The concluding stanza of this piece may be cited as a curious specimen of the author's quibbling propensity.

"And thus with death, that all in fine doth end,

We end our tale :-and, if a lie it be,

Yet naked Truth dares such a lie defend;
Because such lies do lie in veritie :

But though loude lies do lie, they will not bend
So lowe as most profound moralitie :

Then, be it lie, or be it what it will,

It lies too high and low for death to kill."

A third portion of this volume intitled 'The Triumph of Death,' contains a representation of the plague that took place in London during the year 1603. The author says this was taken according to the life;' but it contains little of that striking verisimilitude and vivid colouring which Wither gave to the same fearful subject, in the succeeding pestilence of 1625: as may be seen in Censura Literaria, vol. v. The following are selected as some of the most prominent or interesting

passages.

"London now smokes, with vapors that arise,'

From his foule sweat, himselfe he so bestirres : 'Cast out your dead'-the carcase-carrier cries, Which he by heapes, in groundless graves interres.-.

Now like to bees, in summer's heate, from hives,
Out flie the citizens, some here, some there;

Some all alone, and others with their wives:

With wives and children some flie, all for feare!

Here stands a watch, with guard of partizans
To stoppe their passages, or to or fro,
As if they were not men, nor Christians,

But fiends or monsters, murdering as they go.

Each village, free, now stands upon her guard:

None must have harbour in them but their owne; And as for life and death, all watch and ward,

And flie for life (as death) the man unknowne!

Here crie the parents for their childrens' death; There howle the children for their parents losse, And often die as they are drawing breath

To crie for their but now inflicted crosse.

The last survivor of a familie,

Which yesterday perhaps were all in health, Now dies to beare his fellowes company,

And for a grave for all, gives all their wealth.

The London lanes (themselves thereby to save)
Did vomit out their undigested dead,
Who by cart-loads are carried to the grave;
For all those lanes with folke were overfed.

The king himselfe (O wretched times the while!) From place to place, to save himselfe did flie, Which from himselfe himselfe did seek t'exile, Who (as amaz'd) not safe knew where to lie.

For hardly could one man another meete,

That in his bosom brought not odious death;

It was confusion but a friend to greet,
For, like a fiend, he banned with his breath,

Now fall the people unto publike fast,

And all assemble in the church to pray;

Early and late their soules there take repast,
As if preparing for the later day.

The pastors now steep all their words in brine,

With woe, woe, woe,'-and nought is heard but woe: "Woe and alas! (they say) the powers divine 'Are bent mankind, for sinne, to overthrow.

Repent, repent, (like Jonas now they crie)
Ye men of England! O repent, repent!

To see if so ye maie move pittie's eye

To looke upon you, ere you quite be spent.'

And oft whilst he breathes out these bitter words,
He, drawing breath, drawes in more bitter bane:

For now the aire no aire, but death affords,

And lights of art (for helpe) were in the wane.

The ceremonie at their burialls

Isashes but to ashes, dust to dust ;'

Nay, not so much for straight the pit-man falls (If he can stand) to hide them as he must.

But if the pit-man have not so much sense

To see, nor feele which way the winde doth sit To take the same, he hardly comes from thence, But for himself, perhaps, he makes the pit.

For, look how leaves in autumn from the tree
With wind do fall, whose heaps fill holes in ground;
So might ye, with the plague's breath, people see
Fall by great heaps, and fill up holes profound.

No holy turf was left to hide the head

Of holiest men; but most unhallow'd grounds, Ditches and highwaies, must receive the dead,

The dead (ah, woe the while!) so o'er-abound.

Time never knew, since he begunne his houres,
(For aught we reade) a plague so long remaine,
In any citie, as this plague of ours,

For now six yeares in London it hath laine.

But Thou, in whose high hand all hearts are held,
Convert us, and from us this plague avert :
So sin shall yield to grace, and grace shall yield
The Giver glory for so dear desert.

In few, what should I say? the best are nought

That breathe, since man first breathing did rebell :
The best that breathe are worse than may be thought,
If thought can thinke, the best can do but well:
For none doth well on earth but such as will

Confesse, with griefe, they do exceeding ill!"

The volume closes with a Sonnet to the Author's "Much honored scholler Sir Philip Carey, with a second to his deere scholler Sir Humpry Baskervile of Earsley, Knt. and the no lesse lovely than vertuous Lady his wife;" 22 lines to his "deere, meeke, modest, and intirely beloved Mistris Elizabeth Dutton, Mistris Mary, and Mistress Vere Egerton, three sisters of hopefull destinies;" and a Sonnet inscribed To my worthy and worthily beloved scholer, Thomas Bodenham, squire, sonne and heire apparent of Sir Roger B. of Rotherwas, knight of the Bathe."

The following Sonnet to Drummond of Hawthornden was printed without signature in the 8vo. edition of his poems, 1656: but in the 4to. of 1616, it was appropriated to an author who had before been noticed in RESTITUTA.

To the Author.

"The Sister Nymphs, who haunt the Thespian springs,
Ne're did their gifts more liberally bequeath,
To them who on their hills suck'd sacred breath,
Than unto thee-by which thou sweetly sings.
Ne're did Apollo raise on Pegase wings

:

A Muse more neare himselfe, more farre from earth,
Than thine whether thou weep thy Ladie's death,
Or sing those sweet-sowre pangs which passion brings.
To write our thoughts in verse doth merit praise,
But on our verse to gild in Fiction's ore,
Bright, rich, delightfull, doth deserve much more,
As thou hast done these thy melodious layes.
Thy Muses' morning, doubtlesse, doth bewray
The swift approach of a more glistring day.