Her eyes like angels watch them still; Robin Goodfellow. [Attributed, upon supposition only, to Ben Jonson.] From Oberon, in fairy land, The king of ghosts and shadows there, Am sent to view the night-sports here. Is kept about, In every corner where I go, I will o'ersee, And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho! More swift than lightning can I fly Each thing that's done below the moon. Or ghost shall wag, Or cry, 'ware goblins ! where I go; Their feats will spy, And send them home with ho, ho, ho! Whene'er such wanderers I meet, As from their night-sports they trudge home, With counterfeiting voice I greet, And call them on with me to roam : Through woods, through lakes; To play some trick, And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho! Sometimes I meet them like a man, Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; To trip and trot about them round. My back they stride, More swift than wind away I go, When lads and lasses merry be, With possets and with junkets fine; I eat their cakes and sip their wine! I puff and snort: And out the candles I do blow: They shriek-Who's this? I answer nought but ho, ho, ho! Yet now and then, the maids to please, Their malt up still; I dress their hemp; I spin their tow; If any wake, And would me take, I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho! Away we fling; And babes new born steal as we go; We leave in stead, And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho! From hag-bred Merlin's time, have I My feats have told, So vale, vale; ho, ho, ho! 15 Time's Alteration. When this old cap was new, But all things plenty were: (Believe me this is true); Which was not in those days, When this old cap was new. The nobles of our land, Were much delighted then, To have at their command A crew of lusty men, Which by their coats were known, Of tawny, red, or blue, With crests on their sleeves shown, Now pride hath banish'd all, The coach allows but two; Good hospitality Was cherish'd then of many; Now poor men starve and die, And are not help'd by any: For charity waxeth cold, And love is found in few; This was not in time of old, When this old cap was new. Where'er you travelled then, You might meet on the way Brave knights and gentlemen, Clad in their country grey; That courteous would appear, And kindly welcome you ; No puritans then were, When this old cap was new. Our ladies in those days In civil habit went; Broad cloth was then worth praise, And gave the best content: French fashions then were scorn'd; At Christmas, in each hall, And meat for great and small: The neighbours were friendly bidden, And all had welcome true; The poor from the gates were not chidden, When this old cap was new. Black jacks to every man Were fill'd with wine and beer; No pewter pot nor can In those days did appear: In cups of silver fine; Now each mechanical man Hath a cupboard of plate for a show; Which was a rare thing then, When this old cap was new. Then bribery was unborn, At that time hardly knew ; Nor spent poor soldier's pay; As they are at this day: When this old cap was new: God save our gracious king, And send him long to live: Lord, mischief on them bring That will not their alms give, But seek to rob the poor Of that which is their due: This was not in time of yore, When this old cap was new. Loyalty Confined. [Supposed to have been written by Sir Roger L'Estrange, while in confinement on account of his adherence to Charles I.] Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow; Swell, curl'd waves, high as Jove's roof; Your incivility doth show That innocence is tempest-proof; Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; Then strike, affliction, for thy wounds are balm. That which the world miscalls a jail, Locks, bars, and solitude, together met, The salamander should be burned; The pelican her wilderness, I, as my mistress' favours, wear; I have some iron shackles there: Like some high-prized margarite; Am cloister'd up from public sight: And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee. Did only wound him to a cure: When once my prince affliction hath, Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart- That renders what I have not, mine: Have you not seen the nightingale But though they do my corpse confine, My soul is free as ambient air, Although my baser part's immew'd; Although rebellion do my body bind, PROSE WRITERS. T HE prose writers of this age rank chiefly in the departments of theology, philosophy, and historical and antiquarian information. There was, as yet, hardly any vestige of prose employed with taste in fiction, or even in observations upon manners; though it must be observed, that in Elizabeth's reign appeared the once popular romance of Arcadia, by Sir Philip Sidney: and there lived under the two succeeding monarchs several acute and humorous describers of human character. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY was born, in 1554. at Penshurst, in Kent; and during his studies at Shrewsbury, Ox This production was never finished, and, not having been intended for the press, appeared only after the author's death. His next work was a tract, entitled The Defence of Poesy, where he has repelled the objections brought by the Puritans of his age against the poetic art, the professors of which they contemptuously denominated caterpillars of the commonwealth.' This production, though written with the partiality of a poet, has been deservedly admired for the beauty of its style and general soundness of its reasoning. In 1584, the character of his uncle, the celebrated Earl of Leicester, having been attacked in a publication called Leicester's Commonwealth, Sidney wrote a reply, in which, although the heaviest accusations were passed over in silence, he did not scruple to address his opponent in such terms as the following:- But to thee I say, thou therein liest in thy throat, which I will be ready to justify upon thee in any place of Europe, where thou wilt assign me a free place of coming, as within three months after the publishing hereof I may understand thy nind.' This performance seems to have proved unsatisfactory to Leicester and his friends, as it was not printed till near the middle of the eighteenth century. Desirous of active employment, Sidney next contemplated an expedition, with Sir Francis Drake, against the Spanish settlements in America; but this intention was frustrated by a peremptory mandate from the queen. In 1585, it is said, he was named one of the candidates for the crown of Poland, at that time vacant; on which occasion Elizabeth again threw obstacles in the way, being afraid to lose the jewel of her times.' He was not, however, long permitted to remain unemployed; for, in the same year, Elizabeth having determined to send military assistance to the Protestant inhabitants of the Netherlands, then groaning beneath the oppressive measures of the Spaniards, he was appointed governor of Flushing, one of the towns ceded to the English in return for this aid. Soon afterwards, the Earl of Leicester, with an army of six thousand men, went over to the Netherlands, where he was joined by Sir Philip, as general of the horse. The conduct of the earl in this war was highly imprudent, and such as to call forth repeated expressions of dissatisfaction from his nephew Philip. The military exploits of the latter were highly honourable to him; in particular, he succeeded in taking the town of Axel in 1586. His career, however, was destined to be short; for having, in September of the same year, accidentally encountered a detachment of the Spanish army at Zutphen, he received a wound, which in a few weeks proved mortal. As he was carried from the field, a well-known incident occurred, by which the generosity of his nature was strongly displayed. Being overcome with thirst from excessive bleeding and fatigue, he called for water, which was accordingly brought to him. At the moment he was lifting it to his mouth, a poor soldier was carried by, desperately wounded, who fixed his eyes eagerly on the cup. Sidney, observing this, instantly delivered the beverage to him, saying, "Thy necessity is yet greater ford, and Cambridge, displayed remarkable acuteness than mine.' His death, which took place on the of intellect and craving for knowledge. After spending 19th of October 1586, at the early age of thirty-two, three years on the continent, he returned to England was deeply and extensively lamented, both at home in 1575, and became one of the brightest ornaments of and abroad. His bravery and chivalrous magnathe court of Elizabeth, in whose favour he stood very nimity-his grace and polish of manner-the purity high. In the year 1580, his mind having been of his morals-his learning and refinement of taste ruffled in a quarrel with the Earl of Oxford, he retired-had procured for him love and esteem wherever in search of tranquillity to the seat of his brotherin-law, the Earl of Pembroke, at Wilton, and there occasionally employed himself in composing the work above-mentioned, a heroic romance, to which, as it was written chiefly for his sister's amusement, he gave the title of The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia. Sidney. he was known. By the direction of Elizabeth, his remains were conveyed to London, and honoured with a public funeral in the cathedral of St Paul's. Of the poetry of Sir Philip Sidney we have spoken in a former page. It is almost exclusively as a prose writer that he deserves to be prominently men tioned in a history of English Literature; and in judging of his merits, we ought to bear in mind the early age at which he was cut off. His 'Arcadia,' on which the chief portion of his fame undoubtedly rests, was so universally read and admired in the reigns of Elizabeth and her successor, that, in 1633, it had reached an eighth edition. Subsequently, however, it fell into comparative neglect, in which, during the last century, the contemptuous terms in which it was spoken of by Horace Walpole contributed not a little to keep it. By that writer it is characterised as 'a tedious, lamentable, pedantic, pastoral romance, which the patience of a young virgin in love cannot now wade through.' And the judgment more recently pronounced by Dr Drake, and Mr Hazlitt, is almost equally unfavourable. On the other hand, Sidney has found a fervent admirer in another modern writer, who highly extols the 'Arcadia' in the second volume of the Retrospective Review. A middle course is steered by Dr Zouch, who, in his memoirs of Sidney, published in 1808, while he admits that changes in taste, manners, and opinions, have rendered the Arcadia' unsuitable to modern readers, maintains that there are passages in this work exquisitely beautiful-useful observations on life and manners-a variety and accurate discrimination of characters-fine sentiments, expressed in strong and adequate terms-animated descriptions, equal to any that occur in the ancient or modern poets-sage lessons of morality, and judicious reflections on government and policy. A reader,' he continues, who takes up the volume, may be compared to a traveller who has a long and dreary road to pass. The objects that successively meet his eye may not in general be very pleasing, but occasionally he is charmed with a more beautiful prospect-with the verdure of a rich valley-with a meadow enamelled with flowers-with a murmur of a rivulet-the swelling grove-the hanging rockthe splendid villa. These charming objects abundantly compensate for the joyless regions he has traversed. They fill him with delight, exhilarate his drooping spirits and at the decline of day, he reposes with complacency and satisfaction.' This representation we are inclined to regard as doing at least ample justice to the Arcadia, the former high popularity of which is, doubtless, in some degree attributable to the personal fame of its author, and to the scarcity of works of fiction in the days of Elizabeth. But to whatever causes the admiration with which it was received may be ascribed, there can hardly, we think, be a question, that a work so extensively perused must have contributed not a little to fix the English tongue, and to form that vigorous and imaginative style which characterises the literature of the beginning and middle of the seventeenth century. Notwithstanding the occasional over-inflation and pedantry of his style, Sidney may justly be regarded as the best prose writer of his time. He was, in truth, what Cowper felicitously calls him, a 'warbler of poetic prose.' In his personal character, Sidney, like most men of high sensibility and poetical feeling, showed a disposition to melancholy and solitude.' His chief fault seems to have been impetuosity of temper, an illustration of which has already been quoted from his reply to 'Leicester's Commonwealth.' The same trait appears in the following letter (containing what proved to be a groundless accusation), which he wrote in 1578 to the secretary of his father, then lord deputy of Ireland. Essays Illustrative of the Tatler, Spectator, &c., ii. 9. Lectures on the Dramatic Literature of the Age of Eliza beth, p. 263. 'Mr Molyneux-Few words are best. My letters to my father have come to the eyes of some. Neither can I condemn any but you for it. If it be so, you have played the very knave with me; and so I will make you know, if I have good proof of it. But that for so much as is past. For that is to come, I assure you before God, that if ever I know you do so much as read any letter I write to my father, without his commandment, or my consent, I will thrust my dagger into you. And trust to it, for I speak it in earnest. In the mean time, farewell.' Of the following extracts, three are from Sidney's Arcadia,' and the fourth from his 'Defence of Poesy.' [A Tempest.] There arose even with the sun a veil of dark clouds before his face, which shortly, like ink poured into water, had blacked over all the face of heaven, preparing, as it were, a mournful stage for a tragedy to be played on. For, forthwith the winds began to speak louder, and, as in a tumultuous kingdom, to think themselves fittest instruments of commandment; and blowing whole storms of hail and rain upon them, they were sooner in danger than they could almost bethink themselves of change. For then the traitorous sea began to swell in pride against the afflicted navy, under which, while the heaven favoured them, it had lain so calmly; making mountains of itself, over which the tossed and tottering ship should climb, to be straight carried down again to a pit of hellish darkness, with such cruel blows against the sides of the ship, that, which way soever it went, was still in his malice, that there was left neither power to stay nor way to escape. And shortly had it so dissevered the loving company, which the day before had tarried together, that most of them never met again, but were swallowed up in his never-satisfied mouth. [Description of Arcadia.] There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of eyepleasing flowers; thickets, which being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so to, by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security; while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dam's comfort; here a shepherd's boy piping, as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing; and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music. [A Stag Hunt.] entertaining them with pleasant discoursing-how Then went they together abroad, the good Kalander well he loved the sport of hunting when he was a disdained all chamber-delights, that the sun (how young man, how much in the comparison thereof he great a journey soever he had to make) could never sober countenance, dissuade him from watching till prevent him with earliness, nor the moon, with her midnight for the deers feeding. O, said he, you will breath with exercise, and in heart with joyfulness; never live to my age, without you keep yourself in too much thinking doth consume the spirits; and oft it falls out, that, while one thinks too much of his doing, he leaves to do the effect of his thinking. Then spared he not to remember, how much Arcadia was changed since his youth; activity and good fellowship being nothing in the price it was then held in ; but, according to the nature of the old-growing world, |