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SAMUEL DANIEL–A. D. 1562-1619.


*:::: such a height hath built his mind,
ear'd the dwelling of his thoughts e-
As neither fear nor hope can. Hong
Oshi, *olv'd or to disturb the same:
*:Astair seat hath he, from whence he may
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey
And with how free an eye doth he look down
Upon these lower regions of turmoil,
Where all the storms of passions mainly beat
On flesh and blood: where honour, pow'r, renown,
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil;
Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet,
As frailty doth; and only great doth seem
To little minds, who do it so esteem.
He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars
But only as on stately robberies;
Where evermore the fortune that prevails
Must be the right: the ill-succeeding mars
The fairest and the best-fac'd enterprize.
Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails:
Justice, he sees (as if seduced) still
Conspires with pow'r, whose cause must not be ill.
He sees the face of right to appear as manifold
As are the passions of uncertain man;
Who puts it in all colours, all attires,
To serve his ends, and make his courses hold.
He sees, that let deceit work what it can,
Plot and contrive base ways to high desires;
That the all-guiding Providence doth yet
All disappoint, and mocks this smoke of wit.
Nor is he mov’d with all the thunder-cracks
Of tyrants’ threats, or with the surly brow
Of pow'r, that proudly sits on others’ crimes:
Charg'd with more crying sins than those he checks.
The storms of sad confusion, that may grow
Up in the present for the coming times,
Appal not him; that hath no side at all,
But of himself, and knows the worst can fall.
Although his heart (so near ally'd to earth)
Cannot but pity the perplexed state
Of troublous and distress'd mortality,
That thus make way unto the ugly birth
Of their own sorrows, and do still beget
Aiction upon imbecility:
Yet seeing thus the course of things must run,
He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done.
And whilst distraught ambition compasses,
And is encompass'd; whilst as craft deceives,
**d is deceiv'd , whilst man doth ransack man,
*nd builds on blood, and rises by distress;
*nd th’ inheritance of desolation leaves
To great expecting hopes: he looks thereon,
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye,
**d bears no venture in impiety.

--~r of man,
A Thus, *dam, fares grand compar'd
rest for # ol-" . -
p. 3,'glory with her sufferings:
By whom, I see, you labour all you can
To plant your heart; and set your thoughts as near
His glorious mansion, as your pow'rs can bear.
Which, madam, are so fondly fashioned
By that clear judgment, that had carry'd you
Beyond the feeble limits of your kind,
As they can stand against the strongest head
Passion can make ; inur'd to any hue
The world can cast; that cannot cast that mind
Out of her form of goodness, that doth see
Both what the best and worst of earth can be.
Which makes, that whatsoever here befals,
You in the region of yourself remain:
Where no vain breath of th’ impudent molests,
That hath secur'd within the brazen walls
Of a clear conscience, that (without all stain)
Rises in peace, in innocency rests:
Whilst all that malice from without procures,
Shews her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours.
And whereas none rejoice more in revenge,
Than women use to do; yet you well know
That wrong is better check'd by being contemn'd
Than being pursued; leaving to him t'avenge,
To whom it appertains. Wherein you shew
How worthily your clearness hath condemn'd
Base Malediction, living in the dark,
That at the rays of goodness still doth bark.
Knowing the heart of man is set to be
The centre of this world, above the which
These revolutions of disturbances
Still roll; where all th' aspects of misery
Predominate: whose strong effects are such,
As he must bear, being pow'rless to redress:
And that unless above himself he can
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!
And how turmoil'd they are that level lie
With earth, and cannot lift themselves from thence;
That never are at peace with their desires,
But work beyond their years; and ev'n deny
Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense
With death. That when ability expires,
Desire lives still—So much delight they have,
To carry toil and travail to the grave.
Whose ends you see ; and what can be the best
They reach unto, when they have cast the sum
And reck’nings of their glory. And you know,
This floating life hath but this port of rest,
A heart prepard, that fears no ill to come.
And that man's greatness rests but in his shew,
The best of all whose days consumed are
Either in war, or peace-conceiving war.
This concord, madam, of a well-tun'd mind
Hath been so set by that in-working hand

of heav'n,that though the world hathdone his worst
** aut it out by discords most unkind,
Equal in forthäu perfect." sland. d
And this note, madam, oft"will b: o
Remains recorded in so many hearts, acrree,
As time normalice cannot wrong your right,
The inheritance of fame you must possess:
You that have built you by your great deserts
(Out of small means) a far more exquisite
And glorious dwelling for your honour'd name,
Than all the gold that leaden minds can frame.

DESCRIPTION OF STONE-HENGE. And whereto serves that wondrous trophy now That on the goodly plain near Walton stands? That huge dumb heap, that cannot tell us how, Nor what, nor whence it is; nor with whose hands, Nor for whose glory—it was set to shew, How much our pride mocks that of other lands. Whereon, when as the gazing passenger Had greedy look'd with admiration; And fain would know his birth, and what he were; How there erected; and how long agon: Inquires and asks his fellow traveller What he had heard, and his opinion. And he knows nothing. Then he turns again, And looks and sighs; and then admires afresh, And in himself with sorrow doth complain The misery of dark forgetfulness: Angry with time that nothing should remain, Our greatest wonders' wonder to express. Then ignorance, with fabulous discourse, Robbing fair art and cunning of their right, Tells how those stones were by the devil's force From Afric brought to Ireland in a night; And thence to Brittany, by magic course, From giants' hands redeem'd by Merlin's sleight. And then near Ambri plac'd, in memory Of all those noble Britons murder'd there, By Hengist and his Saxon treachery, Coming to parley, in peace at unaware. With this old legend then credulity Holds her content, and closes up her care. But is antiquity so great a liar? Or do her younger sons her age abuse; Seeing after-comers still so apt to admire The grave authority that she doth use, That rev'rence and respect dares not require Proof of her deeds, or once her words refuse * Yet wrong they did us, to presume so far Upon our early credit and delight; For once found false, they straight became to mar Our faith, and their own reputation quite; That now her truths hardly believed are: [right. And though she avouch the right, she scarce hath And as for thee, thou huge and mighty frame That *tandst corrupted so with time's despite, > And giv'st false evidence against their fame

That set thee there to testify their right;
And art become a traitor to their name, .
That trusted thee with all the best they might;
Thou shalt stand still bely’d and slandered,
he only gazing-stock of ignorances
o . guile the wise admonished, -
out.-cer more desire such hopes" advance,
Consid’ring in or glory with the dead
And yet lie safe (as fresh as their same to chance.
All those great worthies of antiquity,
Which long fore-liv'd thee, and shall long survive;
Who stronger tombs found for eternity,
Than could the pow'rs of all the earth contrive.
Where they remain these trifles to upbraid,
Out of the reach of spoil, and way of rage;
Though time with all his pow'r of years hath laid
Long batt'ry, back'd with undermining age;
Yet they make head only with their own aid,
And war with his all-conqu'ring forces wage;
Pleading the heaven's prescription to be free,
And to have a grant to endure as long as he.

LOVE IN INFANCF. Ah! I remember well (and how can I But evermore remember well) when first Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was The flame we felt; whenas we sat and sigh'd And look'd upon each other, and conceiv'd Not what we ail'd, yet something we did ail; And yet were well, and yet we were not well, And what was our disease we could not tell. Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look: And thus In that first garden of our simpleness We spent our childhood: But when years began To reap the fruit of knowledge; ah, how then Would she with graverlooks, and sweet stern brow, " Check my presumption and my forwardness; Yet still would give me flowers, still would meshow What she would have me, yet not have me know.


—There was sometime a nymph, Isulia named, and an Arcadian born, Whose mother dying left her very young Unto her father's charge, who carefully Did breed her up until she came to years Of womanhood, and then provides a match Both rich and young, and fit enough for her. But she, who to another shepherd had, Call'd Sirthis, vow’d her love, as unto one Her heart esteem'd more worthy of her love, Could not by all her father's means be wrought To leave her choice, and to forgether vow. This nymph one day, surcharg’d with love and gries. Which commonly (the more the pity) dwell As inmates both together, walking forth With other maids to fish upon the shore; Estrays apart, and leaves her company,

To entertain herself with her own thoughts:
And wanders on so far, and out of sight,
As she at length was suddenly surpriz'd
By pirates, who lay lurking underneath
Those hollow rocks, expecting there some prize.
And notwithstanding all her piteous cries,
Intreaties, tears, and prayers, those fierce men
Rent hair and veil, and carried her by force
Into their ship, which in a little creek
Hard by at anchor lay,
And presently they hoisted sail and so away.
When she was thus inshipp'd, and woefully
Had cast her eyes about to view that hell
Ofhorror, whereintoshe was so suddenly emplung’d,
She spies a woman sitting with a child
Sucking her breast, which was the captain's wife.
To her she creeps, down at her feet she lies;
“0 woman, if that name of woman may
Move you to pity, pity a poor maid;
The most distressed soul that ever breath'd;
And save me from the hands of those fierce men.
Let me not be defil’d and made unclean,
Dear woman, now, and I will be to you
The faithfull'st slave that ever mistress serv’d;
Never poor soul shall be more dutiful,
To do whatever you command, than I.
No toil will I refuse; so that I may
Keep this poor body clean and undeflower'd,
Which is all I will ever seek. For know
It is not fear of death lays me thus low,
But of that stain will make my death to blush.”
All this would nothing move the woman's heart,
Whom yet she would not leave, but still besought;
“O wounan, by that infant at your breast,
And by the pains it cost you at the birth,
Save me, as ever you desire to have
Your babe to joy and prosper in the world:
Which will the better prosper sure, if you
Shall mercy shew, which is with mercy paid!”
Then kisses she her feet, then kisses too
The infant's feet; and “Oh, sweet babe,” (said she)
“Could'st thou but to thy mother speak for me,
And crave her to have pity on my case,
Thou might'st perhaps prevail with her so much
Although I cannot; child, ah, could'st thou speak.”
The infant, whether by her touching it,
Or by instinct of nature, seeing her weep,
Looks earnestly upon her, and then looks
Upon the mother, then on her again,
And then it cries, and then on either looks:
Which she perceiving; “blessed child,” (said she)
* Although thou can'st not speak, yet dost thou cry
Unto thy mother for me. Hear thy child,
Dear mother, it's for me it cries,
It's all the speech it hath. Accept those cries,
Save me at his request from being defil’d:
Let pity move thee, that thus moves thy child.”
The woman, tho’ by birth and custom rude,
Yet having veins of nature, could not be
But pierceable, did feel at length the point
of pity enter so, as out gush'd tears,
(Not usual to stern eyes) and she besought

Her husband to bestow on her that prize,
With safeguard of her body at her will.
The captain seeing his wife, the child, the nymph,
All crying to him in this piteous sort,
Felt his rough nature shaken too, and grants
His wife's request, and seals his grant with tears;
And so they wept all four for company:
And some beholders stood not with dry eyes;
Such passion wrought the passion of their prize.
Never was there pardon, that did take
Condemned from the block, more joyful than
This grant to her. For all her misery
Seem'd nothing to the comfort she receiv'd,
By being thus saved from impurity;
And from the woman's feet she would not part,
Nor trust her hand to be without some hold
Of her, or of the child, so long as she remain'd
Within the ship, which in few days arrives
At Alexandria, whence these pirates were ;
And there this woeful maid for two years' space
Did serve, and truly serve this captain's wife,
(Who would not lose the benefit of her
Attendance, for her profit otherwise)
But daring not in such a place as that
To trust herself in woman's habit, crav'd
That she might be apparel'd like a boy;
And so she was, and as a boy she serv’d.
At two years' end her mistress sends her forth
Unto the port for some commodities,
Which whilst she sought for, going up and down,
She heard some merchantmen of Corinth talk,
Who spake that language the Arcadians did,
And were next neighbours of one continent.
To them, all rapt with passion, down she kneels,
Tells them she was a poor distressed boy,
Born in Arcadia, and by pirates took,
And made a slave in Egypt; and besought
Them, as they fathers were of children, or
Did hold their native country dear, they would
Take pity on her, and relieve her youth
From that sad servitude wherein she liv'd :
For which she hoped that she had friends alive

Would thank them one day, and reward them too;

If aot, yet that she knew the heav'ns would do.
The merchants mov’d with pity of her case,
Being ready to depart, took her with them,
And landed her upon her country coast:
Where, when she found herself, she prostrate falls,
Kisses the ground, thanks gives unto the gods,
Thanks them who had been her deliverers,
And on she trudges through the desart woods,
Climbs over craggy rocks, and mountains steep,
Wades thorough rivers, struggles thorough bogs,
Sustained only by the force of love;
Until she came unto her native plains,
Unto the fields where first she drew her breath.
There she lifts up her eyes, salutes the air,
Salutes the trees, the bushes, flow'rs and all:
And, “Oh, dear Sirthis, here I am,” said she,
“Here, notwithstanding all my miseries,
I am, the same I ever was to thee; a pure,

A chaste, and spotless maid.”

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