Though our wise ones call it madness,
Let me never taste of gladness

If I love not thy mad'st fits
Above all their greatest wits!

And though some, too seeming holy,
Do account thy raptures folly,

Thou dost teach me to contemn,

What makes knaves and fools of them!

TO HIS FATHER.

Epigr. 12.

Others may glory that their fathers' hands
Have scrap'd together mighty sums of gold,
Boast in the circuit of new purchas'd lands,
Or herds of cattle more than can be told:
God give them joy; their wealth I'll ne'er envy,
For you have gotten me a greater store.
And tho' I have not their prosperity,

In my conceit I am not half so poor.

You learnt me with a little to content me,
Shewed how to bridle passion in some measure;
And thro' your means I have a talent lent me,
Which I more value than all Indies' treasure.
For when the almost boundless patrimonies
Are wasted, those by which our great ones trust
To be eterniz'd: when their ceremonies
Shall be forgotten, and their tombs be dust;
Then to the glory of your future line,
Your own and my friend's sacred memory,
This little poor despised wealth of mine,
Shall raise a trophy of eternity:

Which fretting Envy, nor consuming Time,
Shall ere abolish, or one whit offend :

* At the end of his Satires, p. 295.

A topless

A topless statue, that to stars shall climb,
Far greater than your art shall comprehend:
But I must needs confess, 'tis true, I yet
Reap little profit in the eyes of men,
My talent yields small outward benefit,
Yet I'll not leave it for the world again.

Tho' it bring no gain that you, by artful sleight,
Can measure out the earth in part or whole;
Sound out the center's depth; and take the height
Either of th' Arctic, or Antartic Pole;

Yet 'tis your pleasure, it contentment brings:
And so my Muse is my content and joy;

I would not miss her to be rank'd with kings,
However some account it as a toy :

But having then, and by your means obtain'd
So rich a patrimony for my share,

For which with links of love I'm ever chain'd;
What duties fitting for such bounties are?
Moreover Nature brought me in your debt,
And still I owe you for your cares and fears:
Your pains and charges I do not forget
Besides the interest of many years:

What way is there to make requital for it?
Much I shall leave unpaid do what I can :
Should I then be unthankful? I abhor it :
The will may serve, when power wants in man.
This book I give you then; here you shall find
Somewhat to countervail your former cost:
It is a little index of my mind;

Time spent in reading it will not be lost:
Accept it, and when I have to my might
Paid all I can to you; if powers divine
Shall so much in my happiness delight
To make you grandsire to a son of mine;

Look what remains, and may by right be due,
I'll pay it him as 'twas receiv'd from you.

Your loving Son,

GEORGE WITHER.

SONNET FROM THE FIRST ECLOGUE OF THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.

Roget.

Now that my body dead-alive,
Bereav'd of comfort lies in thrall,
Do thou, my soul, begin to thrive ;
And unto honey, turn this gall:
So shall we both through outward woe
The way to inward comfort know.

For as that food my flesh I give,
Doth keep in me this mortal breath;
So souls on meditations live,

And shun thereby immortal death:
Nor art thou ever nearer rest,

Than when thou find'st me most opprest.

First think, my soul, if I have foes

Take a pleasure in my cares,

And to procure these outward woes,
Have thus entrapp'd me unawares:

Thou shouldst by much more careful be,
Since greater foes lie wait for thee.

Then when mew'd up in grates of steel,
Minding those joys mine eyes do miss,
Thou find'st no torment thou dost feel,
So grievous as privation is;

Muse how the damn'd in flames that glow,
Pine in the loss of bliss they know.

Thou see'st there's given so great might

To some that are but clay as I,

Their very anger can affright,

Which if in any thou espy,

Thus think, if mortal's frowns strike fear,
How dreadful will God's wrath appear?

By my late hopes that now are crost,
Consider those that firmer be,
And make the freedom I have lost,
A means that may remember thee:
Had Christ not thy Redeemer been,
What horrid thrall thou hadst been in.

These iron chains, the bolts of steel,
Which other poor offenders grind,
The wants and cares which they do feel,
May bring some greater thing to mind:
For by their grief thou shalt do well
To think upon the pains of hell.

Or when thro' me thou see'st a man
Condemn'd unto a mortal death,
How sad he looks, how pale, how wan,
Drawing with fear his panting breath:
Think if in that such pain you see,
How sad will" Go, ye cursed," be !

Again, when he that fear'd to die,
(Past hope) doth see his pardon brought,
Read but the joy that's in his eye,
And then convey it to thy thought:
There think betwixt my heart and thee,
How sweet will "Come, ye blessed," be,

Thus if thou do, tho' closed here,
My bondage I shall deem the less;
Į neither shall have cause to fear,
Nor yet bewail my sad distress:
For whether live, or pine, or die,
We shall have bliss eternally.

ART.

ART. XIII. BIBLIOTHECA.

In entering upon the subject of scarce and curious books in English literature, I feel considerable diffidence. Neither my inclinations nor my opportunities have enabled me to pay that attention to it, which has rendered so very perfect the skill of men, whose industry has embraced the means afforded by a long residence in the metropolis, or near public libraries. But almost from my childhood my mind has been awake to a moderate and regulated research in this field of enquiry: it is true that I could neither forsake for it the regions of fancy, nor much restrain my insatiable thirst for the more elegant, if not more solid, entertainments of modern literature. The black-letter mania never took exclusive possession of my head; and therefore I have often felt myself a mere novice in these acquirements among many, whose extensive knowledge of title-pages, editions, and dates, excited not only my wonder, but, may I add, my disgust! Of such I not only despair of increasing the knowledge, but even of avoiding the contempt. There are others, not infected with this excess of antiquarian curiosity, who may be gratified with less recondite information regarding the literature of our ancestors; who may be glad to know what has been already written on subjects, on which every day is producing new publications, and find it a pleasing and useful employment to compare the past with the present; and to learn to what authors they can effectually apply for such future enquiries as may occur to them. The mere black-letter collector, who seldom looks at any but the first and last pages of his book, and cares nothing for the in