Discovering daily more and more about
In that immense and boundless ocean
Of nature's riches, never yet found out,
Nor foreclosed with the wit of any man.
So far beyond the ordinary course
That other unindustrious ages ran,

That these more curious times they might divorce
From the opinion they are linked unto,
Of our disable and unactive force ;
To shew true knowledge can both speak and do:
Armed for the sharp which in these days they find
With all provisions that belong thereto:

That their experience may not come behind
The time's conceit: but, leading in their place,
May make men see the weapons of the mind
Are states' best strengths, and kingdoms' chiefest grace.

DANIEL'S Musophilus.

[GO now with some daring drug
Bait the disease, and while they tug,
Thou, to maintain their cruel strife,
Spend the dear treasure of thy life:
Go, take physic, doat upon
Some big-nam'd composition,
The oraculous doctor's mystic bills,
Certain hard words made into pills ;
And what at length shalt get by these ?
Only a costlier disease.
Go, poor man, think what shall be
Remedy against thy remedy.
That which makes us have no need
Of physic, that's physic indeed.]

Hark hither, reader, wouldst thou see
Nature her own physician be?
Wouldst see a man all his own wealth,
His own music, his own health ?
A man, whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well;
Her garments that upon her sit
(A8 garments should do) close and fit:


A well-cloth'd soul, that's not opprest
Nor chokt with what she should be drest?
I hose soul's sheath'd in a crystal shrine,
Through which all her bright features shine,
As when a piece of wanton lawn,
A thin aerial vail is drawn,
O'er Beauty's face; seeming to hide,
More sweetly shews the blushing bride ?
A soul, whose intellectual beams
No mists do mask, no lazy steams ?
A happy soul, that all the way
To heav'n rides in a summer's day?
Wouldst see a man whose well-warm'd blood
Bathes him in a genuine flood:
A man, whose tuned humours be
A set of rarest harmony?
Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks beguile
Age ? wouldst see December smile ?
Wouldst see a nest of roses grow
In a bed of reverend snow ?
Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering
Winter's self into a spring ?
In sum, wouldst see a man that can
Live to be old, and still a man;
Whose latest and most leaden hours
Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers :
And when life's sweet fable ends,
His soul and body part like friends :
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay ;
A kiss, a sigh, and so away
This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see?
Hark hither, and thyself be he.

RICHARD CRASHAW, In praise of Lessius.

HOW'S this? A book for Temperance? that first page
Will mar the sale on't. Our luxurious age
Erpects some new invention to devour
Estates at mouthfuls, swallow in an hour
What was not scraped in years: had ye but hit
On some such subject, that had been most fit
For these loose times, when a strict sparing food
More's out of fashion than an old French hood.


But what (alas !) must moderate Temperance,-she-
Live in perpetual exile, because we
Turn such voluptuous Epicures? No; now
Sh'has got bold champions dare her cause avow
In spite of opposition, and have shewn
In print t'our shame, how we're intemperate grown.
The pearl-dissolving courtier may weil here
Learn to make meaner, yet far better cheer:
The scholar to be pleased with 's penny bit,
As much as those that at kings' tables sit,
Crowded with heaps of dishes. Here's a diet
Ne'er troubles nature; and whoe'er shall buy it
For practice sake, buys but his own content.
And that's a purchase he shall ne'er repent.

J. JACKSON, to the translator of Lessius.

METHINKS I could be intemperate in thy praise,
Feast thee with forced words and sugared lays ;
But that thy prose, my verse, do both command
Me to keep measure, and take off my hand.
There's gluttony in words; the mouth may sin
In giving out, as well as taking in.

BARNABAS OLBY, to the same.




&c. &c.


Among the customs of the age to which this little book relates I have long thought that of dedications very deserving of our imitation. For, while they render merited homage to those who have furthered our intellectual or moral growth, they encourage us to exertion by the recollection, that there are readers for whom it is worth while to work. I rejoice therefore that a contribution to ecclesiastical history, slight though it be, gives me an excuse for acknowledging thus publicly the benefits which I have derived from your writings, from your catholic spirit and devotion to historical truth. If we no longer deem it a just ground for indiscriminate abuse of the middle ages

that they are “dark to us;” if we can be protestants without implicit faith in Fox and Burnet; if we


are beginning to discover that books not popularly read may yet repay our study, and that, to see further than the giant, the dwarf must stand on the giant's shoulders; it is to you that this advance is mainly to be ascribed. Still, though you will at once remark defects hidden from the casual reader, I will not pretend to feel alarm in submitting my work to your judgement: for frequent experience assures me, that the true master now, of old, “will gladly learn and gladly teach;” that wilful and self-satisfied ignorance alone need tremble beneath your rod; that, knowing how hard it is to be everywhere accurate and impartial, you will recognize any sincere endeavour after accuracy and impartiality.


Believe me to be,

My dear Dr. Maitland,

Ever truly and gratefully yours,


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