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《The Defence of Poetry》


 INTRODUCTION

    Philip Sidney was born at Penshurst, i, on the 2<footer></footer>9th of November, 1554.  His father, Sir Henry Sidney, had married Mary, eldest daughter of John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, and Philip was the eldest of their family of three sons and four daughters. Edmund Spenser and Walter Raleigh were of like age with Philip Sidney, differing only by about a year, and when Elizabeth became queen, oh of November, 1558, they were children of four or five years old.

    In the year 1560 Sir Henry Sidney was made Lord President of Wales, representing the Queen in Wales and the four adjat western ties, as a Lord Deputy represented her in Ireland.  The official residence of the Lord President was at Ludlow Castle, to which Philip Sidney went with his family when a child of six.  In the same year his father was installed as a Knight of the Garter.  When in his tenth year Philip Sidney was sent from Ludlow to Shrewsbury Grammar School, where he studied for three or four years, and had among his schoolfellows Fulke Greville, afterwards Lord Brooke, who remained until the end of Sidneys life one of his closest friends. When he himself was dying he directed that he should be described upon his tomb as &quot;Fulke Greville, servant to Queen Elizabeth, sellor to King James, and friend to Sir Philip Sidney.&quot;  Even Dr.

    Thomas Thornton,  of Christ Church, Oxford, under whom Sidney laced when he was eo Christ Chur his fourteenth year, at Midsummer, in 1568, had it afterwards recorded on his tomb that he was &quot;the tutor of Sir Philip Sidney.&quot;

    Sidney was in his eighteenth year in May, 1572, when he left the Uy to tinue his training for the service of the state, by travel on the ti.  Lised to travel with horses for himself and three servants, Philip Sidney left London irain of the Earl of Lin, who was going out as ambassador to Charles IX., in Paris.  He was in Paris oh of August in that year, which was the day of the Massacre of St.

    Bartholomew.  He was sheltered from the dangers of that day in the house of the English Ambassador, Sir Francis Walsingham, whose daughter Fanny Sidney married twelve years afterwards.

    From Paris Sidravelled on by way of Heidelberg to Frankfort, where he lodged at a printers, and found a warm friend in Hubert La, whose letters to him have been published.  Sidney was eighteen and La fifty-five, a French Huguenot, learned and zealous for the Protestant cause, who had been Professor of Civil Law in Padua, and who was ag as secret minister for the Elector of Saxony when he first knew Sidney, and saw in him a future statesman whose character and genius would give him weight in the sels of England, and make him a main hope of the Protestant cause in Europe.  Sidravelled on with Hubert La from Frankfort to Vienna, visited Hungary, then passed to Italy, making fht weeks Venice his head-quarters, and then giving six weeks to Padua.  He returhrough Germany to England, and was in attenda the Court of Queen Elizabeth in July, 1575.   month his father was sent to Ireland as Lord Deputy, and Sidney lived in London with his mother.

    At this time the opposition of the Mayor and Corporation of the City of London to the ag of plays by servants of Sidneys uhe Earl of Leicester, who had obtained a patent for them, obliged the actors to cease from hiring rooms or inn yards iy, and build themselves a house of their own a little way outside one of the City gates, and wholly outside the Lord Mayors jurisdi. Thus the first theatre came to be built in England in the year 1576. Shakespeare was then but twelve years old, and it was ten years later that he came to London.

    In February, 1577, Philip Sidney, not yet twenty-three years old, was sent on a formal embassy of gratulation to Rudolph II. upon his being Emperor of Germany, but uhe duties of the formal embassy was the charge of watg for opportunities of helping forward a Protestant League among the princes of Germany.  On his way home through the herlands he was to vey Queen Elizabeths gratulations to William e on the birth of his first child, and what impression he made upon that leader of men is shown by a message William sent afterwards through Fulke Greville to Queen Elizabeth.  He said &quot;that if he could judge, her Majesty had one of the ripest and greatest sellors of State in Philip Sidhat then lived in Europe; to the trial of which he leased to leave his ow engaged until her Majesty leased to employ this gentlemaher amongst her friends or enemies.&quot;

    Sidney returned from his embassy in June, 1577.  At the time of his departure, in the preg February, his sister Mary, they years old, had bee the third wife of Henry Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, and her new home as tess of Pembroke was in the great house at Wilton, about three miles from Salisbury.  She had a measure of her brenius, and was of like rain. Spenser described her as &quot;The ge shepherdess that lives this day, And most resembling, both in shape and spright, Her brother dear.&quot;

    Ben Jonson, long after her brother had passed from earth, wrote upon her death the well-knowaph:-  &quot;Underh this sable herse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidneys sister, Pembrokes mother. Death, ere thou hast slain another, Learnd, and fair, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.&quot;

    Sidneys sister became Pembrokes mother in 1580, while her brother Philip was staying with her at Wilton.  He had early in the year written a long argument to the Queen against the project of her marriage with the Duke of Anjou, which she then found it politic to seem to favour.  She liked Sidney well, but resented, or appeared to resent, his intrusion o<samp>.９９lib.</samp>f advice; he also was distented with what seemed to be her policy, ahdrew from Court for a time. That time of seclusion, after the end of March, 1580, he spent with his sister at Wilton.  They versified psalms together; and he began to write for her amusement when she had her baby first upon her hands, his romance of &quot;Arcadia.&quot;  It was never finished.

    Much was written at Wilton in the summer of 1580, the rest in 1581, written, as he said in a letter to her, &quot;only for you, only to you . . . for severer eyes it is not, being but a trifle, triflingly handled. Your dear self  best withe manner, being done in loose sheets of paper, most of it in your presehe rest by sheets sent unto you as fast as they were done.&quot;  He never meant that it should be published; indeed, when dying he asked that it should be destroyed; but it beloo a sister who prized the lightest word of his, and after his death it ublished in 1590 as &quot;The tess of Pembrokes Arcadia.&quot;

    The book reprinted in this volume was written in 1581, while sheets of the &quot;Arcadia&quot; were still beio Wilton.  But it differs wholly in style from the &quot;Arcadia.&quot;  Sidneys &quot;Arcadia&quot; has literary i as the first important example of the union of pastoral with heroiance, out of which came presently, in France, a distinct school of fi.  But the genius of its author lay, it followed designedly the fashions of the hour in verse and prose, which teo extravagance of iy.  The &quot;Defence of Poesy&quot; has higher i as the first important piece of literary criticism in our literature.  Here Sidney was in ear.  His style is wholly free from the euphuistic extravagan which readers of his time delighted:  it is clear, direct, and manly; not the less, but the more, thoughtful and refined for its ued simplicity. As criticism it is of the true sort; not captious or formal, still less engaged, as nearly all bad criticism is, more or less, with i suggestion of the critic himself as the one owl in a world of mice.  Philip Sidneys care is towards the end of good literature.  He looks fhest aims, and finds them in true work, and hears Gods angel in the poets song.

    The writing of this piece robably suggested to him by the fact that an ear young student, Stephen Gosson, who came from his uy about the time when the first theatres were built, and wrote plays, was turned by the bias of his mind into agreement with the Puritan attacks made by the pulpit oage (arising chiefly from the fact that plays were then acted on Sundays), and in 1579 transferred his pen from service of the players to atta them, in a piece which he called &quot;The School of Abuse, taining a Pleasant Iive against Poets, Pipers, Players, Jesters, and such like Caterpillars of a oh; setting up the Flag of Defiao their mischievous exercise, and overthrowing their Bulwarks, by Profane Writers, Natural Reason, and on Experience: a Discourse as pleasant fentlemen that favour Learning as profitable for all that will follow Virtue.&quot;  This Discosson dedicated &quot;To the right noble Gentleman, Master Philip Sidney, Esquire.&quot;  Sidney himself wrote verse, he was panion with the p<mark></mark>oets, and ted Edmund Spenser among his friends.  Gossons pamphlet was only one expression of the narrow form of Puritan opinion that had been misled into attacks ory and music as feeders of idle appetite that withdrew men from the life of duty.  To show the falla such opinion, Philip Sidney wrote in 1581 this piece, which was first printed in 1595, nine years after his death, as a separate publicatioled &quot;An Apologie for Poetrie.&quot;  Three years afterwards it was added, with other pieces, to the third edition of his &quot;Arcadia,&quot; and theled &quot;The Defence of Poesie.&quot;  In sixteen subsequeions it tio appear as &quot;The Defence of Poesie.&quot;

    The same title was used in the separate editions of 1752 and 1810.

    Professor Edward Arber re-issued in 1869 the text of the first edition of 1595, aored the inal title, which probably was that given to the piece by its author.  One name is as good as the other, but as the word &quot;apology&quot; has somewhat ged its sense in current English, it may be well to go on call<tt>.99lib.t>ing the work &quot;The Defence of Poesie.&quot;

    In 1583 Sidney was knighted, and soon afterwards in the same year he married Frances, daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham.  Sos written by him acc to old fashion, and addressed to a lady in accordah a form of courtesy that in the same old fashion had always beeo exclude personal suit--personal suit rivate, and no<q></q>t public--have led to grave misapprehension among some critics.  They supposed that he desired marriage with Penelope Devereux, who was forced by her family in 1580--theeen years old--into a hateful marriage with Lord Rich.

    It may be enough to say that if Philip Sidney had desired her for his wife, he had only to ask for her and have her.  Her father, when dying, had desired-- as any father might--that his daughter might bee the wife of Philip Sidney.  But this is not the place for a discussion of Astrophel and Stella sos.

    In 1585 Sidney lanning to join Drake it sea in atta Spain in the West Indies.  He was stayed by the Queen.  But when Elizabeth declared war on behalf of the Reformed Faith, a Leicester with an expedition to the herlands, Sir Philip Sidney went out, in November, 1585, as Governor of Flushing.  His wife joined him there.  He fretted at ina, and made the value of his sels so distinct that his uncle Leicester said after his death that he began by &quot;despising his youth for a sellor, not without bearing a hand over him as a forward young man.

    Notwithstanding, in a short time he saw the sun so risen above his horizon that both he and all his stars were glad to fetch light from him.&quot;  In May, 1586, Sir Philip Sidney received news of the death of his father.  In August his mother died.  Iember he joined in the iment of Zutphen.  On the 22nd of September his thigh-bone was shattered by a musket ball from the trenches.  His horse toht and galloped back, but the wounded mao his seat.  He was then carried to his uncle, asked for water, and when it was given, saw a dying soldier carried past, who eyed it greedily.  At once he gave the water to the soldier, saying, &quot;Thy y is yet greater than mine.&quot;  Sidney lived on, patient in suffering, until the 17th of October.  When he eechless before death, one who stood by asked Philip Sidney for a sign of his tirust in God.  He folded his hands as in prayer over his breast, and so they were bee fixed and chill, whechers placed them by his side; and in a few mihe stainless representative of the young manhood of Elizabethan England passed away.

 AN APOLOGIE FOR POETRIE

    When the right virtuous Edward Wotton {1} and I were at the Emperors court together, we gave ourselves to learn horsemanship of Gio.

    Pietro Pugliano; ohat, with great endation, had the place of an esquire in his stable; and he, acc to the fertileness of the Italian wit, did not only afford us the demonstration of his practice, but sought to enriinds with the plation therein, which he thought most precious.  But with none, I remember, mine ears were at any time more laden, than wheher angered with slow payment, or moved with our learner-like admiration) he exercised his spee the praise of his faculty.

    He said, soldiers were the  estate of mankind, and horsemen the  of soldiers.  He <s></s>said, they were the masters of war and ors of peace, speedy goers, and strong abiders, triumphers both in camps and courts; nay, to so unbelieved a point he proceeded, as that hly thing bred such woo a prince, as to be a good horseman; skill of gover was but a &quot;pedanteria&quot; in parison.  Then would he add certain praises by telling what a peerless beast the horse was, the only serviceable courtier, without flattery, the beast of most beauty, faithfulness, ce, and such more, that if I had not been a piece of a logi before I came to him, I think he would have persuaded me to have wished myself a horse.  But thus much, at least, with his no few words, he drove into me, that self love is better than any gilding, to make that seem geous wherein ourselves be parties.

    Wherein, if Puglianos strong affe and weak arguments will not satisfy you, I will give you a nearer example of myself, who, I know not by what misce, in these my not old years and idlest times, having slipped into the title of a poet, am provoked to say something unto you in the defence of that my ued vocation; which if I hah mood will than good reasons, bear with me, sihe scholar is to be pardohat followeth the steps of his master.

    A I must say, that as I have more just cause to make a pitiful defence of poor poetry, which, from almost the highest estimation of learning, is fallen to be the laughing-stock of children; so have I  some more available proofs, sihe former is by no man barred of his deserved credit, whereas the silly latter hath had even the names of philosophers used to the defag of it, with great danger of civil war among the Muses. {2}

    At first, truly, to all them that, professing learning, inveigh against poetry, may justly be objected, that they go very o ungratefulo seek to deface that which, in the  nations and languages that are known, hath been the first light-giver to ignorance, and first nurse, whose milk by little and little ehem to feed afterwards of tougher knowledges.  And will you play the hedgehog, that being received into the den, drove out his host? {3} or rather the vipers, that with their birth kill their parents? {4}

    Let learned Greece, in any of her manifold sces, be able to show me one book before Musaeus, Homer, and Hesiod, all three nothing else but poets.  Nay, let any history he brought that  say any writers were there before them, if they were not men of the same skill, as Orpheus, Linus, and some others are named, who havihe first of that try that made pens deliverers of their knowledge to posterity, may justly challeo be called their fathers in learning.  For not only in time they had this priority (although in itself antiquity be venerable) but went before them as causes to draw with their charming sweethe wild untamed wits to an admiration of knowledge.  So as Amphion was said to move stones with his poetry to build Thebes, and Orpheus to be listeo by beasts, indeed, stony aly people, so among the Romans were Livius Andronicus, and Ennius; so ialian language, the first that made it to aspire to be a treasure-house of sce, were the poets Dante, Boccace, ararch; so in lish were Gower and Chaucer; after whom, enced and delighted with their excellent foing, others have followed to beautify our mother tongue, as well in the same kind as other arts.

    This {5} did so notably show itself that the philosophers of Greece durst not a long time appear to the world but uhe mask of poets; so Thales, Empedocles, and Parmenides sang their natural philosophy in verses; so did Pythagoras and Phocylides their moral sels; so did Tyrtaeus in war matters; and Solon in matters of policy; or rather they, being poets, did exercise their delightful vein in those points of highest knowledge, which before them lay hidden to the world; for that wise Solon was directly a poet it is ma, having written in verse the notable fable of the Atlantic Island, which was tinued by Plato. {6}  And, truly, even Plato, whosoever well sidereth shall find that in the body of his work, though the inside and strength were philosophy, the skin, as it were, ay depended most of poetry.  For all stands upon dialogues; wherein he feigns many ho burgesses of Athens speaking of such matters that if they had bee on the rack they would never have fessed them; besides, his poetical describing the circumstances of their meetings, as the well- of a bahe delicacy of a walk, with interlag mere tiles, as Gygess Ring, {7} and others; which, who knows not to be flowers of poetry, did never walk into Apollos garden.

    And {8} even histraphers, although their lips sound of things done, ay be written in their foreheads, have been glad to borrow both fashion and, perce, weight of the poets; so Herodotus entitled the books of his history by the names of the Nine Muses; and both he, and all the rest that followed him, either stole or usurped, of poetry, their passionate describing of passions, the many particularities of battles whian could affirm; or, if that be denied me, long orations, put in the months of great kings and captains, which it is certain they never pronounced.

    So that, truly, her philosopher nor histrapher could, at the first, have entered into the gates of popular judgments, if they had not taken a great disport of poetry; whi all nations, at this day, where learning flourisheth not, is plain to be seen; in all which they have some feeling of poetry.  In Turkey, besides their lawgiving divihey have no other writers but poets.  In our neighbour-try Ireland, where, too, learning goes very bare, yet are their poets held in a devout reverence.  Even among the most barbarous and simple Indians, where no writing is, yet have they their poets who make and sing songs, which they call &quot;Arentos,&quot; both of their aors deeds and praises of their gods.  A suffit probability, that if ever learning es among them, it must be by having their hard dull wits softened and sharpened with the sweet delight of poetry; for until they find a pleasure in the exercise of the mind, great promises of muowledge will little persuade them that know not the fruits of knowledge.  In Wales, the true remnant of the a Britons, as there are good authorities to show the long time they had poets, which they called bards, sh all the quests of Romans, Saxons, Danes, and Normans, some of whom did seek to ruin all memory of learning from among them, yet do their poets, even to this day, last; so as it is not more notable in the soon beginning than in long-tinuing.

    But sihe authors of most of our sces were the Romans, and before them the Greeks, let us, a little, stand upon their authorities; but even so far, as to see what hey have given unto this now sed skill. {9}  Among the Romans a poet was called &quot;vates,&quot; which is as much as a diviner, foreseer, or prophet, as by his joined words &quot;vatiium,&quot; and &quot;vatiari,&quot; is ma; so heavenly a title did that excellent people bestow upon this heart- ravishing knowledge!  And so far were they carried into the admiration thereof, that they thought in the geable hitting upon any such verses, great foretokens of their following fortunes were placed.  Whereupohe word of sortes Virgilianae; when, by sudden opening Virgils book, they lighted upon some verse, as it is reported by many, whereof the histories of the Emperors lives are full.  As of Albinus, the governor of our island, who, in his childhood, met with this verse - Arma amens capio, nec sat rationis in armis and in his age performed it.  Although it were a very vain and godless superstition; as also it was, to think spirits were anded by such verses; whereupon this word charms, derived of &quot;carmina,&quot; eth, so yet serveth it to show the great reverehose wits were held in; and altogether not without ground, sih the oracles of Delphi and the Sibyls prophecies were wholly delivered in verses; for that same exquisite  of number and measure in the words, and that high-flying liberty of ceit proper to the poet, did seem to have some divine for it.

    And {10} may not I presume a little farther to show the reasonableness of this word &quot;vates,&quot; and say, that the holy Davids Psalms are a divine poem?  If I do, I shall not do it without the testimony of great learned men, both a and modern.  But even the name of Psalms will speak for me, which, being interpreted, is nothing but Songs; then, that is fully written ire, as all learned Hebris agree, although the rules be not yet fully found. Lastly, and principally, his handling his prophecy, which is merely poetical.  For what else is the awaking his musical instruments; the often and free ging of persons; his notable prosopopoeias, when he maketh you, as it were, see God ing in His majesty; his telling of the beasts joyfulness, and hills leaping; but a heavenly poesy, wherein, almost, he sheweth himself a passionate lover of that unspeakable and everlastiy, to be seen by the eyes of the mind, only cleared by faith?  But truly, now, having named him, I fear I seem to profahat holy name, applying it to poetry, which is, among us, thrown down to so ridiculous aimation.  But they that, with quiet judgments, will look a little deeper into it, shall find the end and w of it such, as, being rightly applied, deserveth not to be sced out of the church of God.

    But {11} now let us see how the Greeks have , and how they deemed of it.  The Greeks named him [Greek text], whiame hath, as the most excellent, gohrough other languages; it eth of this wreek text], which is TO MAKE; wherein, I know not whether by luck or wisdom, we Englishmen have met with the Greeks in calling him &quot;a maker,&quot; whiame, how high and inparable a title it is, I had rather were known by marking the scope of other sces, than by any partial allegation.  There is no art delivered unto mankind that hath not the works of nature for his principal object, without which they could not sist, and on which they so depend as they bee actors and players, as it were, of what nature will have set forth. {12}  So doth the astronomer look upoars, and by that he seeth set down what order nature hath taken therein.  So doth the geometri and arithmeti, in their diverse sorts of quantities.  So doth the musi, in times, tell you which by nature agree, whiot.  The natural philosopher thereon hath his name; and the moral philosopher stah upoural virtues, vices, or passions of man; and follow nature, saith he, therein, and thou shalt not err.  The lawyer saith what men have determined.  The historian, what men have dohe grammariah only of the rules of speech; and the rhetori and logi, sidering what in nature will soo prove and persuade, thereon give artificial rules, which still are passed within the circle of a question, acc to the proposed matter. The physi weigheth the nature of mans body, and the nature of things helpful and hurtful unto it.  And the metaphysic, though it be in the sed and abstraotions, and therefore be ted supernatural, yet doth he, indeed, build upon the depth of nature. Only the poet, disdaining to be tied to any such subje, lifted up with the vigour of his own iion, doth grow, in effect, into another nature; in making thiher better than nature brih forth, or quite anew; forms such as never were in nature, as the heroes, demi-gods, Cyclops, chimeras, furies, and such like; so as he goeth hand in hand with Nature, not enclosed within the narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging within the zodiac of his own wit. {13}   Nature never set forth the earth in so rich tapestry as divers poets have done; her with so pleasant rivers, fruitful trees, sweet-smelling flowers, nor whatsoever else may make the too- much- loved earth more lovely; her world is brazen, the poets only deliver a golden.

    But let those things alone, and go to man; {14} for whom as the other things are, so it seemeth in him her uttermost ing is employed; and know, whether she have brought forth so true a lover as Theagenes; so stant a friend as Pylades; so valiant a man as Orlando; sht a prince as Xenophons Cyrus; and so excellent a man every way as Virgils AEneas? her let this be jestingly ceived, because the works of the one be essential, the other in imitation or fi; for every uanding khe skill of each artificer stah in that idea, or fore-ceit of the work, and not in the work itself.  And that the poet hath that idea is ma by delivering them forth in such excellency as he had imagihem; which delivering forth, also, is not wholly imaginative, as we are wont to say by them that build castles in the air; but so far substantially it worketh not only to make a Cyrus, which had been but a particular excellency, as nature might have done; but to bestow a Cyrus upon the world to make many Cyruses; if they will learn aright, why, and how, that maker made him.  her let it be deemed too saucy a parison to balahe highest point of mans wit with the efficacy of nature; but rather give right honour to the heavenly Maker of that maker, who having made man to His own likeness, set him beyond and over all the works of that sed nature; whi nothing he showeth so much as iry; when, with the force of a divine breath, he brihings forth surpassing her doings, with no small arguments to the incredulous of that first accursed fall of Adam; since our erected wit maketh us knoerfe is, a our ied will keepeth us from reag unto it.

    But these arguments will by few be uood, and by fewer grahus much I hope will be givehat the Greeks, with some probability of reason, gave him the name above all names of learning.

    Now {15} let us go to a more ordinary opening of him, that the truth may be the more palpable; and so, I hope, though we get not so unmatched a praise as the etymology of his names will grant, yet his very description, whian will deny, shall not justly be barred from a principal endation.

    Poesy, {16} therefore, is an art of imitation; for so Aristotle termeth it in the wreek text]; that is to say, a representing, terfeiting, uring forth:  to speak metaphorically, a speaking picture, with this end, to tead delight.

    Of {17} this have been three general kinds:  the CHIEF, both in antiquity and excellency, which they that did imitate the inceivable excellencies of God; such were David in the Psalms; Solomon in the Song of Songs, in his Ecclesiastes, and Proverbs; Moses and Deborah in their hymns; and the writer of Job; which, beside others, the learned Emaremellius and Fr. Junius do entitle the poetical part of the scripture; against these none will speak that hath the Holy Ghost in due holy reverence.  In this kind, though in a wrong divinity, were Orpheus, Amphion, Homer in his hymns, and many others, both Greeks and Romans.  And this poesy must be used by whosoever will follow St.

    Pauls sel, in singing psalms when they are merry; and I know is used with the fruit of fort by some, when, in sorrowful pangs of their death- bringing sins, they find the solation of the never-leaving goodness.

    The {18} SED kind is of them that deal with matter philosophical; either moral, as Tyrtaeus, Phocylides, Cato, or, natural, as Lucretius, Virgils Geics; or astronomical, as Manilius {19} and Pontanus; or historical, as Lu; which who mislike, the fault is in their judgment, quite out of taste, and not in the sweet food of sweetly uttered knowledge.

    But because this sed sort is ed within the fold of the proposed subject, and takes not the free course of his own iion; whether they properly be poets or no, let grammarians dispute, and go to the THIRD, {20} indeed right poets, of whom chiefly this question ariseth; betwixt whom and these sed is such a kind of difference, as betwixt the meaner sort of painters, who terfeit only such faces as are set before them; and the more excellent, who having no law but wit, bestow that in colours upon you which is fittest for the eye to see; as the stant, though lamenting look of Lucretia, when she punished in herself anothers fault; wherein he paih not Lucretia, whom he never saw, but paihe outward beauty of such a virtue.  For these three be they which most properly do imitate to tead delight; and to imitate, borrow nothing of what is, hath been, or shall be; but range only, reined with learned discretion, into the divine sideration of what may be, and should be.

    These be they, that, as the first and most noble sort, may justly be termed &quot;vates;&quot; so these are waited on in the excelle languages a uandings, with the fore-described name of poets.  For these, indeed, do merely make to imitate, and imitate both to delight and teach, and delight to move men to take that goodness in hand, which, without delight they would fly as from a stranger; and teaake them know that goodness whereunto they are moved; which being the  scope to which ever any learning was directed, yet want there not idle too bark at them.

    These {21} be subdivided into sundry more special denominations; the most notable be the heroic, lyric, tragiic, satyric, iambic, elegiac, pastoral, aain others; some of these being termed acc to the matter they deal with; some by the sort of verse they like best to write in; for, ihe greatest part of poets have apparelled their poetical iions in that numerous kind of writing which is called verse.  Indeed, but apparelied verse, being but an or, and no cause to poetry, sihere have been many most excellent poets that never versified, and now swarm many versifiers that need never ao the name of poets. {22}

    For Xenophon, who did imitate so excellently as to give us effigiem justi imperii, the portraiture of a just of Cyrus, as Cicero saith of him, made therein an absolute heroical poem.  So did Heliodorus, {23} in his sugared iion of Theagenes and Chariclea; a both these wrote in prose; which I speak to show, that it is not rhyming and versing that maketh a poet (no more than a long gown maketh an advocate, who, though he pleaded in armour should be an advocate and no soldier); but it is that feigning notable images of virtues, vices, or what else, with that delightful teag, which must be the right describing o knooet by.  Although, ihe senate of poets have chosen verse as their fittest raiment; meaning, as in matter they passed all in all, so in mao go beyond them; not speaking table-talk fashion, or like men in a dream, words as they geably fall from the mouth, but pieg each syllable of each word by just proportion, acc to the dignity of the subject.

    Now, {24} therefore, it shall not be amiss, first, to weight this latter sort of poetry by his WORKS, and then by his PARTS; and if iher of these anatomies he be endable, I hope we shall receive a more favourable sentehis purifying of wit, this enrig of memory, enabling of judgment, and enlarging of ceit, whionly we call learning under what name soever it e forth, or to what immediate end soever it be directed; the final end is, to lead and draw us to as high a perfe as ee souls, made worse by, their clay lodgings, {25}  be capable of. This, acc to the ination of man, bred many formed impressions; for some that thought this felicity principally to be gotten by knowledge, and no knowledge to be so high or heavenly as to be acquainted with the stars, gave themselves to astronomy; others, persuading themselves to be demi-gods, if they khe causes of things, became natural and supernatural philosophers. Some an admirable delight drew to musid some the certainty of demonstrations to the mathematics; but all, one and other, having this scope to know, and by knowledge to lift up the mind from the dungeon of the body to the enjoying his own divine essence.  But when, by the balance of experie was found that the astronomer, looking to the stars, might fall in a ditch; that the enquiring philosht be blind in himself; and the mathemati might draw forth a straight lih a crooked heart; then lo! did proof, the over-ruler of opinions, make mahat all these are but serving sces, which, as they have a private end in themselves, so yet are they all directed to the highest end of the mistress knowledge, by the Greeks called [Greek text], which stands, as I think, in the knowledge of a mans self; ihid politisideration, with the end of well doing, and not of well knowing only; even as the saddlers  end is to make a good saddle, but his farther end to serve a nobler faculty, which is horsemanship; so the horsemans to soldiery; and the soldier not only to have the skill, but to perform the practice of a soldier. So that the ending end of all earthly learning being virtuous a, those skills that most serve t forth that have a most just title to be princes over all the rest; wherein, if we  show it rightly, the poet is worthy to have it before any other petitors. {26}

    Among {27} whom principally to challe, step forth the moral philosophers; whom, methinks, I see ing toward me with a sullen gravity (as though they could not abide vice by daylight), rudely clothed, for to witness outwardly their pt of outward things, with books in their hands against glory, whereto they set their names; sophistically speaking against subtlety, and angry with any man in whom they see the foul fault of anger.  These men, casting largesses as they go, of definitions, divisions, and distins, with a sful interrogative do soberly ask:  Whether it be possible to find any path so ready to lead a man to virtue, as that which teacheth what virtue is; and teacheth it not only by delivering forth his very being, his causes and effects; but also by making known his enemy, vice, which must be destroyed; and his cumbersome servant, passion, which must be mastered, by showing the generalities that tain it, and the specialities that are derived from it; lastly, by plaiing down how it extends itself out of the limits of a mans own little world, to the gover of families, and maintaining of public societies? The historian {28} scarcely gives leisure to the moralist to say so much, but that he (laden with old mouse-eaten records, authorizing {29}

    himself, for the most part, upon other histories, whose greatest authorities are built upoable foundation of hearsay, having much ado to accord differing writers, and to pick truth out of partiality; better acquainted with a thousand years ago than with the present age, a better knowing how this woes than how his own wit runs; curious for antiquities, and inquisitive of ies, a woo young folks, and a tyrant in table-talk) deh, in a great chafe, that any man for teag of virtue and virtuous as, is parable to him.  I am &quot;Testis temporum, lux veritatis, vita memoriae, magistra vitae, nuncia vetustatis.&quot; {30}  The philosopher, saith he, teacheth a disputative virtue, but I do an active; his virtue is excellent in the dangerless academy of Plato, but mine showeth forth her honourable fa the battles of Marathon, Pharsalia, Poictiers, and Agincourt:  he teacheth virtue by certain abstract siderations; but I only bid you follow the footing of them that have gone before you:  old- aged experience goeth beyond the fited philosopher; but I give the experienany ages.  Lastly, if he make the song book, I put the learners hand to the lute; and if he be the guide, I am the light.  Then would he allege you innumerable examples, firming story by stories, how much the wisest senators and princes have been directed by the credit of history, as Brutus, Alphonsus on (and who not? if need be).  At length, the long line of their disputation makes a point in this, that the one giveth the precept, and the other the example.

    Now {31} whom shall we find, sihe question stah for the highest form in the school of learning, to be moderator?  Truly, as me seemeth, the poet; and if not a moderator, even the man that ought to carry the title from them both, and much more from all other serving sces.

    Therefore pare we the poet with the historian, and with the moral philosopher; and if he go beyond them both, no other human skill  match him; for as for the Divine, with all reverence, he is ever to be excepted, not only for having his scope as far beyond any of these, as eternity exceedeth a moment, but even for passing each of these in themselves; and for the lawyer, though &quot;Jus&quot; be the daughter of Justice, the chief of virtues, yet because he seeks to make men good rather &quot;formidine poenae&quot; than &quot;virtutis amore,&quot; or, to say righter, doth not endeavour to make men good, but that their evil hurt not others, having no care, so he be a good citizen, how bad a man he be: therefore, as our wiess maketh him necessary, and y maketh him honourable, so is he not in the deepest truth to stand in rank with these, who all endeavour to take naughtiness away, and plant goodness even in the secretest et of our souls.  And these four are all that any way deal in the sideration of mens manners, which being the supreme knowledge, they that best breed it deserve the best endation.

    The philosopher, therefore, and the historiahey which would win the goal, the one by precept, the other by example; but both, not having both, do both halt.  For the philosopher, setting down with thorny arguments the bare rule, is so hard of utterance, and so misty to be ceived, that ohat hath no uide but him shall wade in him until he be old, before he shall find suffit cause to be ho.  For his knowledge stah so upon the abstrad general, that happy is that man who may uand him, and more happy that  apply what he doth uand.  Oher side the historian, wanting the precept, is so tied, not to what should be, but to what is; to the particular truth of things, and not to the general reason of things; that his example draweth no necessary sequence, and therefore a less fruitful doe.

    Now {32} doth the peerless poet perform both; for whatsoever the philosopher saith should be done, he giveth a perfect picture of it, by some one by whom he pre-supposeth it was done, so as he coupleth the general notion with the particular example.  A perfect picture, I say; for he yieldeth to the powers of the mind an image of that whereof the philosopher bestoweth but a wordish description, which doth her strike, pieror possess the sight of the soul, so much as that other doth.  For as, in outward things, to a man that had never seen an elephant, or a rhinoceros, who should tell him most exquisitely all their shape, colour, bigness, and particular marks? or of a geous palace, an architect, who, declaring the full beauties, might well make the hearer able to repeat, as it were, by rote, all he had heard, yet should never satisfy his inward ceit, with being wito itself of a true living knowledge; but the same man, as soon as he might see those beasts well painted, or that house well in model, should straightway grow, without need of any description, to a judicial prehending of them; so, no doubt, the philosopher, with his learned definitions, be it of virtue or vices, matters of public policy or private gover, replehe memory with many infallible grounds of wisdom, whiotwithstanding, lie dark before the imaginative and judging power, if they be not illuminated ured forth by the speaking picture of poesy.

    Tully taketh much pains, and many times not without poetical help, to make us know the force love of our try hath in us.  Let us but hear old Anchises, speaking in the midst of Troys flames, or see Ulysses, in the fulness of all Calypsos delights, bewail his absence from barren and beggarly Ithaca.  Ahe Stoics said, was a short madness; let but Sophocles bring you Ajax on a stage, killing or whipping sheep and oxen, thinking them the army of Greeks, with their chieftains Agamemnon and Menelaus; and tell me, if you have not a more familiar insight into ahan finding in the sen his genus and difference?  See whether wisdom and temperan Ulysses and Diomedes, valour in Achilles, friendship in Nisus and Euryalus, even to an ignorant man, carry not an apparent shining; and, trarily, the remorse of s OEdipus; the sooing pride in Agamemnon; the self-dev cruelty in his father Atreus; the violenbition iwo Theban brothers; the sour sweetness of revenge in Medea; and, to fall lower, the Terentian Gnatho, and our Chaucers Pandar, so expressed, that we now use their o signify their trades; and finally, all virtues, vices, and passions so in their own natural states laid to the view, that we seem not to hear of them, but clearly to see through them? But even in the most excelleermination of goodness, hilosophers sel  so readily direct a prince as the feigned Cyrus in Xenophon?  Or a virtuous man in all fortunes, as AEneas in Virgil?  Or a whole oh, as the way of Sir Thomas Mores Utopia?  I say the way, because where Sir Thomas More erred, it was the fault of the man, and not of the poet; for that way of patterning a oh was most absolute, though he, perce, hath not so absolutely performed it.  For the question is, whether the feigned image of poetry, or the regular instru of philosophy, hath the more for teag.  Wherein, if the philosophers have mhtly showed themselves philosophers, than the poets have attaio the high top of their profession, (as in truth,  &quot;Mediocribus esse poetis Non Di, non homines, non cessere nae,&quot; {33})  it is, I say again, not the fault of the art, but that by few men that art  be aplished.  Certainly, even our Saviour Christ could as well have given the moral on-places {34} of uncharitableness and humbleness, as the divine narration of Dives and Lazarus; or of disobediend mercy, as the heavenly discourse of the lost child and the gracious father; but that his thh searg wisdom khe estate of Dives burning in hell, and of Lazarus in Abrahams bosom, would more stantly, as it were, inhabit both the memory and judgment.  Truly, for myself (me seems), I see before mine eyes the lost childs disdainful prodigality turo envy a swines dinner; which, by the learned divines, are thought not historical acts, but instrug parables.

    For clusion, I say the philosopher teacheth, but he teacheth obscurely, so as the learned only  uand him; that is to say, he teacheth them that are already taught.  But the poet is the food for the te stomachs; the poet is, ihe right popular philosopher.

    Whereof AEsops tales give good proof; whose pretty allegories, stealing uhe formal tales of beasts, make many, more beastly thas, begin to hear the sound of virtue from those dumb speakers.

    But now may it be alleged, that if this managing of matters be so fit for the imagination, then must the historian needs surpass, whs you images of true matters, such as, indeed, were done, and not such as fantastically or falsely may be suggested to have been doruly, Aristotle himself, in his Discourse of Poesy, plainly determihis question, saying, that poetry is [Greek text], that is to say, it is more philosophical and more ingenious than history. His reason is, because poesy dealeth with [Greek text], that is to say, with the universal sideration, and the histreek text], the particular.  &quot;Now,&quot; saith he, &quot;the universal weighs what is fit to be said or doher in likelihood or y; which the poesy sidereth in his imposed names; and the particular only marks, whether Alcibiades did, or suffered, this or that:&quot; thus far Aristotle. {35}  Which reason of his, as all his, is most full of reason.  For, indeed, if the question were, whether it were better to have a particular act truly or falsely set down? there is no doubt which is to be chosen, no more thaher you had rather have Vespasians picture right as he was, or, at the painters pleasure, nothing resembling?  But if the question be, for your own use and learning, whether it be better to have it set down as it should be, or as it was? theainly, is more doable the feigned Cyrus in Xenophon, tharue Cyrus in Justin; {36} and the feigned AEneas in Virgil, than the right AEneas in Dares Phrygius; {37} as to ?a lady that desired to fashion her teo the best grace, a painter should more be her, to portrait a most sweet face, writing idia upon it, than to paint idia as she was, who, Horace sweareth, was full ill-favoured.  If the poet do his part aright, he will show you in Tantalus, Atreus, and such like, nothing that is not to be shunned; in Cyrus, AEneas, Ulysses, each thing to be followed; where the historian, bound to tell things as things were, ot be liberal, without he will be poetical, of a perfect pattern; but, as in Alexander, or Sself, show doings, some to be liked, some to be misliked; and then how will you dis what to follow, but by your own discretion, which you had, without reading Q.

    Curtius? {38}  And whereas, a man may say, though in universal sideration of doe, the poet prevaileth, yet that the history, in his saying such a thing was done, doth warrant a man more in that he shall follow; the answer is ma:  that if he stand upon that WAS, as if he should argue, because it rained yesterday therefore it should rain to-day; then, indeed, hath it some advao a gross ceit.  But if he know an example only enforms a jectured likelihood, and so go by reason, the poet doth so far exceed him, as he is to frame his example to that which is most reasonable, be it in warlike, politic, or private matters; where the historian in his bare WAS hath many times that which we call fortuo overrule the best wisdom.  Many times he must tell events whereof he  yield no cause; or if he do, it must be poetically.

    For, that a feigned example bath as much force to teach as a true example (for as for to move, it is clear, sihe feigned may be tuo the highest key of passion), let us take one example wherein an historian and a poet did cur.  Herodotus and Justin do both testify, that Zopyrus, King Dariuss faithful servant, seeing his master loed by the rebellious Babylonians, feigned himself ireme disgrace of his King; for verifying of which he caused his own nose and ears to be cut off, and so flying to the Babylonians, was received; and, for his known valour, so far credited, that he did find means to deliver them over to Darius. Much- like matters doth Livy record of Tarquinius and his son. Xenophon excellently feigned suother stratagem, performed by Abradatus in Cyruss behalf.  Now would I fain know, if occasion be presented unto you to serve your prince by su ho dissimulation, why do you not as well learn it of Xenophons fi as of the others verity? and, truly, so much the better, as you shall save your nose by the bargain; for Abradatus did not terfeit so far.  So, then, the best of the historians is subject to the poet; for, whatsoever a or fa, whatsoever sel, policy, or war stratagem the historian is bound to recite, that may the poet, if he list, with his imitation, make his owifying it both for farther teag, and more delighting, as it please him: having all, from Dantes heaven to his hell, uhe authority of his pen.  Which if I be asked, oets have done so? as I might well name some, so yet, say I, and say again, I speak of the art, and not of the artificer.

    Now, to that whionly is attributed to the praise of history, in respect of the notable learning which is got by marking the success, as though therein a man should see virtue exalted, and vice punished:  truly, that endation is peculiar to poetry, and far off from history; for, indeed, poetry ever sets virtue so out in her best colours, making fortune her well-waiting handmaid, that one must needs be enamoured of her.

    Well may you see Ulysses in a storm, and in other hard plights; but they are but exercises of patiend magnanimity, to make them shihe more in the near following prosperity.  And, on the trary part, if evil men e to the stage, they ever go out (as the tragedy writer answered to ohat misliked the show of such persons) so manacled, as they little animate folks to follow them.  But history being captive to the truth of a foolish world, in many times a terror from well- doing, and an encement to unbridled wiess.  For see we not valiant Miltiades rot in his fetters? the just Pho and the aplished Socrates put to death like traitors? the cruel Severus live prosperously? the excellent Severus miserably murdered?  Sylla and Marius dying in their beds?  Pompey and Cicero slain thehey would have thought exile a happiness?  See we not virtuous Cato driven to kill himself, and rebel Caesar so advahat his , after sixteen hundred years, lasteth in the highest honour? And mark but even Caesars own words of the forenamed Sylla, (who in that only did holy, to put down his dishoyranny), &quot;literas nescivit:&quot; as if want of learning caused him to do well.  He meant it not by poetry, whiot tent with earthly plagues, deviseth new punishment in hell for tyrants:  nor yet by philosophy, which teacheth &quot;octes esse:&quot; but, no doubt, by skill in history; for that, indeed,  afford you Cypselus, Periander, Phalaris, Dionysius, and I know not how many more of the same kehat speed well enough in their abominable injustice of usurpation.

    I clude, therefore, that he excelleth history, not only in furnishing the mind with knowledge, but iing it forward to that which deserves to be called and ated good:  which setting forward, and moving to well-doing, indeed, setteth the laurel s upon the poets as victorious; not only of the historian, but over the philosopher, howsoever, in teag, it may be questionable. For suppose it be grahat which I suppose, with great reason, may be dehat the philosopher, in respect of his methodical proceeding, teach more perfectly than the poet, yet do I think, that no man is so much [Greek text], as to pare the philosopher in moving with the poet.  And that moving is of a higher degree than teag, it may by this appear, that it is well nigh both the cause and effect of teag; for who will be taught, if he be not moved with desire to be taught?  And what so much good doth that teag bring forth (I speak still of moral doe) as that it moveth oo do that which it doth teach.  For, as Aristotle saith, it is not [Greek text] but [Greek text] {39}

    must be the fruit:  and how [Greek text]  be, without being moved to practise, it is no hard matter to sider.  The philosopher showeth you the way, he informeth you of the particularities, as well of the tediousness of the way and of the pleasant lodging you shall have when your journey is ended, as of the many by-turnings that may divert you from your way; but this is to no man, but to him that will read him, and read him with atteudious painfulness; which stant desire whosoever hath in him, hath already passed half the hardness of the way, and therefore is beholden to the philosopher but for the other half.  Nay, truly, learned men have learnedly thought, that where once reason hath so much over- mastered passion, as that the mind hath a free desire to do well, the inward light each mind hath in itself is as good as a philosophers book:  sin nature we know it is well to do well, and what is well and what is evil, although not in the words of art which philosophers bestow upon us; for out of natural ceit the philosophers drew it; but to be moved to do that which we know, or to be moved with desire to know, &quot;hoc opus, hic labor est.&quot; Now, {40} therein, of all sces (I speak still of human and acc to the human ceit), is our poet the monarch.  For he doth not only show the way, but giveth so sweet a prospeto the way, as will entiy man to enter into it; nay, he doth, as if your journey should lie through a fair vineyard, at the very first give you a cluster of grapes, that full of that taste you may long to pass farther.  He begih not with obscure definitions, which must blur the margin with interpretations, and load the memory with doubtfulness, but he eth to you with words set in delightful proportioher apanied with, or prepared for, the well- enting skill of musid with a tale, forsooth, he eth unto you with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the ey-er; {41} and, pretending no more, doth ihe winning of the mind from wiess to virtue; even as the child is often brought to take most wholesome things, by hiding them in such other as have apleasant taste; which, if one should begin to tell them the nature of the aloes or rhubarbarum they should receive, would sooake their physic at their ears than at their mouth; so it is in men (most of them are childish in the best things, till they be cradled in their graves); glad they will be to hear the tales of Hercules, Achilles, Cyrus, AEneas; and hearing them, must needs hear the right description of wisdom, valour, and justice; which, if they had been barely (that is to say, philosophically) set out, they would swear they be brought to school again.  That imitation whereof poetry is, hath the most veniency to nature of all other; insomuch that, as Aristotle saith, those things whi themselves are horrible, as cruel battles, unnatural monsters, are made, iical imitation, delightful.

    Truly, I have knowhat even with reading Amadis de Gaule, which, God kh, wah much of a perfect poesy, have found their hearts moved to the exercise of courtesy, liberality, and especially ce.

    Who readeth AEneas carrying old Anchises on his back, that wisheth not it were his fortuo perform so excellent an act?  Whom doth not those words of Turnus move (the tale of Turnus having planted his image in the imagination)  &quot;--fugientem haec terra videbit? Usque adeone mori miserum est?&quot; {42}

    Where the philosophers (as they think) s to delight, so much they be tent little to move, saving wrangling whether &quot;virtus&quot; be the chief or the only good; whether the plative or the active life do excel; which Plato and Boetius well knew; and therefore made mistress Philosophy very often borrow the masking raiment of poesy. For even those hard-hearted evil men, who think virtue a school- name, and know no ood but &quot;indulgere genio,&quot; and therefore despise the austere admonitions of the philosopher, and feel not the inward reasoand upo will be tent to be delighted, which is all the good-fellow poet seems to promise; and so steal to see the form of goodness, which seen, they ot but love, ere themselves be aware, as if they took a medie of cherries.

    Infinite {43} proofs of the strange effects of this poetical iion might be alleged; only two shall serve, which are so often remembered, as, I think, all men know them.  The one of Menenius Agrippa, who, when the whole people of Rome had resolutely divided themselves from the senate, with apparent show of utter ruin, though he were, for that time, an excellent orator, came not among them upon trust, either of figurative speeches, or ing insinuations, and much less with far-fetched maxims of philosophy, which, especially if they were Platonic, they must have learned geometry before they could have ceived; but, forsooth, he behaveth himself like a homely and familiar poet.  He telleth them a tale, that there was a time when all the parts of the body made a mutinous spiracy against the belly, which they thought devoured the fruits of each others labour; they cluded they would let so unprofitable a spearve.  In the end, to be short (for the tale is notorious, and as notorious that it was a tale), with punishing the belly they plagued themselves.  This, applied by him, wrought such effe the people as I never read that only words brought forth; but then so sudden, and so good an alteration, for upon reasonable ditions a perfect recilement ensued.

    The other is of Nathan the prophet, who, when the holy David had so far forsaken God, as to firm adultery with murder, when he was to do the te office of a friend, in laying his own shame before his eyes, bei by God to call again so chosen a servant, how doth he it? but by telling of a man whose beloved lamb was ungratefully taken from his bosom.  The appliost divirue, but the discourse itself feigned; which made David (I speak of the sed and instrumental cause) as in a glass see his own filthiness, as that heavenly psalm of mercy well testifieth.

    By these, therefore, examples and reasons, I think it may be mahat the poet, with that same hand of delight, doth draw the mind more effectually than any other art doth.  And so a clusion not unfitly ehat as virtue is the most excelleing-place for all worldly learning to make his end of, so poetry, being the most familiar to teach it, and most prio move towards it, in the most excellent work is the most excellent workman.

    But I am tent not only to decipher him by his works (although works in endation and dispraise must ever hold a high authority),but more narrowly will examine his parts; so that (as in a man) though all together may carry a presence full of majesty ay per some oious {44} piece we may find blemish.

    Now, {45} in his parts, kinds, or species, as you list to term them, it is to be hat some poesies have coupled together two or three kinds; as the tragical and ical, whereupon is riseragi-ical; some, in the manner, have mingled prose and verse, as Sannazaro and Boetius; some have mingled matters heroical and pastoral; but that eth all to one in this question; for, if severed they be good, the jun ot be hurtful.  Therefore, perce, fetting some, and leaving some as needless to be remembered, it shall not be amiss, in a word, to cite the special kinds, to see what faults may be found in the right use of them.

    Is it, then, the pastoral poem which is misliked? {46}  For, perce, where the hedge is lowest, they will soo leap over. Is the poor pipe disdained, whietimes, out of Melibaeuss mouth,  show the misery of people under hard lords and ravening soldiers?  And again, by Tityrus, what blessedness is derived to them that lie lowest from the goodness of them that sit highest? Sometimes uhe pretty tales of wolves and sheep,  include the whole siderations  doing and patience; sometimes show, that tentions for trifles  get but a trifling victory; where, perce, a man may see that even Alexander and Darius, wherove who should be cock of this worlds dunghill, the be they got was, that the after-livers may say,  &quot;Haec memi victum frustra tehyrsim. Ex illo Corydon, Corydoempore nobis.&quot; {47}

    Or is it the lamenting elegiac, {48} which, in a ki, would move rather pity than blame; who bewaileth, with the great philosopher Heraclitus, the weakness of mankind, and the wretess of the world; who, surely, is to be praised, either for passionately apanying just causes of lamentations, or fhtly pointing out how weak be the passions of wofulness? Is it the bitter, but wholesome iambic, {49} who rubs the galled mind, making shame the trumpet of villany, with bold and open g out against naughtiness? Or the satiric? who, &quot;Omne vafer vitium ridenti tangit amico;&quot; {50}

    who sply never leaveth, until he make a man laugh at folly, and, at length, ashamed to laugh at himself, which he ot avoid without avoiding the folly; who, while &quot;circum praecordia ludit,&quot; giveth us to feel how many headaches a passionate life brih us to; who when all is done, &quot;Est Ulubris, animus si nos non deficit aequus.&quot; {51}

    No, perce, it is the ic; {52} whom naughty play-makers and stage-keepers have justly made odious.  To the arguments of abuse I will after answer; only thus muow is to be said, that the edy is an imitation of the on errors of our life, which he represeh in the most ridiculous and sful sort that may be; so as it is impossible that any beholder  be tent to be such a one.  Now, as iry, the oblique must be known as well as the right, and in arithmetic, the odd as well as the even; so iions of our life, who seeth not the filthiness of evil, wah a great foil to perceive the beauty of virtue.  This doth the edy handle so, in our private and domestical matters, as, with hearing it, we get, as it were, an experience of what is to be looked for, of a niggardly Demea, of a crafty Davus, of a flattering Gnatho, of a vain- glorious Thraso; and not only to know what effects are to be expected, but to know who be such, by the signifying badge given them by the edian.

    And little reason hath any man to say, that men learn the evil by seeing it so set out; since, as I said before, there is no man living, but by the force truth hath in nature, no sooner seeth these men play their parts, but wisheth them in &quot;pistrinum;&quot; {53} although, perce, the sack of his own faults lie so behind his back, that he seeth not himself to dan the same measure, whereto yet nothing  more open his eyes than to see his own as ptibly set forth; so that the right use of edy will, I think, by nobody be blamed.

    And much less of the high and excellent tragedy, {54} that opehe greatest wounds, and showeth forth the ulcers that are covered with tissue; that maketh kings fear to be tyrants, and tyrants to maheir tyrannical humours; that with stirring the effects of admiration and iseration, teacheth the uainty of this world, and upon how weak foundations gilded roofs are builded; that maketh us know, &quot;qui sceptrasaevos duro imperiit, timet timentes, metus in authorem redit.&quot;  But how much it  move, Plutarch yielded a notable testimony of the abomiyrant Alexander Pheraeus; from whose eyes a tragedy, well made and represented, drew abundance of tears, who without all pity had murdered infinite numbers, and some of his own blood; so as he that was not ashamed to make matters fedies, yet could not resist the sweet violence of a tragedy.  And if it wrought no farther good in him, it was that he, ie of himself, withdrew himself from hearkening to that which might mollify his hardened heart.  But it is not the tragedy they do dislike, for it were too absurd to cast out so excellent a representation of whatsoever is most worthy to be learned.

    Is it the lyric that most displeaseth, who with his tuned lyre and well- accorded voice, giveth praise, the reward of virtue, to virtuous acts? who giveth moral precepts and natural problems? who sometimes raiseth up his voice to the height of the heavens, in singing the lauds of the immortal God?  Certainly, I must fess mine own barbarousness; I never heard the old song of Perd Douglas, that I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet; {55} a is sung but by some blind crowder, with nher voice than rude style; which being so evil apparelled in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, what<var>..</var> would it work, trimmed in the geous eloquence of Pindar?  In Hungary I have seen it the ma all feasts, and all other such-like meetings, to have songs of their aors valour, which that right soldier-like nation think one of the chiefest kindlers of brave ce.  The inparable Lacedaemonians did not only carry that kind of music ever with them to the field, but even at home, as such songs were made, so were they all tent to be singers of them; when the lusty meo tell what they did, the old men what they had done, and the young what they would do.  And where a man may say that Pindar many times praiseth highly victories of small moment, rather matters of sport than virtue; as it may be answered, it was the fault of the poet, and not of the poetry, so, ihe chief fault was iime and  of the Greeks, who set those toys at so high a price, that Philip of Ma reed a horse-race won at Olympus among three fearful felicities.  But as the inimitable Pindar often did, so is that kind most capable, and most fit, to awake the thoughts from the sleep of idleness, to embrace honourable enterprises.

    There rests the heroical, {56} whose very name, I think, should daunt all backbiters.  For by what ceit  a tongue be directed to speak evil of that which draweth with him no less champions than Achilles, Cyrus, AEneas, Turus, Tydeus, Rinaldo? who doth not only tead move to truth, but teacheth and moveth to the most high and excellent truth:  who maketh magnanimity and justice shihrough all misty fearfulness and foggy desires? who, if the saying of Plato and Tully be true, that who could see virtue, would be wonderfully ravished with the love of her beauty; this mah her out to make her more lovely, in her holiday apparel, to the eye of any that will deign not to disdain until they uand.  But if any thing be already said in the defence of sweet poetry, all curreth to the maintaining the heroical, which is not only a kind, but the best and most aplished kind, of poetry.  For, as the image of each a stirreth and instructeth the mind, so the lofty image of such worthies most inflameth the mind with desire to be worthy, and informs with sel how to be worthy.  Only let AEneas be worn iablet of your memory, how he goverh himself in the ruin of his try; in the preserving his old father, and carrying away his religious ceremonies; in obeying Gods as, to leave Dido, though not only passionate kindness, but even the human sideration of virtuous gratefulness, would have craved other of him; how in storms, how in sports, how in war, how in peace, how a fugitive, how victorious, how besieged, how besieging, how ters, how to allies, how to enemies; how to his own, lastly, how in his inward self, and how in his outward gover; and I think, in a mind most prejudiced with a prejudig humour, he will be found in excellency fruitful.  Yea, as Horace saith, &quot;Melius Chrysippo et tore:&quot; {57} but, truly, I imagi falleth out with these poet-whippers as with some good women who often are sick, but in faith they ot tell where.  So the name of poetry is odious to them, but her his cause nor effects, her the sum that tains him, nor the particularities desding from him, give any fast hao their carping dispraise.

    Sihen, {58} poetry is of all human learnings the most a, and of most fatherly antiquity, as from wheher learnings have taken their beginnings; si is so universal that no learned nation doth despise it, nor barbarous nation is without it; sih Roman and Greek gave such divine names unto it, the one of prophesying, the other of making, and that ihat name of making is fit for him, sidering, that where all other arts retain themselves within their subject, and receive, as it were, their being from it, the poet only, only brih his own stuff, and doth not learn a ceit out of a matter, but maketh matter for a ceit; sineither his description nor end taih any evil, the thing described ot be evil; since his effects be so good as to teach goodness, and delight the learners of it; siherein (namely, in moral doe, the chief of all knowledges) he doth not only far pass the historian, but, for instrug, is well nigh parable to the philosopher; for moving, leaveth him behind him; sihe Holy Scripture (wherein there is no unness) hath whole parts in it poetical, and that even our Saviour Christ vouchsafed to use the flowers of it; since all his kinds are not only in their united forms, but in their severed disses fully endable; I think, and think I think rightly, the laurel  appointed for triumphant captains, doth worthily, of all other learnings, honour the poets triumph.

    But {59} because we have ears as well as tongues, and that the lightest reasons that may be, will seem to weigh greatly, if nothi in the terbalance, let us hear, and, as well as onder what objes be made against this art, which may be worthy either of yielding or answering.

    First, truly, I note, not only in these [Greek text], poet-haters, but in all that kind of people who seek a praise by dispraising others, that they dally spend a great many wandering words in quips and scoffs, carping and taunting at each thing, which, by stirring the spleen, may stay the brain from a thh beholding, the worthiness of the subject.

    Those kind of objes, as they are full of a very idle uneasiness (sihere is nothing of so sacred a majesty, but that an itg tongue may rub itself upon it), so deserve they no other answer, but, instead of laughing at the jest, to laugh at the jester.  We knolaying wit  praise the discretion of an ass, the fortableness of being i, and the jolly odities of being sick of the plague; so, of the trary side, if we will turn Ovids verse,  &quot;Ut lateat virtus proximitate mali.&quot;  &quot;That good lies hid in nearness of the evil,&quot; Agrippa will be as merry in the showing the Vanity of Sce, as Erasmus was in the ending of Folly; {60} her shall any man or matter escape some touch of these smiling railers.  But for Erasmus and Agrippa, they had another foundation than the superficial part would promise. Marry, these other pleasant fault-finders, who will correct the verb before they uand the noun, and fute others knowledge before they firm their own; I would have them only remember, that scoffing eth not of wisdom; so as the best title in true English they get with their merriments, is to be called good fools; for so have rave forefathers ever termed that humorous kind of jesters.

    But that which giveth greatest scope to their sing humour, is rhyming and versing. {61}  It is already said, and, as I think, truly said, it is not rhyming and versing that maketh poesy; one may be a poet without versing, and a versifier without poetry.  But yet, presuppose it were inseparable, as indeed, it seemeth Scaliger judgeth truly, it were an inseparable endation; for if &quot;oratio&quot; o &quot;ratio,&quot; speeext to reasohe greatest gift bestowed upon mortality, that ot be praiseless whiost polish that blessing of speech; which sidereth each word, not only as a man may say by his forcible quality, but by his best measured quantity; carrying even in themselves a harmony; without, perumber, measure, order, proportion be in our time grown odious.

    But lay aside the just praise it hath, by being the only fit speeusic--music, I say, the most diviriker of the sehus much is undoubtedly true, that if reading be foolish without remembering, memory being the only treasure of knowledge, those words which are fittest for memory, are likewise most ve for knowledge.  Now, that verse far exceedeth prose in the knitting up of the memory, the reason is ma:  the words, besides their delight, which hath a great affinity to memory, being so set as one ot be lost, but the whole work fails: which acg itself,<mark>99lｉb?</mark> calleth the remembrance back to itself, and so most strongly firmeth it.  Besides, one word so, as it were, begetting another, as, be it in rhyme or measured verse, by the former a man shall have a near guess to the follower.  Lastly, evehat have taught the art of memory, have showed nothing so apt for it as a certain room divided into many places, well and thhly known; now that hath the verse in effect perfectly, every word having his natural seat, which seat must needs make the word remembered.  But what needs more in a thing so known to all men?  Who is it that ever was a scholar that doth not carry away some verses of Virgil, Horace, or Cato, whi his youth he learned, and even to his old age serve him for hourly lessons? as,  &quot;Pertatorem fugito:  nam garrulus idem est. Dum sibi quisque placet credula turba sumus.&quot; {62}

    But the fitness it hath for memory is notably proved by all delivery of arts, wherein, for the most part, from grammar to logic, mathematics, physid the rest, the rules chiefly necessary to be borne away are piled in verses.  So that verse being in itself sweet and orderly, and bei for memory, the only handle of knowledge, it must be ihat any man  speak against it.

    Now {63} then go we to the most important imputations laid to the poor poets; fht I  yet learn, they are these.

    First, that there being many other more fruitful knowledges, a man might better spend his time ihan in this.

    Sedly, that it is the mother of lies.

    Thirdly, that it is the nurse of abuse, iing us with mailent desires, with a syreness, drawing the mind to the serpents tail of sinful fancies; and herein, especially, edies give the largest field to ear, as Chaucer saith; how, both in other nations and ours, before poets did soften us, we were full of ce, given to martial exercises, the pillars of manlike liberty, and not lulled asleep in shady idleness with poets pastimes.

    And lastly and chiefly, they cry out with open mouth, as if they had overshot Robin Hood, that Plato bahem out of his oh.

    Truly this is much, if there be much truth in it.

    First, {64} to the first, that a man might better spend his time, is a reason indeed; but it doth, as they say, but &quot;petere principium.&quot; {65}  For if it be, as I affirm, that no learning is so good as that which teacheth and moveth to virtue, and that none  both tead move thereto so much as poesy, then is the clusion ma, that ink and paper ot be to a more profitable purpose employed. Aainly, though a man should grant their first assumption, it should follow, methinks, very unwillingly, that good is not good because better is better.  But I still and utterly deny that there is sprung out of earth a more fruitful knowledge.

    To {66} the sed, therefore, that they should be the principal liars, I answer paradoxically, but truly, I think truly, that of all writers uhe sun, the poet is the least liar; and though he would, as a poet,  scarcely be a liar.  The astronomer, with his cousin the geometri,  hardly escape wheake upoo measure the height of the stars.

    How often, think you, do the physis lie, when they aver things good for siesses, which afterwards send Charon a great number of souls drowned in a potion before they e to his ferry.  And no less of the rest which take upoo affirm.  Now for the poet, he nothing affirmeth, and therefore never lieth; for, as I take it, to lie is to affirm that to be true which is false:  so as the other artists, and especially the historian, affirmeth many things, , in the cloudy knowledge of mankind, hardly escape from many lies:  but the poet, as I said before, never affirmeth; the poet never maketh any circles about your imagination, to jure you to believe for true what he writeth:  he citeth not authorities of other histories, but even for his entry calleth the sweet Muses to inspire into him a good iion; in troth, not lab to tell you what is or is not, but what should or should not be.  And, therefore, though he ret things not true, yet because he telleth them not for true he lieth not; without we will say that Nathan lied in his speech, before alleged, to David; which, as a wicked man durst scarce say, so think I none so simple would say, that AEsop lied iales of his beasts; for who thihat AEsop wrote it for actually true, were well worthy to have his name icled among the beasts he writeth of.  What child is there that eth to a play, and seeing Thebes written i letters upon an old door, doth believe that it is Thebes?  If then a man  arrive to the childs age, to know that the poets persons and doings are but pictures what should be, and not stories what have been, they will never give the lie to things not affirmatively, but allegorically and figuratively written; and therefore, as in history, looking for truth, they may go away full fraught with falsehood, so in poesy, looking but for fi, they shall use the narration but as an imaginative ground-plot of a profitable iion.

    But hereto is replied, that the poets give o men they write of, which argueth a ceit of an actual truth, and so, not being true, proveth a falsehood.  And doth the lawyer lie then, when, uhe names of John of the Stile, and John of the Nokes, he putteth his case?  But that is easily answered, their naming of men is but to make their picture the more lively, and not to build any history.  Paintihey ot leave men nameless; we see we ot play at chess but that we must give o our chess-men: a, methinks, he were a very partial champion of truth that would say we lied fiving a piece of wood the reverend title of a bishop.  The poet h Cyrus and AEneas no other way than to show what men of their fames, fortunes, aes should do.

    Their {67} third is, how much it abuseth mens wit, training it to a wanton sinfulness and lustful love.  For, ihat is the principal if not only abuse I  hear alleged.  They say the edies rather teach, than reprehend, amorous ceits; they say the lyric is larded with passionate sos; the elegiac weeps the want of his mistress; and that even to the heroical Cupid hath ambitiously climbed.  Alas! Love, I would thou couldst as well defend thyself, as thou st offend others!  I would those on whom thou dost attend, could either put thee away or yield good reason why they keep thee!  But grant love of beauty to be a beastly fault, although it be very hard, sinly man, and , hath that gift to dis beauty; grant that lovely name of love to deserve all hateful reproaches, although even some of my masters the philosophers spent a good deal of their lamp-oil iing forth the excellency of it; grant, I say, what they will have grahat not only love, but lust, but vanity, but, if they list, scurrility, possess many leaves of the poets books; yet, think I, when this is grahey will find their sentence may, with good manners, put the last words foremost; and not say that poetry abuseth mans wit, but that mans wit abuseth poetry.  For I will not deny but that mans wit may make poesy, which should be [Greek text], whie learned have defined, figuring food things, to be [Greek text], which doth trariwise ihe fancy with unworthy objects; as the painter, who should give to the eye either some excellent perspective, or some fine picture fit for building or fortification, or taining in it some notable example, as Abraham sacrifig his son Isaac, Judith killing Holofernes, David fighting with Goliath, may leave those, and please an ill-pleased eye with wanton shows of better-hidden matters.

    But, what! shall the abuse of a thing make the right use odious? Nay, truly, though I yield that poesy may not only be abused, but that being abused, by the reason of his sweet charming force, it  do more hurt than any other army of words, yet shall it be so far from cluding, that the abuse shall give reproach to the abused, that, trariwise, it is a good reason, that whatsoever being abused, doth most harm, being rightly used (and upon the right use each thing receives his title) doth most good.  Do we not see skill of physic, the best rampire {68} to our often-assaulted bodies, being abused, teach poison, the most violeroyer?  Doth not knowledge of law, whose end is to even and right all things, being abused, grow the crooked fosterer of horrible injuries?  Doth not (to go in the highest) Gods word abused breed heresy, and His name abused bee blasphemy?  Truly, a needle ot do much hurt, and as truly (with leave of ladies be it spoken) it ot do much good. With a sword thou mayest kill thy father, and with a sword thou mayest defend thy prind try; so that, as in their calling poets fathers of lies, they said nothing, so in this their argument of abuse, they prove the endation.

    They allege herewith, that before poets began to be in price, our nation had set their hearts delight upon a, and not imagination; rather doing things worthy to be written, than writing things fit to be done.  What that before time was, I think scarcely Sphynx  tell; sinory is so ahat gives not the prece to poetry.  Aain it is, that, in our plai homeliness, yet never was the Albion nation without poetry.

    Marry, this argument, though it be levelled against poetry, yet it is indeed a -shot against all learning or bookishness, as they only term it.

    Of such mind were certain Goths, of whom it is written, that having in the spoil of a famous city taken a fair library, one hangman, belike fit to execute the fruits of their wits, who had murdered a great number of bodies, would have set fire in it.  &quot;No,&quot; said another, very gravely, &quot;take heed what you do, for while they are busy about those toys, we shall with more leisure quer their tries.&quot;  This, indeed, is the ordinary doe of ignorance, and many words sometimes I have heard spent in it; but because this reason is generally against all learning as well as poetry, or rather all learning but poetry; because it were toe a digression to ha, or at least too superfluous, si is mahat all gover of a is to be gotten by knowledge, and knowledge best by gathering many knowledges, which is reading,; I only say with Horace, to him that is of that opinion, &quot;Jubeo stultum esse libenter--&quot; {69} for as for poetry itself, it is the freest from this, obje, for poetry is the panion of camps.  I dare uake, Orlando Furioso, or ho King Arthur, will never displease a soldier:  but the quiddity of &quot;ens&quot; and &quot;prima materia&quot; will hardly agree with a corslet.  And, therefore, as I said in the beginning, even Turks and Tartars are delighted with poets.  Homer, a Greek, flourished befreece flourished; and if to a slight jecture a jecture may be opposed, truly it may seem, that as by him their learned men took almost their first light of knowledge, so their active men receive their first notions of ce.  Only Alexanders example may serve, who by Plutarch is ated of such virtue that fortune was not his guide but his footstool; whose acts speak for him, though Plutarch did not; ihe phoenix of warlike princes.  This Alexander left his saster, living Aristotle, behind him, but took dead Homer with him.

    He put the philosopher Callistheo death, for his seeming philosophical, indeed mutinous, stubbornness; but the chief thing he was ever heard to wish for was that Homer had been alive.  He well found he received more bravery of mind by the pattern of Achilles, than by hearing the definition of fortitude. And, therefore, if isliked Fulvius for carrying Ennius with him to the field, it may be answered that if isliked it the noble Fulvius liked it, or else he had not do; for it was not the excellent Cato Utisis whose authority I would much more have reverenced, but it was the former, in truth a bitter punisher of faults, but else a man that had never sacrificed to the Graces.  He misliked, and cried out against, all Greek learning, a, being fourscore years old, began to learn it, belike fearing that Pluto uood not Latin.  Ihe Roman laws allowed no person to be carried to the wars but he that was in the soldiers roll.  And, therefore, though isliked his unmustered person, he misliked not his work.  And if he had, Scipio Nasica (judged by on sent the best Roman) loved him:  both the other Scipio brothers, who had by their virtues no less surhan of Asia and Afric, so loved him that they caused his body to be buried in their sepulture. So, as Catos authority being but against his person, and that answered with sreater than himself, is herein of no validity.

    But {70} now, indeed, my burthen is great, that Platos name is laid upon me, whom, I must fess, of all philosophers I have ever esteemed most worthy of reverence; and with good reason, since of all philosophers he is the most poetical; yet if he will defile the fountain out of which his flowing streams have proceeded, let us boldly examih what reason he did it.

    First, truly, a man might maliciously object that Plato, being a philosopher, was a natural enemy of poets.  For, indeed, after the philosophers had picked out of the sweet mysteries of poetry the right dising of true points of knowledge, they forthwith, putting it ihod, and making a school of art of that which the poets did only teach by a divine delightfulness, beginning to spurn at their guides, like ungrateful apprentices, were not tent to set up shop for themselves, but sought by all means to discredit their masters; which, by the force of delight being barred them, the less they could overthrow them, the more they hated them.  For, ihey found for Homer seven cities strove who should have him for their citizen, where many cities banished philosophers as not fit members to live among them.  For only repeatiain of Euripides verses many Athenians had their lives saved of the Syras, where the Athenians themselves thought many of the philosophers unworthy to live.  Certais, as Simonides and Pindar, had so prevailed with Hiero the First, that of a tyrant they made him a just king; where Plato could do so little with Dionysius that he himself, of a philosopher, was made a slave.  But who should do thus, I fess, should requite the objes raised against poets with like cavillations against philosophers; as likewise one should do that should bid one read Phaedrus or Symposium in Plato, or the discourse of Love in Plutarch, and see whether any poet do authorise abominable filthiness as they do.

    Again, a man might ask, out of what oh Plato doth banish them?  In sooth, thence where he himself alloweth unity of women.

    So, as belike this banishment grew not for effeminate wantonness, sitle should poetical sos be hurtful, when a man might have what woman he listed.  But I honour philosophical instrus, and bless the wits which bred them, so as they be not abused, which is likewise stretched to poetry.  Saint Paul himself sets a watchword upon philosophy, indeed upon the abuse.  So doth Plato upon the abuse, not upory.  Plato found fault that the poets of his time filled the world with wrong opinions of the gods, making light tales of that unspotted essence, and therefore would not have the youth depraved with such opinions.  Herein may much be said; let this suffice:  the poets did not induce such opinions, but did imitate those opinions already induced.

    For all the Greek stories  well testify that the very religion of that time stood upon many and many-fashioned gods; not taught so by poets, but followed acc to their nature of imitation.  Who list may read in Plutarch the discourses of Isis and Osiris, of the cause why oracles ceased, of the Divine providence, and see whether the theology of that nation stood not upon such dreams, which the poets indeed superstitiously observed; and truly, sihey had not the light of Christ, did much better in it than the philosophers, who, shaking off superstition, brought in atheism.

    Plato, therefore, whose authority I had much rather justly strue than unjustly resist, meant not in general of poets, in those words of which Julius Scaliger saith, &quot;qua authoritate, barbari quidam atque insipidi, abuti velint ad poetas e republica exigendos {71}:&quot; but only meant to drive out those wrong opinions of the Deity, whereof now, without farther law, Christianity hath taken away all the hurtful belief, perce as he thought nourished by theeemed poets.  And a man need go no farther than to Plato himself to know his meaning; who, in his dialogue called &quot;Ion,&quot; {72}

    giveth high, and rightly, divine endation unto poetry.  So as Plato, banishing the abuse, not the thing, not banishing it, but giving due honour to it, shall be our patron, and not our adversary.  For, indeed, I had much rather, siruly I may do it, show their mistaking of Plato, under whose lions skin they would make an ass- like braying against poesy, than go about to overthrow his authority; whom, the wiser a man is, the more just cause he shall find to have in admiration; especially since he attributeth unto poesy more than myself do, namely, to be a very inspiring of a divine force, far above mans wit, as in the fore-named dialogue is apparent.

    Of the other side, who would show the honours have been by the best sort of judgments grahem, a whole sea of examples would present themselves; Alexanders, Caesars, Scipios, all favourers of poets; Laelius, called the Roman Socrates, himself a poet; so as part of Heautontimeroumenos, in Terence, was supposed to be made by him.

    And even the Greek Socrates, whom Apollo firmed to be the only wise man, is said to have spent part of his old time in putting AEsops Fables into verse; and, therefore, full evil should it bee his scholar Plato to put such words in his masters mouth against poets. But what needs more? Aristotle writes the &quot;Art of Poesy;&quot; and why, if it should not be written? Plutarch teacheth the use to be gathered of them; and how, if they should not be read? And who reads Plutarchs either history or philosophy, shall firimmeth both their garments with guards {73} of poesy.

    But I list not to defend poesy with the help of his underling histrapher.  Let it suffice to have showed it is a fit soil for praise to dwell upon; and what dispraise may be set upon it is either easily overe, or transformed into just endation.  So that sihe excellences of it may be so easily and so justly firmed, and the low creeping objes so soon trodden down {74}; it not being an art of lies, but of true doe; not of effeminateness, but of notable stirring of ce; not of abusing mans wit, but of strengthening mans wit; not banished, but honoured by Plato; let us rather plant more laurels for to ingarland the poets heads (which honour of being laureate, as besides them only triumphant captains were, is a suffit authority to show the price they ought to be held in) than suffer the ill-favoured breath of such wrong speakers oo blow upon the clear springs of poesy.

    But {75} since I have run so long a career in this matter, methinks, before I give my pen a full stop, it shall be but a little more lost time to inquire, why England, the mother of excellent minds, should be grown so hard a step-mother to poets, who certainly in wit ought to pass all others, since all only proceeds from their wit, being, indeed, makers of themselves, not takers of others.  How  I but exclaim, &quot;Musa, mihi causas memora, quo numine laeso?&quot; {76}

    Sweet poesy! that hath aly had kings, emperors, senatreat captains, such as, besides a thousand others, David, Adrian, Sophocles, Germanicus, not only to favour poets, but to be poets; and of our imes  present for her patrons, a Robert, King of Sicily; the great King Francis of France; King James of Scotland; such cardinals as Bembus and Bibiena; such famous preachers and teachers as Beza and Melan; so learned philosophers as Fracastorius and Scaliger; so great orators as Pontanus and Muretus; so pierg wits as Gee Buan; so grave cillors as, besides many, but before all, that Hospital {77} of Frahan whom, I think, that realm never brought forth a more aplished judgment more firmly builded upon virtue; I say these, with numbers of others, not only to read others poesies, but to poetise for others reading: that poesy, thus embraced in all other places, should only find in our time a hard wele in England, I think the very earth laments it, and therefore decks our soil with fewer laurels than it was aced.  For heretofore poets have in England also flourished; and, which is to be noted, even in those times wherumpet of Mars did sound loudest.  And now that an over-faint quietness should seem to strew the house for poets, they are almost in as good reputation as the mountebanks at Veruly, even that, as of the one side it giveth great praise to poesy, which, like Venus (but to better purpose), had rather be troubled i with Mars, than enjoy the homely quiet of Vul; so serveth it for a piece of a reason why they are less grateful to idle England, whiow  scardure the pain of a pen.  Upon this necessarily followeth that base men with servile wits uake it, who think it enough if they  be rewarded of the printer; and so as Epaminondas is said, with the honour of his virtue, to have made an office by his exerg it, which before was ptible, to bee highly respected; so these men, no more but setting their o it, by their own disgracefulness, disgrace the most graceful poesy.  For now, as if all the Muses were got with child, t forth bastard poets, without any ission, they do post over the banks of Heli, until they make their readers more weary than post-horses; while, in the meahey, &quot;Queis meliore luto finxit praecordia Titan,&quot; {78} are better tent to suppress the outflowings of their wit, than by publishing them to be ated knights of the same order.

    But I that, before ever I durst aspire unto the dignity, am admitted into the pany of the paper-blurrers, do find the very true cause of our wantiimation is want of desert, taking upon us to be poets ie of Pallas.  Now, wherein we wa, were a thankworthy labour to express.  But if I knew, I should have mended myself; but as I never desired the title so have I ed the means to e by it; only, overmastered by some thoughts, I yielded an inky tribute unto them.

    Marry, they that delight in poesy itself, should seek to know what they do, and how they do, especially look themselves in an unflattering glass of reason, if they be inable unto it.

    For poesy must not be drawn by the ears, it must be gently led, or rather it must lead; which artly the cause that made the a learned affirm it was a divine, and no human skill, since all other knowledges lie ready for any that have strength of wit; a poet no industry  make, if his own genius be not carried into it. And therefore is an old proverb, &quot;Orator fit, poeta nascitur.&quot; {79} Yet fess I always, that as the fertilest ground must be manured, so must the highest flying wit have a Daedalus to guide him.  That Daedalus, they say, both in this and in other, hath three wings to bear itself up into the air of due endation; that is art, imitation, and exercise.  But these, her artificial rules, nor imitative patterns, we much cumber ourselves withal.  Exercise, indeed, we do, but that very forebackwardly; for where we should exercise to know, we exercise as having known; and so is our brain delivered of much matter whiever was begotten by knowledge.  For there being two principal parts, matter to be expressed by words, and words to express the matter, iher we use art or imitatihtly.  Our matter is &quot;quodlibet,&quot; {80} indeed, although wrongly, perf Ovids verse, &quot;Quicquid abor dicere, versus erit;&quot; {81} never marshalling it into any assured rank, that almost the readers ot tell where to find themselves.

    Chaucer, undoubtedly, did excellently in his Troilus and Cressida; of whom, truly, I know not whether to marvel more, either that he in that misty time could see so clearly, or that we in this clear age go so stumblingly after him.  Yet had he great wants, fit to be fiven in so reverend antiquity.  I at the Mirror of Magistrates meetly furnished of beautiful parts.  And in the Earl of Surreys Lyrics, many things tasting of a noble birth, and worthy of a noble mind.  The &quot;Shepherds Kalendar&quot; hath much poesy in his eclogues, indeed, worthy the reading, if I be not deceived.  That same framing of his {82} style to an old rustiguage, I dare not allow; sineither Theocritus in Greek, Virgil in Latin, nor Sannazaro in Italian, did affect it.  Besides these, I do not remember to have seen but few (to speak boldly) prihat have poetical sinews in them.  For proof whereof, let but most of the verses be put in prose, and then ask the meaning, and it will be found that one verse did but beget another, without  at the first what should be at the last; which bees a fused mass of words, with a tinkling sound of rhyme, barely apanied with reason.

    Our {83} tragedies and edies, not without cause, are cried out against,  rules her of ho civility nor skilful poetry.

    Excepting Gorboduc (again I say of those that I have seen), whiotwithstanding, as it is full of stately speeches, and well- sounding phrases, climbing to the height of Seneca his style, and as full of notable morality, which it does most delightfully teach, and so obtain the very end of poesy; yet, in truth, it is very defectuous in the circumstances, which grieves me, because it might not remain as a model of all tragedies.

    For it is faulty both in plad time, the two necessary panions of all corporal as.  For where the stage should always represent but one place; and the uttermost time presupposed in it should be, both by Aristotles precept, and on reason, but one day; there is both many days and many places inartificially imagined.

    But if it be so in Gorboduuch more in all the rest? where you shall have Asia of the one side, and Afric of the other, and so many other under kingdoms, that the player, when he es in, must ever begin with telling where he is, {84} or else the tale will not be ceived.  Now shall you have three ladies walk to gather flowers, and then we must believe the stage to be a garden.  By and by, we hear news of shipwre the same place, then we are to blame if t it not for a rock.

    Upon the back of that es out a hideous monster with fire and smoke, and then the miserable beholders are bound to take it for a cave; while, in the meawo armies fly in, represented with four swords and bucklers, and then, what hard heart will not receive it for a pitched field? Now of time they are much more liberal; for ordinary it is, that two young princes fall in love; after many traverses she is got with child; delivered of a fair boy; he is lost, groweth a man, falleth in love, and is ready to get another child; and all this in two hours space; which, how absurd it is in sense, even sense may imagine; and art hath taught and all a examples justified, and at this day the ordinary players in Italy will not err in.  Yet will some bring in an example of the Eunu Terehat taih matter of two days, yet far short of twenty years.  True it is, and so was it to be played in two days, and so fitted to the time it set forth.  And though Plautus have in one place done amiss, let us hit it with him, and not miss with him.  But they will say, How then shall we set forth a story which tains both many places and many times?  And do they not know, that a tragedy is tied to the laws of poesy, and not of history; not bound to follow the story, but having liberty either to feign a quite new matter, or to frame the history to the most tragical venience? Again, many things may be told, which ot be showed:  if they know the differewixt rep and representing.  As for example, I may speak, though I am here, of Peru, and in speech digress from that to the description of Calicut; but in a I ot represent it without Pacolets horse.  And so was the mahe as took by some &quot;Nuntius,&quot; {85}

    to ret things done in former time, or other place.

    Lastly, if they will represent an history, they must not, as Horace saith, begin &quot;ab ovo,&quot; {86} but they must e to the principal point of that oion which they will represent.  By example this will be best expressed; I have a story of young Polydorus, delivered, for safetys sake, with great riches, by his father Priamus to Polymor, King of Thrace, irojan war time.  He, after some years, hearing of the overthrow of Priamus, for to make the treasure his own, murdereth the child; the body of the child is taken up; Hecuba, she, the same day, fih a sleight to be revenged most cruelly of the tyrant.  Where, now, would one of our tragedy-writers begin, but with the delivery of the child?  Then should he sail over into Thrace, and so spend I know not how many years, and travel numbers of places.  But where doth Euripides? Even with the finding of the body; leaving the rest to be told by the spirit of Polydorus.  This needs no farther to be enlarged; the dullest wit may ceive it.

    But, besides these gross absurdities, how all their plays be her right tragedies nht edies, mingling kings and s, not because the matter so carrieth it, but thrust in the  by head and shoulders to play a part in majestical matters, with her deor discretion; so as her the admiration and iseration, nor the right sportfulness, is by their moragi-edy obtained.  I knouleius did somewhat so, but that is a thing reted with space of time, not represented in one moment: and I know the as have one or two examples i- edies as Plautus hath Amphytrio.  But, if we mark them well, we shall find, that they never, or very daintily, match horn-pipes and funerals.

    So falleth it out, that having indeed nht edy in that ical part of our tragedy, we have nothing but scurrility, unworthy of any chaste ears; or some extreme show of doltishness, indeed fit to lift up a loud laughter, and nothing else; where the whole tract of a edy should be full of delight; as the tragedy should be still maintained in a well-raised admiration.

    But our edians think there is no delight without laughter, which is very wrong; for though laughter may e with delight, yet eth it not of delight, as though delight should be the cause of laughter; but well may ohing breed both together.  Nay, in themselves, they have, as it were, a kind of trariety.  For delight we scarcely do, but in things that have a veniency to ourselves, or to the general nature.  Laughter almost ever eth of things most disproportioo ourselves and nature: delight hath a joy in it either perma or present; laughter hath only a sful tig.  For example:  we are ravished with delight to see a fair woman, a are far from being moved to laughter; we laugh at deformed creatures, whereiainly we ot delight; we delight in good ces; we laugh at misces; we delight to hear the happiness of our friends and try, at which he were worthy to be laughed at that would laugh:  we shall, trarily, sometimes laugh to find a matter quite mistaken, and go down the hill against the bias, {87} in the mouth of some such men, as for the respect of them, one shall be heartily sorrow he ot choose but laugh, and so is rather paihan delighted with laughter.  Yet deny I not, but that they may go well together; for, as in Alexanders picture well set out, we delight without laughter, and iy mad antics we laugh without delight:  so in Hercules, painted with his great beard and furious tenance, in a womans attire, spinning at Omphales a, it breeds both delight and laughter; for the representing of se a power in love procures delight, and the sfulness of the a stirreth laughter.

    But I speak to this purpose, that all the end of the ical part be not upon such sful matters as stir laughter only, but mix with it that delightful teag which is the end of poesy.  And the great fault, even in that point of laughter, and forbidden plainly by Aristotle, is, that they stir laughter in sinful things, which are rather execrable than ridiculous; or in miserable, which are rather to be pitied than sed.  For what is it to make folks gape at a wretched beggar, and a beggarly ; ainst the law of hospitality, to jest at strangers, because they speak not English so well as we do? what do we learn, si is certain,  &quot;Nil habet infelix pauperatas durius in se, Quam qnod ridiculos, homines facit.&quot; {88}

    But rather a busy loving courtier, and a heartless threatening Thraso; a self-wise seeming saster; a wry-transformed traveller:  these, if we saw walk in stage names, which we play naturally, therein were delightful laughter, and teag delightfulness:  as iher, the tragedies of Buan {89} do justly bring forth a divine admiration.

    But I have lavished out too many words of this play matter; I do it, because, as they are excelling parts of poesy, so is there none so much used in England, and none  be more pitifully abused; which, like an unmannerly daughter, showing a bad education, causeth her mother Poesys hoy to be called iion.

    Other {90} sorts of poetry, almost, have we none, but that lyrical kind of songs and sos, which, if the Lave us so good minds, how well it might be employed, and with how heavenly fruits, both private and publi singing the praises of the immortal beauty, the immortal goodness of that God, who giveth us hands to write, and wits to ceive; of which we might well want words, but never matter; of which we could turn our eyes to nothing, but we should ever have new budding occasions.

    But, truly, many of such writings as e uhe banner of uible love, if I were a mistress, would never persuade me they were in love; so coldly they apply fiery speeches, as men that had rather read lovers writings, and so caught up certain swelling phrases, which hang together like a man that oold me, &quot;the wind was at north-west and by south,&quot; because he would be sure to name winds enough; than that, in truth, they feel those passions, which easily, as I think, may be bewrayed by the same forcibleness, or &quot;energia&quot; (as the Greeks call it), of the writer.  But let this be a suffit, though short hat we miss the right use of the material point of poesy.

    Now {91} for the outside of it, which is words, or (as I may term it) di, it is even well worse; so is that honey-flowing matron eloquence, apparelled, or rather disguised, in a courtesan-like painted affectation.

    Oime with so far-fetched words, that many seem monsters, but most seem strao any plishman: aime with c of a letter, as if they were bound to follow the method of a diary: aime with figures and flowers, extremely wiarved.

    But I would this fault were only peculiar to versifiers, and had not as large possession among prose printers:  and, which is to be marvelled, among many scholars, and, which is to be pitied, among some preachers.

    Truly, I could wish (if at least I might be so bold to wish, in a thing beyond the reay capacity) the diligent imitators of Tully ahenes, most worthy to be imitated, did not so much keep Nizolian paper-books {92} of their figures and phrases, as by atteranslation, as it were, devour them whole, and make them wholly theirs.  For now they cast sugar and spice upon every dish that is served at the table:  like those Indians, not tent to wear ear-rings at the fit and natural place of the ears, but they will thrust jewels through their nose and lips, because they will be sure to be fine.

    Tully, when he was to drive out Catiline, as it were with a thunderbolt of eloquence, oftehe figure of repetition, as &quot;vivit et vincit, imo ium venit, imo ium venit,&quot; &amp;c. {93}  Indeed, inflamed with a well-grounded rage, he would have his words, as it were, double out of his mouth; and so do that artificially which we see men in choler do naturally.

    And we, having he grace of those words, hale them in sometimes to a familiar epistle, when it were too much choler to be choleric.

    How well, store of &quot;similiter ces&quot; doth sound with the gravity of the pulpit, I would but invoke Demosthenes soul to tell, who with a rare daintiness useth them.  Truly, they have made me think of the sophister, that with too much subtlety would prove two eggs three, and though he may be ted a sophister, had none for his labour.  So these men bringing in such a kind of eloquence, well may they obtain an opinion of a seeming fineness, but persuade few, which should be the end of their fineness.

    Now for similitudes iain printed discourses, I think all herbalists, all stories of beasts, fowls, and fishes are rifled up, that they may e in multitudes to wait upon any of our ceits, which certainly is as absurd a surfeit to the ears as is possible. For the force of a similitude not being to prove anything to a trary disputer, but only to explain to a willing hearer:  when that is dohe rest is a most tedious prattling, rather overswaying the memory from the purpose whereto they were applied, than any whit inf the judgment, already either satisfied, or by similitudes not to be satisfied.

    For my part, I do not doubt, when Antonius and Crassus, the great forefathers of Cicero in eloquehe one (as Cicero testifieth of them) pretended not to know art, the other not to set by it, because with a plain sensiblehey might wi of popular ears, which credit is the  step to persuasion (which persuasion is the chief mark of oratory); I do not doubt, I say, but that they used these knacks very sparingly; which who doth generally use, any man may see, doth dao his own musid so to he noted by the audience, more careful to speak curiously than truly.  Undoubtedly (at least to my opinion undoubtedly) I have found in divers small- learned courtiers a more sound style than in some professors of learning; of which I  guess no other cause, but that the courtier following that which by practice he fih fittest to nature, therein (though he know it not) doth acc to art, though not by art:  where the other, using art to show art, and not hide art (as in these cases he should do), flieth from nature, and indeed abuseth art.

    But what! methinks I deserve to be pounded {94} for straying from poetry to oratory:  but both have su affinity in the wordish siderations, that I think this digression will make my meaning receive the fuller uanding:  which is not to take upoo teach poets how they should do, but only finding myself sick among the rest, to allow sonie or two spots of the on iion grown among the most part of writers; that, aowledging ourselves somewhat awry, we may bend to the right use both of matter and manner:  whereto our language giveth us great occasion, being, indeed, capable of any excellent exerg of it. {95}  I know some will say, it is a mingled language: and why not so much the better, taking the best of both the other? Another will say, it wah grammar.  Nay, truly, it hath that praise, that it wants not grammar; frammar it might have, but needs it not; being so easy in itself, and so void of those cumbersome differences of cases, genders, moods, and tenses; which, I think, iece of the tower of Babylons curse, that a man should <tt></tt>be put to school to learn his mother tongue.  But for the uttering sweetly and properly the ceit of the mind, which is the end of speech, that hath it equally with any other tongue in the world, and is particularly happy in positions of two or three words together, he Greek, far beyond the Latin; which is one of the greatest beauties  be in a language.

    Now, {96} of versifying there are two sorts, the one a, the other modern; the a marked the quantity of each syllable, and acc to that framed his verse; the modern,  only number, with sard of the at, the chief life of it stah in that like sounding of the words, which we call rhyme. Whether of these be the more excellent, would bear many speeches; the a, no doubt more fit for music, both words and time  quantity; and more fit lively to express divers passions, by the low or lofty sound of the well-weighed syllable.  The latter, likewise, with his rhyme striketh a certain music to the ear; and, in fine, si doth delight, though by another way, it obtaihe same purpose; there being iher, sweetness, and wanting iher, majesty.

    Truly the English, before any vulgar language I know, is fit for both sorts; for, for the a, the Italian is so full of vowels, that it must ever be cumbered with elisions.  The Dutch so, of the other side, with sonants, that they ot yield the sweet sliding fit for a verse.  The French, in his whole language, hath not one word that hath his at in the last syllable, saving two, called aima; and little more, hath the Spanish, and therefore very gracelessly may they use dactiles. The English is subject to none of these defects.

    Now for rhyme, though we do not observe quantity, we observe the at very precisely, which other languages either ot do, or will not do so absolutely.  That &quot;caesura,&quot; or breathing-place, in the midst of the verse, her Italian nor Spanish have, the Frend we never almost fail of.  Lastly, even the very rhyme itself the Italian ot put in the last syllable, by the Frenamed the mase rhyme, but still in the o the last, which the French call the female; or the  before that, which the Italian calls &quot;sdrucciola:&quot; the example of the former is, &quot;buono,&quot; &quot;suono;&quot; of the sdrucciola is, &quot;femina,&quot; &quot;semina.&quot;  The French, of the other side, hath both the male, as &quot;bon,&quot; &quot;son,&quot; and the female, as &quot;plaise,&quot; &quot;taise;&quot; but the &quot;sdrucciola&quot; he hath not; where the English hath all three, as &quot;due,&quot; &quot;true,&quot; &quot;father,&quot; &quot;rather,&quot; &quot;motion,&quot; &quot;potion;&quot; with much more which might be said, but that already I find the trifling of this discourse is muularged.

    So {97} that sihe ever praiseworthy poesy is full of virtue, breeding delightfulness, and void of no gift that ought to be in the noble name of learning; sihe blames laid against it are either false or feeble; sihe cause why it is eemed in England is the fault of poet-apes, not poets; since, lastly, our tongue is most fit to honour poesy, and to be honoured by poesy; I jure you all that have had the evil luck to read this ink-wasting toy of mine, even in the name of the Nine Muses, no more to s the sacred mysteries of poesy; no more to laugh at the name of poets, as though they were  iors to fools; no more to jest at the reverend title of &quot;a rhymer;&quot; but to believe, with Aristotle, that they were the areasurers of the Gres divinity; to believe, with Bembus, that they were the first bringers in of all civility; to believe, with Scaliger, that no philosophers precepts  sooner make you an ho man, than the reading of Virgil; to believe, with Clauserus, the translator of utus, that it pleased the heavenly deity by Hesiod and Homer, uhe veil of fables, to give us all knowledge, logic, rhetoric, philosophy natural and moral, and &quot;quid non?&quot; to believe, with me, that there are many mysteries tained iry, which of purpose were written darkly, lest by profas it should be abused; to believe, with Landin, that they are so beloved of the gods that whatsoever they write proceeds of a divine fury.  Lastly, to believe themselves, wheell you they will make you immortal by their verses.

    Thus doing, your names shall flourish in the printers shops:  thus doing, you shall be of kin to many a poetical preface:  thus doing, you shall be most fair, most rich, most wise, most all:  you shall dwell upon superlatives:  thus doing, though you be &quot;Libertino patre natus,&quot; you shall suddenly grow &quot;Herculea proles,&quot;  &quot;Si quid mea Carmina possunt:&quot;  thus doing, your soul shall be placed with Dantes Beatrix, or Virgils Anchisis.

    But if (fie of such a but!) you be born so he dull-making cataract of Nilus, that you ot hear the pla-like music of poetry; if you have so earth-creeping a mind, that it ot lift itself up to look to the sky of poetry, or rather, by a certain rustical disdain, will bee such a Mome, as to be a Momus of poetry; then, though I will not wish unto you the asss ears of Midas, nor to be driven by a poets verses, as Bubonax was, to hang himself; nor to be rhymed to death, as is said to be done in Ireland; yet thus much curse I must send you in the behalf of all poets; that while you live, you live in love, and never get favour, for lag skill of a so; and when you die, your memory die from the earth for want of aaph.

 POEM: TWO PASTORALS

    Made by Sir Philip<s></s> Sidney, upon his meeting with his two worthy friends and fellow poets, Sir Edward Dyer and M. Fulke Greville.

    Join mates in mirth to me, Grant pleasure to our meeting; Let Pan, ood god, see How grateful is reeting. Jois and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.

    Ye hymns and <bdi>藏书网</bdi>singing skill Of god Apollos giving, Be pressed our reeds to fill With sound of music living. Jois and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.

    Sweet Orpheus harp, whose sound The stedfast mountains moved, Let there thy skill abound, To joi friends beloved. Jois and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.

    My two and I be met, A happy blessed trinity, As three more jointly set In firmest band of unity. Jois and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.

    Wely two to me, The number best beloved, Within my heart you be In friendship unremoved. Jois and hands, so let <tt>..t>it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.

    Give leave your flocks te, Let us the while be playing; Within the elmy grange, Your flocks will not be straying. Jois and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.

    Cause all the mirth you , Since I am now e hither, Who never joy, bu<mark></mark>t when I am with you together. Jois and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.

    Like lovers do their love, So joy I in you seeing: Let nothing me remove From always with you being. Jois and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.

    And as the turtle dove To mate with whom he liveth, Sufort fervent love Of you to my heart giveth. Jois and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.

    Now joined be our hands, Let them be neer asunder, But linkd in binding bands By metamorphosed wonder. So should our severed bodies three As one for ever joined be.

 POEM: DISPRAISE OF A COURTLY LIFE

    Walking in bright Phoebus blaze, Where with heat oppressed I was, I got to a shady wood, Where green leaves did newly bud; And of grass lenty dwelling, Decked with pied flowers sweetly smelling.

    In this wood a man I met, On lamenting wholly set; Ruing ge of woate, Whence he was transformed late, Oo shepherds God retaining, Now in servile court remaining.

    There he wandring maletent, Up and down perplexed went, Daring not to tell to me, Spake unto a seree, One among the rest eleg, These same words, or this affeg: &quot;My old mates I grieve to see Void of me io be, Where we once our lovely sheep Lovingly like friends did keep; Oft each others friendship proving, riving, but in loving.

    &quot;But may love abiding be In poor shepherds <mark></mark>base degree? It belongs to such aloo whom art of love is known: Seely shepherds are not witting What in art of love is fitting.

    &quot;Nay, what he art to those To whom we our love disclose? It is to be used then, When we do but flatter men: Friendship true, i assured, Is by Natures gifts procured.

    &quot;Therefore shepherds, wanting skill,  Loves duties best fu.lfil; Sihey know not how to feign, Nor with love to cloak disdain, Like the wiser sort, whose learning Hides their inward will of harming.

    &quot;Well was I, while under shade Oaten reeds me music made, Striving with my mates in song; Mixing mirth our songs among. Greater was the shepherds treasure Than this false, fine, courtly pleasure.

    &quot;Where how many creatures be, So many puffed in mind I see; Like to Junos birds of pride, Scarce each other  abide: Friends like to black swans appearing, Soohese than those in hearing.

    &quot;Therefore, Pan, if thou mayst be Made to listen unto me, Grant, I say, if seely man May make treaty to god Pan, That I, without thy denying, May be still to thee relying.

    &quot;Only for my two loves sake, In whose love I pleasure take; Only two do me delight With their ever-pleasing<u></u> sight; Of all men to thee retaining, Grah those two remaining.

    &quot;So shall I to thee always With my reeds sound mighty praise: And first lam<big>.</big>b that shall befall, Yearly deck thiar shall, If it please thee to be reflected, And I from thee not rejected.&quot; So I left him in that place, Taking pity on his case; Learning this among the rest, That the meae is best; Better filled with tenting, Void of wishing aing.

 POEM: DIRGE

    Ring out your bells, let m shows be spread, For Love is dead: All Love is dead, inf<var>藏书网</var>ected With plague of deep disdain: Worth, as nought worth, rejected, And faith fair s doth gain. From so ungrateful fancy; From such a female frenzy; From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us.

    Weep, neighbours, weep, do you not hear it said That Love is dead: His death-bed, peacocks folly: His winding-sheet is shame; His will, false-seeming holy, His sole executor, blame. From so u<bdo></bdo>ngrateful fancy; From such a female frenzy; From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us.

    Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read, For Love is dead: Sir Wrong his tomb<u></u> ordaih My mistress marble heart; Which epitaph taih, &quot;Her eyes were once his dart.&quot; From so ungrateful fancy; From such a female frenzy; From them that use men thus, G<var>99lｉｂ?</var>ood Lord, deliver us.

    Alas! I lie:  rage hath this error bred; Love is not dead, Love is not dead, but sleepeth In her unmatched mind: Where she his sel keepeth Till due deserts she find..herefore from so vile fancy, To call such wit a frenzy: Who Love  temper thus, Good Lord, deliver us.

 POEM: STANZAS TO LOVE

    Ah, poor Love, why dost thou live, Thus to see thy service lost; If s..will no five, Make an end, yield up the ghost!

    That she may, at length, approve That she hardly long believed, That the heart will die for love That is not in time relieved.

    Oh, that ever I was born Service so to be refused; Faithful love to be forborn! Never love was so abused.

    But, sweet Love, b<u></u>e still awhile; She that hurt thee, Love, may heal thee; Sweet!  I see within her smile More than reason  reveal thee.

    For, though she <var>99ｌｉb?</var>be rid fair, Yet she is both wise and kind, And, therefore, do thou not despair But thy faith may fancy find.

    Yet, although she be a queen That may such a snake despise, Yet, with silence all unseen, Run, and hide thee in her eyes: Where if she will let thee die, Yet at lat<var>?９9lｉｂ.</var>est gasp of breath, Say that in a ladys eye Love both took his life ah.

 POEM: A REMEDY FOR LOVE

    Philoclea and Pamela sweet, By ce, in one great house did meet; Aing, did so join i, That th one from th other could not part: And who indeed (not made of stones) Would separate such lovely ohe one is beautiful, and fair As orient pearls and rubies are; And sweet as, after gentle showers, The breath is of some thousand flowers: For due proportion, su air Circles the other, and so fair, That it her brownness beautifies, And doth ent the wisest eyes.

    Have you not seen, on some great day, Two goodly horses, white and bay, Which were so beauteous in their pride, You knew not which to choose or ride? Such are these two; you scarce  tell, Which is the daintier bonny belle; And they are such, as, by my troth, I had been sick with love of both, And might have sadly said, Good-night Discretion and good fortune quite; But that young Cupid, my old master, Presented me a sn plas<s></s>ter: Mopsa! evn Mopsa! (precious pet) Whose lips of marble, teeth of jet, Are spells and charms of strong defeo jure down cupisce.

    How oft have I bee of sense, By gazing on their excellence, But meeting Mopsa in my way, And looking on her face of clay, Been healed, and cured, and made as sound, As though I neer had had a wound? And when in tables of my heart, Love wrought such things as bred my smart, Mopsa would e, with face of clout, And in an instant wipe them out.

    And when their fac<samp></samp>es made me sick, Mopsa would e, with face of brick, A little heated in the fire, And break the ney desire. Now from their face I turn mine eyes, But (cruel panthers!) they surprise Me with their breath, that inse sweet, Whily for the gods is meet, And jointly from them doth respire, Like both the Indies set on fire: Which so oeres mans ravished sehat souls, to follow it, fly heno such-like smell you if ye To th Stocks, or hills square Exge<u></u>; There stood I still as any stock, Till Mopsa, with her puddle dock, Her pound or electuary, Made of old ling and young ary, Bloat-herring, cheese, and voided physic, Being somewhat troubled with a phthisic, Did cough, ach a sigh so deep, As did her very bottom sweep: Whereby to all she did impart, How love lay rankling at her heart: Which, when I smelt, desire was slain, And they breathed forth perfumes in vain. Their angel voice surprised me now; But Mopsa, her Too-whit, Too-whoo,<tt>９９ｌｉb?t> Desding through her oboe nose, Did that distemper soon pose.

    And, therefore?, O thou precious owl, The wise Minervas only fowl; What, at thy shrine, shall I devise To offer up a sacrifice? Hang AEsculapius, and Apollo, And Ovid, with his precious shallow. Mopsa is loves best medie, True water to a lovers wine. Nay, shes the yellow antidote, Both bred and born to cut Loves throat: Be but my sed, and stand by, Mopsa, and Ill them both defy; And all else of those gallant races, Who wear iion in their faces; For thy face (that Medusas shield!) Will bring me safe out of the field.

 POEM: VERSES

    To the tune of the bbr>.</abbr>Spanish song, &quot;Si tu senora no ducles de mi.&quot;

    O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, Heart and soul do sing ihis you hear is not my tongue, Whice said wh<s>.9９lib.</s>at I ceived; For it was of use bereaved, With a cruel aung. No! though too roof be cleaved, Feari he chastised be, Heart and soul do sing in me.

    O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well <u></u>agree, Just accord all music makes; In thee just accord excelleth, Where each part in such peace dwelleth, One of other beauty takes. Sihen truth to all minds telleth, That in thee lives harmony, Heart and soul do sing in me.

    O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In wh<q>藏书网</q>om all joys so well agree, They that heaven have known do say, That whoso that grace obtaih, To see what fair sight there reigh, Forced are to sing alway:

    So then sihat heaven remaih In thy face, I plainly see, Heart and soul do sing in me.

    O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, Sweet, think not I am at ease, For because my chief part sih; This song from deaths sorrow sprih: As to swan in last disease: For no dumbness, nor death, brih Stay to true loves melody: Heart and soul do sing in me.

 POEM: TRANSLATION

    From Horace, Book II. Ode X., beginning &quot;Rectius v<bdo></bdo>ives, Lii,&quot; &amp;c.

    You better sure shall live, <bdo>..</bdo>not evermore Trying high seas; nor, while seas rage you flee, Pressing too much upon ill-harboured shore.

    The golden m<var></var>ean who loves, lives safely free From filth of foreworn house, and quiet lives, Released from court, where envy needs must be.

    The wind most oft the hugest piree grieves: The stately towers e down with greater fall: The highest hills the bolt of thunder cleaves.

    Evil haps do fill with hope, good haps appall With fear of ge, the ce well prepared: Foul winters, as they e, away they shall.

    Though present times, and past, with evils be shey shall not last:  with cithern silent Muse, Apollo wakes, and bow hath sometime spared.

    In hard.e, with stout shows, valour use, The same man still, in whom wisdom prevails; In too full wind draw in thy swelling sails.

 POEM: SIR PHILIP SIDNEYS SONNET IN REPLY

    A satyr once did run away for dread, With sound of horn which he himself did blow: Fearing and feared, thus from himself he fled, Deeming strange evil in that he did not know.

    Such causeless fears when coward minds do take, It makes them fly that which they fain would have; As t<tt></tt>his poor beast, who did his rest forsake, Thinking not why, but how, himself to save.

    Evn thus >?</a>might I, for doubts which I ceive Of mine own words, my own good hap betray; And thus mi<tt>.99lｉb?t>ght I, for fear of may be, leave The sweet pursuit of my desired prey. Better like I thy satyr, dearest></a> Dyer, Who burnt his lips to kiss fair shining fire.

 POEM: A SONNET BY SIR EDWARD DYER

    Prometheus, when first from heaven high He brought dow<tt></tt>n fire, till then oh not seen; Fond of delight, a satyr, standing by, Gave it a kiss, as it like sweet had been.

    Feeling forthwith the other burning power, Wood with the smart, with shouts and shrieking shrill, He sought his ease in river, field, and bower; But, for the time, his grief went with him sti<var></var>ll.

    So silly I, with that unwonted sight, In human shape an angel from above, Feeding mine eyes, th<cite>.</cite> impression there did light; That since I run a as pleaseth love: The difference is, the satyrs <bdo></bdo>lips, my heart, He for a while, I evermore, have smart.

 POEM: MUST LOVE LAMENT?

    My mistress lowers, and saith I do not love: I do protest, and seek with service due, In humble mind, a stant faith to prove; But for all this, I ot her remove From deep vain thought that I may not be true.

    If oaths might serve, evn by the Stygian lake, Which poets ></a>say the gods themselves do fear, I never did my vowed word forsake: For why should I, whom free choice slave doth make, Else-what in face, than in my fancy bear?

    My Muse, therefore, for only thou st tell, Tell me the cause of this my causeless woe? Tell, how ill thought disgraced my doing well? Tell, how my joys and hopes thus foully fell To so low ebb that wonted were to fl<tt></tt>ow?

    O this it is, the kraw is found; In tender hearts, small things engender hate: A horses worth laid waste the Trojan ground; A three-foot stool in Greece made trumpets sound; An asss shade eer now hath bred debate.

    If Greeks themselves were moved with so small cause, To twist those broils, which ha<tt>９9ｌｉｂ?t>rdly would untwine: Should ladies fair be tied to such hard laws, As in their moods to take a lingring pause? I would it not, their metal is too fine.

    My hand doth not bear witness with my heart, She saith, because I make no woeful lays, To paint my livih and endless smart: And so, for ohat felt god Cu<u></u>pids dart, She thinks I lead and live too merry days.

    Are poets then the only lovers true, Whose hearts are set on measuring a verse? Who think themselves well blest, if they renew Some good old dump that Chaucers mistress knew; And use but you for matters to rehearse.

    Then, good Apollo, do away thy bow: Take harp and sing in this our versing time, And in my brain some sacred hum<cite></cite>our flow, That all the earth my woes, sighs, tears may know; And see you not that I fall low to rhyme.

    As for my mirth, how could I but be glad, Whilst that methought I justly made my boast That only I the only mistress had? But now, if eer my face with joy be clad, Think Hannibal did laugh when Carthage lost.

    Sweet lady, as for those whose sullen cheer, pared to me, made me in lightness sound; Who, stoic-like, in cloudy hue appear; Who silence forake their words more dear; Whose eyes seem chaste, because they look on ground:

    Believe them not, for physic true doth find, Choler adust is joyed in woman-kind.

 POEM: A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO SHEPHERDS

    Uttered in a Pastoral Show at Wilton.

    WILL.  Dick, since we ot dance, e, let a cheerful voice Show that we do ne at all when others do rejoice.

    DICK.  Ah Will, though I grudge not, I t it feeble glee, With sight made dim with daily tears anothers sport to see. Whoever lambkins saw, yet lambkins love to play, To play when that their loved dams are stolen oray? If this in them be true, as true ihink I, A lustless song forsooth thinks he that hath more lust to cry.

    WILL.  A time there is for all, my mother often says, When she, with skirts tucked very high, with girls at football plays When thou hast mind to weep, seek out some smoky room: Now let those lightsome sights we see thy darkness overe.

    DICK.  What joy the joyful sun gives unto bleared eyes; That fort in these sports you like, my mind his fort tries.

    WILL.  What?  Is thy bagpipe broke, or are thy lambs miswent; Thy wallet or thy tar-box lost; or thy new raime?

    DICK.  I would it were but thus, for thus it were too well.

    WILL.  Thou seest my ears do itch at it:  good Dick thy sorrow tell.

    DICK.  Hear then, and learn to sigh:  a mistress I do serve, Whose wages make me beg the more, who feeds me till I starve; Whose livery is such, as most I freeze apparelled most, And looks so near unto my cure, that I must needs be lost.

    WILL.  What?  These are riddles sure:  art thou then bound to her?

    DICK.  Bound as I her power have, nor would have power, to stir.

    WILL.  Who bound thee?

    DICK.  Love, my lord.

    WILL.  What withereto?

    DICK.  Faith in myself, and Worth in her, whio proof  undo.

    WILL.  What seal?

    DICK.  My heart deep graven.

    WILL.  Who made the band so fast?

    DICK.  Wohat, by two so black eyes the glittring stars be past.

    WILL.  What keepeth safe thy band?

    DICK.  Remembrance is the chest Lockd fast with knowing that she is of worldly things the best.

    WILL.  Thou late of wages plaindst:  what wages maysh thou have?

    DICK.  Her heavenly looks, which more and more do give me cause to crave.

    WILL.  If wages make you want, what food is that she gives?

    DICK.  Tears drink, sorrows meat, wherewith not I, but in me my death lives.

    WILL.  What livi you then?

    DICK.  Disdain; but just disdain; So have I cause myself to plain,?９9lib? but no cause to plain.

    WILL.  What care takes she for thee?

    DICK.  Her care is to prevent My freedom, with show of her beams, with virtue, my tent.

    WILL.  God shield us from such dames!  If so our dames be sped, The shepherds will grow lean I trow, their sheep will be ill-fed. But Dick, my sel mark:  run from the place of woo: The arrow being shot from far doth give the smaller? blow.

    DICK.  Good Will, I ot take thy good advice; before That foxes leave to steal, they find they die therefore.

    WILL.  Then, Dick, let us go hence lest we great folks annoy: For nothing  more tedious be than plaint in time of joy.

    DICK.  Oh hence!  O cruel word! which even dogs do hate: But hence, even hence, I must needs go; such is my dogged fate.

 POEM: SONG

    To the tune of &quot;Wilhelmus van Nassau,&quot; &amp;c.

    Who hath his fancy pleas<big>９９ｌiｂ.</big>ed, With fruits of happy sight, Let here his eyes be raised On Natures sweetest light; A light which doth dissever, A uhe eyes; A light which, dying, never Is cause the looker dies.

    She never dies, but lasteth In life of lovers heart; He ever dies that wasteth In love his chiefest part>..</a>. Thus is her life still guarded, In never dying faith; Thus is his death rewarded, Since she lives in his death.

    Look then and die, the pleasure Doth answer wel<tt>?t>l the pain; Small loss of mortal treasure, Who may immortal gain. Immortal be her graces, Immortal is her mind; They, fit for heavenly places, This heaven in it doth bind.

    But eyes these beauties see not, Nor sehat grace descries; Yet eyes deprived be not From sight of her fair eyes: Which, as of inward glory They are the outward seal, So may they live still sorry, Which die not in that weal.

    But who <bdo></bdo>hath fancies pleased, With fruits of happy sight, Let here his eyes be raised On Natures sweetest light.

 POEM: THE SMOKES OF MELANCHOLY

    I.

    Who hath eer felt the ge of love, And known those pangs that losers prove, May paint my face without seeing me, And write the state how my fancies be, The loathsome buds grown on<q>?9９lib.</q> Sorrows tree.

    But who by hearsay藏书网 speaks, and hath not fully felt What kind of fires they be in which those spirits melt, Shall guess, and fail, what doth displease, Feeling my pulse, miss my disease.

    II.

    O no!  O no! trial only shows The bitter juice of forsaken woes; Where former bliss, present evils do stain; Nay, former bliss adds to present pain, While remembrah both<dfn></dfn> states tain. e, learners, then to me, the model of mishap, Ingulphed in despair, slid down from Fortunes lap; And, as you like my double lot, Tread in my steps, or follow not.

    III.

    For me<big></big>, alas!  I am full resolved Those bands, alas! shall not be dissolved; Nor break my word, though reward e late; Nor fail my faith in my failing fate; Nor ge in ge, though ge ge my state:

    But always own myself, with eagle-eyed Truth, to fly Up to the sun, although the sun my wings do fry; For if those flames burn my desire, Yet shall I die in Phoenix fire.

 POEM: ODE

    When, to my deadly pleasure, When to my lively torment, Lady, mine eyes remained Joined, alas! to your beams.

    With violence of heavenly Beauty, tied to virtue; Reason abashed retired; Gladly m<tt></tt>y senses yielded.

    Gladly my senses yielding, Thus to betray my hearts fort, Left me devoid of all life.

    They to the be<mark>9９liｂ?</mark>amy su, Where, by the death of all deaths, Find to what harm they hastened.

    Like to the silly Sylvan, Burned by the light he best liked, When with a fire he first met.

    Yet, yet, a life to their death, Lady you have reserved; Lady the life of all love.

    For though my sense be from me, And I be dead, who want sense, Yet do we both live in you.

    Turned a<samp></samp>new, by your means, Unto the flower that aye turns, As you, alas! my sun bends.

    Thus do I fall to rise thus; Thus do I die to live thus; ged to a ge<s></s>, I ge not.

    Thus may I not be from you; Thus be my senses on you; Thus what I think is of you; Thus what I seek is in you; All what I am, it is you.

 POEM: VERSES

    To t.９9lｉｂ?ne of a Neapolitan song, which begih, &quot;No, no, no, no.&quot;

    No, no, no, no, I ot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; For so fa<dfn></dfn>ir a flame embraces All the places, Where that heat of all heats sprih, That it brio my dyi some pleasure, Since his treasure Burh bright in fairest light.  No, no, no, no.

    No, no, no, no, I ot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desir<samp>..</samp>e, She sacks my rendered sprite; Since our lives be not immortal, But to mortal Fetters tied, do wait the hour Of deaths power, They have no cause to be sorry Who with glory ?99ｌib?he way, where all men stay.  No, no, no, no.

    No, no, no, no, I ot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; No man doubts, whom beauty killeth, Fair death feele<df</dfn>th, And in whom fair death proceedeth, Glory breedeth: So that I, in her beams dying, Glory trying, Though in pain, ot plain.  No, no, no, no.

 POEM: SONG

    To the tune of a Neapolitan Villanel.

    All my sehy sweetness gaihy fair hair my heart ened; My pobbr></abbr>or reason thy words moved, So that thee, like heaven, I loved.

    Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan: Dan, dan, dan, deridan, deridan, dei: While to my mind the outside stood, For messenger of inward good.

    Nor thy sweetness sour is deemed; Thy hair not worth a hair esteemed; Reason hath thy words removed, Finding that but words they proved.

    Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan, Dan, dan, dan, deri<bdi></bdi>dan, deridan, dei: For no fair sign  credit win, If that the substance fail within.

    No more in thy sweetness glory, For thy knitting hair be sorry; Use thy words but to bewail thee That no more thy b<samp>?</samp>eams avail thee; Dan, dan, Dan, dan, Lay not thy colours more to view, Without the picture be found true.

    Woe to me, alas, she weepeth! Fool! in me what folly creepeth? Was I to blaspheme enraged, Where my<tt></tt> soul I have engaged? Dan, dan, Dan, dan, And wretched I must yield to this; The fault I blame her chasteness is.

    Sweetness! sweetly pardon folly; Tie me, hair, your captive >..</samp>olly:

    Words!  O words of heavenly knowledge! Know, my words their faults aowledge; Dan, dan, Dan, dan, And all my life I will fess, The less I love, I live the less.

 POEM: TRANSLATION

    From &quot;La Diana de Monte-Mayor,&quot; in Spanish:  where Sireno, a shepherd, whose mistress Diana had utterly forsaken him, pulling out a little of her hair, ed about with green silk, to the hair he thus bewailed himself.

    What ges here, O hair, I see, since I saw you! How ill fits you this green to wear, For hope, the colour due! Indeed, I well did hope, Though hope were mixed with fear, No other shepherd shbbr>.</abbr>ould have scope Oo approach this hair.

    Ah hair! how many days My Dian mad<dfn>..</dfn>e me show, With thousand pretty childish plays, If I ware you or no: Alas, how oft with tears, - O tears of guileful breast! - She seemed full of jealous fears, Whereat I did but jest.

    Tell me, O hair of gold, If I then faulty be, That trust those killing eyes I would, Sihey did warrant me? Have you not seen her mood, What streams of tears s<mark></mark>he spent, Till that I sware my faith so stood, As her words had it bent?

    Who hath such beauty seen Ihat geth so? Or where ones love so stant been, Who ever saw such woe? Ah, hair! are you not grieved To e from whence you be, Seeing how once you saw I lived, To see me as you see?

    On sandy bank of late, I saw this woman sit; Where, &quot;Sooner die than ge my state,&quot; She with her finger writ: Thus my belief was staid, Behold Loves mighty hand On things were by a woman said, And written in the sand.

    The same Sireno in &quot;Monte-Mayor,&quot; holding his mistresss glass before her, and looking upon her while she viewed herself, thus sang:-  Of this high grace, with bliss joined, No farther debt on me is laid, Sihat in self-same metal ed, Sweet lady, you remain well paid; For if my place give me great pleasure<bdo></bdo>, Having before my natures treasure, In fad eyes unmatched being, You have the same in my hands, seeing What in your face mine eyes do measure.

    Nor think the matevenly made, That of those beams in you do tarry, The glass to you but gives a shade, To me mine eyes the true shape carry; For such a thought most highly prized, Which ever hath Loves yoke despised, Better than one captived perceiveth, Though he the lively form receiveth, The other sees it but disguised.

 POEM: SONNETS

    The dart, the beams, the sting, s I prove, Which my chief part doth pass through, parch, and tie, That of the stroke, the heat, and knot of love, Wounded, inflamed, knit to the death, I die.

    Hardened and cold, far from affes snare Was once my mind, my temper, and my life; While I that sight, desire, and vow forbare, Which to avoid, quench, lose, nought boasted strife.

    Yet will not I grief, ashes, thraldom ></a>ge For others ease, their fruit, or free estate; So brave a shot, dear fire, ay strange, Bid me pierce, burn, and bind, long time and late, And in my wounds, my flames, and bonds, I find A salve, fresh air, and bright tented mind.

    * * * Virtue, beauty, and speech, <big></big>did strike, wound, charm, My heart, eyes, ears, with wonder, love, delight, First, sed, last, did bind, enforce, and arm, His works, shows, suits, with wit, grace, and vows might, Thus honour, liking, trust, much, far, and deep, Held, pierced, possessed, my judgment, sense, and will, Till wrongs, pt, deceit, did grow, steal, creep, Bands, favour, faith, to break, defile, and kill, Then grief, unkindness, proof, took, kiaught,<tt></tt> Well-grounded, noble, due, spite, rage, disdain: But ah, alas! in vain my mind, sight, thought, Doth him, his face, his words, leave, shun, refrain. For nothing, time, nor place,  loose, quench, ease Mine own embraced, sought, knot<tt></tt>, fire, disease.

 POEM: WOOING-STUFF

    Faint amorist, what, dost thou think To taste Loves honey, and not drink One dram of gall? or to devour A world of sweet, and taste no sour?

    Dost thou ever think to eh Elysian fields, that darst not venture In Charons barge? a lovers mind Must 藏书网use to sail with every wind. He that loves and fears to try, Learns his mistress to deny. Doth she chide thee? tis to show it, That thy ess makes her do it: <s>?99liｂ?</s>Is she silent? is she mute?

    Silence fully grants thy suit: Doth she pout, and leave the room? Then she goes to bid thee e: Is she sick? why then be sure, She ihee to the curt to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire.

 POEM: SONNETS

    Since shunning pain, I ease ever find; Since bashful dread seeks where he knows me harmed; Since will is won, and stopped ears are charmed; Since force doth faint, and sight doth make me blind; Since loosi<cite></cite>ng long, the faster still I bind; Sinaked sense  quer reason armed; Since heart, in chilling fear, with ice is warmed; In fine, sirife of thought but mars the mind, I yield, O Love<dfn>..</dfn>, unto thy loathed yoke, Yet craving law of arms, whose rule doth teach, That, hardly used, who ever prison broke, In justice quit, of honour made no breach: Whereas, if I a grateful guardian have, Thou<s></s> art my lord, and I thy vowed slave.

    When Love puffed up with rage of high disdain, Resolved to make me pattern of his might, Like foe, whose wits ined to deadly spite, Would often kill, to breed more feeling <dfn>藏书网</dfn>pain; He would not, armed with beauty, only reign On those affects which easily yield to sight; But virtue sets so high, that reasons light, For all his strife  only bondage gain: So that I live to pay a mortal fee, Dead palsy-sick of all my chiefest parts, Like those whom dreams make ugly monsters see, And  cry help with naught but groans and starts: Longing to have, having no wit to wish, To starving minds such is god Cupids dish.

 POEM: SONG

    I

    To the tune of &quot;Non credo gia che piu infelice amante.&quot;

    The nightingale, as soon as April brih Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, sprih, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth, For Tereus for her chaste will prevailing. O Philom?９9ｌｉb.ela fair!  O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thih now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart ih.

    II.

    Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish, But Tereus love, on her by strong hand wroken, Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike, plains her will was broken, But I, who daily craving, ot have to tent me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more woe than too much having. O Philomela fair!  O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thih now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart ih.

 POEM: SONG

    To the tune of &quot;Basciami vita mia.&quot;  Sleep, baby mine, Desires nurse, Beauty, sih; Thy cries>?</a>, O baby, set mine head on ag: The babe cries, &quot;Way, thy love doth keep me waking.&quot;

    Lully, lully, my babe, Hope cradle brih Unto my children alway good rest taking: The babe cries, &quot;Way, thy love doth keep me waking.&quot;

    Since, baby mine, from me thy watg sprih, Sleep then a little, pap tent is making; The babe cries, &quot;Nay, for that abide I waking.&quot;

    I.

    The sce of life, ahs extreme disgrace; The smoke of hell, the monster called Pain: Long shamed to be accursed in every place, By them who of his rude resort plain; Like crafty wretch, by time and travel taught, His ugly evil in ood to hide; Late harbours in her face, whom Nature wrought As treasure-house where her best gifts do bide; And so by privilege of sacred seat, A seat where beauty shines and virtue reigns, He hopes for some small praise, since she hath great, Within her beams ing his cruel stains. Ah, saucy Pai not thy terror last, More loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast.

    II.

    Woe! woe to me, ourn the smart: My burning toh bred my mistress pain? For oft in pain, to pain my painful heart, With her due praise did of my state plain. I praised her eyes, whom never ove; Her breath, which makes a sour answer sweet; Her milkes, the nurse of child-like love; Her legs, O legs! her aye well- steppi: Pain heard her praise, and full of inward fire, (First sealing up my heart as prey of his) He flies to her, and, boldened with desire, Her face, this ages praise, the thief doth kiss. O Pain!  I now ret the praise I gave, And swear she is not worthy thee to have.

    III.

    Thou pain, the only gue>９9ｌｉb?</a>st of loathed straint; The child of Curse, mans weakness foster-child; Brother to Woe, and father of plaint:

    Thou Pain, thou hated Pain, from heaven exiled, How holdst thou her whose eyes straint doth fear, Whom cursed do bless; whose weakness virtues arm; Who others woes and plaints  chastely bear: In whose sweet heaven angels of high thoughts swarm? What ce strah caught thy caitiff heart? Fearst not a face that oft whole hearts devours?

    Or art thou from above bid play this part, And so no help gainst envy of those pow>藏书网</a>ers? If thus, alas, yet while those parts have woe; So stay her tohat she no more say, &quot;O.&quot;

    IV.

    And have I heard her say, &quot;O cruel pain!&quot; And doth she know what mould her beauty bears? Mourns she in truth, and thinks that others feign?

    Fears she to feel, and feels not others fears? Or doth she think all pain the mind forbears? That heavy earth, not fiery spirits, may plain? That eyes weep worse tha in bloody tears? That sense feels more than what doth sense tain? No, no, she is too wise, she knows her face Hath not such pain as it makes others have: She knows the siess of that perfect place Hath yet such health, as it my life  save. But this, she thinks, our pain high cause excuseth, Where her, who should rule pain, false pain abuseth.

    * * * Like as the dove, which seeled up doth fly, Is her freed, nor yet to service bound; But hopes to gain some help by mounting high, Till want of force do force her fall to ground: Right so my mind, caught by his guiding eye, And thence cast off where his sweet hurt he found, Hath her leave to live, nor doom to die; Nor held in evil, nor suffered to be sound. But with his wings of fancies up he goes, To high ceits, whose fruits are oft but small; Till wounded, blind, and wearied spirit, lose Both force to fly, and knowledge where to fall: O happy dove, if she no boried! More happy I, might I in bondage bide!

    * * * In wonted walks, since wonted fancies ge, Some cause there is, which of strange cause doth rise: For in each thing whereto mine eye de, Part of my pain, me-seems, engraved lies. The rocks, which were of stant mind the mark, In climbing steep, now hard refusal show; The shading woods seem now my sun to dark, And stately hills disdain to look so low. The restful caves now restless visions give; In dales I see each way a hard ast: Like late-mown meads, late cut from joy I live; Alas, sweet brooks do in my tears augment: Rocks, woods, hills, caves, dales, meads, brooks, answer me; Ied minds i each thing they see. If I could think how these my thoughts to leave, Or thinking still, my thoughts might have good end; If rebel sense would reasons law receive; Or reason foiled, would not in vain tend: Then might I think what thoughts were best to think: Then might I wisely swim, ladly sink.

    If either you would ge your cruel heart, Or, cruel still, time did your beauties stain: If from my soul this love would once depart, Or for my love some love I might obtain; Then might I hope a ge, or ease of mind, By yood help, or i<q></q>n myself, to find.

    But since my thoughts in thinking still are spent. With reasons strife, by senses overthrown; You fairer still, and still more cruel bent, I loving still a love that loveth none: I yield and strive, I kiss and curse the pain, Thought, reason, seime, You, and I, maintain.

 POEM: A FAREWELL

    Oft have I mused, but now at length I find Why those that die,<u>藏书网</u> men say, they do depart: Depart:  a word so geo my mind, Weakly did seem to paihs ugly dart.

    But now the stars, with their strange course, do bind Me oo leave, with whom I leave my heart; I hear a cry of spirits faint and blind, That pa<dfn></dfn>rting thus, my chiefest part I part.

    Part of my life, the loathed part to me, Lives to impart my weary clay some breath; But that good part wh></a>erein all forts be, Now dead, doth show departure is a death:

    Yea, worse thah, death parts both woe and joy, From joy I part, still living in annoy.

    * * * Finding those beams, which I <s></s>must ever love, To mar my mind, and with my hurt to please, I deemed it best, some absence for to prove, If farther place might further me to ease.

    My eyes thence drawn, where lived all their light>9９ｌib?</a>, Blinded forthwith in dark despair did lie, Like to the mole, with want of guiding sight, Deep plunged ih, deprived of the sky.

    In absence blind, and wearied with that woe, To greater woes, by presence, I return; Even as the fly, which to the flame doth go, Pleased with the light, that his small corse doth burn:

    Fair choice I have, either to live or die A blinded mole, or else a burned fly.

 POEM: THE SEVEN WONDERS OF ENGLAND

    I.

    Near Wilto, huge heaps of stones are found, But so fused, that her any eye  t them just, nor Reason reason try, What force brought them to so unlikely ground.

    Ter weights my minds waste soil is bound, Of passion-hills, reag to Reasons sky, From Fancys earth, passing all numbers bound, Passing all guess, wheo me should fly So mazed a mass; or, if i grows, A simple soul should breed so mixed woes.

    II.

    The Bruertons have a lake, which, when the sun Approag warms, not else, dead logs up sends From hideous depth; which tribute, when it ends, Sore sign it is the lords last thread is spun.

    My lake is Sense, whose still streams never run But when my sun her shining twins there bends; Then from his depth with for her begun, Long drowned hopes to watery eyes it lends; But when that fails my dead hopes up to take, T<samp></samp>heir master is fair warned his will to make.

    III.

    We have a fish, by strangers much admired, Which caught, to cruel search yields his chief part: With gall cut out, closed up again by art, Yet lives until his life be new required.

    A stranger fish myself, not yet expired, Tho, rapt with Beautys h<tt></tt>ook, I did impart Myself unto th anatomy desired, Instead of gall, leaving to her my heart: Yet live with thoughts closed up, till that she will, By quests right, instead of searg, kill.

    IV.

    Peak hath a cave, whose narrow entries find Large rooms within where drops distil amain: Till knit with cold, though there unknown remaihat poor place with alabaster lined.

    Mine eyes the strait, the roomy cave, my mind; Whose cloudy thoughts let fall an inward rain Of sorrows drops, till colder reason bind Their running fall into a stant vein Of truth, far more than alabaster pure, Which, though despised, yet still doth truth endure.

    V.

    A field there is, where, if a stake oe prest Deep in the earth, what hath ih receipt, Is ged to stone in hardness, cold, a, The wood above doth soon i.

    The earth her ears; the stake is my request; Of which, how much may pierce to that sweet seat, To honour turned, doth dwell in honours , Keeping that form, though void of wonted heat; But all the rest, which fear durst not apply, Failing themselves, with withered sce die.

    VI.

    Of ships by shipwreck cast on Albions coast, Which rotting on the rocks, their death to die: From wooden bones and blood of pitch doth fly A bird, which gets more life than ship had lost.

    My ship, Desire, with wind of Lust long tost, Brake on fair cliffs of stant Chastity; Where plagued for rash attempt, gives up his ghost; So deep in seas of virtue, beauties lie: But of this death flies up the purest love, Which seeming less, yet nobler life doth move.

    VII.

    These wonders England breeds; the last remains - A lady, ie of Nature, chaste, On whom all love, in whom no love is placed, Where Fairness yields to Wisdoms shortest reins.

    A humble pride, a s that favour stains; A womans mould, but like an angel graced; An angels mind, but in a woman cased; A heaven oh, or earth that heaven tains: Now thus this woo <u></u>myself I frame; She is the cause that all the rest I am.

    * * * Thou blind mans mark; thou fools self-chosen snare, Fond fancys scum, and dregs of scattered thought: Band of all evils; cradle of causeless care; Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought:

    Desire! Desire!  I have too dearly bought, With priangled mind, thy worthless ware; Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought Who shouldst my mind to higher things prepare; But yet in vain thou hast my ruin so<bdo></bdo>ught; In vain thou madst me to vain things aspire; In vain thou ki all thy smoky fire: For Virtue hath this better lesson taught, Within myself to seek my only hire, Desiring nought but how to kill Desire.

    POEM:  FROM EARTH TO HEAVEN

    Leave me, O love! which reachest but to dust; And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things: Grow ri that whiever taketh rust; Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.

    Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be, Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light That doth both shine, and give us sight to see.

    O take fast hold! let that light be thy guide, In this small coursebbr></abbr> which birth draws out to death, And think how evil beeth him to slide, Who seeketh heaven, and es from heavenly breath. Then farewell, world, thy uttermost I see, Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.

 SPLENDIDIS LONGUM VALEDICO NUGIS

    Footnote:

    {1}  Edward Wotton, elder brother of Sir Henry Wotton.  He was knighted by Elizabeth in 1592, and made ptroller of her Household.

    Observe the playfulness in Sidneys opening and close of a treatise written throughout in plain, manly English without Euphuism, and strictly reasoned.

    {2}  Here the introdu ends, and the argument begins with its Part 1.  Poetry the first Light-giver.

    {3}  A fable from the &quot;Hetamythium&quot; of Laurentius Abstemius, Professor of Belles Lettres at Urbino, and Librarian to Duke Guido Ubaldo uhe Pontificate of Alexander VI. (1492-1503).

    {4}  Pliny says (&quot;Nat. Hist.,&quot; lib. xi., cap. 62) that the young vipers, impatient to be born, break through the side of their mother, and so kill her.

    {5}  Part 2.  Borrowed from by Philosophers.

    {6}  Timaeus, the Pythagorean philosopher of Locri, and the Athenian Critias are represented by Plato as having listeo the discourse of Socrates on a Republic.  Socrates calls oo show such a state in a.  Critias will tell of the rescue of Europe by the a citizens of Attica, 10,000 years before, from an inroad of tless invaders who came from the vast island of Atlantis, in the Western O; a struggle of which record reserved iemple of Naith or Athe Sais, i, and handed down, through Solon, by family tradition to Critias.  But first Timaeus agrees to expound the structure of the universe; then Critias, in a piece left unfinished by Plato, proceeds to show an ideal society in a against pressure of a dahat seems irresistible.

    {7}  Platos &quot;Republic,&quot; book ii.

    {8}  Part 3.  Borrowed from by Historians.

    {9}  Part 4.  Honoured by the Romans as Sacred and Prophetic.

    {10}  Part 5.  And really sacred and propheti the Psalms of David.

    {11}  Part 6.  By the Greeks, Poets were honoured with the name of Makers.

    {12}  Poetry is the one creative art.  Astronomers and others repeat what they find.

    {13}  Poets improve Nature.

    {14}  And idealize man.

    {15}  Here a Sed Part of the Essay begins.

    {16}  Part 1.  Poetry defined.

    {17}  Part 2.  Its kinds.  a. Divine.

    {18..} Philosophical, which is perhaps too imitative.

    {19} Marcus Manilius wrote uiberius a metrical treatise on Astronomy, of which five books on the fixed stars remain.

    {20}  Poetry proper.  {21}  Part 3.  Subdivisions of Poetry proper.

    {22}  Its essence is ihought, not in apparelling of verse.

    {23}  Heliodorus was Bishop of Tricca, in Thessaly, and lived in the fourth tury.  His story of Theagenes and Chariclea, called the &quot;AEthiopica,&quot; was a romantic tale in Greek which was, in Elizabeths reign, translated into English.

    {24}  The Poets Work and Parts.  Part 1. WORK:  oetry does for us.

    {25}  Their clay lodgings - &quot;Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we ot hear it.&quot; (Shakespeare, &quot;Mert of Venice,&quot; act v., sc. 1) {26}  Poetry best advahe end of all earthly learning, virtuous a.

    {27}  Its advantage herein over Moral Philosophy.

    {28}  Its advantage herein over History.

    {29}  &quot;All men make faults, and even I in this, Authorising thy trespass with pare.&quot; Shakespeare, &quot;So&quot; 35.

    {30}  &quot;Witness of the times, light of truth, life of memory, mistress of life, messenger of antiquity.&quot;--Cicero, &quot;De Oratore.&quot;

    {31}  In what mahe Poet goes beyond Philosopher, Historian, and all others (bating parison with the Divine).

    {32}  He is beyond the Philosopher.

    {33}  Horaces &quot;Ars Poetica,&quot; lines 372-3.  But Horace wrote &quot;Non homines, non Di&quot;--&quot;her men, gods, nor lettered ns have admitted mediocrity is.&.quot;

    {34}  The moral on-places.  on Place, &quot;Locus unis,&quot; was a term used in old rhetoric to represeimonies or pithy sentences of good authors which might be used for strengthening or ad a discourse; but said Keckermann, whose Rhetoric was a text- book in the days of James I. and Charles I., &quot;Because it is impossible thus to read through all authors, there are books that give students of eloquence what they need in the su of books of on Places, like that collected by Stobaeus out of Cicero, Seneca, Terence, Aristotle; but especially the book entitled Polyanthea, provides short and effective sentences apt to any matter.&quot;  Freque to the Polyanthea caused many a good quotation to be haeyed; the term of rhetoric, &quot;a on- place,&quot; came then to mean a good saying made familiar by incessant quoting, and then in on speech, any tbbr>藏书网</abbr>rite saying good or bad, but only without wit in it.

    {35}  Thus far Aristotle.  The whole passage in the &quot;Poetics&quot; runs:

    &quot;It is not by writing in verse or prose that the Historian and Poet are distinguished.  The work of Herodotus might be versified; but it would still be a species of History, no less with metre than without.  They are distinguished by this, that the oes what has been, the other what might be.  On this at Poetry is more philosophical, and a more excellent thing than History, for Poetry is chiefly versant about general truth; History about particular. In what manner, for example, any person of a certain character would speak or act, probably or necessarily, this is general; and this is the object of Poetry, even while it makes use of particular names. But what Alcibiades did, or what happeo him, this is particular truth.&quot;

    {36}  Justinus, who lived in the sed tury, made aome of the history of the Assyrian, Persian, Gre, Maian, and Roman Empires, frus Pompeius, who lived iime of Augustus.

    {37}  Dares Phrygius was supposed to have been a priest of Vul, who was in Troy during the siege, and the Phrygian Iliad ascribed to him as early as the time of AElian, A.D. 230, was supposed, therefore, to be older than Homers.

    {38}  Quintus Curtius, a Roman historian of uain date, who wrote the history of Alexahe Great in ten books, of which two are lost and others defective.

    {39}  Not knowledge but practice.

    {40}  The Poet Monarch of all Human Sces.

    {41}  In &quot;Loves Labours Lost&quot; a resemblance has been fancied between this passage and Rosalinds description of Biron, and the jest:- &quot;Which his fair tongue--ceits expositor - Delivers in such apt and gracious words, That aged ears play truant at his tables, And younger hearings are quite ravished, So sweet and voluble is his discourse.&quot;

    {42}  Virgils &quot;AEneid,&quot; Book xii.:- &quot;And shall this ground faied dastard Turnus flying view? Is it so vile a thing to die?&quot; (Phaers Translation [1573].) {43}  Instances of the power of the Poets work.

    {44}  Defectuous.  This word, from the French &quot;defectueux,&quot; is used twi the &quot;Apologie for Poetrie.&quot;

    {45}  Part II.  The PARTS of Poetry.

    {46}   Pastoral be ned?

    {47}  The close of Virgils seventh Eclogue--Thyrsis was vanquished, and Corydon ed with lasting glory.

    {48}  Or Elegiac?

    {49}  Or Iambic? or Satiric?

    {50}  From the first Satire of Persius, line 116, in a description of Homers satire:

    &quot;Omne vafer vitium ridenti Flaccus amico Tangit, et admissus circum praecordia ludit,&quot; &amp;c.

    Shrewd Flaccus touches each vi his laughing friend.  Dryden thus translated the whole passage:- &quot;Unlike ihod, with cealed design Did crafty Horace his low numbers join; And, with a sly insinuating grace Laughed at his friend, and looked him in the face: Would raise a blush where secret vice he found; And tickle, while he gently probed the wound; With seeming innoce the crowd beguiled, But made the desperate passes while he smiled.&quot;

    {51}  From the end of the eleventh of Horaces epistles (Lib. 1):

    &quot; non animum mutant, qui trans mare currunt, Strenua nos exercet iia; navibus atque Quadrigis petimus bene vivere.  Quod petis, hic est, Est Ulubris, animus si te non deficit aequus.&quot;

    They ge their skies but not their mind who run across the seas; We toil in laboured idleness, ao live at ease With force of ships and four horse teams.  That which you seek is here, At Ulubrae, unless your mind fail to be calm and clear.

    &quot;At Ulubrae&quot; was equivalent to saying in the dullest er of the world, or anywhere.  Ulubrae was a little town probably in Campania, a Roman Little Pedlington.  Thomas Carlyle may have had this passage in mind when he gave to the same thought a grander form in Sartor Resartus:

    &quot;May we not say that the hour of spiritual enfranchisement is even this?

    When your ideal world, wherein the whole man has been dimly struggling and inexpressibly languishing to work, bees revealed and thrown open, and you discover with amazement enough, like the Lothario in Wilhelm Meister, that your America is here or nowhere.  The situation that has not its duty, its ideal, was never occupied by man.  Yes, here, in this poor, miserable hampered actual wherein thou even now sta, here or nowhere, is thy Ideal:  work it out therefrom, believe, live, and be free.

    Fool! the Ideal is in thyself, the impediment too is in thyself.  Thy dition is but the stuff thou art to shape that same Ideal out of.  What matter whether such stuff be of this sort or that, so the form thou give it be heroic, be poetic?  O thou that pi in the impriso of the actual, and criest bitterly to the gods for a kingdom wherein to rule and create, know this of a truth, the thing thou seekest is already with thee, here or nowhere, couldest thou only see.&quot;

    {52}  Or ic?

    {53}  In pistrinum.  In the pounding-mill (usually worked by horses or asses).

    {54}  ic?

    {55}  The old song of Perd Douglas, Chevy Chase in its first form.

    {56}  Or the Heroic?

    {57}  Epistles I. ii. 4.  Better than Chrysippus and tor.  They were both philosophers, Chrysippus a subtle stoic, tor the first entator upon Plato.

    {58}  Summary of the argument thus far.

    {59}  Objes stated a.

    {60}  elius Agrippas book, &quot;De Iudi Vanitate Stiarum et Artium,&quot; was first published in 1532; Erasmuss &quot;Moriae En&quot; was written in a week, in 1510, a in a few months through seveions.

    {61}  The obje to rhyme are.

    {62}  The first of these sentences is from Horace (Epistle I. xviii. 69):

    &quot;Fly from the inquisitive man, for he is a babbler.&quot;  The sed, &quot;While each pleases himself we are a credulous crowd,&quot; seems to be varied from Ovid (Fasti, iv. 311):- &quot;scia mei famae mendacia risit: Sed nos in vitium credula turba sumus.&quot;

    A mind scious ht laughs at the falsehoods of fame but towards vice we are a credulous crowd.

    {63}  The chief objes.

    {64}  That time might be better spent.

    {65}  Beg the question.

    {66}  That poetry is the mother of lies.

    {67}  That poetry is the nurse of abuse, iing us with wanton ailent desires.

    {68}  Rampire, rampart, the Old Fren of &quot;rempart,&quot; was &quot;rempar,&quot; from &quot;remparer,&quot; to fortify.

    {69}  &quot;I give him free leave to be foolish.&quot;  A variation from the line (Sat. I. i. 63), &quot;Quid facias illi? jubeas bbr>.９９lib?</abbr>miserum esse libenter.&quot;

    {70}  That Plato banished poets from his ideal Republic.

    {71}  Which authority certain barbarous and insipid writers would wrest into meaning that poets were to be thrust out of a state.

    {72}  Ion is a rhapsodist, in dialogue with Socrates, who ot uand why it is that his thoughts flow abundantly whealks of Homer.  &quot;I  explain,&quot; says Socrates; &quot;your talent in expounding Homer is not an art acquired by system ahod, otherwise it would have been applicable to other poets besides.  It is a special gift, imparted to you by Divine power and inspiration. The like is true of the poet you expound.  His genius does not spring from art, system, or method:  it is a special gift emanating from the inspiration of the Muses.  A poet is light, airy, holy person, who ot pose verses at all so long as his reason remains within him.  The Muses take away his reason, substituting in place of it their own divine inspiration and special impulse . . . Like prophets and deliverers of oracles, thbbr></abbr>ese poets have their reason taken away, and bee the servants of the gods.  It is not they who, bereft of their reason, speak in such sublime strains, it is the god who speaks to us, and speaks through them.&quot;  Gerote, from whose volumes on Plato I quote this translation of the passage, placed &quot;Ion&quot; among the genuine dialogues of Plato.

    {73}  Guards, trimmings or fags.

    {74}  The Sed Summary.

    {75}  Causes of Defe English Poetry.

    {76}  From the invocation at the opening of Virgils AEneid (line 12), &quot;Muse, bring to my mind the causes of these things:  what divinity was injured . . . that one famous for piety should suffer thus.&quot;

    {77}  The ichel de lHopital, born in 1505, who joio his great political services (whicluded the keeping of the Inquisition out of France, and long labour to repress civil war) great skill in verse.  He died in 1573.

    {78}  Whose heart-strings the Titan (Prometheus) fastened with a better clay.  (Juvenal, Sat. xiv. 35).  Dryden translated the line, with its text -

    &quot;Some sons, indeed, some very few, we see Who keep themselves from this iion free, Whom gracious Heaven for nobler ends desigheir looks erected, and their clay refined.&quot;

    {79}  The orator is made, the poet born.

    {80}  What you will; the first that es.

    {81}  &quot;Whatever I shall try to write will be verse.&quot;  Sidney quotes from memory, and adapts to his text, Tristium IV. x. 26.

    &quot;Sponte sua carmen numeros ve ad aptos, Et quod temptabam dicere, versus erat.&quot;

    {82}  HIS for &quot;its&quot; here as throughout; the word &quot;its&quot; not bei introduced into English writing.

    {83}  Defects in the Drama.  It should be remembered that this was writtehe English drama was but twenty years old, and Shakespeare, aged about seventeen, had not yet e to London.  The stro of Shakespeares precursors had not yet begun to write for the stage.  Marlowe had not yet written; and the strength that was to e of the freedom of the English drama had yet to be shown.

    {84}  There was no sery on the Elizabethan stage.

    {85}  Messenger.

    {86}  From the egg.

    {87}  Bias, slope; French &quot;biais.&quot;

    {88}  Juvenal, Sat. iii., lines 152-3.  Which Samuel Johnson finely paraphrased in his &quot;London:&quot;

    &quot;Of all the griefs that harass the distrest, Sure the most bitter is a sful jest.&quot;

    {89}  Gee Baan (who died in 1582, aged seventy-six) had written in earlier life four Latin tragedies, when Professor of Huma Bordeaux, with Montaigne in his class.

    {90}  Defects in Lyric Poetry.

    {91}  Defects in Di.  This being written only a year or two after the publication of &quot;Euphues,&quot; represents that style of the day which was not created but represented by the book from which it took the name of &quot;Euphuism.&quot;

    {92}  Nizolian paper-books, are onplace books of quotable passages, so called because an Italian grammarian, Marius Nizolius, born at Bersello in the fifteenth tury, and one of the scholars of the Renaissan the sixteenth, was one of the first producers of sues.  His tribution was an alphabetical folio diary of phrases from Cicero:  &quot;Thesaurus Ciianus, sive Apparatus Liinae e scriptis Tullii Ciis collectus.&quot;

    {93}  &quot;He lives and wins, nay, es to the Senate, nay, es to the Senate,&quot; &amp;c.

    {94}  Pounded.  Put in the pound, when found astray.

    {95}  Capacities of the English Language.

    {96}  Metre and Rhyme.

    {97}  Last Summary and playful peroration天涯在线书库《www.tianyabook.com》