Her eyes like angels watch them still; Robin Goodfellow. [Attributed, upon supposition only, to Ben Jonson.] From Oberon, in fairy land, The king of ghosts and shadows there, Am sent to view the night-sports here. Is kept about, In every corner where I go, I will o'ersee, And merry be, And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho! More swift than lightning can I fly About this airy welkin soon, Each thing that's done below the moon. Or ghost shall wag, Or cry, 'ware goblins! where I go; Their feats will spy, And send them home with ho, ho, ho! Whene'er such wanderers I meet, As from their night-sports they trudge home, With counterfeiting voice I greet, And call them on with me to roam : Through woods, through lakes; To play some trick, And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho! Sometimes I meet them like a man, Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; To trip and trot about them round. My back they stride, More swift than wind away I go, When lads and lasses merry be, With possets and with junkets fine; I eat their cakes and sip their wine! I puff and snort: And out the candles I do blow: They shriek-Who's this? I answer nought but ho, ho, ho! Yet now and then, the maids to please, Their malt up still; I dress their hemp; I spin their tow; If any wake, And would me take, I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho! Time's Alteration. When this old cap was new, But all things plenty were: (Believe me this is true); Which was not in those days, When this old cap was new. The nobles of our land, Were much delighted then, To have at their command A crew of lusty men, Which by their coats were known, Of tawny, red, or blue, With crests on their sleeves shown, When this old cap was new. Now pride hath banish'd all, Unto our land's reproach, When he whose means is small, Maintains both horse and coach: Instead of a hundred men, The coach allows but two; This was not thought on then, When this old cap was new. Good hospitality Was cherish'd then of many; Now poor men starve and die, And are not help'd by any: For charity waxeth cold, And love is found in few; This was not in time of old, When this old cap was new. Where'er you travelled then, You might meet on the way Brave knights and gentlemen, Clad in their country grey; That courteous would appear, And kindly welcome you; No puritans then were, When this old cap was new. Our ladies in those days In civil habit went ; Broad cloth was then worth praise, And gave the best content: French fashions then were scorn'd; At Christmas, in each hall, And meat for great and small : The neighbours were friendly bidden, And all had welcome true; The poor from the gates were not chidden, When this old cap was new. Black jacks to every man Were fill'd with wine and beer; In those days did appear: In cups of silver fine; None under the degree of a knight Now each mechanical man Hath a cupboard of plate for a show; Which was a rare thing then, When this old cap was new. Then bribery was unborn, At that time hardly knew ; No captain then caroused, As they are at this day : When this old cap was new: Their fortunes were the best. Of that which is their due: Loyalty Confined. [Supposed to have been written by Sir Roger L'Estrange, while in confinement on account of his adherence to Charles I.] Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow; Swell, curl'd waves, high as Jove's roof; Your incivility doth show That innocence is tempest-proof; Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; Then strike, affliction, for thy wounds are balm. That which the world miscalls a jail, Into this private room was turned; The salamander should be burned; The pelican her wilderness, I, as my mistress' favours, wear; I have some iron shackles there: Like some high-prized margarite; Am cloister'd up from public sight: And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee. To keep vice out, and keep me in: Did only wound him to a cure: When once my prince affliction hath, Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart- That renders what I have not, mine: Have you not seen the nightingale But though they do my corpse confine, My soul is free as ambient air, tioned in a history of English Literature; and in judging of his merits, we ought to bear in mind the early age at which he was cut off. His 'Arcadia,' on which the chief portion of his fame undoubtedly rests, was so universally read and admired in the reigns of Elizabeth and her successor, that, in 1633, it had reached an eighth edition. Subsequently, however, it fell into comparative neglect, in which, during the last century, the contemptuous terms in which it was spoken of by Horace Walpole contributed not a little to keep it. By that writer it is characterised as 'a tedious, lamentable, pedantic, pastoral romance, which the patience of a young virgin in love cannot now wade through.' And the judgment more recently pronounced by Dr Drake,* and Mr Hazlitt, is almost equally unfavourable. On the other hand, Sidney has found a fervent admirer in another modern writer, who highly extols the 'Arcadia' in the second volume of the Retrospective Review. A middle course is steered by Dr Zouch, who, in his memoirs of Sidney, published in 1808, while he admits that changes in taste, manners, and opinions, have rendered the Arcadia' unsuitable to modern readers, maintains that there are passages in this work exquisitely beautiful-useful observations on life and manners-a variety and accurate discrimination of characters-fine sentiments, expressed in strong and adequate terms-animated descriptions, equal to any that occur in the ancient or modern poets-sage lessons of morality, and judicious reflections on government and policy. A reader,' he continues, who takes up the volume, may be compared to a traveller who has a long and dreary road to pass. The objects that successively meet his eye may not in general be very pleasing, but occasionally he is charmed with a more beautiful prospect-with the verdure of a rich valley-with a meadow enamelled with flowers-with a murmur of a rivulet-the swelling grove-the hanging rockthe splendid villa. These charming objects abundantly compensate for the joyless regions he has traversed. They fill him with delight, exhilarate his drooping spirits and at the decline of day, he reposes with complacency and satisfaction.' This representation we are inclined to regard as doing at least ample justice to the Arcadia,' the former high popularity of which is, doubtless, in some degree attributable to the personal fame of its author, and to the scarcity of works of fiction in the days of Elizabeth. But to whatever causes the admiration with which it was received may be ascribed, there can hardly, we think, be a question, that a work so extensively perused must have contributed not a little to fix the English tongue, and to form that vigorous and imaginative style which characterises the literature of the beginning and middle of the seventeenth century. Notwithstanding the occasional over-inflation and pedantry of his style, Sidney may justly be regarded as the best prose writer of his time. He was, in truth, what Cowper felicitously calls him, a 'warbler of poetic prose.' In his personal character, Sidney, like most men of high sensibility and poetical feeling, showed a disposition to melancholy and solitude. His chief fault seems to have been impetuosity of temper, an illustration of which has already been quoted from his reply to 'Leicester's Commonwealth.' The same trait appears in the following letter (containing what proved to be a groundless accusation), which he wrote in 1578 to the secretary of his father, then lord deputy of Ireland. * Essays Illustrative of the Tatler, Spectator, &c., ii. 9. †Lectures on the Dramatic Literature of the Age of Elizabeth, p. 263. 'Mr Molyneux-Few words are best. My letters to my father have come to the eyes of some. Neither can I condemn any but you for it. If it be so, you have played the very knave with me; and so I will make you know, if I have good proof of it. But that for so much as is past. For that is to come, I assure you before God, that if ever I know you do so much as read any letter I write to my father, without his commandment, or my consent, I will thrust my dagger into you. And trust to it, for I speak it in earnest. In the mean time, farewell.' Of the following extracts, three are from Sidney's Arcadia,' and the fourth from his 'Defence of Poesy.' [A Tempest.] There arose even with the sun a veil of dark clouds before his face, which shortly, like ink poured into water, had blacked over all the face of heaven, preparing, as it were, a mournful stage for a tragedy to be played on. For, forthwith the winds began to speak louder, and, as in a tumultuous kingdom, to think themselves fittest instruments of commandment; and blowing whole storms of hail and rain upon them, they were sooner in danger than they could almost bethink themselves of change. For then the traitorous sea began to swell in pride against the afflicted navy, under which, while the heaven favoured them, it had lain so calmly; making mountains of itself, over which the tossed and tottering ship should climb, to be straight carried down again to a pit of hellish darkness, with such cruel blows against the sides of the ship, that, which way soever it went, was still in his malice, that there was left neither power to stay nor way to escape. And shortly had it so dissevered the loving company, which the day before had tarried together, that most of them never met again, but were swallowed up in his never-satisfied mouth. [Description of Arcadia.] There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of eyepleasing flowers; thickets, which being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so to, by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security; while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dam's comfort; here a shepherd's boy piping, as herdess knitting, and withal singing; and it seemed though he should never be old; there a young shepthat her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music. [A Stag Hunt.] Then went they together abroad, the good Kalander well he loved the sport of hunting when he was a entertaining them with pleasant discoursing-how young man, how much in the comparison thereof he disdained all chamber-delights, that the sun (how great a journey soever he had to make) could never prevent him with earliness, nor the moon, with her sober countenance, dissuade him from watching till midnight for the deers feeding. O, said he, you will never live to my age, without you keep yourself in breath with exercise, and in heart with joyfulness; too much thinking doth consume the spirits; and oft it falls out, that, while one thinks too much of his doing, he leaves to do the effect of his thinking. Then spared he not to remember, how much Arcadia was changed since his youth; activity and good fellowship being nothing in the price it was then held in; but, according to the nature of the old-growing world, |