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Or judged the owle in sight,
The sparhauke to excell;
Which Ayeth but in the night
As all men know righte well.
Or if I soughte to saile,
Into the brittle porte ;
Where anker hold doth faile,
To such as do resort;
And leave the haven sure,
Where blowes no blustring winde;
Nor ficklenesse in ure
So farforth as I finde.
No, think me not so lighte,
Nor of so churlish kinde,
Though it lay in my mighte,
My boundage to unbinde:
That I woulde leave the hinde
To hunt the ganders foe.
No, no, I have no minde
To make exchanges soe;
Nor yet to change at all;
For thinke it may not be
That I shoulde seke to fall
From my felicitie.
Desirous for to win,
And loth for to forgoe,
Or new change to begin ;
How
may

all this be soe?
The fire it cannot frese,
For it is not his kinde;
Nor true love cannot lese
The constancye of minde:
Yet as sone shall the fire,
Want heate to blase and burne,
As I, in such desire,
Have once a thought to turne.

F

THOMAS SACKVILLE, the first Lord Buckhurst, was born in the year 1536, at Buckhurst, in the parish of Witham, Sussex. He studied at Oxford, but afterwards removed to Cambridge, where he took his degree. Having been distinguished at both Universities by his compositions in Latin and in English verse, he entered at the Inner Temple and was called to the Bar; but was soon afterwards returned to Parliament as one of the members for Buckinghamshire. His eminent abilities procured for him the esteem and confidence of Queen Elizabeth, and he was knighted in her presence, in 1567, by the Duke of Norfolk, and at the same time promoted to the peerage; was sent as ambassador to the States-General, was made a Knight of the Garter, elected Chancellor of the University of Oxford, and on the death of Burleigh succeeded him as Lord High Treasurer. On the accession of James the First, he continued to hold this office, and in 1603, was created Earl of Dorset. He died suddenly at the council table at Whitehall, on the 19th of April, 1608, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. As a statesman his character is untarnished. He preserved his integrity amid all the intrigues of a court; and although living, and exercising mighty power, at a time when murder was frequently preceded only by a form of trial, and personal or political opponents were dispatched by a simple process dignified by the term Law, the name of Sackville Lord Buckhurst has descended to us without spot or blemish.

His character was drawn by his friend and chaplain Dr. Abbot, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury—“How many rare things were in him! Who more loving unto his wife? Who more kind unto his children? Who more fast unto his friend? Who more moderate unto his enemy? Who more true to his word ?" “He was a scholar,” adds another friend, “and a person of a quick dispatch; and they say of him that his secretaries did little for him by way of inditement, wherein they could seldom please him, he was so facete in his phrase and style."

His poetical reputation rests upon his being the author of the first English tragedy: and upon his two short but noble poems, “the Induction to a Mirrour for Magistrates," and “the Complaynt of Henrye Duke of Buckingham." His tragedy, in which, it is said by Wood, he was assisted by Norton, is entitled Gorboduc. The dialogue is dignified, and the language pure, and it is praised by Sidney for its “notable moralitie;" but the uninteresting nature of the plot, and its long and tedious speeches, together with a total absence of pathos, deprived it of popularity in his own age, and now it is altogether forgotten. It was acted in 1561, by the gentlemen of the Inner Temple. The plot is thus briefly described by Rymer. “Here is a king and queen and their two sons; the king divides his realm between them. They quarrel, the elder rules the younger, which provokes the mother to kill the elder. Thereupon the king kills the mother, and then to make a clear stage, the people rise and despatch old Gorboduc.” But the fame of Sackville rests upon a surer foundation. A design having been formed to commemorate "the Great Unfortunate" of our English History, he wrote for this the Induction and the Complaynt of Henrye Duke of Buckingham. The Poet, who undoubtedly imitated Dante, feigns a descent into hell, under the guidance and guardianship of Sorrow,-where the various personages to be introduced pass in review before him--each telling his own sad story of his errors and misfortunes :

" Whence come I am, the drery destinie
And luckeles lot for to bemone of those,
Whom fortune in this maze of miserie

Of wretched chaunce most wofol mirrours chose." The work was printed under the title of “a Mirrour for Magistrates, being a true Chronicle Historie of the untimely falles of such unfortunate Princes and Men of Note as have happened since the first entrance of Brute into this island, until this our age;" it was added to, from time to time, by various contributors, and an edition published in 1610, contains eighty-six lives.

These poems of Sackville are to the highest degree vigorous and fine. The versification is smooth and harmonious; the shadowy inhabitants of Averne are pictured with fearful reality, strong feeling, and deep interest ;-and it is surmised that they awakened the imagination of Spenser, who has scarcely surpassed his predecessor in the grander attributes by which the poet is distinguished.

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THE wrathfull winter prochinge on a pace,
With blustring blastes had al ybared the treen,
And olde Saturnus with his frosty face

With chilling colde had pearst the tender green;
The mantels rent, wherein enwrapped been
The gladsom groves that nowe laye overthrowen,
The tapets torne, and every blome down blowen

The soyle that erst so seemly was to seen,
Was all despoyled of her beauties hewe:

And soot freshe flowers (wherewith the sommers queen
Had clad the earth) now Boreas blastes downe blewe

And small fowles flocking, in their song did rewe
The winters wrath, wherewith eche thing defaste
In woful wise bewayled the sommer past.
Hawthorne had lost his motley lyverye,
The naked twigges were shivering all for colde;
And dropping downe the teares abundantly ;
Eche thing (me thought) with weping eye me tolde
The cruell season, bidding me witholde
My selfe within, for I was gotten out
Into the feldes whereas I walkte about.

And strayt forth stalking with redoubled pace
For that I sawe the night drewe on so fast,
In blacke all clad there fell before my face
A piteous wight, whom woe had al forwaste,
Furth from her iyen the cristall teares outbrast,
And syghing sore her handes she wrong and folde,
Tearing her heare, that ruth was to beholde.

Her body small forwithered and forespent,
As is the stalk that sommers drought opprest;
Her wealked face with woful tears besprent,
Her colour pale, and (as it seemd her best)
In woe and playnt reposed was her rest.
And as the stone that droppes of water weares;
So dented wer her cheekes with fall of teares.

Her iyes swollen with flowing streames aflote,
Wherewith her lookes throwen up full piteouslie,
Her forceles handes together ofte she smote,
With doleful shrikes, that echoed in the skye:
Whose playnt such sighes dyd strayt accompany,
That in my doome was never man did see
A wight but halfe so woe-begon as she.

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An hydeous hole al vaste, withouten shape,
Of endless depth, orewhelmde with ragged stone,
Wyth ougly mouth, and grisly jawes doth gape,
And to our sight confounds it selfe in one.
Here entred we, and yeding forth, anone
An horrible lothly lake we might discerne
As blacke as pitche, that cleped is Averne.

A deadly gulfe where nought but rubbishe grows,
With fowle blacke swelth in thickned lumpes lyes,
Which up in the ayer such stinking vapors throwes
That over there, may flye no fowle but dyes,
Choakt with the pestilent savours that aryse.
Hither we cum, whence forth we still dyd pace,
In dreadful feare amid the dreadfull place.
And first within the portche and jawes of hell
Sate diepe Remorse of Conscience, al besprent
With teares: and to her selfe oft would she tell,
Her wretchednes, and cursing never stent
To sob and sigh: but ever thus lament,
With thoughtful care, as she that all in vayne
Would weare and waste continually in payne.
Her iyes unstedfast rolling here and there,
Whurid on eche place, as place that vengeauns brought,
So was her minde continually in feare,
Tossed and tormented with the tedious thought
Of those detested crimes which she had wrought:
With dreadful cheare and lookes thrown to the skye,
Wyshyng for death, and yet she could not dye.
Next sawe we Dread al tremblyng how he shooke,
With foot uncertayne proferd here and there :
Benumde of speache, and with a gastly looke
Searcht evry place al pale and dead for feare,
His cap borne up with starting of his heare,
Stoynde and amazde at his owne shade for dreed,
And fearing greater daungers than was nede.

And next within the entry of this lake
Sate fell Revenge gnashing her teeth for yre,
Devising means howe she may vengeaunce take,
Never to rest tyll she have her desire:
But frets within so farforth with the fyer
Of wreaking flames, that now determines she,
To dye by death, or vengde by death to be.
When fell Revenge with bloudy foule pretence
Had showed herselfe as next in order set,
With trembling limmes we softly parted thence,
Tyll in our iyes another sight we met:

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