Of Cæsar's daughter, and the line
Which all the world then styled divine?
Hath Petrarch since his Laura raised
Equal with her? or Ronsart praised
His new Cassandra 'bove the old,
Which all the fate of Troy foretold?
Hath our great Sidney, Stella set
Where never star shone brighter yet?
Or Constable's ambrosiac muse
Made Dian not his notes refuse?1
Have all these done-and yet I miss
The swan so relish'd Pancharis-"

Or Constable's ambrosiac muse

Made Dian not his notes refuse?] This author, though honour'd with so ample a testimony from Jonson, is almost un. known in this age. "Henry Constable," in the words of Antony Wood, "was a great master of the English tongue; and there was no gentleman of our nation who had a more pure, quick, and higher delivery of conceit than he witness, among all others, that sonnet of his before the poetical translation called the Furies, made by king James the first of England, while he was king of the Scots. He hath also several sonnets extant, written to sir Philip Sidney; some of which are set before the Apology for Poetry, written by the said knight." This author flourished in the reign of queen Elizabeth. WHAL.

Antony's taste in poetry was not very refined, and he did not therefore discover that his author (Edmund Bolton) had unluckily fixed upon one of Constable's worst sonnets. The Diana of

which Jonson speaks, was published in 1594. Constable seems to have been the most voluminous sonnet-writer of those son. neteering times; and to have acquired a reputation rather more than equal to his merits: since, besides Jonson, he is mentioned with praise by others of his contemporaries, and placed immediately after Spenser by Judicio, in the Return from Parnassus : "Sweet Constable doth take the wondering ear,

And lays it up in willing prisonment."

And yet I miss

The swan so relish'd Pancharis.] This was the French poct Bonefons, or Bonefonius; who, in imitation of Secundus, wrote

And shall not I my Celia bring,
Where men may see whom I do sing?
Though I, in working of my song,
Come short of all this learned throng,
Yet sure my tunes will be the best,
So much my subject drowns the rest.

XLVII.

A SONNET,

TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY
MARY WROTH.

I that have been a lover, and could shew it, Though not in these, in rhymes not wholly dumb, Since I esxcribe your sonnets,' am become

A better lover, and much better poet.

Basia, in the praise of his mistress Pancharis. He has a character for tenderness and delicacy. WHAL.

3 Since I exscribe your sonnets, &c.] The allusion is probably to lady Wroth's Urania, a pastoral romance published in 1621. This, in imitation of her uncle's (Sir Philip Sidney's) Arcadia, is interspersed with songs, sonnets, and other little pieces of poetry, which our author, who seems to have been favoured with the MS. was permitted to copy. The Urania has long been forgotten, and no revolution in taste or manners can ever revive its memory; yet it was once in considerable vogue; it did not, perhaps, like Tetrachordon, number good intellects, yet it certainly counted many bright eyes, among its admirers. The poetical part of Urania is rather above than below the usual standard of ladies rhymes, and though the chariest maid of these times may read it without the smallest peril, (except of her patience) it was looked upon as inflammatory by the combustible damsels of James's days:

"The lady Wroth's Urania is complete

With elegancies; but too full of heat,"

Sir Aston Cokayne says; and he was not singular in his opinion.

Nor is my Muse or I asham'd to owe it

To those true numerous graces, whereof some But charm the senses, others overcome

Both brains and hearts; and mine now best do know it:

For in your verse all Cupid's armory,

His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow, His very eyes are yours to overthrow. But then his mother's sweets you so apply, Her joys, her smiles, her loves, as readers take For Venus' ceston every line you make.

The following sonnet may serve as a specimen of the poetry which our author exscribed: it is neither the best nor the worst of the collection:

Sonnet.

"Late in the forest I did Cupid see,

Cold, wet, and crying, he had lost his way;
And being blind was farther like to stray:
Which sight a kind compassion bred in me.
I gently took and dried him, while that he,

Poor child, complain'd he starved was with stay,
And pined for want of his accustom'd prey;
For none in that wild place his host would be.

I glad was of his finding, thinking sure
This service should my freedom still procure;

And to my breast I took him then unharm'd,

Carr'ing him safe unto a myrtle bower:
But in the way he made me feel his power,

Burning my heart, who had him kindly warm'd.”

Sir Robert Wroth, the husband of this celebrated lady, was also a poet fortunately his genius was turned to wit, as hers to love; so that the respective pursuits of this tuneful pair did not clash, and the domestic harmony continued unbroken to the end:

Felices ter et amplius

Quos irrupta tenet copula, nec malis
Divulsus querimoniis

Suprema citins solvet amor die!

XLVIII.

A FIT OF RHYME AGAINST RHYME.

Rhyme, the rack of finest wits,
That expresseth but by fits
True conceit,

Spoiling senses of their treasure,
Cozening judgment with a measure,
But false weight;

Wresting words from their true calling;
Propping verse for fear of falling
To the ground;

Jointing syllabes, drowning letters,
Fastening vowels, as with fetters
They were bound!

Soon as lazy thou wert known,
All good poetry hence was flown,
And art banish'd:

For a thousand years together,
All Parnassus' green did wither,

And wit vanish'd!

Pegasus did fly away,

At the wells no Muse did stay,

But bewailed,

So to see the fountain dry,

And Apollo's music die,

All light failed!

Starveling rhymes did fill the stage,

Not a poet in an age

Worthy crowning.

Not a work deserving bays,

Nor a line deserving praise,

Pallas frowning:

Greek was free from rhyme's infection,
Happy Greek, by this protection,
Was not spoiled.

Whilst the Latin, queen of tongues,
Is not yet free from rhyme's wrongs,
But rests foiled.

Scarce the hill again doth flourish,
Scarce the world a wit doth nourish,
To restore

Phoebus to his crown again;
And the Muses to their brain;
As before.

Vulgar languages that want

Words, and sweetness, and be scant

Of true measure,

Tyrant rhyme hath so abused,

That they long since have refused
Other cesure.

He that first invented thee,
May his joints tormented be,

Cramp'd for ever;
Still may syllabes jar with time,
Still may reason war with rhyme,
Resting never!

May his sense when it would meet
The cold tumour in his feet,

Grow unsounder;

And his title be long fool,

That in rearing such a school

Was the founder!

4 Still may syllabes.] Whalley reads syllables here and in the preceding page, but injuriously in both places. Jonson uses syllabe almost invariably; for which he is commended by Horne Tooke.