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upon me, but the printer; and yet I hope none so great, as may not by this confession purchase pardon from a good-natured reader.

And now I wish, that as that learned Jew, Josephus, and others, so these men had also writ their own lives; but since it is not the fashion of these times, I wish their relations or friends would do it for them, before delays make it too difficult. And I desire this the more, because it is an honour due to the dead, and a generous debt due to those that shall live and succeed us, and would to them prove both a content and satisfaction. For when the next age shall (as this does) admire the learning and clear reason which that excellent casuist Dr. Sanderson (the late Bishop of Lincoln) hath demonstrated in his sermons and other writings; who, if they love virtue, would not rejoice to know, that this good man was as remarkable for the meekness and innocence of his life, as for his great and useful learning; and indeed as remarkable for his fortitude in his long and patient suffering (under them that then called themselves the godly party) for that doctrine which he had preached and printed in the happy days of the nation and the church's peace? And who would not be content to have the like account of Dr. Field', that great schoolman, and others of noted learning? And though I cannot hope that my example or reason can persuade to this undertaking, yet I please myself, that I shall conclude my preface with wishing that it were so.

J. W.

'Dr. Richard Field, Chaplain to James I. and Dean of Gloucester, died Nov. 21, 1616,— the friend of Mr. Richard Hooker, and one of the most learned men of his age. He was the author of a work entitled, “Of the Church, fol. 1610."- James I. when he first heard him preach, said, “This is a Field for God to dwell in.”_With the fame allusion Fuller calls him that learned divine, “whose memory smelleth like a Field that the Lord hath blesed.”Anthony Wood mentions a manuscript, written by Nathaniel Field, Rector of Stourton, in Wiltshire, containing “ some short Memorials concerning the Life of that Rev. Divine, Dr. Richard Field, Prebendary of Windsor,” &c. The feature which peculiarly marked his disposition, was an averfion to those disputes on the Arminian points, which then began to disturb the peace of the church, and from which he dreaded the most unhappy consequencos, It was his ambition to concilitate, not to irritate.

pon

TO MY OLD AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND

MR. IZAAK WALTON,

ON HIS

LIFE OF DOCTOR. DONNE, &c.

HEN, to a Nation's loss, the virtuous die,

There's justly due from ev'ry hand and eye That can, or write, or weep, an elegy.

W

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Wherein, my friend, you have a hand so sure,
Your truths fo candid are, your style so pure,
That what you write may Envy's search endure.

Your pen, disdaining to be brib'd or prest,
Flows without vanity, or interest ;
A virtue with which few good pens are bleft.

How happy was my father then! to see
Those men he lov’d, by him he lov'd, to be
Rescu'd from frailties and mortality.

Wotton and Donne, to whom his soul was knit,
Those twins of virtue, eloquence, and wit,
He saw in Fame's eternal annals writ.

Where one has fortunately found a place,
More faithful to him than his marble was",
Which eating age', nor fire shall e'er deface.

A monument that, as it has, shall last
And prove a monument to that defac'd;
Itself, but with the world, not to be raz'd.

And even in their flow'ry characters,
My father's grave, part of your friendship shares ;
For you have honour'd his in strewing theirs.

Thus

• The character of Mr. Charles Cotton, the father of Charles Cotton the poet, is moft beautifully delineated by the noble historian.

( Life of Edward Earl of Clarendon, fol. 1759. p. 16.)

His monument in St. Paul's church before the late dreadful fire, 1665.

i

Jamq; opus exegi, quod, nec Jovis Ira, nec Ignis,
Nec poterit Ferrum, nec edax abolere Vetuftas.

Ovid.

Thus by an office, though particular,
Virtue's whole common-weal obliged are;
For in a virtuous act all good men share.

And by this act, the world is taught to know,
That the true friendship we to merit owe,
Is not discharg'd by compliment and show.

But yours is friendship of so pure a kind,
From all mean ends and interest so refin'd,
It ought to be a pattern to mankind:

For, whereas most men's friendships here beneath,
Do perish with their friends' expiring breath,
Yours proves a friendship living after death;

By which the generous Wotton, reverend Donne,
Soft Herbert, and the church's champion
Hooker, are rescu'd from oblivion.

For though they each of them his time so spent,
As rais'd unto himself a monument,
With which Ambition might reft well content;

Yet their great works, though they can never die,
And are in truth superlatively high,
Are no just scale to take their virtues by:

Because they shew not how th’ Almighty's grace,,
By various and more admirable ways,
Brought them to be the organs of his praise.

But what their humble modesty would hide,
And was by any other means deny’d,
Is by your love and diligence supply'd.

G2

Wotton,

Wotton,-a nobler soul was never bred !-
You, by your narrative's most even thread,
Through all his labyrinths of life have led ;

Through his degrees of honour and of arts,
Brought him secure from Envy's venom'd darts,
Which are still levell’d at the greatest parts;

Through all th’ employments of his wit and spirit,
Whose great effects these kingdoms still inherit,
The trials then, new trophies of his merit;

Nay, through disgrace, which oft the worthiest have,
Thro' all state-tempests, thro' each wind and wave,
And laid him in an honourable grave.

And yours, and the whole world's beloved Donne,
When he a long and wild career had run,
To the meridian of his glorious sun;

And being then an object of much ruth,
Led on by vanities, error, and youth,
Was long ere he did find the way to truth :

By the same clew, after his youthful swing,
To serve at his God's altar here you bring,
Where an once wanton muse doth anthems sing.

And though by God's most powerful grace alone
His heart was settled in Religion,
Yet 'tis by you we know how it was done ;

And know, that having crucify'd vanities
And fixt his hope, he clos’d

up

his own eyes, And then your friend a faint and preacher dies.

The

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