Whom she detracteth, be he hye or low,

Receiues a wound, before he feeles the blow.

But, who pursues, another, in despite,

Hurts more himselfe, then him he aymes to smite.

" ANNALIA DUBRENSIA.

UPON the yeerely celebration of Mr. Robert Dovers Olimpick Games upon Cotswold Hills. Written by

London.

Printed by Robert Raworth, for Mathewe

This is one of the most rare of our English Poetical Tracts. The writers were all persons of greater or less consideration in their day; but that I may not extend this part of my work to undue limits, I subjoin, without any particular choice, a specimen of but one of their perform

ances.

"To my noble Friend, Mr. Robert Dover, on his brave Annual Assemblies upon Cotswold.

Dover to doe thee right who will not strive
That dost in these dull yron times revive
The golden ages glories, which poore wee
Had not so much as dreamt on, but for thee.
As those brave Grecians in their happy dayes,
On mount Olympus, to their Hercules
Ordained their games Olympic, and so named
Of that great mountaine for those pastures famed,
Where then their able youth leapt, wrestled, ran,
Threw the armed dart, and honoured was the man,
That was the victor in the cercute there.

The nimble Rider and skild Chariotere

Strove for the garland in those noble times.

Then to their harpes the Poets sang their rimes,
That whilst Greece flourisht and was onely then
Nurse of all arts, and of all famous men,
Numbring their yeers, still their accounts they made,
Either from this or that Olympiade;

So Dover from these games by thee begun
Wee'l reckon ours as time away doth run,
Wee'l have thy statue in some rocke cut out,
With brave inscriptions garnished about,

And

And under written, loe this was the man,
DOVER that first these noble sports began.
Ladds of the hills, and lasses of the vale,
In many a song, and many a merry tale,
Shall mention thee, and having leave to play,
Vnto thy name shall make a holy day.

The Cotswold Shepheards as their flocks they keepe, To put off lazie drowzinesse and sleepe,

Shall sit to tell and heere this story tould,

That hight shall come ere they their flocks can fould.

Michaell Drayton.

JOHN ROLLAND.

ANE TREATISE, CALLIT THE COURT OF VENUS, devidit into four Buikes, newlie compylit by Johnne Rolland, in Dalkeith.

Imprinted at Edinburgh be Johnne Ros.

M.D. LXXV.

Cum Privilegio Regali.

THIS is in itself a most curious book, and this edition of extraordinary rarity. The following extract may induce the more inquisitive reader to examine the work itself.

LAMENTATIO

LAMENTATIO ESPERANTIE.

Wa worth the time that ever I him saw,
Wa worth ye hour yat first I did him knaw,
Wa worth the tide that ever we twa met,

Wa worth the day that ever it did daw,

To se my friend into sic thrist and thraw,
And far ny saik in sorrow all over set;
Allace, allace, is na remeid to get,

Wa worth the toung that ever persewit sic law,
To see his handis into ane cord thus plet.

I was to hait sa sone for to complaine,
I was unwise that his falt could not lane,
I was unkinde threw heit of sawage blude,
I was to sone ovir strekin with disdane,
I was to pert to put my freind to pane;
Allace, allace, now much my mane and mude,
I was but hap, I was of grace denude,
I was but with my will could not refrane,
But time my feir his life and all his gude.

Now will ilkane hold me abhominabill,
Now will thay call me of his death culpabill,
Now will ilkane fra my cumpanie fle,
Now will thay hald my deides detestabill,
Now may I bruik with greit barret and baill
Like one fond fuill fulfillit with fantasie;
Allace, allace, hard is my destenie,

Now call they me ane Tratour tressonabill,
Of my brother caus I had na pietie.

ELIZABETH

ELIZABETH GRYMESTON.

THIS Poetical writer is not mentioned by Ritson, but was the author of the following work:

"MISCELLANEA, -MEDITATIONS MORATIVES, by Elizabeth Grymeston.

ME

Non est rectum quod a Deo non est directum.

London. Printed by Melch. Bradwood, for Folice Norton. 1604."

This is a very rare and curious work. It is dedicated to the author's " Loving Sonne, Bernye Grymeston," and is a miscellaneous composition of verse and prose.

The poetry is indifferent enough, but among the Memoratives at the end are some maxims, as good and judicious as any to be met with in Rochefoucault, or Bruyere. As for example:

"The darts of lust are the eyes, and therefore fix not thy eye on that which thou mayst not desire.

There is no moment of time spent which thou art not countable for, and therefore, when thou hearest the clocke strike, think there is now another houre come, whereof thou art to yeeld a reckoning.

The