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To keepe this rule, kaw me and I kaw thee,
To play the saints, whereas we divels bee.
What ere men doe let them not reprehend,
For cunning knaves with cunning knaves defend.
Truth is pursewed by hate, then is he wise
That to the world his worldly will applies.
What is he wise? I (15) as Amphestus strong,
That burnt his face because his beard was long.

The spirit, the sentiment, the language, and versification of many passages in the preceding Satire are admirable, and would not have disgraced the pens, either of Dryden or Pope. I subjoin a few explanatory notes for the benefit of the reader who may be less familiar with the phraseology of this period.

(1) Sooth up, that is smooth over, palliate. (2) Soundes him not, does not expose him.

(3) To haultę, to limp, that is to keep pace with inhuman infirmity.

(4) Plaise-mouthed, I presume, means foul-mouthed, op rather, perhaps, with a mouth as large as that of the Plaise. Welts and guards, means gowns and petticoats.

(5) Selfe will, &c. These are two excellent lines. (6) Lurking-lounging.

(7) Lights. Here also are four very spiritual and forcible lines.-Lights evidently means the lights or powers of the mind,

(8) Flings here means kicks or resents. It would not be easy to find two finer lines in Pope's Satires than these :

For wicked men repine their sinnes to heare,
And folly flings if councill touch him neare.

(9) Under

19) Under-layd, trodden down in a slovenly manner. (10) Tell bleur-eyed, &c. These, and many of the succeeding lines are very animated, and truly conceived and expressed in the indignant spirit of genuine Satire.

(11) Last day-Yesterday.

(12) Skuce-excuse.

(13) Heares.-hairs.

(14) Will-passion. I know not weere these lines are surpassed in force, truth, or elegance.

Thus with the world, the world dissembles still,
And to their own confusions fellow will,

Holding it true felicitie to flie,

Not from the sinne, but from the seeing eie.

(15) I. That is ay,-I confess I do not comprehend the meaning of these concluding lines.


Found after his Death in his Cell at Silexedra. Bequeathed to Philautus Sonnes, nursed up with

their Father in England.

Fetcht from the Canaries by T. L. Gent. Imprinted at London, for John Smethwick, and are to be sold at his Shop in Saint Dunstanes Church Yard, in Fleet Street, under the Dyall. 1612. First printed in 1590.

THIS Tract is by the same author as that which precedes, Thomas Lodge, of whom Warton

I 4


remarks that he was fitted for a different mode of composition than Satire. This, however, will not easily be allowed by those who have perused his Satires, which Warton confessedly had not.

This Tract deserves com memoration, as well for its great rarity, as that by the acknowledgment of all the Commentators, it furnished the Plot of Shakspeare's As You LIKE IT. There are a great many poetical pieces interspersed, which indicate much true poetical feeling and taste. One or two specimens of Lodge's Poetry are to be found in Ellis's work, but I have no where seen any portion of the present performance.

The following examples may well entitle the Author to a distinguished place among our early English Poets.


Love in my bosome like a bee
Doth suck his sweete,

Now with his wings he plaies with me,
Now with his feete.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast,
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest.


Ah Wanton will ye?

And if I sleepe then pearcheth he
With prettie flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee
The live long night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string,
He musicke plaies if so I sing,
He lends me every living thing,
Yet cruell be my heart doth sting.

Whist wanton will ye?

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you when you long to play,
For your offence,

Ile shut my eyes to keepe you in,

Ile make you fast it for your sinne,
Ile court your power not worth a pinne,
Alas what hereby shall I winne,

If he gainesay me?

What if I beate the wanton boy
With many a rod,

He will repay me with annoy,
Because a God.

Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be,
Lurke in mine eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid so thou pittie me,
Spare not, but play thee


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Turne I my lookes unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wound's myne
If so I looke upon the ground,
Love then in every flower is found.
Search I the shade to flie my paine,
He meetes me in the shades againe :
Wend I to walke in secret grove,
Even there I meet with sacred love;
If so I bathe me in the spring,
Even on the brinke I hear him sing;
If so I meditate alone,

He will be partner of my mone;
If so I mourne he weeps with me,
And where I am there will he be;
When as I talke of Roselind,
The God from coynesse waxeth kind,
And seemes in self-same flame to frie,
Because he loves as well as I.
Sweete Rosalind, for pittie rue,
For why then love I am more true,
He if he speede will quickly flie,
But in thy love I live and die,

eles 4

The following is part of a Poetical Dialogue between Rosader, the unsuccessful Lover, and Rosalind.


I pray thee Rosalind, by these sweet eyes,

That staine the Sun in shine, the Moone in cleare,


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