Pilgrime. At Cephalone, and Nigroponte I know,
And Lystra too, three slaueries I escap'd;
And tenne times Galleotes made a cruell show,
At Little Iles, to haue mee there intrapp'd:

But their attemptes still failde I thanke my God,
Yet I no way can liue, if not abrode.

Muse. But ah recall the hearbes, rawe rootes yee eate,
White snails, greene frogs, gray streams, hard beds deray'd:
And if this austiere life seeme to thee meete,

I yeelde to thy experience long assayd:

Then stay, O stay, succeeding times agree,

To reconcile thy minde, thy meanes, and thee.
Pilgrime. To stay at home thou knowst I cannot liue:
To liue abroade I know the worlde maintaines mee:
To bee beholden to a churle I grieue:

And if I want, my dearest friende disdaines mee:
And so the forraine face to me is best,

I lacke no meanes, although I lacke my rest.
Muse. I graunt it's true, and more esteem'd abroade,
But zeale growes colde and thou forgetst the way:
Better it were at home to serue thy God,
Than wandring still, to wander quite astray:

Thou canst not trauaile, keepe thy conscience too,
For that is more than pilgrimes well can doe.

Pilgrime. I wonder Muse thou knowst to heare a messe,
I make no breach of law, but for to learne;
And if not curious, then the worlde might gesse
I hardlie could twixt good and ill disccarne:
I enter not their kirkes as vpon doubt

Of faith; but their strange erroures to finde out.
Muse. O well replyde, but yet a greater spotte,
Thou bowst thy knees before their altars hie:
And when comes the leuation, there's the blotte,
Thou knockst thy breast and wallowst with thine eye :
And when the little bell ringes through the streete,
Thou prostrate fall'st, their sacrament to greete.
Pilgrime. Thou fail'st therein, I still fledde superstition,
But I confesse, I got the holie blessing;
And vnder colour of a rare contrition,
The papall panton heele, I fell a kissing:

But they that mee mistake are base-born clownes,
I did it not for loue, but for the crownes. . . . . '

As this writer's attempts at poetry are but little known, I shall venture to extend the specimens with the following two short pieces.

A

"A Sonnet, made by the Author, being upon Mount Etna in Sicilia, An. 1615. And on the second day thereafter arriving at Messina, he found two of his countrey gentlemen, Dauid Seton, of the House of Perbraith, and Matthew Douglas now presentlie at Court: to whome hee presented the same, they beeing at that instant time some 40 miles from thence.

High standes thy toppe, but higher lookes mine eye,
High soares thy smoake, but higher my desire:
High are thy roundes, steepe, circled, as I see,
But higher farre this breast, whiles I aspire:
High mountes the furie of thy burning fire,
But higher farre mine aymes transcende aboue:
High bendes thy force, through midst of Vulcanes ire,
But higher flies my sprite, with winges of loue:
High preasse thy flames, the chrystall aire to moue,
But higher farre the scope of mine engine:
High lies the snow, on thy proud toppes, I proue,
But higher vp ascendes my braue designe.

Thine height cannot surpasse this clowdie frame,
But my poore soule, the highest heauens doth claime:
Meanewhile with paine I climbe to view thy toppes,
Thin hight makes fall from me ten thousand droppes.
Yours affectionate,

WILLIAM LITHGOW."

"To his vnknowne, knowne; and knowne, vnknowne Loue, These now knowne lines, an vnknowne breast shall moue.

"

Selfe-flattring I, deceiuer of my selfe,

Opinions slaue, rul'd by a base conceate:

Whome eu'rie winde naufragiates on the shelfe

Of apprehension, jealous of my state,

Who guides mee most, that guide I most misknow,
Suspectes the shaddow for a substant show.

I still receiue, the thing I vomite out,
Conceiues againe imaginarie wracke:

I stable stand, and yet I stand in doubt,

Giues place to one when two repulles me backe:

I kindle fire, and that same fire I quench,

And swim the deepes, but dare not downwarde drench.

I grieue at this, prolong'd in my desire,

And I rejoyce, that my delay is such :

I trie, and knowes my tryall may aspire,
But flees the place that should this time auouch.

In stinging smartes, my sweete conuertes in sowre,
I builde the hiue, but dare not sucke the flowre,
Well honney combe, since I am so faint hearted,
That I flee backe, when thou vnmaskst thy face:
Thou shalt bee gone, and I must bee decarted,
Such doubtfull stayes enhaunce, when wee imbrace:
Farewell, wee two, diuided are for euer,
Yet vndiuided whilst our soules disseuer.
Thine, as I am mine,

WILLIAN LITHGOW."

J. H.

The gushing Teares of Godiy Sorrow. Containing the causes, conditions, and remedies of Sinne, depending mainly upon Contrition and confession. And they seconded with sacred and comfortable passages, under the mourning cannopie of Teares, and Repentance. Matth. v. 4. Blessed are they that mourne, for they shall be comforted. Psal. cxxvi. 5. They that sow in teares, shall reape in ioy. By William Lithgovv. Edinburgh, printed by Robert Bryson, Anno Dom. 1640. At the expences of the Authour. yto. 50 leaves.

Dedicated to Iames Earle of Montrose, Lord Grahame, Baron of Murdock, &c." wherein Lithgow says "my humble request, pleads the continuance of your favour, that as your late renowned Grand-father and Father, were unto mee both friendlie and favourable (proceeding from their great goodnesse, not my deserts;) so expect I the same from your tender boun tie, which hitherto beyond my merit, hath beene exceeding kyndlie manifested. For the which, my prayse and prayers, the two sisters of myne Oblation, rest solidlie ingenochiated at the feete of your conspicuous clemencie. This present worke in its secret infancie, was both seene and perused by your Lo: but now enlarged, polished, and published: I have done my best, though not my uttermost :-The lynes are plaine, yet pithie; and although the subject may carrie no loftie nor poeticke style, yet the manner, the matter, the man, and his Muse, are all, and only yours, and I left theirs onlie to serve you, and your noble disposition."

Then

Then the Prologue to the Reader," in nine stanzas, of which the second and third follow:

"My Muse declynes, downe slyde her loftie straynes
And hoarie growes, succumbing to the dust;
Old wrung inventions, from industrious paynes
Draw to the grave, where death must feede his lust:
Flesh flye in ashes, bones returne to clay,

Whence I begunne, there must my substance stay.
Goe, thou laborious pen, and challenge tynie,
For memorie, to all succeeding ages;

In thy past workes, and high heroicke ryme,
And pregnant prose, in thryce three thousand pages:
Yet dye thou must, and tyme shall weare thee out,
Ere scaven tymes seaven worne ages goe about."

Our author's gushing teares overflow through 456 sixline stanzas, and longer intercourse did not render his Muse better natured. The following extract, according to the margin, commences with depicting the repug

nance of ill and good."

"The best man lives, hath one predominant ill,
Oppos'd to the best good he can effect;

The worst man breaths, though curs'd, pervers'd of will,
Hath some predominant good, he doth affect:

Even either answering, contrare to their kinde,
Seeme to resemble what they never finde.

Lord! what am I, whose best is even accurst,
Who with thy convert, is of sinners chief:
A sharde unsav'rie of thy works the worst,
Unlesse thy grace reneu me with reliefe:

Lord! will my well! prepare my heart, give eare,
If faith can call, O! thou canst quickly heare.
The poore which almes seeks, he gets not aide,
For any need, the giver hath of him;
But even because he hath of us great need;
So we by faith on Christian steps must clim:
For God of his great love, he freely gives us,
And without need of man he still relieves us.
A cynick came, and ask'd the Syrian king,
(Antigonus) a dram of silver coyne;
But he reply'd it was too base a thing
For kings to give, or lend so small a loane:
Said cynick then, I would a talent crave,

But thats too much for thee (said he) to have.

Thus two extreams, were both extreamly met,
But its not so with God, and sinfull men;

The more we seeke, the more we're sure to get,
God of his bounty is so good, that when

We mercy crave, he grants it, gives us grace,
Our wills and wayes may in his precepts trace.
Lift up my falling minde, Lord! knit my heart
With cords of love and chaines of grace to thee;
As Jonathan's three arrows did impart

To Dauids woes true signes of amitie.

So rouze my sprite, let grace and goodnesse spell
Mine annagram I Love Almighty Wel.*

O! if I could byte off the head of sinne
As the shee viper doth the male confound,

But not like her, whose brood conceiv'd within,
Cut forth her wombe, leave her dead on the ground.
Lord! grant Isinne may slay, ere sinne slay me,
The wounds are deep, my health consists in Thee.
Lord! when I ponder on this worldly pride,
Vain glory, riches, honour, noble birth,
Great lands, and rents, faire palaces beside
Pastimes, and pleasures fit-thought things on earth,
Without thy love, and in regard of thee,
They're nought but shaddows, of meere vanitie."

J. H.

Here begynneth a lytell treatyse of the horse, the shepe, and the goos. [Printed by Wynkyn de Worde.+]

This poem is attributed to Lidgate. The subject is a dispute between the horse, the sheep, and the goose, as

[Making Williame Lythgove.]

to

+ Folded in sixes, with double signatures, extending to b b v. the last leaf wanting. The above title forms two head lines upon the second leaf: aa i has a wood-cut, repeated on next side, of a lion holding his court, attended by the wolf, the hound, the cat, and, perhaps, the fox. At a distance the death of Kywart the hare by the fox, seems to be displayed. The whole representation is undoubtedly from the story of Reynard the Fox, and, if it was

not