Our author has more imitations, and even translations, from the Italian poets than Surrey; and he seems to have been more fond of their conceits*. Petrarch has described the perplexities of a lover's mind, and his struggles betwixt hope and despair, a subject most fertile of sentimental complaint, by a combination of contrarieties, a species of wit highly relished by the Italians. I am, says he, neither at peace nor war. I burn, and I freeze. I soar to heaven, and yet grovel on the earth. I can hold nothing, and yet grasp every thing. My prison is neither shut, nor is it opened. I see without eyes, and I complain without a voice. I laugh, and I weep. I live, and am dead. Laura, to what a condition am I reduced, by your cruelty!

Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerra;

E temo, e spero, ed ardo, e son en un ghiaccio:
E volo sopra 'l cielo, e giaccio in terra:
E nulla stringo, e tutto 'l mondo abraiccio.
Tal m' ha in prigion, che non m' apre nè serra';
Nè per suo mi rittien, ne scioglie il laccio;
E non m' uccide Amor, e non mi sferra;
Ni mi vuol vivo, nì mi trae d'impaccio.
Veggio senz' occhi, e non ho lingua, e grido;
E bramo di perir, e cheggio aita ;

Ed ho in odio me stesso, ed amo altrui :
Pascomi di dolor, piangendo rido.

Egualmente mi spiace morte, e vita:
In questo stato son, Donna, per vui."

[These conceits found a later imitator in Cowley.-ASHBY.]

This passage is taken from Messen Jordi, a Provencial poet of Valencia.

[Mossen, not Messen, Jorge de Sant Jorde (not a Provencial but a Limosin poet, whether of Valencia or Catalonia does not appear), was posterior to Petrarch by almost a couple of centuries. See Sarmiento, § 365. 503. RITSON. MS. note.

I am pretty well satisfied, he adds, that no such person as Messen Jordi ever existed, Obs. p. 30. By the late masterly poet and elegant scholar, Thomas Russell, fellow of New Coll. Oxon. the self-satisfaction here expressed by Ritson was left on a shallow basis. That Mossen (Anglicè m ?) Jordi had more than a poetical existence, is fully ascertained by Velasquez in his "Origines de la Poesia Castellana," 1754: the German translator of which work, in 1769, tells us, that "Jordi signifies George, his family name not being known:" but Gaspar Escolano, in Historia de Valencia, identifies him by saying, "that he composed sonnets, &c. in the Valencian Lemosine language with great applause, and that Petrarch had taken much from

him." Mr. Russell further observed, that Beuter in his Chronicle was the first who asserted that Jordi lived as early as the year 1250, and that he was imitated by Petrarch in the passage cited in the text: while the marquis de Santillana, who died in 1458, countenanced a different hypothesis, by making Jorden contemporary with himself, according to Sarmiento in his "Memorias para la Poesia:" and if this authority be allowed, Jordi must have imitated Petrarch instead of being copied by him. But in either case the existence of Mossen Jordi is equally proved; as also the resemblance of the passages, whichever of the two we suppose to have been the original. Camoens also took the hint of a similar epigrammatic sonnet, which is appended to Mr. Russell's able vindication of our poetical historian in the Gent. Mag. for Dec. 1782.-PARK.]

m Sonn. ciii. There is a Sonnet in imitation of this, among those of the Uncertain Auctours at the end of Surrey's Poems, fol. 107. And in Davison's Poems, B. ii. Canzon. viii. p. 108. 4th edit. Lond. 1621. 12mo.

Wyat has thus copied this sonnet of epigrams.

I finde no peace, and all my warre is done:

I feare and hope, I burne and frese likewyse:
I flye aloft, yet can I not aryse;

And nought I have, yet all the world I season;
That lockes nor loseth, [nor] holdeth me in prison.
And holdes me not, yet can I scape no wise;
Nor lettes me live, nor dye, at my devise,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eye I se, without tong I playne:
I wish to perish, yet I aske for helth;
I love another, and I hate myselfe;

I fede me in sorow, and laugh in all my paine.
Lo thus displeaseth me both death and life,
And my delight is causer of this strife."

It was from the capricious and over-strained invention of the Italian poets, that Wyat was taught to torture the passion of love by prolix and intricate comparisons, and unnatural allusions. At one time his love is a galley steered by cruelty through stormy seas and dangerous rocks; the sails torn by the blast of tempestuous sighs, and the cordage consumed by incessant showers of tears: a cloud of grief envelops the stars, reason is drowned, and the haven is at a distance P. At another, it is a spring trickling from the summit of the Alps, which gathering force in its fall, at length overflows all the plain beneath. Sometimes it is a gun, which being overcharged, expands the flame within itself, and bursts in pieces. Sometimes it is like a prodigious mountain, which is perpetually weeping in copious fountains, and sending forth sighs from its forests; which bears more leaves than fruits; which breeds wildbeasts, the proper emblems of rage, and harbours birds that are always singing. In another of his sonnets, he says, that all nature sympa

"That which locks, i. e. a key. • Fol. 21, 22.

[This Sonnet will be found with some variations in Nuga Antiquæ, vol. i. edit. 1769. Davison at a little later period thus turned the same sonnet in his Poetical Rhapsody, first printed in 1602. edit. 1621. P. 108.

I joy not peace, where yet no war is found,
I fear and hope, I burn yet freeze withall,
I mount to heaven, yet lye I stil on the
ground,

I nothing hold, yet I compasse all.

I live her bond, which neither is my foe.
Nor friend, nor holds me fast, nor lets me
goe.

Love will not let me live, nor let me dye,
Nor locks me fast, nor suffers me to scape,

thises with his passion. The woods resound his elegies, the rivers stop their course to hear him complain, and the grass weeps in dew. These thoughts are common and fantastic. But he adds an image which is new, and has much nature and sentiment, although not well expressed.

The hugy okes have rored in the winde,

Eche thing, methought, complayning in theyr kinde.

This is a touch of the pensive. And the apostrophe which follows is natural and simple.

O stony hart, who hath thus framed thee

So cruel, that art cloked with beauty!

And there is much strength in these lines of the lover to his bed.
The place of slepe, wherein I do but wake,
Besprent with teares, my bed, I thee forsake!"

But such passages as these are not the general characteristics of Wyat's poetry. They strike us but seldom, amidst an impracticable mass of forced reflections, hyperbolical metaphors, and complaints that move no compassion.

But Wyat appears a much more pleasing writer, when he moralises on the felicities of retirement, and attacks the vanities and vices of a court, with the honest indignation of an independent philosopher, and the freedom and pleasantry of Horace. Three of his poetical epistles are professedly written in this strain, two to John Poines, and the other to sir Francis Bryan: and we must regret, that he has not left more pieces in a style of composition for which he seems to have been eminently qualified. In one of the epistles to Poines on the life of a courtier, are these spirited and manly reflections.

Myne owne John Poins, since ye delite to know
The causes why that homeward I me draw,

And flee the prease" of courtes, where so they go*;
Rather than to live thrall under the awe

Of lordly lokes, wrapped within my cloke;
To will and lust learning to set a law:

It is not that, because I scorne or mocke

The power of them, whom Fortune here hath lent
Charge over us, of Right' to strike the stroke:
But true it is, that I have always ment

Lesse to esteme them, (than the common sort)
Of outward thinges that judge, in their entent,
Without regarde what inward doth resort.

I graunt sometime of glory that the fire
Doth touch my heart. Me list not to report
Blame by honour, nor honour to desire.
But how may I this honour now attaine,
That cannot dye the colour blacke a liar?
My Poins, I cannot frame my tunea to fain,
To cloke the truth, &c.

In pursuit of this argument, he declares his indisposition and inability to disguise the truth, and to flatter, by a variety of instances. Among others, he protests he cannot prefer Chaucer's TALE of SIR THOPAS to his PALAMON AND ARCITE.

Praise SIR TOPAS for a noble tale,

And scorne the STORY that the KNIGHT tolde;
Praise him for counsell that is dronke of ale:

Grinne when he laughes, that beareth all the sway;
Frowne when he frownes, and grone when he is pale:
On others lust to hang both night and day, &c.

I mention this circumstance about Chaucer, to show the esteem in which the KNIGHT'S TALE, that noble epic poem of the dark ages, was held in the reign of Henry the Eighth, by men of taste.

The poet's execration of flatterers and courtiers is contrasted with the following entertaining picture of his own private life and rural enjoyments at Allingham-castle in Kent.

This is the cause that I could never yet

Hang on their sleeves, that weigh, as thou maist se,
A chippe of chance more than a pounde of wit:
This maketh me at home to hunt and hawke,
And in foule wether at my booke to sit;

In frost and snow then with my bow to stalke;
No man doth marke whereso I ride or go:
In lusty leas at libertie I walke:

And of these newes I fele nor weale nor woe:

Save that a clogge doth hang yet at my heele";
No force for that, for it is ordred so,

That I may leape both hedge and dyke ful wele.
I am not now in Fraunce, to judge the wyne, &c.
But I am here in Kent and Christendome,
Among the Muses, where I reade and ryme;

Where if thou list, mine owne John Poins, to come,
Thou shalt be judge how do I spende my time.d

In another epistle to John Poines, on the security and happiness of a moderate fortune, he versifies the fable of the City and Country Mouse with much humour.

My mother's maides, when they do sowe and spinne,
They sing a song made of the feldishe mouse, &c.

This fable appositely suggests a train of sensible and pointed observations on the weakness of human conduct, and the delusive plans of life.

Alas, my Poins, how men do seke the best,
And finde the worse by errour as they stray:
And no marvell, when sight is so opprest,
And blindes the guyde: anone out of the way
Goeth guyde and all, in seking quiet lyfe.

O wretched mindes! There is no golde that may
Graunt that you seke: no warre, no peace, no strife:
No, no, although thy head were hoopt with golde:
Sergeaunt with mace*, with hawbarte, sword, por knife,
Cannot repulse the care that folow should.
Ech kinde of lyfe hath with him his disease:

Live in delites, even as thy lust would,

And thou shalt finde, when lust doth most thee please,

It irketh straght, and by itselfe doth fade.

A small thing is it, that may thy minde appease?

None of you al there is that is so madde,

To seke for grapes on brambles or on breeres;
Nor none, I trow, that hath a witte so badde,
To set his haye for coneyes over rivères.
Nor ye set not a dragge net for a hare:
And yet the thing that most is your desire

You do misseke, with more travell and care.

Probably he alludes to some office which he still held at court; and which sometimes recalled him, but not too frequently, from the country.

d Fol. 47.

[From Horace; Submovet lictor.ASHBY.]

e halbert. A parade of guards, &c. The classical allusion is obvious.

So read, instead of bryars.