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And as a costly vallance o'er a bed,
So did their garland tops the brook o'erspread.
Their leaves, that differ'd both in shape and show,
Though all were green, yet difference such in

Like to the checker'd bent of Iris' bow,

Priding the running main, as it had been


The works of this laborious but unequal, and perhaps tiresome

writer, form a large volume in folio, printed in 1633, and 1644, and consisting principally of translations. In page 652, is inserted the “ Soul's Errand,”(which is usually attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh) under the title of “ The Lie," bùt strangely disfigured.


Beware, fair maid, of mighty courtier's oaths :

Take heed what gifts or favours you receive: Let not the fading gloss of silken cloaths

Dazzle your virtues, or your fame bereave. For once but leave the hold

you Who will regard your fortune or your face?

have of grace,

Each greedy hand will strive to catch the flower,

When none regard the stalk it grows upon ; Baseness desires the fruit still to devour,

And leave the tree to fall or stand alone : But this advice, fair creature, take of me, Let none take fruit unless he'll have the tree.

Believe not oaths, nor much-protesting men ;

Credit no vows, nor a bewailing song ;
Let courtiers swear, forswear, and swear again,

The heart doth live ten regions from the tongue: And, when with oaths and vows they make you

tremble, Believe them least! for then they most dissemble.


I WEIGH not fortune's frown or smile,

I joy not much in earthly joys;
I seek not state, I reck not stile,

I am not fond of fancy's toys ;
I rest so pleas'd with what I have,
I wish no more, no more I crave.

I quake not at the thunder's crack,

I tremble not at noise of war,
I swoon not at the news of wrack,

I shrink not at a blazing star :
I fear not loss, I hope not gain ;
I envy none, I none disdain.

I see ambition never pleased,

I see some Tantals starv'd in store;
I see gold's dropsy seldom eased,
I see e'en Midas


for more. I neither want, nor yet abound: Enough's a feast; content is crown'd.

I feign not friendship where I hate,

I fawn not on the great in show,
I prize, I praise a mean estate,

Neither too lofty nor too low;
This, this is all my choice, my cheer,
A mind content, a conscience clear.

Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white,

For all those rosy temp’ratures in thee, Thou art not sweet, tho' made of mere delight,

Nor fair nor sweet, unless thou pity me,

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I will not sooth thy follies; thou shalt prove

That beauty is no beauty, without love.


Was born in 1563; and rose early to reputation, which he

enjoyed during three successive reigns: he died in 1631. His “ Polyolbion” is certainly a wonderful work, exhibiting, at once, the learning of an historian, an antiquary, a naturalist, and a geographer, and embellished by the imagination of a poet. But, perhaps, a topographical description of England, is not much improved by such embellishment. Those who can best appreciate the merit of its accuracy will seldom search for information in a poem ; and of the lovers of poetry, some are disgusted with the subject, and others, with the Alexandrine metre, which Drayton has unfortunately adopted. His pastorals, which he published in 1593, under the quaint title of “ Ideas; the “Shepherd's Garland, fashioned in nine Eclogues, &c.” his “ Nymphydia,” and, in general, all his smaller poems, are easy and pleasing. The “ Barons' Wars,” and “England's “ Heroical Epistles," have lost, and are not likely to recover, their ancient popularity.


Gorbo, as thou cam’st this way,

“ By yonder little hill, “ Or as thou through the fields didst stray.

“ Saw'st thou my Daffodil ?

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