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- Quaint Gleanings from Ancient Poetry - 2/10 -


That forced my heart to die,

Thy grace, thy face, the part Where art Stands gazing still to see The wondrous gifts and power, Each hour, That hath bewitched me.

ANTHONY MUNDAY'S POEM ON THE CAPTIVITY OF JOHN FOX.

Leeving at large all fables vainly us'd, all trifling toys that doe no truth import, Lo, here how the end (at length), though long diffus'd, unfoldeth plaine a rare and true report, To glad those minds who seek their countries wealth by proffer'd pains t'enlarge its happy health.

At Rome I was when Fox did there arrive; therefore I may sufficiently express What gallant joy his deedes did there revive in the hearts of those which heard his valiantness. And how the Pope did recompense his pains, and letters gave to move his greater gains.

But yet I know that many doe misdoubt that those his pains are fables, and untrue; Not only I in this will bear him out, but divers more that did his Patents view, And unto those so boldly I dare say that nought but truth John Fox cloth here bewray.

Besides, there's one was slave with him in thrall lately return'd into our native land; This witness can this matter perfect all: what needeth more? for witness he may stand. And thus I end, unfolding what I know; the other man more larger proof can show. "_Honos alit Artes_"

The above lines by Anthony Munday are omitted by Hakluyt in his reprint of the captivity of John Fox in his "Principal English Voyages," vol. ii. p. 136, ed. 1598-1600. John Fox, of Woodbridge, gunner of the _Three Half Moons_, was made prisoner by the Turks in 1563. Escaped with 266 other Christians in 1577.

CARE FOR THY SOULE.

Care for thy soule, as thing of greatest pryce! Made to the ende to taste of power Divine, Devoid of guilt, abhorryng sin and vice, Apt by God's grace to virtue to incline; Care for it soe, as by thy retchless traine It bee not brought to taste eternall paine!

Care for thy corpse (body), but chiefely for soules sake, Not of excess; sustainyng food is best To vanquish pryde, but comely clothing take. Seeke after skille; deepe ignorance detest; Care so, I say, the flesh to feede and cloth, That thou harm not thy soule and bodie both.

Care for the world, to doe thy bodie right; Back not thy wytt to win by wicked wayes; Seeke not t'oppress the weak by wrongfull might; To pay thy due, doe banish all delayes; Care to dispend accordyng to thy store, And, in like sort, bee mindfull of the pore.

Care for thy soule, as for thy chiefest staye, Care for thy bodie, for the soules avail; Care for the world, for bodies helpe alwaye, Care yett but soe as virtue may prevail; Care in such sort, that thou be sure of this, Care keepe the not from heaven and heavenlie blisse.

MEGLIORA SPERO.

By Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford.

Faction, that ever dwells in Courte where witt excels, Hath sett defiance; Fortune and Love have sworne that they were never borne Of one alliance.

Cupid, which doth aspire to be god of Desire, Swears he "gives lawes; That where his arrows hit, somejoy, some sorrow it: Fortune no cause."

Fortune swears "weakest heartes," the bookes of Cupide's artes. "Turn'd with her wheel, Senselesse themselves shal prove. Venture hath place in love. Aske them that feel!"

This discord it begot atheists, that honour not. Nature thought good Fortune shoud ever dwel in Court where wits excel; Love keepe the wood.

Soe to the wood went I, with Love to live and dye; Fortunes forlorne. Experience of my youth made mee thinke humble Truth In deserts borne.

My saint I keepe to mee, and Joan herself is free, Joan fair and true! Shee that doth onely move passions of love with Love. Fortune! adieu!

A LETTER FROM THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH TO THE KING.

Disgrac'd, undone, forlorn, made Fortune's Sport, Banish'd your Kingdom first, and then your Court; Out of my Places turn'd, and out of Doors, And made the meanest of your Sons of Whores; The scene of Laughter, and the common chats Of your salt Bitches, and your other Brats; Forc'd to a private Life, to Whore and Drink, On my past Grandeur and my Follies Think: Would I had been the Brat of some mean Drab, Whom Fear or Chance had caus'd to choak or stab, Rather than be the Issue of a King, And by him made so wretched, scorn'd a Thing. How little cause has mankind to be proud Of Noble Birth, the Idol of the Crowd! Have I abroad in Battels Honour won To be at home dishonourably undone? Mark'd with a Star and Garter, and made fine With all those gaudy Trifles once call'd mine, Your Hobby-Horses [1] and your Joys of State, And now become the Object of your Hate; But, d------'ee, Sir, I'll be Legitimate. I was your Darling, but against your Will, And know that I will be the Peoples still; And when you're dead, I and my Friends, the Rout, Will with my Popish Uncle try a Bout, And to my Troubles this one Comfort bring, Next after you, by ------, I will be King.

[Footnote 1: At the age of sixteen he was made Master of the Horse.]

THE KING'S ANSWER.

Ungrateful Boy! I will not call thee Son, Thou hast thyself unhappily undone; And thy Complaints serve but to show thee more, How much thou hast enrag'd thy Father's Whore. Resent it not, shake not thy addle Head, And be no more by Clubs and Rascals led. Have I made thee the Darling of my Joys, The prettiest and the lustiest of my Boys? Have I so oft sent thee with cost to France, To take new Dresses up, and learn to dance? Have I giv'n thee a Ribbon and a Star, And sent thee like a Meteor to the War? Have I done all that Royal Dad could do, And do you threaten now to be untrue? But say I did with thy fond Mother sport, To the same kindness others had resort; 'Twas my good Nature, and I meant her Fame, To shelter thee under my Royal Name. Alas! I never got one Brat alone, My Mistresses all are by each Fop well known, And I still willing all their Brats to own. I made thee once,'tis true, the Post of Grace, And stuck upon thee every mighty Place, Each glitt'ring Office, till thy heavy Brow Grew dull with Honour, and my Pow'r low. I spangled thee with Favours, hung thy Nose With Rings of Gold and Pearl, till all grew Foes By secret Envy at thy growing State: I lost my safety when I made thee Great. There's not the least Injustice to you shewn; You must be ruin'd to secure my Throne. Office is but a fickle Grace, the Badge Bestow'd by fits, and snatch'd away in Rage; And sure that Livery which I give my Slaves I may take from 'em when my Portsmouth raves.


Quaint Gleanings from Ancient Poetry - 2/10

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