V.

UPON THE SUDDEN RESTRAINT OF

THE EARL OF SOMERSET
THEN FALLING FROM FAVOUR.1

(Oct. 18, 1615.)

AZZLED thus with height of place,
Whilst our hopes our wits beguile
No man marks the narrow space
'Twixt a prison and a smile.
Then, since Fortune's favours fade,
You, that in her arms do sleep,
Learn to swim, and not to wade;
For the hearts of kings are deep.

But if greatness be so blind

As to trust in towers of air,
Let it be with goodness lined,

That at least the fall be fair.

Then, though darkened, you shall say,
When friends fail and princes frown,

Virtue is the roughest way,

But proves at night a bed of down.

H. W.

"Rel. Wotton." Also as Wotton's in Sancroft's MS.,Tann. 465, fol. 61 verso; in MS. Rawl. Poet. 147, p. 97, with the erased title, "Sr H. W. on ye Duke of Somer. ;" and in Clark's "Aurea Legenda," 1682, p. 97. In some less authorized copies it is represented as addressed "to the Lord Bacon, when falling from favour." See Park's Walpole, "R. and N. A.," vol. ii. p. 208, note; and "Notes and Queries," vol. i. p. 302.

VI.

TO A NOBLE FRIEND IN HIS

SICKNESS.1

NTIMELY fever, rude insulting guest,
How didst thou with such unharmo-

nious heat

Dare to distune his well-composed rest

Whose heart so just and noble strokes did beat?

What if his youth and spirits well may bear
More thick assaults and stronger siege than this?
We measure not his courage, but our fear:
Not what ourselves, but what the times:

may

miss.

Had not that blood, which thrice his veins did yield, Been better treasured for some glorious day,

At farthest West to paint the liquid field,

And with new worlds his Master's love to pay?

But let those thoughts, sweet Lord, repose awhile;
Tend only now thy vigour to regain;
And pardon these poor rhymes, that would beguile,
With mine own grief, some portion of thy pain.

H. W.

"Rel. Wotton." In MS. Rawl. Poet. 147, p. 101, it is entitled "On the Duke of Buckingham sick of a fever;" and has the signature " Sr. Henry Wotton."

VII.

ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF

BOHEMIA.1

(Circ. 1620.)

OU meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light,
You common people of the skies;
What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise,
When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known
Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own;
What are you when the rose is blown?

"Rel. Wotton." It was printed with music as early as 1624, in Est's "Sixth Set of Books," &c., and is found in many MSS., e.g. MS. Tann. 465, fol. 43, and MS. Malone 19, 23, title, "To the Spanish Lady;" i e. the Infanta. Found also anonymously in "Wit's Recreations," 1640, and in "Wit's Interpreter," 1671, p. 267, and with a second part in "Cantus, Songs and Fancies," &c., Aberdeen, 1682 (third edition), No. LIV. There are additional verses in several of these copies.

So, when my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
Tell me if she were not designed
The eclipse and glory of her kind?

H. W.

VIII.

TEARS AT THE GRAVE OF SIR
ALBERTUS MORTON,

WHO WAS BURIED AT SOUTHAMPTON:

WEPT BY SIR H. WOTTON.1

(Died Nov. 1625.)

ILENCE in truth would speak my sorrow best,

For deepest wounds can least their feelings tell;

Yet let me borrow from mine own unrest

But time to bid him, whom I loved, farewell.

O my unhappy lines! you that before

Have served my youth to vent some wanton cries, And now, congealed with grief, can scarce implore Strength to accent,-Here my Albertus lies!

"Rel. Wotton." and Walton's Life of Wotton." Also in MS. Rawl. Poet. 147, p. 107.

This is the sable stone, this is the cave

And womb of earth that doth his corpse embrace; While others sing his praise, let me engrave These bleeding numbers to adorn the place.

Here will I paint the characters of woe;

Here will I pay my tribute to the dead; And here my faithful tears in showers shall flow, To humanize the flints whereon I tread:

Where, though I mourn my matchless loss alone,
And none between my weakness judge and me,
Yet even these gentle walls allow my moan,
Whose doleful echoes to my plaints agree.

But is he gone? and live I rhyming here,
As if some Muse would listen to my lay,
When all distuned sit wailing for their dear,
And bathe the banks where he was wont to play?

Dwell thou in endless light, discharged soul,

Freed now from Nature's and from Fortune's trust! While on this fluent globe my glass shall roll, And run the rest of my remaining dust.