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worth Castle. He is generally said to have died at Stamford, in 1578; but the registers of that place have been searched in vain for his name, by the writer of an article in the Censura Literaria', who has corrected some mistakes in former accounts of him. It is not probable, however, that he lived long after 1576, as, from a manuscript in the British Museum, it appears that, in that year, he complains of his infirmities, and nothing afterwards came from

his pen.

Gascoigne was one of the earliest contributors to our drama.

He wrote the Supposes, a comedy, translated from Ariosto, and Jocasta, a tragedy from Euripides, with some other pieces.


Ar Beauty's bar as I did stand,
When False Suspect accused me,
George, quoth the Judge, hold up thy hand,
Thou art arraign'd of Flattery;
Tell, therefore, how wilt thou be tried,
Whose judgement thou wilt here abide ?

My lord, quod I, this lady here,
Whom I esteem above the rest,
Doth know my guilt, if any were;
Wherefore her doom doth please me best.

1 Cens. Lit. vol. I. p. 100.

Let her be judge and juror both,
To try me guiltless by mine oath.

Quoth Beauty, No, it fitteth not
A prince herself to judge the cause ;
Will is our justice, well ye wot,
Appointed to discuss our laws;
If you will guiltless seem to go,
God and your country quit you so.

Then Craft the crier callid a quest,
Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere;
A pack of pickthanks were the rest,
Which came false witness for to bear;
The jury such, the Judge unjust,
Sentence was said, “ I should be truss?d.”

Jealous the gaoler bound me fast,
To hear the verdict of the bill;
George, quoth the judge, now thou art cast,
Thou must go hence to Heavy Hill,
And there be hang'd all but the head;
God rest thy soul when thou art dead !

Down fell I then upon my knee,
All flat before dame Beauty's face,
And cried, Good Lady, pardon me !
Who here appeal unto your grace;
You know if I have been untrue,
It was in too much praising you.

And though this Judge doth make such haste
To shed with shame my guiltless blood,
Yet let your pity first be plac'd
To save the man that meant you good;
So shall you shew yourself a Queen,
And I


be your servant seen.

Quoth Beauty, Well; because I guess
What thou dost mean henceforth to be;
Although thy faults deserve no less
Than Justice here hath judged thee;
Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife,
And be true prisoner all thy life?

Yea madam, quoth I, that I shall;
Lo, Faith and Truth


sureties :
Why then, quoth she, come when I call,
I ask no better warrantise.
Thus am I Beauty's bounden thrall,
At her command when she doth call.

An unpublished Poem in Manuscript, in the British Museum.

18 A. 61.-King's Library.

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There is a grief in every kind of joy,
That is my theme, and that I mean to prove;
And who were he which would not drink annoy,
To taste thereby the lightest dram of love?

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Of lusty youth then lustily to treat,
It is the very May-moon of delight;
When boldest bloods are full of wilful heat,
And joy to think how long they have to fight
In fancy's field, before their life take flight;
Since he which latest did the game begin,
Doth longest hope to linger still therein.




The heav'ns on high perpetually do move;
By minutes meal the hour doth steal away,
By hours the days, by days the months remove,
And then by months the years as fast decay ;
Yea, Virgil's verse, and Tully's truth do say,
That Time flieth, and never claps her wings;
But rides on clouds, and forward still she Aings.


They course the glass, and let it take no rest ;
They pass and spy who gazeth on their face;
They darkly ask whose beauty seemeth best ;
They hark and mark who marketh most their grace ;
They stay their steps, and stalk a stately pace;

They jealous are of every sight they see;
They strive to seem, but never care to be.


What grudge and grief our joys may then suppress,
To see our hairs, which yellow were as gold,
Now grey as glass; to feel and find them less ;

the bald skull which was wont to hold
Our lovely locks with curling sticks contrould;
To look in glass, and spy Sir Wrinkle's chair
Set fast on fronts which erst were sleek and fair.




BORN 1534. DIED 1582.

JOHN HARRINGTON, the father of the translator of Ariosto, was imprisoned by Queen Mary for his suspected attachment to Queen Elizabeth, by whom he was afterwards rewarded with a grant of lands. Nothing that the younger Harrington has written seems to be worth preserving : but the few specimens of his father's poetry which are found in the Nugæ Antiquæ may excite a regret that he did not write more. His love verses have an elegance and terseness, more modern, by an hundred

than those of his contemporaries.


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