Clashing of armour, and loud shouts they hear
In desert groves; and threatening ghosts appear.
The dwellers near without the city wal

Fled; fierce Erynnis had encompass'd all
The town; her snaky hairs and burning brand
Shaking; as when she rul'd Agava's hand,
Or the self-maim'd Lycurgus: such was she,
Who once, when sent by Juno's cruelty,

Great Hercules, new come from Hell, did fight:
Shrill trumpets sounded; dismal airs of night
That horrid noise, that meeting armies yield,
Did then present: in midst of Mars his field
Rose Sylla's ghost; and woes ensuing told:
Ploughmen near Aniens streams Marius behold
Rise from his sepulchre, and fly appall'd.

For these things were the Tuscan prophets call`d,
As custom was.".

May continued this poem down to the death of Julius Cæsar in books, both in Latin aud English verse, which continuation was joined to the translation of the original in 2d edit. 1633, dedicated to the King. Sir Arthur Gorges had already translated this poem, which was published by his son Carew Gorges in 1614.

May was joined with Sir Robert Le Grys in the translation of "Barclay's Argenis, 1628, 4to." He also Englished "Barclay's Mirror of Minds, 1633, 12mo."

Langbaine says, that being candidate with Sir Wm. Davenant for the honourable title of Queen's Poet, and being frustrated in his expectations, out of mere spleen, as it is thought, for his repulse, he vented his spite in his "History of the late Civil Wars of England." In an Elegy on the Death of John Cleveland, printed in his Works, p. 282, and signed 1. M. (sup posed to be Jasper Mayne) are these lines:

"His honest soul in consultation sat,

Unmasking vices both of church and state.
It was not power, but justice made him write,

No ends could, May-like, turn him parasite."

May also translated "Virgil's Georgics, London, 1622, 8vo. Oldys says “ he died suddenly in the night of the Ides of November, 1650, being ●vercharged with wine. See Andrew Marvell's Poem on his death."

VOL. X.

R

ART.

ART. XI. A Letter sent by Sir Iohn Suckling from France, deploring his sad estate and flight: with a discouerie of the plot and conspiracie, intended by him and his adherents against England. Imprinted at London. 1641.

"A Letter sent by Sir John Suckling from France, deploring his sad estate and flight: with a discoverie of the plot and conspiracie, intended by him and his adherents against England.

1. “Goe, dolefull sheete to everie street
Of London round about-a,

And tell 'um all thy masters fall,
That lived bravely mought-a.

2. Sir John in fight as brave a wight,
As the knight of the sun-a,
Is forced to goe, away with woe,

And from his countrie run-a.

3. Vnhappy stars to breed such iars
That England's chief Sucklin-a,
Should prove of late the scorn of fate,
And fortunes unlucklin-a;

4. But ye may see inconstancie

In all things under heaven a;
When God withdrawes his gracious lawes
We run at six and seven-a.

5. Alas, alas, how things doe passe?

What bootes a handsome face-a,

A prettie wit and legges to it

Not season'd well with grace-a.

I that in court have made such sport
As never yet was found-a,
And tickled all both great and small

The maides of honour round-a.

7. I that did play both night and day.
And revelled here and there-a,

Had change of suits, made layes to lutes
And bluster'd everie where-a.

8. 1 that could write and well indite
As 'tis to ladies known-a,

And bore the praise for songs and playes
Far more then were mine own-a.

9. I that did lend and yearly spend
Thousands out of my purse-a

And gave the King a wondrous thing,
At once a hundred horse-a.

10. Blest providence that kept my sense
So well, that I fond elfe-a,

Should chance to hit to have the wit,
To keep one for myselfe-a.

11. I that marcht forth, into the North,
And went up hills a main a

With sword and lance like King of France,
And so came downe again-a.

12. I that have done such things, the sun
And moone did never see-a,

Yet now poore Iohn, a poxe upon
The fates, is faine to flee-a.
13. And for the brave, I us'd to have
In all I wore or eate-a,

Accurssed chance to spoyle the dance,
I scarce have clothes or meate-a.

14. Could not the plot, by which I got
Such credit in the play-a,

Aglaura bright that Persian wight,
My roving fancie stay-a.

15. But I must flie at things so high,

Above me not allow'd-a?

And I Sir John, like Ixion,

For Juno kisse a cloud-a?

16. Would I had burn'd it, when I turn'd it,

Out of a Comedie-a;

There was an omen in the nomen
I feare of Tragedie-a;

17. Which is at last upon me cast
And I proclaim'd a sott-a,

For thinking to with English doe
As with a Persian plot-a.

18. But now I finde with griefe of minde
What will not me availe-a,

That plots in iest are ever best,
When plots in earnest faile-á.

19. Why could not I in time espie

My errour, but, what's worse-a,
Vnhappy vermin must bring in Termin
The master of the horse-a.

20. The valiant Percie, God have mercie
Vpon his noble soul-a;

Though hee be wise by my advice
Was in the plot most foule-a.

21. The wittie poet (let all know it)
Davenant by name-a;

In this design, that I call mine,
I utterlie disclaime-a.

22. Though he can write, he cannot fight,
And bravely take a fort-a:

Nor can he smell a proiect well,
His nose it is to short-a.

23. 'Tis true wee met, in counsell set,
And plotted here in prose-a,

And what he wanted, it is granted,
Abridge made of his nose-a;

24. But to impart it to his art,

Wee had made prittie stuff-a;

No, for the plot, that we had got,

One poet was enough-a.

25. Which

25. Which had not fate and prying state
Crusht in the very wombe-a,

We had ere long by power strong,
Made England hut one tomb-a.

26. Oh what a fright had bred that sight,.
When Ireland, Scotland, France-a,

Within the wall of London all

In severall troopes should prance-a. 27. When men quarter'd, woman slaughter'd, In heapes everie where-a,

So thick should lie, the enemie,

The very sight should scare-a.

28. That they afraid of what they made,
A streame of blood so high-a,
For safety fled, should mount the dead,
And unto heaven get nigh-a.

29. The scarlet gowne, and best i' th' towne,
Each other would bewaile-a,

That their shut purse had brought this curse,
That did so much prevaile-a.

30. Each Alderman in his own chaine,

Being hang'd up like a dog-a,

And all the city without pitty,

Made but one bloody bog.a.

31. The Irish Kerne, in battell sterne,
For all their faults so foul-a,

Pride, use, ill gaine, and want of braine,
Teaching them how to howle-a.

32. No longer then, the fine women,

The Scots would praise and trust-a;
The wanton dames being burnt in flames
Far hotter then their lust-a;

33. But too too late lament their fate,

And miserie deplore-a,

By the French knocks, having got a pox,
Worse then they had before-a,,