS GOFFE.

[Born, 1592. Died, 1627.]

THIS writer left four or five dramatic pieces, of very ordinary merit. He was bred at Christ's Church, Oxford. He held the living of East Clandon in Surrey, but unfortunately succeeded not only to the living, but to the widow of his

predecessor, who, being a Xantippe, contributed, according to Langbaine, to shorten his days by the "violence of her provoking tongue." He had the reputation of an eloquent preacher, and some of his sermons appeared in print.

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SCENE FROM GOFFE'S TRAGEDY OF “AMURATH, OR THE COURAGEOUS TURK."

ALADIN, husband to the daughter of AMURATH, having rebelled against his father-in-law, is brought captive

before him.

Enter at one door, AMURATH with Attendants; at the other door, ALADIN, his Wife, two Children, in while -they kneel to AMURATH.

Amur. OUR hate must not part thus. I'll tell thee, prince,

That thou hast kindled Etna in our breast!
And such a flame is quench'd with nought but
blood-

His blood whose hasty and rebellious blast
Gave life unto the fire!

Alad. Why then, I'll, like the Roman Pompey, hide

My dying sight, scorning imperious looks

Should grace so base a stroke with sad aspèct.
Thus will I muffle up, and choke my groans,
Lest a grieved tear should quite put out the name
Of lasting courage in Carmania's fame!

Amur. What, still stiff-neck'd? Is this the truce you beg?

Sprinkled before thy face, those rebel brats

Shall have their brains-and their dissected limbs
Hurl'd for a prey to kites !-for, lords, 'tis fit
No spark of such a mountain-threatening fire
Be left as unextinct, lest it devour,

And prove more hot unto the Turkish Empery
Than the Promethean blaze did trouble Jove !—
First sacrifice those brats!

Alad. Wife. Dear father, let thy fury rush on me! Within these entrails sheath thine insate sword! And let this ominous and too fruitful womb Be torn in sunder! for from thence those babes Took all their crimes; error (hath) made them guilty

'Twas nature's fault, not theirs. O if affection Can work then!-now show a true father's love: If not, appease those murdering thoughts with me; For as Jocasta pleaded with her sons

For their dear father, so to a father I

For my dear babes and husband-husband !— father

Which shall I first embrace? Victorious father!

Be blunt those now sharp thoughts; lay down those threats;

Unclasp that impious helmet; fix to earth
That monumental spear-look on thy child
With pardoning looks, not with a warrior's eye,
Else shall my breast cover my husband's breast,
And serve as buckler to receive thy wounds-
Why dost thou doubt ?-fear'st thou thy daughter's
faith?

Amur. I fear; for after daughter's perjury,
All laws of nature shall distasteful be,
Nor will I trust thy children or thyself.
Alad. Wife.

O let me kiss, kind father! first the earth
On which you tread, then kiss mine husband's cheek.
Great king, embrace those babes-you are the stock
On which these grafts were planted-

Amur. True; and when sprouts do rob the tree of sap,

They must be pruned.

Alad. Wife. Dear father! leave such harsh similitudes.

By my deceased mother, to whose womb
I was a ten months' burthen-by yourself,
To whom I was a pleasing infant once,
Pity my husband and these tender infants!

Amur.Yes; to have them collect a manly strength, And their first lesson that their dad shall teach them, Shall be to read my misery.

Alad. Stern conqueror ! but that thy daughter shows

There once dwelt good in that obdurate breast,
I would not spend a tear to soften thee.
Thou see'st my countries turn'd into a grave!
My cities scare the sun with fiercer flames,
Which turn them into ashes!-all myself
So sleckt and carved, that my amazed blood
Knows not through which wound first to take its
way!

If not on me, have mercy on my babes,
Which with thy mercy thou may'st turn to love.
Amur. No, Sir, we must root out malicious seed;
Nothing sprouts faster than an envious weed.
We see a little bullock 'mongst an herd,

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A CLIMBING height it is, without a head,
Depth without bottom, way without an end;
A circle with no line environed,
Not comprehended, all it comprehends;
Worth infinite, yet satisfies no mind
Till it that infinite of the God-head find.
For our defects in nature who sees not?
We enter first, things present not conceiving,
Not knowing future, what is past forgot;
All other creatures instant power receiving
To help themselves: man only bringeth sense
To feel and wail his native impotence.

IMAGINATION.

Knowledge's next organ is imagination,
A glass wherein the object of our sense
Ought to respect true height or declination,
For understanding's clear intelligence;
But this power also hath her variation
Fixed in some, in some with difference-
In all so shadow'd with self-application,
As makes her pictures still too foul or fair,
Not like the life in lineament or air.

REASON.

The last chief oracle of what man knows
Is understanding, which, though it contain

Some ruinous notions which our nature shows
Of general truths, yet they have such a stain
From our corruption, as all light they lose;
Save to convince of ignorance or sin,
Which, where they reign, let no perfection in.

Nor in a right line can her eyes ascend,
To view the things that immaterial are ;
For as the sun doth, while his beams descend,
Lighten the earth but shadow every star,
So reason, stooping to attend the sense,
Darkens the spirit's clear intelligence.

INSUFFICIENCY OF PHILOSOPHY.

Then what is our high-praised philosophy,
But books of poesy in prose compiled,
Far more delightful than they fruitful be,
Witty appearance, guile that is beguiled;
Corrupting minds much rather than directing,
Th' allay of duty, and our pride's erecting.

For, as among physicians, what they call
Word magic, never helpeth the disease
Which drugs and diet ought to deal withal,
And by their real working give us ease;
So these word-sellers have no power to cure
The passions which corrupted lives endure.

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