After the death of Sir F. Wolley, his next protector was Sir Robert Drury, whom he accompanied on an embassy to France. His wife, with an attachment as romantic as poet could wish for, had formed the design of accompanying him as a page. It was on this occasion, and to dissuade her from the design, that he addressed to her the verses beginning, "By our first strange and fatal interview." Isaak Walton relates, with great simplicity, how the poet, one evening, as he sat alone in his chamber in Paris, saw the vision of his beloved wife appear to him with a dead infant in her arms, a story which wants only credibility to be interesting. He had at

SONG.

SWEETEST love, I do not go

For weariness of thee,

Nor in hope the world can show

A fitter love for me.

But since that I

Must die at last, 'tis best

Thus to use myself in jest
By feigned death to die.

Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here to-day;
He hath no desire nor sense,

Nor half so short a way:

Then fear not me,

But believe that I shall make Hastier journeys, since I take More wings and spurs than he.

THE BREAK OF DAY.

STAY, oh sweet! and do not rise:
The light that shines comes from thine eyes;
The day breaks not—it is my heart,
Because that you and I must part.
Stay, or else my joys will die,
And perish in their infancy.

Tis true, it's day-what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise because 'tis light?
Did we lie down because 'twas night?
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should, in despite of light, keep us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say,
That, being well, I fain would stay,
And that I loved my heart and honour so,
That I would not from her that had them go.

last the good fortune to attract the regard of King James; and, at his majesty's instance, as he might now consider that he had outlived the remembrance of his former follies, he was persuaded to become a clergyman. In this capacity he was successively appointed chaplain to the king, lecturer of Lincoln's Inn, vicar of St. Dunstan's Fleet Street, and dean of St. Paul's. His death, at a late age, was occasioned by consumption. He was buried in St. Paul's, where his figure yet remains in the vault of St. Faith's, carved from a painting for which he sat a few days before his death, dressed in his winding-sheet.

Must business thee from hence remove?

O, that's the worst disease of love!

The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busy man.

He which hath business and makes love, doth do
Such wrong as when a married man doth woo.

THE DREAM.

IMAGE of her whom I love more than she
Whose fair impression in my faithful heart
Makes me her medal, and makes her love me
As kings do coins, to which their stamps impart
The value-go, and take my heart from hence,
Which now is grown too great and good for me.
Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense
Strong objects dull; the more, the less we see.
When you are gone, and reason gone with you,
Then phantasy is queen, and soul, and all;
She can present joys meaner than you do,
Convenient, and more proportional.
So if I dream I have you, I have you,
For all our joys are but fantastical,
And so I 'scape the pain, for pain is true;
And sleep, which locks up sense, doth lock out all.
After such a fruition I shall wake,

And, but the waking, nothing shall repent;
And shall to love more thankful sonnets make,
Than if more honour, tears, and pains, were spent.
But, dearest heart, and dearer image, stay;
Alas! true joys at best are dreams enough.
Though you stay here you pass too fast away,
For even at first life's taper is a snuff.
Fill'd with her love, may I be rather grown
Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.

ON THE LORD HARRINGTON, &c. TO THE COUNTESS OF BEDFORD.

If looking up to God, or down to us, Thou find that any way is pervious 'Twixt heaven and earth, and that men's actions do

Come to your knowledge and affections too,
See, and with joy, me to that good degree
Of goodness grown, that I can study thee;
And by these meditations refined,
Can unapparel and enlarge my mind;
And so can make, by this soft extacy,
This place a map of heaven, myself of thee.
Thou see'st me here at midnight now all rest,
Time's dead low-water, when all minds divest

Or this author I have been able to obtain no farther information, than that he belonged to the Inner Temple, and translated a great number of John Owen's Latin epigrams into English. His

THE night, say all, was made for rest;
And so say I, but not for all;

To them the darkest nights are best,
Which give them leave asleep to fall;
But I that seek my rest by light,
Hate sleep, and praise the clearest night.

Bright was the moon, as bright as day,
And Venus glitter'd in the west,
Whose light did lead the ready way,
That led me to my wished rest;
Then each of them increased their light,
While I enjoy'd her heavenly sight.

To-morrow's business, when the lab'rers have
Such rest in bed, that their last churchyard grave,
Subject to change, will scarce be a type of this.
Now, when the client, whose last hearing is
To-morrow, sleeps; when the condemned man,
(Who, when he opes his eyes, must shut them, then,
Again by death!) although sad watch he keep,
Doth practise dying by a little sleep.
Thou at this midnight seest me, and as soon
As that sun rises, to me midnight's noon;
All the world grows transparent, and I see
Through all, both church and state, in seeing thee.

"HOLY George Herbert," as he is generally called, was prebendary of Leighton Ecclesia, a village in Huntingdonshire. Though Bacon is

songs, sonnets, and elegies, bear the date of 1631. Indifferent as the collection is, entire pieces of it are pilfered.

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Say, gentle dames, what moved your mind
To shine so ight above your wont?
Would Phoebe fair Endymion find,
Would Venus see Adonis hunt?
No, no, you feared by her sight,
To lose the praise of beauty bright.

At last for shame you shrunk away,
And thought to reave the world of light;
Then shone my dame with brighter ray,
Than that which comes from Phœbus' sight;
None other light but hers I praise,
Whose nights are clearer than the days.

said to have consulted him about some of his writings, his memory is chiefly indebted to the affectionate mention of old Isaak Walton.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shows you have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season'd timber, never gives,
But when the whole world turns to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

THIS writer was the antagonist of Jonson in the drama, and the rival of Bishop Hall in satire*, though confessedly inferior to them both in their respective walks of poetry. While none of his biographers seem to know anything about him, Mr. Gifford (in his Memoirs of Ben Jonson) conceives that Wood has unconsciously noticed him as a gentleman of Coventry, who married Mary, the daughter of the Rev. W. Wilkes, chaplain to King James, and rector of St. Martin, in Wiltshire. According to this notice, our poet died at London, in 1634, and was buried in the church belonging to the Temple. These particulars agree with what Jonson said to Drummond respecting this dramatic opponent of his, in his conversation at Hawthornden, viz. that Marston wrote his father-in-law's preachings, and his father-in-law Marston's comedies. Marston's comedies are somewhat dull; and it is not difficult to conceive a witty sermon of those days,

SOPHONISBA, the daughter of Asdrubal, has been wooed by Syphax and Massinissa, rival kings of Africa,'and both the allies of Carthage. She prefers Massinissa; and Syphax, indignant at her refusal, revolts to the Romans. MassiInisssa, on the night of his marriage, is summoned to the assistance of the Carthaginians, on the alarm of Scipio's invasion. The senate of Carthage, notwithstanding Massinissa's fidelity, decree that Syphax shall be tempted back to them by the offer of Sophonisba in riage. Sophonisba is on the point of being sacrificed to the enforced nuptials, when Massinissa, who had been apprised of the treachery of Carthage, attacks the troops of Syphax, joins the Romans, and brings Syphax a captive to Scipio's feet. Syphax, in his justification to Scipio, pleads, that his love for Sophonisba alone had tempted him to revolt from Rome. Scipio therefore orders that the daughter of Asdrubal, when taken prisoner, shall belong to the Romans alone. Lelius and Massinissa march on to Cirta, and storm the palace of Syphax, where they find Sophonisba.

The cornets sounding a march, MASSINISSA enters with
his beaver up.
Mass. MARCH to the palace!
Soph. Whate'er man thou art,

Of Lybia thy fair arms speak, give heart
To amazed weakness: hear her that for long time
Hath seen no wished light. Sophonisba,

I

A name for misery much known, 'tis she
Intreats of thy graced sword this only boon:

when puns were scattered from the pulpit, to have been as lively as an indifferent comedy. Marston is the Crispinus of Jonson's Poetaster, where he is treated somewhat less contemptuously than his companion Demetrius (Dekker); an allusion is even made to the respectability of his birth. Both he and Dekker were afterwards reconciled to Jonson; but Marston's reconcilement, though he dedicated his Malcontent to his propitiated enemy, seems to have been subject to relapses. It is amusing to find Langbaine descanting on the chaste purity of Marston as a writer, and the author of the Biographia Dramatica transcribing the compliment immediately before the enumeration of his plays, which are stuffed with obscenity. To this disgraceful characteristic of Marston an allusion is made in "The Return from Parnassus," where it is said, "Give him plain naked words stript from their shirts, That might beseem plain-dealing Aretine."

He wrote the Scourge of Villany; three books of satires, 1599. He was also author of the Metamorphosis of Pigmalion's Image, and certain Satires, published 1598, which makes his date as satirist nearly coeval with that of Bishop Hall.

Let me not kneel to Rome; for though no cause
Of mine deserves their hate, though Massinissa
Be ours to heart, yet Roman generals
Make proud their triumphs with whatever captives.
O'tis a nation which from soul I fear,

As one well knowing the much-grounded hate
They bear to Asdrubal and Carthage blood!
Therefore, with tears that wash thy feet with hands
Unused to beg, I clasp thy manly knees.

O save me from their fetters and contempt,
Their proud insults, and more than insolence!
Or if it rest not in thy grace of breath

To grant such freedom, give me long-wish'd death;
For 'tis not much-loathed life that now we crave-
Only an unshamed death and silent grave,
We will now deign to bend for.

Mass. Rarity!

By thee and this right hand, thou shalt live free! Soph. We cannot now be wretched.

Mass. Stay the sword!

Let slaughter cease! sounds, soft as Leda's breast, [Soft music. Slide through all ears! this night be love's high feast. Soph. O'erwhelm me not with sweets; let me not drink

Till my breast burst! O Jove! thy nectar, think[She sinks into MASSINISSA's arms.

Mass. She is o'ercome with joy. Soph. Help, help to bear

And now with undismay'd resolve behold,
To save you-you-(for honour and just faith
Are most true gods, which we should much adore)
With even disdainful vigour I give up

An abhorr'd life! (She drinks.) You have been good to me,

And I do thank thee, Heaven. O my stars!
I bless your goodness, that, with breast unstain'd,
Faith pure, a virgin wife, tied to my glory,
I die, of female faith the long-lived story ;
Secure from bondage and all servile harms,
But more, most happy in my husband's arms.

FROM ANTONIO AND MELLIDA. ACT III. SCENE I.

Representing the affliction of fallen greatness in AndrUGIO, Duke of Genoa, after he has been defeated by the Venetians, proscribed by his countrymen, and left with only two attendants in his flight.

Enter ANDRUGIO in armour, LUCIO with a shepherd's gown in his hand, and a Page.

And. Is not yon gleam the shuddering morn, that flakes

With silver tincture the east verge of heaven?

Luc. I think it is, so please your excellence. And. Away! I have no excellence to please. Prithee observe the custom of the world, That only flatters greatness, states exalts ; And please my excellence! Oh, Lucio, Thou hast been ever held respected, dear, Even precious to Andrugio's inmost love. Good, flatter not. Nay, if thou givest not faith That I am wretched; oh, read that, read that.