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GEORGE GASCOIGNE

Was born in 15401, of an ancient family in Essex, was bred at Cambridge, and entered at Gray's Inn; but being disinherited by his father for extravagance, he repaired to Holland, and obtained a commission under the Prince of Orange. A quarrel with his Colonel retarded his promotion in that service; and a circumstance occurred which had nearly cost him his life. A lady at the Hague (the town being then in the enemy's possession) sent him a letter, which was intercepted in the camp, and a report against his loyalty was made by those who had seized it. Gascoigne immediately laid the affair before the Prince, who saw through the design of his accusers, and gave him a passport for visiting his female friend. At the siege of Middleburgh he displayed so much bravery, that the Prince rewarded him with 300 gilders above his pay; but he was soon after made prisoner by the Spaniards, and having spent four months in captivity, returned to England, and resided generally at Walthamstow. In 1575 he accompanied Queen Elizabeth in one of her stately progresses, and wrote for her amusement a mask, entitled the Princely Pleasures of Kenil

1 Mr. Ellis conjectures that he was born much earlier. VOL. J.

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worth Castle. He is generally said to have died at Stamford, in 1578; but the registers of that place have been searched in vain for his name, by the writer of an article in the Censura Literaria1, who has corrected some mistakes in former accounts of him. It is not probable, however, that he lived long after 1576, as, from a manuscript in the British Museum, it appears that, in that year, he complains of his infirmities, and nothing afterwards came from his pen.

Gascoigne was one of the earliest contributors to our drama. He wrote the Supposes, a comedy, translated from Ariosto, and Jocasta, a tragedy from Euripides, with some other pieces.

THE ARRAIGNMENT OF A LOVER.

AT Beauty's bar as I did stand,
When False Suspect accused me,

George, quoth the Judge, hold up thy hand,
Thou art arraign'd of Flattery;
Tell, therefore, how wilt thou be tried,
Whose judgement thou wilt here abide?

My lord, quod I, this lady here,
Whom I esteem above the rest,
Doth know my guilt, if any were;

Wherefore her doom doth please me best.
1 Cens. Lit. vol. I. p. 100.

Let her be judge and juror both,
To try me guiltless by mine oath.

Quoth Beauty, No, it fitteth not
A prince herself to judge the cause;
Will is our justice, well ye wot,
Appointed to discuss our laws;
If you will guiltless seem to go,
God and your country quit you so.

Then Craft the crier call'd a quest,
Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere;
A pack of pickthanks were the rest,
Which came false witness for to bear;
The jury such, the Judge unjust,
Sentence was said, "I should be truss'd."

Jealous the gaoler bound me fast,

To hear the verdict of the bill;

George, quoth the judge, now thou art cast,
Thou must go hence to Heavy Hill,

And there be hang'd all but the head;
God rest thy soul when thou art dead!

Down fell I then upon my knee,
All flat before dame Beauty's face,
And cried, Good Lady, pardon me!
Who here appeal unto your grace;
You know if I have been untrue,
It was in too much praising you.

And though this Judge doth make such haste
To shed with shame my guiltless blood,
Yet let your pity first be plac'd

To save the man that meant you good;
So shall you shew yourself a Queen,
may be your servant seen.

And I

Quoth Beauty, Well; because I guess
What thou dost mean henceforth to be;
Although thy faults deserve no less
Than Justice here hath judged thee;
Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife,
And be true prisoner all thy life?

Yea madam, quoth I, that I shall ;
Lo, Faith and Truth my sureties:
Why then, quoth she, come when I call,
I ask no better warrantise.

Thus am I Beauty's bounden thrall,
At her command when she doth call.

FROM GASCOIGNE'S GRIEF OF JOY,

An unpublished Poem in Manuscript, in the British Museum. 18 A. 61.-King's Library.

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THERE is a grief in every kind of joy,

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That is my theme, and that I mean to prove; And who were he which would not drink annoy,

To taste thereby the lightest dram of love?

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Of lusty youth then lustily to treat,

It is the very May-moon of delight;
When boldest bloods are full of wilful heat,
And joy to think how long they have to fight
In fancy's field, before their life take flight;
Since he which latest did the game begin,
Doth longest hope to linger still therein.

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The heav'ns on high perpetually do move;
By minutes meal the hour doth steal away,
By hours the days, by days the months remove,
And then by months the years as fast decay;
Yea, Virgil's verse, and Tully's truth do say,
That Time flieth, and never claps her wings;
But rides on clouds, and forward still she flings.

THE VANITY OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

They course the glass, and let it take no rest;
They pass and spy who gazeth on their face;
They darkly ask whose beauty seemeth best ;
They hark and mark who marketh most their grace;
They stay their steps, and stalk a stately pace;

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