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" Receave these writs, my sweet and dearest frend,
The livelie patterns of my livelesse bodie,
How I was meeke, but thou extreamlie blodie.
Alone, complaining of a ruthlesse dame;
In pittious yelles, shall sound her cruell name.
And make my mones unto the savage eares ;
Ile spend them all, conceal'd, in ceaselesse teares.
Art. X. Foure Parudoxes : of Arte, of Lawe, of
Warre, of Service. By T. S.
Cupias quodcunque necesse est.
At London Printed for Thomas Bushell. 1602. Small 8vo. 24 leaves.
These paradoxes are poetical, and the only copy I have seen was formerly Major Pearson's. The name of the author is revealed by the following dedication,
" To the most honorable and more vertuous Lady, the Ladie Helena, Marquesse of Northampton.
“MADAM, “ Your friends send you jewelles; your tenants, the fruit of their store; and your servants, many good wishes; all of ther, in their kinde, being testimonies of their loves and dueties. I, that am too poore to present you with the two former; and too ambitious, to supply my wants with the latter, have presumed in another manner to expresse my humilitie; sending you, not the riches of my exterior fortunes, but the fruite and issue of my braine, in the begetting whereof I wasted much pretious time. Your Honor, in accepting it, shall expresse more true bounty, than I in writing can expresse duety, though it be all the scope I levell at. The Lord have you in his protection, and Send you many happy new-yeeres ! 6. Your duelifull and devoted servant,
(6 THOMAS Scott." This little volume exhibits an elegant specimen of minute typography: but its merits are not referable to the prinier alone. There is much manly observation, torcible truth, apt simile, and moral pith in the poem itself; and ii leaves a lingering desire upon the mind, to obtain some knowledge of a writer, whose meritorious production was unheralded by any contemporary verse-man, and whose name remains unrecorded by any poetical biographer. The following is his spirited introduction, divested of its obsolete ore thography,
“ Nor base intrusion, nor the hope of gain,
Nor adulation, nor vain-glorious pride, Nor th' idle fancy of a fuming brain,
Nor any ill affected cause beside,
Begat these lines; but true respective * love,
Nor think these rhymes scum'd from the froth of wit,
Nor loosely bound; but written with advise, †
About th' invention of some rare devise;
Even then I wrote these lines, which shall bewray
The faithful meaning of my constant soul,
Nor fate convert, nor sovereignty controul;
The entire poem is constructed in the same stanza, and divided into four portions, which bear these appropriate mottos.
“ Artes irritamenta malorum,
Omnis est misera servitus." Each portion contains 78 stanzas, and three additional ones close the whole, which the poet stiles his “ Resolution.” The following selections will indicate the divisions of subject whence they ar: taken. “ Farewell, uncertain ART! whose up pest skill
Begets dissentions and ambiguous striik, Wheo, like a windy bladder, thou dosi till
The brain with groundless hopes and shades of life;
* i. e. respectful, considerat, cautionary, † With deliberation. I Betray, disclose, discover.
When thou dost set the word against the word,
Thou lend'st the guileful orator his skill
To plead 'gainst innocence, and to defend
To favour falsehood, and dost backward bend
Thou art like gold, gotten with care and thought
Then brought to bribe the judge against the truth; Or like a sword with all our substance bought
To kill a friend :-0 thing of woe and ruth!Who with this gold th' oppressed doth defend? Or who doth use this sword to save his friends
Thou art not much unlike the fowler's glass,
Wherein the silly soul delights to look For novelties, until the net doth pass
Above her head, and she unwares be took. Thou common courtezan, thou bawd to sin, Painted without, but leperous within.
Thou'rt a companion for all company,
A garment made for every man to wear, A golden coffer, wherein dirt doth lie,
A hackney horse, all sorts of men to bear; What art thou not ?-faith, thou art nought at all, For he that knows thee best, knows nought at all.
O LAW ! thou cobweb wherein little fies
Are daily caught, whilst greater break away: Thon dear experience, which so many buy's
With loss of time, wealth, friends, and long delay; Thou endless labyrinth of care and sorrow, Near hand to-day and far remov'd to-morrow.
Thou sweet revenge of craven-hearted hinds,
Who never relish lov'd society,
But barbarous beastly incivility:
Why should we not be good, without thy aid?
And fear thy force less than deserved blame? Shall man forbear to sin, being afraid
Of punishment? not of reproach and shame? So children learn their lessons, kept from meat; So asses mend their paces, being beat.
But man should bear a free unforced spirit,
Uncapable of servile fear and ae;
Because he is not to himself a law;
O why should men in envy, pride, and hate,
In swoll'n ambition, lust, and covetise,
Becoming one another's destinies ?-
O bloody WAR! to th' unexperienc'd sweet;
That rob'st and spoil'st and butcherest every sex; That tramples ail things with upheaved teet;
And quiet states with civil broils dost vex; That sayst—"all things are just thou dost with might :" But to th' unable—“there remains no right."