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and happy had he been if he had gone two or three years since; before the world was weary of him, or that he had left that scandal behind him. He was not long sick, past eight or ten days, and died of a burning fever and putrefaction of his lungs, a defect he never complained of. He hath left his lady, (for so she is now generally held to be,) 1500l. a year, and most of his moveables ; and of five children that she fathered

upon him at the parting from her former husband, I do not hear that be provided for more than three, leaving to the eldest son, I hear, between 3 and 40001. a year, and to a daughter 60001. in money."

The contradictions in these several accounts, and the circumstances that may be advanced in extenuation of this unfortunate lady's conduct, may be left to the reader's discernment. She was unhappily married at an early period, and was the object of attachment with two of the most accomplished and elegant men of the age in which she lived. The adage of " fortes creantur fortibus," may be very safely extended to the natural endowments of form and features; Lady Rich was without doubt remarkable for personal beauty, her two sons by Lord Rich, who make so conspicuous a figure in Clarendon's history, were the handsomest men of their day, and a portrait of her grand daughter Isabella first Countess of Radnor, now before the writer, presents one of the loveliest images ever created by that painter of the graces, Sir Peter Lelly.

The following are from the Arcadia :

An Epitaph.
His being was in her alone
And he not being she was none.
They joy'd one joy, one grief they griev'd,
One love they lov'd, one life they liv'd;
The hand was one, one was the sword,
That did his death, her death afford.
As all the rest, so now the stone,
That tombs the two is justly One.

A Song.
Why dost thou haste away
O Titan fair, the giver of the day?

Is it to carry news
To western wights, what stars in east appear?
Or dost thou think that here

Is left a sun, whose beams thy place may use?

Yet stay and well peruse,
What be her gifts that make her equal thee,
Bend all thy light to see

In earthy form inclos’d a heavenly spark:

Thy running course cannot such beauties mark. No, no, thy motious be

Hasten’d from us with bar of shadow dark,
Because that thou, the author of our sight,
Disdain'st we see thee stain'd with other's light.

From a long piece,
The lad Philisides
Lay by a river side,
In flow'ry field a gladder eye to please;
His pipe was at his foot,

His lambs were him beside ;
A widow turtle near on bared root
Sat wailing without boot.
Each thing both sweet and sad
Did draw his boiling brain,
To think, and think with pain,
Of Mira's beams eclips'd by absence bad.

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From a longer piece. As I my little flock on Ister bank,

A little flock, but well my pipe they couth, Did piping lead, the sun already sank

Beyond our world, and e'er I got my booth,

Each thing with mantle black the night did scoth: Saving the glow-worm, which would courteous be Of that small light oft watching shepherds see.

The welkin had full niggardly enclosed

In coffer of dark clouds his silver groats, Y’cleped stars; each thing to rest disposed,

The caves were full, the mountains void of goats.

The birds eyes closed, closed their chirping notes, As for the nightingale, wood-music's king, It August was, he deigned not then to sing. Amid my sheep, though I saw naught to fear,

Yet, for I nothing saw, I feared sore: Then found I which thing is a charge to bear,

As for my sheep I dreaded mickle more

Than ever for myself since I was bore.
I sat me down ; for see to go ne could,
And sung unto my sheep lest stray they should.

M

The song I sang old Lanquet had me taught,

Lanquet, the shepherd best swift Işter knew,
For clerkly read, and hating what is naught,

For faithful heart, clean hands, and mouth as true;

With his sweet skill my skilless youth he drew,
To have a feeling taste of him that sits
Beyond the heaven, far more beyond our wits.

He said the music best thilk powers pleased,

Was jump concord between our wit and will;
Where highest notes to godliness are raised,

And lowest sink not down to jot of ill:

With old true tales he wont mine ears to fill, How shepherds were of yore, how now they thrive, Spoiling their flocks, the while 'twixt them they strive. He liked me, but pitied lustful youth:

His good strong staff my slippery years upbore; He still hoped well, because I loved truth :

'Till forced to part with heart and eyes e’en sore,

To worthy Corydon he gave me o'er ; But thus in oak's true shade recounted he, Which now, in night's deep shade, sheep beard of me.

*

Hubert Languet, justly praised in this extract, was a Frenchman, born at Viteaux in 1518. He was converted to the protestant faith by reading the works of Melancthon, and afterwards entered into the service of the reformed princes of Germany. A series of his letters to Sir Philip Sidney is extant, which exhibits him to great advantage, as a profound schola", a wise and prudent adviser, and a firm friend. He died at Antwerp in 1581, leaving behind him the character of being one of the most learned men, and ablest politigians of his time.

Sonnet. Since nature's works be good, and death doth serve

As nature's work; why should we fear to die? Since fear is vain, but when it may preserve ;

Why should we fear that which we cannot fly? Fear is more pain, than is the pain it fears,

Disarming human minds of native might: While each conceit an ugly figure bears,

Which were not ill well viewed in reason's light.
Our owly eyes, which dimmed by passions be,

And scarce discern the dawn of coming day,
Let them be cleared, then shall we ’gin to see

Our life is but a step in dusty way;
And let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind :
Of this we feel, great loss we cannot find.

An Epithalamium.
Let mother earth now deck herself with flowers,

To see her offspring seek a good increase,
Where justest love doth vanquish Cupid's powers,

And war of thoughts is swallowed up in peace,
Which never may decrease,
But like the turtles fair,

Live one in two a well united pair;
Which that no chance may stain,
O Hymen long their coupled joys maintain.
O Heaven awake, shew forth thy stately face,

Let not these slumbering clouds thy beauty hide,
But with thy cheerful presence help to grace

The honest bridegroom and the bashful bride.
Whose loves may ever bide,
Like to the elm and vine,

With mutual embraces them to twine :
In which delightful pain,
O Hymen long their coupled joys maintain

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