retreat and be quiet when they desire it. And really, after such a manner I became engaged into a necessity of writing the Life of Dr. Donne, contrary to my first intentions; and that begot a like necessity of writing the Life of his and my ever honored friend, Sir Henry Wotton.

And having writ these two Lives, I lay quiet twenty years, without a thought of either troubling myself or others, by any new engagement in this kind; for I thought I knew my unfitness. But about that time, Dr. Gauden (then Lord Bishop of Exeter) published the life of Mr. Richard Hooker (so he called it), with so many dangerous mistakes, both of him and his books, that discoursing of them with his Grace Gilbert, that now is Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, he enjoined me to examine some circumstances, and then rectify the Bishop's mistakes, by giving the world a fuller and truer account of Mr. Hooker and his books than that bishop had done; and I know I have done so. And let me tell the reader, that till his Grace had laid this injunction upon me, I could not admit a thought of any fitness in me to undertake it; but when he twice enjoined me to it, I then declined my own, and trusted his judgment, and submitted to his commands; concluding, that if I did not I could not forbear accusing myself of disobedience, and indeed of ingratitude for his many favors. Thus I became engaged into the third Life.

For the Life of that great example of holiness, Mr. George Herbert, I profess it to be so far a free-will offering, that it was writ chiefly to please myself, but yet not without some respect to posterity. For though he was not a man that the next age can forget, yet many of his particular acts and virtues might have been neglected or lost, if I had not collected and presented them to the imitation of those that shall succeed us; for I humbly conceive writing to be both a safer and truer preserver of men's virtuous actions than tradition, especially as it is managed in this age. And I am also to tell the reader, that though this Life of Mr. Herbert was not by me writ in haste, yet I intended it a review before it should be made public; but that was not allowed me, by reason of my absence from London when it was printing; so that the reader may find in it some mistakes, some double expressions, and some not very proper, and some that might have been contracted, and some faults that are not justly chargeable upon me, but the printer; and yet I hope none so great, as may not by this confession purchase pardon from a good-natured reader.

And now I wish, that as that learned Jew, Josephus, and others, so these men had also writ their own Lives; but since it is not the fashion of these times, I wish their relations or friends would do it for them, before delays make it too diffi

cult. And I desire this the more, because it is an honor due to the dead, and a generous debt due to those that shall live and succeed us, and would to them prove both a content and satisfaction. For when the next age shall (as this does) admire the learning and clear reason which that excellent casuist, Dr. Sanderson (the late Bishop of Lincoln), hath demonstrated in his sermons and other writings; who, if they love virtue, would not rejoice to know, that this good man was as remarkable for the meekness and innocence of his life, as for his great and useful learning; and indeed as remarkable for his fortitude in his long and patient suffering (under them that then called themselves the godly party) for that doctrine which he had preached and printed in the happy days of the nation and the church's peace? And who would not be content to have the like account of Dr. Field, that great schoolman, and others of noted learning? And though I cannot hope that my example or reason can persuade to this undertaking, yet I please myself, that I shall conclude my preface with wishing that it were so.

J. W.

TO MY OLD AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND,

MR. IZAAK WALTON,

ON HIS

LIFE OF DR. DONNE, &c.

WHEN, to a nation's loss, the virtuous die,
There's justly due from every hand and eye
That can, or write, or weep, an elegy.

Which though it be the poorest, cheapest way,
The debt we owe great merits to defray,
Yet it is almost all that most men pay.

And these are monuments of so short date, That with their birth they oft receive their fate, Dying with those whom they would celebrate.

And though to verse great reverence is due,
Yet what most poets write proves so untrue,
It renders truth in verse suspected too.

Something more sacred then, and more entire,
The memories of virtuous men require,
Than what may with their funeral-torch expire.

This history can give; to which alone
The privilege to mate oblivion

Is granted, when denied to brass and stone.

Wherein, my friend, you have a hand so sure,
Your truths so candid are, your style so pure,
That what you write may Envy's search endure.

Your pen, disdaining to be bribed or prest,
Flows without vanity or interest;

A virtue with which few good pens are blest.

How happy was my father then,* to see
Those men he loved, by him he loved, to be
Rescued from frailties and mortality.

Wotton and Donne, to whom his soul was knit,
Those twins of virtue, eloquence, and wit,
He saw in Fame's eternal annals writ.

Where one has fortunately found a place,
More faithful to him than his marble was,t
Which eating age, nor fire shall e'er deface.

*The character of Mr. Charles Cotton, the father of Charles Cotton the poet, is most beautifully delineated by the Earl of Clarendon, in his own Life. Ed. 1759. p. 16.

† His monument in St. Paul's Church, before the late dreadful fire, 1665.