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I did not know thee, lord, nor do I strive
To win access, or grace, with lords alive ;
The dead I serve, from whence nor faction can
Move me, nor favour; nor a greater man:
To whom no vice commends me, nor bribe sent,
From whom no penance warns, nor portion spent,
To these I dedicate as much of me
As I can spare from my own husbandry :
And till ghosts walk, as they were wont to do,
I trade for some, and do these errands too.
But first I do inquire, and am assur'd
What trials in their journies they endur'd;
What certainties of honour and of worth
Their most uncertain lifetimes have brought forth:
And whoso did least hurt of this small store,
He is my patron, died he rich or poor.
First I will know of Fame (after his peace,
When flattery and envy both do cease)
Who ruld his actions ; reason, or my lord?
Did the whole man rely upon a word,
A badge of title ; or above all chance,
Seem'd he as ancient as his cognizance?

What did he? acts of mercy, and refrain
Oppression in himself, and in his train ?
Was his essential table full as free
As boasts and invitations use to be ?
Where if his russet-friend did chance to dine,
Whether his sattin-man would fill him wine ?
Did he think perjury as lov'd a sin,
Himself forsworn, as if his slave had been?
Did he seek regular pleasures ? was he known
Just husband of one wife, and she his own :
Did he give freely without pause or doubt,
And read petitions ere they were worn out ?
Or should his well-deserving client ask,
Would he bestow a tilting or a mask
To keep need virtuous ? and that done, not fear
What lady damn'd him for his absence there?
Did he attend the court for no man's fall ?
Wore he the ruin of no hospital ?
And when he did his rich apparel don,
Put he no widow nor an orphan 'on* ?

* Did he attend the court for no man's fall ?

Wore he the ruin of no hospital ?
And when he did his rich apparel don,

Put he no widow, nor an orphan on?] The most finished cha-' racter of detestation we have, is Massinger's Sir Giles Overreach. The following part of a dialogue will give the reader some insight into his exquisite talents for mischief.

Lovell. Are you not frighted with the imprecations and curses of whole families, made wretched by your sinister practices ?

Overreach. Yes, as rocks are,
When foamy billows split themselves against
Their flinty ribs ; or as the moon is movid,
When wolves, with hunger pin’d, howl at her brightness.
I'm of a solid temper, and like these
Steer on a constant course. With mine own sword,
If call'd into the field, I can make that right,
Which fearful enemies murmured at as wrong.

Did he love simple virtue for the thing?
The King for no respect but for the King ?
But above all, did his religion wait
Upon God's throne, or on the chair of state ?
He that is guilty of no query here,
Outlasts bis epitaph, outlives his heir.
But there is none such, none so little bad,
Who but this negative goodness ever had ?
Of such a lord we may expect the birth,
He's rather in the womb than on the earth.
And 'twere a crime in such a public fate
For one to live well and degenerate;
And therefore I am angry when a vame
Comes to upbraid the world like Effingham.
Nor was it modest in thee to depart
To thy eternal home, where now thou art,
Ere thy reproach was ready; or to die,
Ere custom had prepar'd thy calumny.

Now, for those other piddling complaints
Breath'd out in bitterness ; as when they call me
Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder
On my poor neighbour's right; or grand incloser
Of what was common, to my private use:
Nay, when my ears are pierc'd with widows' cries,
And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold,
I only think what 'tis to have my daughter
Right honourable; and 'tis a powerful charm
Makes me insensible of remorse or pity,
Or the least sting of conscience.

New Way to pay Old Debts, Act IV. Sc. i. In the last scene of the same play, the distresses that he had occasioned take fast hold of his conscience, and give rise to the following terribly sublime exclamation :

I'll fall to execution-ha! I am feeble:
Some undone widow sits upon mine arm,
And takes away the use of’t; and my sword,
Glued to my scabbard with wrong’d orphans' tears,
Will not be drawn, &c.

Eight days have past since thou hast paid thy debt
To sin, and not a libel stirring yet;
Courtiers, that scoff by patent, silent sit,
And have no use of slander or of wit;
But (which is monstrous) though against the tide,
The watermen have neither rail'd nor ly’d.
Of good and bad there's no distinction known,
For in thy praise the good and bad are one.
It seems we all are covetous of Fame,
And hearing what a purchase of good name
Thou lately mad’st, are careful to increase
Our title, by the holding of some lease
From thee our landlord, and for that th’ whole crew
Speak now like tenants ready to renew.
It were too sad to tell thy pedigree,
Death hath disorder'd all, misplacing thee;
Whilst now thy herald in his line of heirs
Blots out thy name, and fills the space with tears.
And thus hath conq'ring death, or nature, rather,
Made thee, prepost'rous, ancient to thy father,
Who grieves th' art so, and like a glorious light
Shines o'er thy hearse : he therefore that would write
And blaze thee thoroughly, may at once say all,
• Here lies the Anchor of our Admiral !'
Let others write for glory or reward,
Truth is well paid when she is sung

and heard.
Bp. Corbet's Poems, p. 22.


No, no, he is not dead; the mouth of Fame,
Honour's shrill herald, would preserve his name,
And make it live, in spite of death and dust,
Were there no other heaven, no other trust.
He is not dead : the sacred Nine deny
The soul that merits fame should ever die :
He lives; and when the latest breath of fame
Shall want her trump to glorify a name,
He shall survive, and these self-closed eyes
That now lie slumb’ring in the dust shall rise ;
And, fill'd with endless glory, shall enjoy
The perfect vision of eternal joy.

By F. Quarles, El. xii. subjoined to Sion's

Elegies, Edit. 1630.



Fame, register of Time,
Write in thy scroll, that I,
Of wisdom lover, and sweet poesy,
Was cropped in my prime :
And ripe in worth, though green in years, did die*.

Drummond's Poems, 8vo. p. 203.

* In this little piece, of five lines only, there is a certain Greekness (if I may be allowed the expression) that will not fail of capti

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