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formances, at least he has given no speciinen of his works yet he is spoken of as a writer, by no incans inelegant, by Warton in his Ilistory of Poetry, vol. 111. p. 405.

I have discovered in a very curious and valuable volume of Miscellaneous Poetry, belonging to Sion College Library, the performance of Richard Barnfield, alluded to by Warton; and for the benefit of collectors in this line, subjoin a description, with a specimen.


Containing the complaint of Daphnis for the Love of Ganymede.

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London. Printed by John Danter, for T. G. and E. N. and are to bee sold in Saint Dunstones Church Yeard, in Fleet Street. 1594.

The author appears to have had in view, for imitation, the second Eclogue of Virgil, but it must be confessed that much cannot be said in favour of his Poetry.

Remember age, and thou canst not be prowd,
For age pulls downe tbe pride of every man.
In youthfull yeares by nature tis allowde
To have selfe-will, doo nurture what she can.


Nature and nurture once together met,
The soule and shape in decent order set.

Pride looks aloft, still staring on the starres,
Humility looks lowly on the ground,
Th' one menaceth the gods with civil warres,
The other toyles till he have vertue found.

His thoughts are humble, not aspiring hye,
But Pride looks haughtily, with scorneful eye.

Humility is clad in modest weedes,
But Pride is brave and glorious to the show;
Humility his friendes with kindness feedes,
But Pride his friendes in neede will never know.

Supplying not their wants, but them disdaining,
Whilst they to pitty never neede complayning.

Humility in misery is relieved,
But Pride in neede, of no man is regarded;
Pitty and mercy weepe to see him grieved,
That in distresse had them so well rewarded ;

But Pride is scornd, contemnd, disdaind, derided,
Whilst Humbleness of all things is provided.

Oh then be humble, genıle, meeke, and milde,
So shalt tbou be of every mouth commended;
Be not disdainfull, cruell, proude, sweet childe,
So shalt thou be of no man much condeinned.

Care not for them that vertue doo despise,
Vertue is loathde of fooles, lovd of the wise,


From the same curious volume, belonging to Sion College, I am enabled to give an account of the following very rare tract:

An OULD FACIONED LOVE, or a Love of the Ould Facion. By T. T. Gent.

At London. Printed by P. S. for William Mattes, dwelling in fleetstrete, at the signe of the Hand and Plough. 1594.”

This Poem is inscribed to the Author's “Worshipfull and singular good friend Mistres Ann Robertes."

The Poem commences thus :

Countries delight, sweet Phillis, beutes pride,
Vouchsafe to read the lines Amyntas writeth,
And having red, within your boosome hide
What first of love my fearfull muse inditeth.

When once my mother set me flockes to keepe,
Bare fifteen years of age, in lether clad,
A maple hooke to get and hould my sheepe,
A waiting dogge, a homely scrip I had.

No skil in beauty, on love I never thought,
Yet but a boye the friendly shepheards route
Admitted me, and countrie secrets taught,
To heale my flocks, to fould them round about.

In threatned stormes to lead them to the lee,
To sheare in time, to drive the wolfe awaie,
To knowe the course of starres that fixed bee,
To pipe on meadow reeds each holy-daie.

To sing in time, as sometimes shepards use,
To daunce our jiggs on pasture grac'd with flowrs
What learnd I not, what toile did I refuse,
To quench loves flames and pass or'e idle houres ?

&c. &c.

The reader will easily suppose I have not given the above specimen, but as a literary curiosity. It obviously has little merit as a Poem.

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The same curious volume, from which the above two articles are described, contains also the following, of no less rarity and value.


This Poem is dedicated To the Right Honorable Sir Peregrin Bartue, Knight, Lord of Willoughby and Earsby, and signed by the Author I. O.

The following is a specimen:

Lo here the teares and sad complaint for her,
Within whose gates all joyes were once abounding,
Faire Ilions teares whose deepe laments may stir
A fintie hart unto a sigh-resounding.
F 4


Yet for hirselfe doth Ilion not mone,
But for hir Hector, which is dead and gone.

Sweet sacred muses, you whose gentle eares
Are wont to listen to the humble praier
Of plaining poets, and to lend your teares
From your faire eyes unto a woes-displayer;

Now rest your selves, your ayde I not implore,
For in myselfe I find abundant store.

Nor can I crave upon your blubbered cheeks,
That you for me more showers should be raining,
Though you are kind to every one that seekes,
Yet have you matter for your own complaining,

I saw your tears, and pittifull wamențings,
But they are few that list to your lamentings.

Good-naturde nymphs you are too milde for me:
Troy tells of honor, and of divers things.
Let your faire ayde in love and musick be,
Or in his tongue which pleasant poem sings,

Furies and frensies are fit companie
To helpe to blase my wofull tragedie.


THIS Author, a Professor of Civil Law, was much esteemed in his day, and published many valuable works. He has, however, never been


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