love of learning no suspicion of ill husbandry. But what malice begot in the country upon ignorance, or in the city upon criticism, shall prepare against me, I am armed to endure.". "I think even

these verses will have that proportion in the world's opinion, that heaven hath allotted me in fortune; not so high as to be wondered at, nor so low as to be contemned."

After the preface follow some verses to him by George Talbot beforementioned, in which he says,

We too are knowne

To th' world as to ourselves, to be but one

In blood as study: and my careful love

Did never action worth my name, approve,
Which serv'd not thee."

Afterwards he says,

I boldly can

Stile thee more than good poet, a good man.”

Habington's sixth poem is addressed "to his honoured friend Mr. E. P." [Endymion Porter] whom he describes "not always in the shine of kings," sometimes retiring to the holy shade of the Muses. The seventh to Castara, in praise of content and the calm happiness of the country at Hindlip, is exquisitely delicate, and poetical. Warton, in his edition of the "Juvenile poems of Milton," p. 45, refers to a passage in this beautiful ode: but appears to have been himself unacquainted with these poems, the passage having been pointed out by Mr. Bowle; otherwise his candour, taste,

and accuracy, could never have been guilty of talking of "an obscure poet, John Habington." He very properly calls what he cites "an elegant triplet." The tenth poem is addressed to the honourable his much-honoured friend R. B. Esq." [Robert Brudenell] afterwards 2d Earl of Cardigan, a man, who lived to the great age of 96, being born March 5, 1607, and did not die till July 16, 1703: he had the misfortune to be father to the infamous Countess of Shrewsbury, (widow of George Talbot's younger brother, Earl Francis) who held the Duke of Buckingham's horse in the disguise of a page, when he fought and killed her husband. Her sister, the Countess of Westmoreland, died in 1739 at the age of 91.*

“While you dare trust the loudest tongue of fame,
The zeale you beare your mistresse to proclaim,
To th' talking world: I in the silent'st grove,
Scarce to myself dare whisper that I love.
Thee titles, Brud'nell, riches thee adorne;
And vigorous youth, to vice not headlong borne,
By th' tide of Custome: which I value more
Than what blind superstition's fools adore;

Who greatnesse in the chaire of blisse enthrone,
Greatnesse we borrow, vertue is our own."†

The 13th poem is "to the right honourable the Countesse of Ar." who must have been Margaret, daughter of William Douglas, Earl of Morton, wife of Archibald 8th Earl of Argyle. The 19th is

*Coll. Peer. II. 499. III. 27. Walp. R & N. Auth. Grammont's Mem. &c.

+ P. 10.

"A Dialogue betweene Hope and Feare.

Feare. "Checke thy forward thoughts, and know
Hymen only joynes their hands,

Who with even paces goe,

Shee in gold, he rich in lands.

Hope. But Castara's purer fire,

When it meetes a noble flame,

Shuns the smoke of such desire,

Joynes with love, and burnes the same.

Feare. Yet obedience must prevaile,

They, who o're her actions sway,
Wou'd have her in th' ocean saile,

And contemne thy narrow sea.

Hope. Parents' lawes must beare no weight,
When they happinesse prevent;
And our sea is not so streight,

But it roome hath for content.

Feare. Thousand hearts as victims stand,
At the altar of her eyes:

And will partiall she command,
Onely thine for sacrifice?

Hope. Thousand victims must returne;
Shee the purest will designe:

Choose Castara which shall burne,
Choose the purest, that is mine."

In a short address "to The Thames," p. 32. he speaks of" Faire Seymors, on the banks of Marlow." "to Seymors, the house in which

P. 43, is a poem

Castara resided."

* Pp. 20, 21,

In p. 39, a poem to Mr. George Talbot begins with the following noble lines:

"Thrice hath the pale-fac'd empresse of the night,
Lent in her chaste increase her borrowed light
To guide the vowing marriner: since mute,
Talbot, th'ast beene, too slothfull to salute
Thy exil'd servant. Labour not t'excuse
This dull neglect: love never wants a muse.
When thunder summons from eternall sleepe
Th' imprison'd ghosts, and spreads o'th' frighted deepe
A veile of darknesse; penitent to be

I may forget, yet still remember thee,

Next to my faire, uuder whose eye-lids move,
In nimble measures, beauty, wit, and love.",

In p. 50, are some lines to Lady Eleanor Powis, Castara's mother, in which he appeals to the superiority of her judgment over the glitter of wealth and station; and demands, if rich with a little, they may not be lifted by mutual love, to a greatness above what riches can confer. He dares not, he says, when he surveys the beauty of Castara's hand, ascribe the brightness of its veins to the blood of Charlemaigne, which flows in them through her, or the united streams of Marmion, Rosse, Parr, Fitzhugh, and St. Quintin, which add their lustre to the Pembroke family. Would that Castara were the daughter of some mountain-cottager, who could leave her no other dower than what she derived from the bounty of nature! He would then lead her to the temple, rich in her own wealth.

"Then all who vaunt

That fortune, them t'enrich, made others want,

Should set themselves out glorious in her stealth,
And trie if that could parallel this wealth."

P. 52, is a poem, "To the honourable Mr. Wm.
E." reprinted in Headley's 2d vol. pp. 19, 20.
In another poem, "To Castara, on the Vanity of
Avarice," p. 56, he says,

"I'de rather like the violet grow
Unmarkt i̇' th' shaded vale,

Than on the hill those terrors know
Are breath'd forth by an angry gale;

There is more pompe above, more sweete below."

The verses, p. 58, are to his "honoured friend and kinsman, R. St. Esquire." It does not give me pain, says he, if what I write is held no wit at court. Let those who teach their muse the art of winning on easy greatness, or the spruce young lawyer,

who is all impudence and tongue,' endeavour to divulge their fames, by which the one may get employ, and the other fees, I embrace silence, and that fate which placed my birth so happily, that I am neither depressed by want, nor flattered by riches into pride. Why are some poets always railing, and steeping their rhymes in gall; as if there was no crime that called so loudly for the vengeance of heaven as the poverty of a few writers? It is true, that Chapman's reverend ashes have been mingled with the vulgar dust for want of a tomb; yet we need not despair, that some devout lover of poetry may yet build him a monument.

"Since Spencer hath a stone; and Drayton's browes Stand petrefied; th' wall, with laurell bowes