And lately from her brother fled, the cause is long to lere: The story long, but touch I will the chief, and leave it there. Sicheus was her husband tho', the richest man of ground

In all that coast, and deep, good heart, in love with him was drown'd.

For her to him her father gave a virgin yet untwight,

And to her brother came the crown of Tyrus then by right.
Pigmalion, a sinful wretch of all that ever reign'd,
Whom covetise did blind so sore, and rage of fury strain'd,
That unaware, with privy knife, before the altars pure,
He slew Sichous, and of his sister's love he thought him sure.
And long he kept the deed in close, and she, good soul, full sad,
The crafty thief made wondrous means and tales her mind to
glad.

But in a dream, unburied yet, her husband came t' appear
With visage pale, and wondrous hues, full deadly was his chear,
And told her all, and wide his wound disclosing, shew'd his
breast,

How he before the altars was for what intent opprest,

And bade her flee the wicked soil, ere worse might her befal,
And treasure under ground he shew'd to help her there-withal :
Both gold and silver, plenty great unknown till then, and so
This Dido did, and made her friends, and ordain'd forth to go.
Then such as for his wicked life the cruel tyrant hates;

Or been afraid of him for ought, them gets out of the gates
In ships that ready lay by chance, the gold with them they

pack'd;

They spoil'd also Pigmalion: this was a woman's act.

Then past they forth, and here they came, where now thou

shalt espy

The hugy walls of new Carthage, that now they rear so high. They bought the soil, and Birsa it call'd, when first they did

begin,

As much as with a bull hide cut they could enclose within.

But what are you, fain would I know, or what coast come ye

fro?

Where would you be? Demanding thus, he answer'd her unto,
With sighing deep, and from his breast heavy his tale he set.
O lady mine, quoth he, to tell if nothing did me let,

And oft our pains ye list to hear the stories out at large,
The day were short, and ere an end, the sun would him dis-
charge.

Of ancient Troy (if every Troy beside your ears hath past)

Of thence be we: by sundry seas and coasts we have been cast,
And now the tempest hath us brought to Lyby land by chance.
My name Aeneas clepid is: my country goods, t' advance,
In ships I bring: unto the stars well blazed is my fame;
Of Italy I seek the land, and Jove's offspring I am.

A Trojan fleet I took to sea with twenty vessels wide;

My mother goddess taught my way, as dest'ny did me guide. Now seven thereof do scant remain, the rest with weathers

gone,

And I unknown, in wilderness here walk, and comfort none.
From Asia and from Europa quite thus driven I am. With that
She could no longer bide him speak, but brake his tale thereat.
Whatever thou art, quoth she, so well I wot the gods above
Doth love thee much to save thy life, to this place to remove.
Go forth to yonder palace streight, assay the Queen to see,
For safe thy company a-land be set, believe thou me.

And safe thy ships are come to shore, with Northern wind at will,

Unless my cunning fails me now, whom wont I was to skill. Behold the flock of six and six, that yonder cheerly flies

Of Swans, whom late an Eagle fierce did chace through all the

skies;

Now toward land, or on the land, they seem their course to

keep,

And as for joy of danger past, their wings aloft they sweep

With mirth and noise; right so thy men and all thy ships arow Be come to haven, or near the haven in safeguard, this I know. Now get thee forth, and where the way thee leads, hold on thy

pace.

Scant had she said, and therewithal she turn'd aside her face,
As red as rose she 'gan to shine, and from her heavenly hair
The flavour sprang, as nectar sweet'; down fell her kirtle there,
And like a goddess right she fled. When he his mother wist,
He follow'd fast and call'd, Alas, what mean you, thus to list
In feigned shapes, so oft to me beguiling to appear?
Why hand in hand embrace we not, and jointly speak and hear?
Thus plaining sore, he still his pace unto the city holds;
But Venus, as they went, a weed about them both she folds
Of mist and cloud and air so thick, that no man should them

spy,

Ne do them harm, nor interrupt, nor ask them who nor why.
Herself by sky to Paphos yee'd, where stands her honor seats,
And temple rich, and of incense a hundred altar's sweets;
And where of flowers and garlands fresh her floor is alway

spread.

They in that while went on their way whereto the path them

led:

And now come up they were the hill that near the city lies, From whence the towers and castles all been subject to their eyes."

If the reader thinks this extract too long, let him recollect, that an ample specimen from a very rare book, which contains one of the earliest English translations of Virgil, is valuable for its information and curiosity, if not for its amusement. The Editor feels

confident that every English Archaiologist of real scholarship will thank him for these profuse transcripts from GOLDING'S Ovid, and PHAER's Virgil.

CONCLUSION OF THE VOLUME.

On arriving at the close of a Second Volume, perhaps a few parting words will be expected from the Editor. Will a retrospect of its contents justify the expectations he has held out? The severe and the unreasonable will say, No. With unchastized calls on the labour and talents of others, they require what has neither been professed, nor can be performed. For what is done, they have no praise to bestow; for what is omitted, they abound in reproach. The author is a slave, who has voluntarily bent the knee to their pleasure; and they resolve in the insolence of their power to shew him the weight of their rod.

The fool who hopes from them commendation for his toils, deserves the contumely to which he exposes himself.

But will the scholar, to whose expanded mind all the stores of intellect, past as well as present, are precious, lend himself to the cry of these censurers? Will he not rather encourage the growing size of this humble undertaking with some gentle impulse of the fostering breath of praise?

If he be more learned than rich; if he shall have spent his time in reading rather than in collecting, he

will thank the Editor for the communication of stores, which were hitherto inaccessible to him. He will not think an entire reprint of a beautiful poem of Marlow, nor will he deem affecting extracts from Wither, or specimens of Tho. Heywood, John Davies, Lord Herbert, R. Chamberlain, John Hall, or Thomas Jordan -either useless or uninteresting. The time will come, when this furniture for a curious library will be better valued and the Editor will look with the calm confidence so well expressed by Bishop Kennett, in the Preface to his Historical Chronicle, for a due estimate of his labours.

March 24, 1815.

END OF VOL. II.