SIR JOHN DAVIES. [Born, 1570. Died, 1626.] SIR JOHN DAVIES wrote, at twenty-five years of age, a poem on the immortality of the soul; and at fifty-two, when he was a judge and a statesman, another on "the art of dancing*." Well might the teacher of that noble accomplishment, in Molière's comedy, exclaim, La philosophie est quelque chose-mais la danse! Sir John was the son of a practising lawyer at Tisbury, in Wiltshire. He was expelled from the Temple for beating Richard Martin, who was afterwards recorder of London; but his talents redeemed the disgrace. He was restored to the Temple, and elected to parliament, where, although he had flattered Queen Elizabeth in his poetry, he distinguished himself by supporting the privileges of the house, and by opposing royal monopolies. On the accession of King James he went to Scotland with Lord Hunsdon, and was received by the new sovereign with flattering cordiality, as author of the poem Nosce Teipsum. In Ireland he was successively nominated solicitor and attorney general, was knighted, and chosen speaker of the Irish House of Commons, in opposition to the Catholic interest. Two works which he published as the fruits of his observation in that kingdom, have attached considerable importance to his name in the legal and political history of Ireland§. On his return to England he sat in parliament for Newcastle-under-Lyne, and had assurances of being appointed chief justice of England, when his death was suddenly occasioned by apoplexy. He married, while in Ireland, Eleanor, a daughter of Lord Audley, by whom he had a daughter, who was married to Ferdinand Lord Hastings, afterwards Earl of Huntingdon. Sir John's widow turned out an enthusiast and a prophetess. A volume of her ravings was published in 1649, for which the revolutionary government sent her to the Tower, and to Bethlehem Hospital. THE VANITY OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. FROM "NOSCE TEIPSUM," OR A POEM ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. WHY did my parents send me to the schools, That I with knowledge might enrich my mind? Since the desire to know first made men fools, And did corrupt the root of all mankind. What is this knowledge but the sky-stol'n fire, In fine, what is it but the fiery coach Which the youth|| sought, and sought his death withal, Or the boy's wings¶ which, when he did approach The sun's hot beams, did melt and let him fall? [*This is not the case; the "Poeme of Dauncing" appeared in 1596, in his twenty-sixth year, and, curious enough, with a dedicatory sonnet "To his very Friend, Ma. Rich. Martin." A copy, supposed unique, is in the Bridgewater Library. The poem was the work of fifteen days. See COLLIER'S Bibliographical Catalogue, p. 92. The poet wrote his name DAUYS.] A respectable man, to whom Ben Jonson dedicated his Poetaster. ¡Phaeton. Prometheus. Icarus. And yet, alas! when all our lamps are burn'd, What can we know, or what can we discern, When error chokes the windows of the mind? The divers forms of things how can we learn, That have been ever from our birth-day blind? When reason's lamp, that, like the sun in sky, Throughout man's little world her beams did spread, Is now become a sparkle, which doth lie How can we hope, that through the eye and ear, § The works are "A Discovery of the Causes why Ireland was never subdued till the beginning of his Majesty's Reign," and "Reports of Cases adjudged in the King's Courts in Ireland." So might the heir whose father hath in play The wits that dived most deep and soar'd most high, For this the wisest of all moral men As spiders, touch'd, seek their web's inmost part; If aught can teach us aught, affliction's looks (Making us pry into ourselves so near), Teach us to know ourselves beyond all books, Or all the learned schools that ever were. She within lists my ranging mind bath brought, I know my body's of so frail a kind, I know my soul hath power to know all things, 4 Yet is she blind and ignorant in all ; I know I'm one of nature's little kings, I know my life's a pain, and but a span ; We seek to know the moving of each sphere, For this few know themselves; for merchants broke And while the face of outward things we find Yet if affliction once her wars begin, And threat the feebler sense with sword and fire, THAT THE SOUL IS MORE THAN A PERFECTION ARE they not senseless, then, that think the soul What is it, then, that doth the sense accuse Could any powers of sense the Roman move, Sense outsides knows-the soul through all things sees; Sense, circumstance; she doth the substance view: Sense sees the bark, but she the life of trees; Sense hears the sounds, but she the concord true. Then is the soul a nature which contains THAT THE SOUL IS MORE THAN THE TEMPER- IF she doth, then, the subtle sense excel, As if most skill in that musician were, Why doth not beauty, then, refine the wit, Who can in memory, or wit, or will, THOMAS GOFFE. [Born, 1592. Died, 1627.] THIS writer left four or five dramatic pieces, of very ordinary merit. He was bred at Christ's Church, Oxford. He held the living of East Clandon in Surrey, but unfortunately succeeded not only to the living, but to the widow of his predecessor, who, being a Xantippe, contributed, according to Langbaine, to shorten his days by the "violence of her provoking tongue." He had the reputation of an eloquent preacher, and some of his sermons appeared in print. i SCENE FROM GOFFE'S TRAGEDY OF “AMURATH, OR THE COURAGEOUS TURK." ALADIN, husband to the daughter of AMURATH, having rebelled against his father-in-law, is brought captive before him. Enter at one door, AMURATH with Attendants; at the other door, ALADIN, his Wife, two Children, in while -they kneel to AMURATH. Amur. OUR hate must not part thus. I'll tell thee, prince, That thou hast kindled Etna in our breast! His blood whose hasty and rebellious blast Alad. Why then, I'll, like the Roman Pompey, hide My dying sight, scorning imperious looks Should grace so base a stroke with sad aspèct. Amur. What, still stiff-neck'd? Is this the truce you beg? Sprinkled before thy face, those rebel brats Shall have their brains-and their dissected limbs And prove more hot unto the Turkish Empery Alad. Wife. Dear father, let thy fury rush on me! Within these entrails sheath thine insate sword! And let this ominous and too fruitful womb Be torn in sunder! for from thence those babes Took all their crimes; error (hath) made them guilty 'Twas nature's fault, not theirs. O if affection Can work then!-now show a true father's love: If not, appease those murdering thoughts with me; For as Jocasta pleaded with her sons For their dear father, so to a father I For my dear babes and husband-husband !— father Which shall I first embrace? Victorious father! Be blunt those now sharp thoughts; lay down those threats; Unclasp that impious helmet; fix to earth Amur. I fear; for after daughter's perjury, O let me kiss, kind father! first the earth Amur. True; and when sprouts do rob the tree of sap, They must be pruned. Alad. Wife. Dear father! leave such harsh similitudes. By my deceased mother, to whose womb Amur.Yes; to have them collect a manly strength, And their first lesson that their dad shall teach them, Shall be to read my misery. Alad. Stern conqueror ! but that thy daughter shows There once dwelt good in that obdurate breast, If not on me, have mercy on my babes, A CLIMBING height it is, without a head, IMAGINATION. Knowledge's next organ is imagination, REASON. The last chief oracle of what man knows Some ruinous notions which our nature shows Nor in a right line can her eyes ascend, INSUFFICIENCY OF PHILOSOPHY. Then what is our high-praised philosophy, For, as among physicians, what they call |