When fro my hart a sigh forthwith I fet,
Rewing, alas, upon the wofull plight
Of Miserie, that next appeared in sight.

His face was leane, and sum deale pyned away,
And eke his handes consumed to the bone,
But what his body was I cannot say,

For on his carkas rayment had he none,
Save cloutes and patches pieced one by one.
With staffe in hande, and skrip on shoulder cast,
His chiefe defence agaynst the winters blast.

His foode for most, was wylde fruytes of the tree,
Unles sumtimes sum crummes fell to his share:
Which in his wallet long, God wote, kept he,
As on the which full dayntlye would he fare.
His drinke the running streame: his cup the bare
Of his palme closed: his bed the hard colde grounde.
To this poore life was Miserie ybound.

Whose wretched state when we had well behelde
With tender ruth on him and on his feres,

In thoughtful cares, furth then our pace we helde;
And by and by, another shape apperes,
Of greedy Care, stil brushing up the breres,
His knuckles knob'd, his fleshe depe dented in,
With tawed handes, and hard ytanned skyn.

The morrowe graye no sooner had begunne
To spreade his light even peping in our iyes,
When he is up and to his worke yrunne:
But let the nightes blacke mistye mantels rise,
And with fowle darke never so much disguyse
The fayre bright day, yet ceasseth he no whyle,
But hath his candels to prolong his toyle.

By him lay heavy Slepe, cosin of Death,
Flat on the ground, and still as any stone,
A very corps, save yelding forth a breath.
Small kepe took he whom Fortune frowned on,
Or whom she lifted up into the trone
Of high renowne, but as a living death,
So dead alyve, of lyfe he drewe the breath.

The bodyes rest, the quyete of the hart,
The travayles ease, the still nightes fere was he.
And of our life in earth the better parte,
Reuen of sight, and yet in whom we see
Thinges oft that tide, and ofte that never bee.
Without respect esteeming equally
Kyng Cresus pompe, and Irus povertie.

And next in order sad Old Age we found,
His beard all hoare, his iyes hollow and blynde,
With drouping chere still poring on the ground,
As on the place where nature him assinde
To rest, when that the sisters had untwynde
His vitall threde, and ended with theyr knyfe
The fleeting course of fast declining life.

There heard we him with broken hollow playnt,
Rewe with himselfe his ende approaching fast,
And all for nought his wretched minde torment
With swete remembraunce of his pleasures past,
And freshe delites of lusty youth forwaste.
Recounting which, how woulde he sob and shrike,
And to be yong againe of Jove beseke.

But and the cruell fates so fixed be
That time forpast cannot retourne agayne,
This one request of Jove yet prayed he:

That in such withered plight, and wretched paine,
As elde (accompanied with his lothsome trayne)
Had brought on him, all were it woe and griefe,
He might a while yet linger forth his lief;

And not so soone descend into the pit,

Where death, when he the mortall corps hath slayne,
With retchles hande in grave doth cover it,
Thereafter never to enjoye agayne

The gladsome light, but in the ground ylayne
In depth of darknes waste and weare to nought,
As he had nere into the world been brought.

But who had seene him sobbing, howe he stoode
Unto himselfe, and howe he would bemone
His youth forpast, as though it wrought hym good
To talke of youth, al wer his youth forgone,

He would have mused, and mervayled muche whereon
This wretched age should life desyre so fayne,
And knowes ful wel life doth but length his payne.

Crookebackt he was, tooth shaken, and blere iyed,
Went on three feete, and sometime crept on foure,
With olde lame bones, that ratled by his syde,
His skalpe all pilde, and he with elde forlore:
His withered fist stil knocking at deathes dore,
Fumbling and driveling as he drawes his breth;
For briefe, the shape and messenger of Death.

And fast by him pale Maladie was plaste,
Sore sicke in bed, her colour all forgone,
Bereft of stomake, savor, and of taste,

Ne could she brooke no meat but brothes alone.
Her breath corrupt, her keepers every one
Abhorring her, her sicknes past recure,
Detesting phisicke, and all phisickes cure.

But oh the doleful sight that then we see;
We turnde our looke, and on the other side
A griesly shape of Famine mought we see,
With greedy lookes, and gaping mouth that cryed,
And roard for meat as she should there have dyed:
Her body thin and bare as any bone,

Wharto was left nought but the case alone;

And that alas was knawen on every where
All full of holes, that I ne mought refrayne
From teares to see how she her armes could teare,
And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vayne:
When all for nought she fayne would so sustayne
Her starven corps, that rather seemde a shade,
Then any substaunce of a creature made.

Great was her force whom stonewall could not stay,
Her tearyng nayles scratching at all she sawe :
With gaping jawes that by no means ymay

Be satisfyed from hunger of her mawe,
But eates her selfe as she that hath no lawe:
Gnawing alas her carkas all in vayne,

Where you may count eche sinow, bone, and vayne.

On her while we thus firmly fixt our iyes,
That bled for ruth of such a drery sight,
Loe sodaynelye she shryght in so huge wyse,
As made hell gates to shyver with the myght.
Wherewith a dart we sawe howe it did lyght
Ryght on her breast, and therewithal pale death
Enthrylling it to rave her of her breath.

And by and by a dum dead corps we sawe,
Heavy and colde, the shape of death aryght,
That dauntes all earthly creatures to his lawe:
Agaynst whose force in vayne it is to fyght
Ne pieres, ne princes, nor no mortall wyght,
No townes, ne realmes, cities, ne strongest tower,
But al perforce must yeeld unto his power.

His dart anon out of the corps he tooke,
And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see)
With great triumphe eftsones the same he shocke,
That most of all my feares affrayed me:
His bodie dight with nought but bones perdye,
The naked shape of man there sawe I playne,
All save the fleshe, the synowe, and the vayne.

Lastly stoode Warre in glitteryng armes yclad,
With visage grym, sterne lookes, and blackely hewed ;
In his right hand a naked sworde he had,

That to the hiltes was al with bloud embrewed:
And in his left (that kinges and kingdomes rewed)
Famine and fyer he held, and therewythall

He razed townes, and threwe downe towers and all.

Cities he sakt, and realmes that whilom flowered,
In honour, glory, and rule above the best,
He overwhelmde, and all theyr fame devowred,
Consumed, destroyed, wasted, and never ceast,
Tyll he theyr wealth, their name, and all opprest.
His face forehewed with woundes, and by his side
There hunge his terge with gashes depe and wyde.

EDWARD VERE, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford, was born in 1534, and succeeded to the title and estates of his father in 1562. He was a pensioner of St. John's, Cambridge; spent several years in travel; sate as Great Chamberlain of England upon the trial of Mary Queen of Scots; and was one of the most distinguished officers employed against the Spanish Armada. In youth he was remarkable, says Wood, for his wit, adroitness in exercises, and valour and zeal for his country; but he is said to have returned from Italy a finished coxcomb, and it is recorded that he was the first who introduced into England embroidered gloves and perfumes. In consequence of his continually aping Italian dress and manners, he was nicknamed "the Mirrour of Tuscanismo." Some discreditable anecdotes of his life have been preserved. The story of his quarrel with Sir Philip Sidney is little to his repute, and shows the length to which aristocratic privilege was at that time carried. The Earl being one day at play in the Tennis Court, took offence at some remark of Sidney's, ordered him to leave the room, and, on his refusal, applied to him an epithet of contempt. Sir Philip gave his lordship the lie direct, and quitted the place, expecting to be followed by the peer. But Lord Oxford very prudently waited, until the Queen had time to command the peace. Her Majesty then reminded Sir Philip of the difference between earls and gentlemen,superiors and inferiors. The gallant Sidney, however, boldly protested against such a distinction in such a matter, and refused to obey her Majesty's directions that he should "make submission" to his opponent. Lord Oxford died in 1604.

His Poems, which were greatly extolled by his contemporaries, have never been published in a volume; and are only to be found scattered among various "collections." "All that I have seen of them," says Anthony Wood, "are certain Poems on several subjects, thus entitled: -1. His good Name being blemished, he bewaileth. 2. The Complaint of a Lover wearing Black and Tawnie. 3. Being in Love he complaineth. 4. A Lover rejected complaineth. 5. Not attaining his desire, he complaineth. 6. His mind not being quietly settled, he complaineth: with many such." The most graceful of his productions is that entitled "Fancy and Desire," which Dr. Percy extracted from the "Garland of Good Will," and which is praised by Puttenham for its "excellencie and wit." It was originally published in Breton's "Bower of Delights," edit. 1597, and is to be found in " England's Helicon,"-a volume from which we have also extracted "the Shepheard's Commendation of his Nimph." From "the Paradise of Dayntie Devises" we have copied the poem, entitled, "A Lover disdained, complaineth;" and from these two rare collections of Fugitive poetry, we have borrowed "the Judgement of Desire," and the "Lines attributed to the Earl of Oxford," from a MS. in the Bodleian. In transcribing both, however, we have availed ourselves of copies printed for private circulation by the late Mr. Haslewood-which differ slightly from those that had previously been in print.

Lord Oxford is a fair example of a race of minor poets, who obtained large notoriety which they considered fame, by the occasional production of a few lines in verse, giving utterance to some quaint thought, or absurd conceit, or imaginary grievance, of which "Being in Love he complaineth" was the cuckoo note.

Compositions of this description were doubtless passed from hand to hand, found patrons enough in doleful lovers, under similar circumstances, and were thus frequently fathered upon persons who had no claim to the creation, while some of the best and sweetest of such productions have remained, even to our own day, among the class "anonymous." The age of Queen Elizabeth is particularly rich in these anonymous productions; it forms no part of our plan to include them in this volume, but we must regret that we are therefore compelled to omit many that would adorn any collection of English Poetry.

Lord Oxford, like the greater number of the lesser "wits" of his age, is full of conceit and antithesis, and labours hard to render his thoughts obscure. Yet we may refer our readers to the extracts we have given for proof that he scarcely merits the sarcasm of Dr. Percy-that his reputation has lost nothing in consequence of his writings not having been preserved. The few of his compositions which now exist, lead us, rather, to regret that the other-perhaps the better-productions of his muse have not been transmitted to us. If he acquired fame, while he lived, far beyond his deserts, posterity has too much neglected him.