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to swell the outcry against his principles. He was accused (by the jesuits) of atheism-a charge which his own writings sufficiently refute. Whatever were his opinions, the public saved him the trouble of ex-, plaining them; and the queen, taking it for granted that they must be bad, gave him an open, and, no doubt, edifying reprimand. To console himself under these circumstances, he projected the conquest of Guiana, sailed thither in 1595, and having captured the city of San Joseph, returned and published an account of his voyage. In the following year he acted gallantly under the Earl of Essex at Cadiz, as well as in what was called the “ Island Voyage. On the latter occasion he failed of complete success only through the jealousy of the favourite.

His letter to Cecil, in which he exhorted that statesman to the destruction of Essex, forms but too sad and notorious a blot in our hero's memory; yet even that offence will not reconcile us to behold the successor of Elizabeth robbing Raleigh of his estate to bestow it on the minion Carr; and on the grounds of a plot in which his participation was never proved, condemning to fifteen years of imprisonment the man who had enlarged the empire of his country, and the boundaries of human knowledge. James could estimate the wise, but shrunk from cordiality with the brave. He released Raleigh from avaricious hopes about the mine of Guiana, and when dis.

· A voyage that was aimed principally at the Spanish Plate fleets.

appointed in that object, sacrificed him to motives still baser than avarice. On the 29th of October, 1618, Raleigh perished on a scaffold, in Old Palaceyard, by a sentence originally iniquitous, and which his commission to Guiana had virtually revoked.


Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams,
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So when affection yields discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come ;
They that are rich in words must needs discover
They are but


in that which makes a lover.

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart
That sues for no compassion.

Since if my plaints were not t' approve
The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,
But fear t exceed my duty.

For not knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection
As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection,

I rather chuse to want relief
Than venture the revealing;
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair disdains the healing.

Silence in love betrays more woe
Than words, tho' ne'er so witty ;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,
My love for secret passion;
He smarteth most who hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.


Hey down a down, did Dian sing,
Amongst her virgins sitting,
Than love there is no vainer thing
For maidens most unfitting:
And so think I, with a down down derry.

When women knew no woe,
But liv'd themselves to please,
Men's feigning guiles they did not know,
The ground of their disease.

Unborn was false Suspect;
No thought of Jealousy;
From wanton toys and fond affect
The virgin's life was free:
Hey down adown, did Dian sing, &c.

At length men used charms,
To which what maids gave ear,
Embracing gladly endless harms,
Anon enthralled were.

Thus women welcom'd woe,
Disguis'd in name of love;
A jealous hell, a painted show,
So shall they find that proye.

Hey down a down, did Dian sing,
Amongst her virgins sitting,
Than love there is no vainer thing,
For maidens most unfitting:


saw the



where Laura lay, Within that temple where the vestal flame Was wont to burn : and passing by that way

buried dust of living fame,

To see

Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept,
All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen,
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept;
And from thenceforth those Graces were not seen,
For they this Queen attended; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse.
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce,
Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief,
And curs'd th' access of that coelestial thief.


Ascribed to Sir W. Raleigh in England's Helicon.

Melibaeus. SHEPHERD, what's love? I pray thee tell.
Faustus, It is that fountain and that well

Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is, perhaps, that sauncing bell
That tolls all into heav'n or hell,

And this is love as I heard tell.
M. Yet, what is love? I prithee say.
F. It is a work on holiday;

It is December match'd with May,
When lusty blood 's in fresh array,
And this is love as I hear say.

M. Yet, what is love? good shepherd, sain,
F. It is a sunshine mixt with rain;

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