WEET were the sauce would please

each kind of taste;

The life likewise were pure that

never swerved:

For spiteful tongues in cankered stomachs placed Deem worst of things which best (percase)

deserved.

But what for that? This medicine may suffice To scorn the rest, and seek to please the wise.

Though sundry minds in sundry sort do deem,

Yet worthiest wights yield praise for every pain;

1 Prefixed to George Gascoigne's "Steel Glass," 1576.

But envious brains do nought, or light, esteem

Such stately steps as they cannot attain:
For whoso reaps renown above the rest,
With heaps of hate shall surely be oppressed.

Wherefore, to write my censure of this book,
This Glass of Steel unpartially doth show
Abuses all to such as in it look,

From prince to poor, from high estate to low.
As for the verse, who list like trade to try,
I fear me much, shall hardly reach so high.

II.

THE EXCUSE.

WRITTEN BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH IN HIS

YOUNGER YEARS.1

ALLING to mind, my eyes went long about

To cause my heart for to forsake my

breast,

All in a rage I sought to pull them out,
As who had been such traitors to my rest:

Oldys' "Life of Raleigh," p. lv., "from the copy of a celebrated lady, Lady Isabella Thynne, who probably had it out of the family." Quoted by Puttenham in 1589, as

a most excellent ditty, written by Sir Walter Raleigh." In MS. Ashm. 781, p. 138, it has the signature "Sr. Wa: Raleigh;" and in "Wit's Interpreter," 1671, p. 205, it is described as "by Sir Walter Raleigh." In the "Phoenix Nest," 1593, p. 72, in MS. Harl. 6910, fol. 142, verso, and in MS. Rawl. 85, fol. 104, verso, it is anonymous.

What could they say to win again my grace?— Forsooth, that they had seen my mistress' face. Another time, my heart I called to mind,—

Thinking that he this woe on me had brought, Because that he to love his force resigned,

When of such wars my fancy never thought: What could he say when I would him have slain?— That he was hers, and had forgone my chain. At last, when I perceived both eyes and heart Excuse themselves, as guiltless of my ill, I found myself the cause of all my smart, And told myself that I myself would kill : Yet when I saw myself to you was true, I loved myself, because myself loved you.

III.

AN EPITAPH

UPON THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR PHILIP SIDNEY,
KNIGHT, LORD GOVERNOR OF FLUSHING.1
(Died Oct. 7, 1586.)

O praise thy life or wail thy worthy death,
And want thy wit,-thy wit high,

pure, divine,―

Is far beyond the power of mortal line, Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath;

Quoted in 1591, by Sir J. Harington, as Sir W. Raleigh's; also at a later date by Druminond of Hawthornden. Printed anonymously in the "Phoenix Nest," 1593, p. 8, and with Spenser's "Astrophel," 1595, Sign. K 2.

Yet rich in zeal (though poor in learning's lore), And friendly care obscured in secret breast, And love that envy in thy life suppressed,— Thy dear life done,—and death hath doubled more. And I, that in thy time and living state

Did only praise thy virtues in my thought,

As one that seeld the rising sun hath sought, With words and tears now wail thy timeless fate. Drawn was thy race aright from princely line; Nor less than such, by gifts that nature gave,The common mother that all creatures have,—— Doth virtue show, and princely lineage shine. A king gave thee thy name; a kingly mind,That God thee gave,-who found it now too dear For this base world, and hath resumed it near To sit in skies, and sort with powers divine.

Kent thy birth-days, and Oxford held thy youth; The heavens made haste, and stayed nor years nor time;

The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime; Thy will, thy words; thy words the seals of truth.

Great gifts and wisdom rare employed thee thence, To treat from kings with those more great than kings;

Such hope men had to lay the highest things On thy wise youth, to be transported hence.

Whence to sharp wars sweet honour did thee call, Thy country's love, religion, and thy friends; Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends, And her defence, for whom we labour all.

There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age, Grief, sorrow, sickness, and base fortune's might; Thy rising day saw never woeful night,

But passed with praise from off this worldly stage.

Back to the camp by thee that day was brought, First thine own death; and after, thy long fame; Tears to the soldiers; the proud Castilian's shame; Virtue expressed, and honour truly taught.

What hath he lost that such great grace hath won? Young years for endless years, and hope unsure Of fortune's gifts for wealth that still shall dure: O happy race, with so great praises run!

England doth hold thy limbs, that bred the same;

Flanders thy valour, where it last was tried; The camp thy sorrow, where thy body died; Thy friends thy want; the world thy virtue's fame; Nations thy wit; our minds lay up thy love;

Letters thy learning; thy loss years long to come; In worthy hearts sorrow hath made thy tomb; Thy soul and spright enrich the heavens above.

Thy liberal heart embalmed in grateful tears, Young sighs, sweet sighs, sage sighs, bewail thy fall;

Envy her sting, and spite hath left her gall; Malice herself a mourning garment wears'.

That day their Hannibal died, our Scipio fell,Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time; Whose virtues, wounded by my worthless rhyme, Let angels speak, and heaven thy praises tell.