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Have put on blacke, and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my paine.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the gray cheekes of the east,
Nor that full starre that ushers in the even,
Doth halfe that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face;
O let it then as well beseeme thy heart

To mourne for me, since mourning doth thee grace,
And sure thy pitie like in every part.

Then will I sweare beauty herselfe is blacke,
And all they foule that thy complection lacke.

So now I have confest that he is thine,
And I myselfe am morgag'd to thy will;
Myselfe İle forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still;
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kinde;
He learned but, suretie-like, to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fast doth binde.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer that put'st forth all to use,
And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake;
So him I loose through my unkinde abuse.

Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me,
He paies the whole, and yet I am not free.

In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworne,
But thou art twice forsworne to me love swearing;
In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torne,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing.
But why of two oathes' breach doe I accuse thee,
When I breake twenty? I am perjur'd most;
For all my vowes are oathes but to misuse thee,
And all my honest faith in thee is lost :

For I have sworne deepe oathes of thy deepe kindenesse, Oathes of thy love, thy truth, thy constancie;

And to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindnesse,

Or made them sweare against the thing they see;
For I have sworne thee fair: more perjured I,
To sweare, against the truth, so foule a lie!

SIR HENRY WOTTON was born in 1568, at Bocton Hall, Kent, of an ancient and honourable family. He was the younger of four sons, upon each of whom the honour of knighthood was conferred Having been educated at Winchester School, he took his degree at Queen's College, Oxford, where he greatly distinguished himself. Afterwards, he "laid aside his books and betook himself to the useful library of travel," continuing many years abroad, and visiting France, Switzerland, Germany, and Italy. His wit and talents obtained the notice of the Earl of Essex, by whom he was taken into" a serviceable friendship." Upon the fall of this " Darling of Fortune," Sir Henry considering prevention by absence a better security than to "plead his innocency in a prison," again became a resident abroad, and continued chiefly in Florence until the accession of James the First. By this monarch he was selected as ambassador to Venice. The favour of his Majesty was, however, nearly lost by a word. Passing through Germany, he was requested by a learned friend to write some sentence in his albo-"a book of white paper," says Izaak Walton, "which the German gentry usually carry about them."-Sir Henry wrote in Latin a pleasant definition of an ambassador. "An ambassador is an honest man sent to lie abroad for the good of his country." The sentence slept quietly in the albo for eight years; but at length a Roman adversary of King James quoted it as a principle of the king's religion. The writer then fell under the displeasure of the monarch; but, having penned an apology, ingenious, clear, and choicely eloquent, he was restored to favour. On his return to England, he was appointed Provost of Eton College-as "the fittest place to nourish holy thoughts,. and afford rest to his body and mind," to him an object of exceeding envy, if we may credit the inscription, which, after an enumeration of his titles upon the "Lodging-scutcheon," that according to custom was placed above the door of the house in which the envoy resided abroad, terminated thus-" after all these employments he hath learned this, that the souls of wise men grow better by resting." Here he continued during the remainder of his days;

"Invidiæ remedium"

writ over his study door. Here he entered, at the age of sixty, into holy ordersconceiving himself bound in duty so to do; and was at all times and in all seasons cheerful and happy-"nor did he," says the amiable enthusiast, "forget his innate pleasure of angling," which he would usually call "his idle time not idly spent," adding that he would rather live five May months than forty Decembers." He died in December, 1639,-putting off mortality, says his friend and biographer, "with as much content and cheerfulness as human frailty is capable of; being then in great tran ́quillity of mind, and in perfect peace with God and man," and as the poet Cowley has quaintly expressed it, "He died lest he should idle grow at last." "He was worthy of the love and favour of so many princes and persons of eminent wisdom and learning; worthy of the trust committed unto him for the service of his prince and country," and "worthy," adds old Izaak, with more of modesty than truth, "a more worthy pen to have preserved his memory, and commended his merits to the imitation of posterity."

"He was of a choice shape, tall of stature, and of a most persuasive behaviour; which was so mixed with sweet discourse and civilities, as gained him much love from all persons with whom he entered into an acquaintance."

The claims of Sir Henry Wotton to rank among the British Poets, are by no means large, if they are estimated by the number or length of his contributions to our national

store.

He neither anticipated nor coveted fame for his poetry. He wrote from the impulse of feeling;-and as his mind was of a rare order, what he did, he was sure to do well. Our language contains, we think, few things finer than his lines to the Queen of Bohemia, daughter of James the First. They have been often imitated, but never surpassed; and among his other productions are many of exceeding beauty, which touch the heart more than a host of those artificial thoughts and laboured efforts at effect so conspicuous in his more voluminous contemporaries.

Wotton's two lines "upon the death of Sir Albert Morton's wife" have been justly celebrated as containing a volume in seventeen words:

"He first deceas'd; She for a little tri'd

To live without him: lik'd it not, and di'd."

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FAREWELL, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles;
Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles;
Fame's but a hollow echo; gold pure clay;
Honour the darling but of one short day.
Beauty, th' eye's idol, but a damask'd skin;
State but a golden prison to live in,

And torture free-born minds: embroider'd trains

Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins;
And blood ally'd to greatness, is alone

Inherited, not purchas'd nor our own,

Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood and birth, Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.

I would be great, but that the sun doth still
Level his rays against the rising hill:

I would be high, but see the proudest oak
Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke:
I would be rich, but see men, too unkind,
Dig in the bowels of the richest mine:
I would be wise, but that I often see
The fox suspected, whilst the ass goes free:
I would be fair, but see the fair and proud,
Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud :
I would be poor, but know the humble grass
Still trampled on by each unworthy ass:
Rich hated: wise suspected: scorn'd if poor:
Great fear'd: fair tempted: high still envy'd more:
I have wish'd all; but now I wish for neither;
Great, high, rich, wise nor fair; poor I'll be rather.

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Welcome pure thoughts, welcome ye silent groves,
These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves:
Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring:
A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass,
In which I will adore sweet virtue's face.
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace-cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-fac'd fears:
Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly,
And learn t' affect an holy melancholy;

And if Contentment be a stranger then,
I'll ne'er look for it, but in Heaven again.

ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfie our eyes
More by your number, than your light,
You common people of the skies;

What are you when the sun shall rise?

You curious chaunters of the wood,
That warble forth dame Nature's layes,
Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents; what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets, that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own;
What are you when the rose is blown?
So, when my mistress shall be seen
In sweetness of her looks and mind,
By vertue first, then choice a queen,
Tell me, if she were not design'd

Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will!
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death;
Unti'd unto the world by care
Of publick fame, or private breath.

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice hath ever understood;
How deepest wounds are giv'n by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good.

Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat:
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruine make oppressors great.

Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend:
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book, or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands,
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall:
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

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