A chaunce may wynne that by mischance was lost; The nett that houldes no greate, takes little fishe; In some thinges all, in all thinges none are croste ; Fewe all they neede, but none have all they wishe. Vnmingled joyes here to no man befall;

Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. The following is a stanza on Sleepe from St Peter's Complaint:

Sleepe, Death's allye, obliuion of teares,

Silence of passion, balme of angry sore, Suspence of loues, securitie of feares,

Wrath's lenitiue, heart's ease, storme's calmest shore,
Sense's and soule's repriual from all cumbers,
Benumning sense of ill with quiet slumbers.
Another poem, Life is but Losse, begins thus:
By force I liue, in will I wish to dye;

In playnte I passe the length of lingring dayes;
Free would my soule from mortall body flye

And tredd the track of death's desyred waies;
Life is but losse where death is deemed gaine,
And loathed pleasures breed displeasinge payne.
The best edition of Southwell's poems is that by Grosart in the
'Fuller Worthies Library' (1872).

Samuel Daniel, son of a music-master, was born in 1562 near Taunton, in Somerset, and seems to have been educated under the patronage of the Pembroke family. In 1579 he was entered a commoner of Magdalen Hall, Oxford, where he devoted himself to poetry and history; at the end of three years he quitted the university without taking a degree. Before 1590 he visited Italy, and soon after became tutor at Wilton to William Herbert (later Shakespeare's friend), son of the Earl of Pembroke and Sir Philip Sidney's sister. Later he was tutor to Anne Clifford, daughter

of the Earl of Cumberland. After the death of Spenser, Daniel became 'voluntary laureate' to the court, but was superseded by Ben Jonson. In the reign of James he was appointed to 'allow' or act as censor of new plays, for a time had charge of a company of young players at Bristol, and in 1607 was preferred to be gentlemanextraordinary and groom of the queen's chamber. He lived in a garden-house in Old Street, St Luke's, where, according to Fuller, he would 'lie hid for some months together, the more retiredly to enjoy the company of the Muses, and then would appear in public to converse with his friends.' Daniel is said to have enjoyed the friendship of Shakespeare, Marlowe, and Chapman. His character was irreproachable, and his society appears to have been much courted. Towards the close of his life he retired to a farm he rented at Beckington, in Somerset, where he died 14th October 1619.

The works of Daniel include sonnets, epistles, masques, and dramas; but his principal production is a History of the Civil Wars between York and Lancaster, a poem in eight books, published in 1604. Musophilus, containing a General Defence of Learning, is an elaborate and thoughtful work by Daniel; The Defence of Rhyme (1602),

against Campion, is admirable prose. His tragedy of Cleopatra (1593), dedicated to his patroness, Lady Pembroke, was modelled on Seneca, and is not one of his most successful efforts; nor was his second tragedy, Philotas, on the story in Plutarch's Life of Alexander the Great, which provoked suspicion at court that Daniel was satirising the tyranny of princes. Both plays are Senecan rather than Elizabethan, and are influenced by French models. The Queen's Arcadia and Hymen's Triumph are 'pastoral tragi-comedies.' Daniel was extolled by his contemporaries, as Spenser, Lodge, Carew, Drummond of Hawthornden ; although Ben Jonson described him as 'a good honest man... but no poet,' and Drayton quotes the opinion of some wise men that he was 'too much historian in verse,' besides saying for himself that 'his manner better fitted prose.' Of modern critics, Coleridge, Lamb, and Hazlitt unite in praising him. As a sonneteer Daniel is altogether admirable; some of the 'Delia' series rank near the best examples of this form in English. Daniel is an elegant if not a great poet. His writings are pervaded by tenderness and dignity, by thoughtfulness and purity of taste remarkable indeed, but lacking vital energy of movement and memorableness of expression. His tragedies and masques fail in dramatic interest. Southey called Daniel'the tenderest of the tender poets.'

·

The well-languaged Daniel' (it was William Browne who gave the epithet, now a vox signata) is strangely modern in style; Coleridge said: 'The style and language are just such as any very pure and manly writer of the present dayWordsworth, for example-would use; it seems quite modern in comparison with the style of Shakespeare.' For this reason it is the more desirable that we should adhere throughout to his own spelling also (though the merely typographical archaisms of long fs, v for u, and i for j are disregarded). The whole epistle from which our first extract is made Wordsworth pronounced very beautiful. Daniel's thoughtful, equable verse flows on unintermittingly, and with a wealth of sound and dignified reflection, and never offends; but it becomes tedious and uninteresting from its sameness and the absence of salient points-the Civil Wars is especially fatiguing to read. Yet in a letter to Lamb, Coleridge notes that 'Daniel caught and recommunicated the spirit of the great Countess of Pembroke, the glory of the north; he formed her mind, and her mind inspirited him. Gravely sober on all ordinary affairs, and not easily excited by any, yet there is one on which his blood boils-whenever he speaks of English valour exerted against a foreign enemy.'

From the Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland.
He that of such a height hath built his minde,
And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,
As neither feare nor hope can shake the frame
Of his resolved pow'rs: nor all the winde

Of vanitie or malice pierce to wrong
His settled peace, or to disturbe the same:
What a fair seate hath he, from whence he may
The boundlesse wastes and wildes of man survey!

And with how free an eye doth he looke downe
Upon these lower regions of turmoyle
Where all the stormes of passions mainly beat
On flesh and bloud! where honour, pow'r, renowne,
Are only gay afflictions, golden toyle;
Where greatnesse stands upon as feeble feet
As frailty doth; and onely great doth seeme
To little minds who doe it so esteeme.

He lookes upon the mightiest Monarch's warres
But only as on stately robberies;
Where evermore the fortune that prevails
Must be the right: the ill-succeeding marres
The fairest and the best-fac't enterprize.
Great pirat Pompey lesser pirats quailes :
Justice, he sees, as if seduced, still

Conspires with pow'r, whose cause must not be ill.

He sees the face of right t' appeare as manifolde
As are the passions of uncertaine man ;
Who puts it in all colours, all attires,

To serve his ends, and make his courses holde.
He sees that, let Deceit worke what it can,
Plot and contrive base wayes to high desires;
That the all-guiding Providence doth yet
All disappoint and mocks this smoake of wit.

Nor is he mov'd with all the thunder-cracks
Of Tyrants threats, or with the surly brow
Of power, that proudly sits on others crimes;
Charg'd with more crying sinnes than those he checks.
The stormes of sad confusion, that may grow
Up in the present for the comming times,
Appell not him, that hath no side at all,
But of himselfe, and knows the worst can fall.

The next extract was specially praised by Cole, ridge, who, speaking of the first of the quoted stanzas, said: 'What is there in description superior even in Shakespeare? Only that Shakespeare would have given one of his glows to the first line, and flattened the mountain-top with his sovran eye, instead of this poor "A mervailous advantage of his yeares."

The Death of Talbot-from Book Sixth of the
'Civil Wars.'

Whil'st Talbot (whose fresh ardor having got
A mervailous advantage of his yeares)
Carries his unfelt age as if forgot,
Whirling about where any need appeares :
His hand, his eye, his wits all present, wrought
The function of the glorious Part he beares:
Now urging here, now cheering there, he flyes,
Unlockes the thickest troups, where most force lyes.
In midst of wrath, of wounds, of blood, and death,
There is he most, where as he may do best:
And there the closest ranks he severeth,
Drives back the stoutest powres, that forward prest :
There makes his sword his way: there laboreth
Th'infatigable hand that never ceast ;
Scorning unto his mortall wounds to yeeld;
Till Death became best maister of the Field.

Then like a sturdy Oke, that having long
Against the warres of fiercest windes made head
When (with some forc't tempestuous rage, more stron
His down-borne top comes over-maistered,

All the neere bordering Trees hee stood among
Crusht with his waightie fall, lie ruined :

So lay his spoyles, all round about him slaine,
T'adorne his death, that could not die in vaine.

On th'other part, his most all-daring sonne
(Although the inexperience of his yeares
Made him lesse skil'd in what was to be done;
And yet did carrie him beyond all feares)
Into the maine Battalion, thrusting on
Neere to the King, amidst the chiefest Peeres,
With thousand wounds became at length opprest;
As if he scorn'd to die but with the best.

Who thus both, having gained a glorious end,
Soone ended that great day; that set so red
As all the purple Plaines that wide extend,
A sad tempestuous season witnessed.
So much adoe had toyling Fraunce to rend
From us the right so long inherited:
And so hard went we from what we possest;
As with it went the blood we loved best.

Which blood, not lost, but fast lay'd up with heed
In everlasting fame, is there held deere,
To seale the memorie of this dayes deede;
Th'eternall evidence of what we were:

To which our Fathers, wee, and who succeed,
Doe owe a sigh, for that it toucht us neere:
Nor must we sinne so much as to neglect
The holy thought of such a deare respect.

On Early Love-from 'Hymen's Triumph.'
Ah, I remember well (and how can I

But ever more remember well) when first
Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was
The flame we felt; when as we sate and sighed
And look'd upon each other, and conceiv'd
Not what we ayled, yet something we did ayle,
And yet were well, and yet we were not well,
And what was our disease we could not tell.
Then would we kisse, then sigh, then looke: and thus
In that first garden of our simplenesse
We spent our child-hood. But when yeeres began
To reape the fruite of knowledge: ah, how then
Would she with graver looks, with sweet, stern brow,
Check my presumption and my forwardnes.
Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show
What she would have me, yet not have me know.

Sonnet to Delia.

I must not grieve my love, whose eies would rede
Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile;
Flowers have time before they come to seede,
And she is yong, and now must sport the while.
And sport, sweet Maide, in season of these yeares,
And learne to gather flowers before they wither;
And where the sweetest blossomes first appeares,
Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither,
Lighten foorth smiles to cleere the clouded aire,
And calme the tempest which my sighs doo raise :
Pitty and smiles doe best become the fair;
Pitty and smiles must onely yeeld thee praise.
Make me to say, when all my griefes are gone,
Happy the heart that sighed for such a one.

Sonnet to Delia.

Care-charmer Sleepe, sonne of the sable Night,
Brother to Death, in silent darknes borne,
Relieve my languish, and restore the light,
With darke forgetting of my care, returne.
And let the day be time enough to mourne
The shipwracke of my ill-adventured youth;
Let waking eyes suffice to waile their scorne,
Without the torments of the night's untruth.
Cease, dreames, the images of day desires,
To model forth the passions of to-morrow;
Never let rising Sunne approve you liers.
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow.
Still let me sleepe, imbracing clouds in vaine,
And never wake to feele the dayes disdaine.

Ulisses and the Syren.

Syren. Come, worthy Greeke, Ulisses, come,
Possesse these shores with me;

The windes and Seas are troublesome,
And heere we may be free.

Here may we sit and view their toile
That travaile in the deepe,

And joy the day in mirth the while,

And spend the night in sleepe.

Ulisses. Fair Nimph, if fame or honor were

To be atteynd with ease,

Then would I come and rest with thee,
And leave such toyles as these :
But here it dwels, and here must I
With danger seeke it forth;
To spend the time luxuriously

Becomes not men of worth.
Syren. Ulisses, oh, be not deceiv'd
With that unreall name:
This honour is a thing conceiv'd,
And rests on others fame.
Begotten onely to molest

Our peace, and to beguile

(The best thing of our life) our rest,

And give us up to toil!

Ulisses. Delicious Nimph, suppose there were No honour, or report,

Yet manlines would scorne to weare

The time in idle sport :

For toyle doth give a better touche

To make us feele our joy;

And ease finds tediousnesse as much

As labour yeelds annoy.

Syren. Then pleasure likewise seemes the shore,
Whereto tends all your toyle;
Which you forgo to make it more,

And perish oft the while.

Who may disporte them diversly,

Finde never tedious day;

And ease may have varietie,

As well as action may.

Ulisses. But natures of the noblest frame
These toyles and dangers please;
And they take comfort in the same,
As much as you in ease :

And with the thoughts of actions past
Are recreated still:

When pleasure leaves a touch at last
To show that it was ill.

Syren. That doth opinion onely cause,
That's out of custome bred;
Which makes us many other lawes
Than ever nature did.

No widdowes waile for our delights,
Our sportes are without bloud;
The world we see by warlike wights
Receives more hurt than good.

Ulisses. But yet the state of things require
These motions of unrest,

And these great spirits of high desire
Seem borne to turne them best :
To purge the mischiefes that increase
And all good order mar:
For oft we see a wicked peace,

To be well chang'd for war.

Syren. Well, well, Ulisses, then I see
I shall not have thee heare;
And therefore I will come to thee,
And take my fortunes there.
I must be wonne that cannot win,
Yet lost were I not wonne :
For beauty hath created bin,

T'undoo or be undonne.

See Dr Grosart's edition of Daniel's works in the Huth Library (3 vols. 1885-87), and H. C. Beeching's Selections from the Poetry of S. Daniel and M. Drayton (1899).

Michael Drayton, born in 1563 at Hartshill, near Atherstone in Warwickshire, at the age of ten was made page to a person of qualitypossibly Sir Henry Goodere, to whom he says he owed the most of his education. There is nothing to prove whether he went to a university. His first work, The Harmonie of the Church (1591), was a metrical translation of parts of the Scriptures, but gave offence to the authorities and was destroyed. In 1593 Drayton published a collection of his pastorals or 'eglogs ;' in 1594, a collection of sonnets or 'quatorzains' (which helped to fix the specific English form of the sonnet); and in 1596, the first form of what, much altered, appeared as The Barons Wars, originally in a seven-line stanza, finally in ‘ottava rima.' It has fine passages, but is not everywhere interesting. England's Heroicall Epistles (1597), on the model of Ovid's Heroides, is polished but unequal. On the accession of James I. in 1603, Drayton acted as esquire to Sir Walter Aston at his investiture as Knight of the Bath. The poet expected patronage from the new sovereign, but was disappointed. The Poems Lyric and Heroic (1606) contain the famous martial lyric, The Ballad of Agincourt. He published the first part of his most elaborate work, the Polyolbion, in 1612, and the second in 1622, the whole forming a poetical 'chorographicall' description of England, in thirty songs or books. The Polyolbion, unlike any other work in English poetry, is full of topographical and antiquarian details, allusions to remarkable events and persons, local sports and customs; yet the inevitable prolixity and monotony of such a scheme is atoned for by the

beauty of Drayton's descriptions, the skill of his treatment, the brightness of his fancy, and the delightfulness of his melody, as well as by the multifariousness of his information-information in general so accurate that the poem is quoted as an authority by Wood and Hearne.

In 1619 Drayton collected all his poems (but Polyolbion) that he wanted preserved, and in 1627 published a new volume containing the whimsical and delightful Nymphidia, The Quest of Cynthia, and The Battaile of Agincourt (distinct from the Ballad). In conjunction with Chettle, Dekker, Munday, Webster, and others he had a share in many plays, notably Sir John Oldcastle. His last work, The Muses Elizium (1630), deals with Noah's flood, the birth of Moses, David and Goliath; and the great sonnet, 'Since there's no help,' first

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

From the Portrait in the National Portrait Gallery.

published in the 1619 folio, was pronounced by Rossetti as almost the best in the language, if not quite.' On his death in 1631, Drayton was buried in Westminster Abbey.

From 'Polyolbion.'

Morning in Warwickshire-a Stag-hunt.

My native country then, which so brave spirits hast bred,
If there be vertue yet remaining in thy earth,
Or any good of thine then breathd'st into my birth,
Accept it as thine owne whilst now I sing of thee
Of all thy later brood th' unworthiest though I bee.
Muse, first of Arden tell, whose foot-steps yet are found
In her rough wood-lands more than any other ground
That mighty Arden held even in her height of pride,
Her one hand touching Trent, the other Severn's side.

When Phoebus lifts his head out of the winters wave, No sooner doth the earth her flowerie bosome brave,

At such time as the Yeere brings on the pleasant Spring,
But Hunts-up to the morne the feathered sylvans sing:
And in the lower Grove, as on the rising Knoll,
Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole,
Those quiristers are pearcht, with many a speckled breast,
Then from her burnisht gate the goodly glitt'ring east
Gilds every lofty top, which late the humorous Night
Bespangled had with pearle, to please the morning's
sight;
[throats,
On which the mirthful Quires, with their clere open
Unto the joyful Morne so straine their warbling notes,
That Hills and Valleys ring, and even the echoing Ayre
Seems all composed of sounds about them every where.
The Throstle, with shrill sharps; as purposely he sung
T' awake the listless Sunne; or chyding, that so long
He was in comming forth, that should the thickets thrill;
The Woosell neere at hand, that hath a golden bill,
As Nature him had markt of purpose, t' let us see
That from all other Birds his tunes should different bee;
For, with their vocall sounds, they sing to pleasant May;
Upon his dulcet pype the Merle doth onely play.
When in the lower Brake, the Nightingale hard by,
In such lamenting straines the joyful howres doth ply,
As though the other birds shee to her tunes would draw.
And but that nature, by her all-constraining law,
Each bird to her owne kind this season doth invite,
They else, alone to heare that Charmer of the Night,
The more to use their ears their voyces sure would

spare,

That moduleth her tunes so admirably rare,

As man to set in Parts at first had learned of her.
To Philomell the next, the Linnet we prefer ;
And by that warbling bird the Wood-larke place we then,
The Red-sparrow, the Nope, the Redbreast, and the
[tree,

Wren.

The Yellow pate; which though shee hurt the blooming
Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pype than she.
And of these chaunting fowles, the Goldfinch not behind,
That hath so many sorts descending from her kind.
The Tydie for her notes as delicate as they,
The laughing Hecco, then the counterfeiting Jay.
The softer with the shrill-some hid among the leaves,
Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaves-
Thus sing away the Morne, until the mounting Sunne
Through thick exhaled fogs his golden head hath runne,
And through the twisted tops of our close covert creeps
To kisse the gentle shade, this while that sweetly sleeps.
And near to these our Thicks the wild and frightful Heards,
Not hearing other noyse but this of chattering Birds,
Feed fairly on the Launds; both sorts of seasoned Deere:
Here walk the stately Red, the freckled Fallow there:
The Bucks and lusty Stags, amongst the rascalls strewed,
As sometime gallant spirits amongst the multitude.

Of all the beasts which we for our veneriall name,
The Hart among the rest, the Hunters noblest game:
Of which most princely chase sith none did e'er report,
Or by description touch t' express that wondrous sport
(Yet might have well beseemed the ancients' nobler songs)
To our old Arden heere most fitly it belongs :
Yet shall shee not invoke the muses to her ayde,
But thee, Diana bright, a goddesse and a mayd,
In many a huge-growne Wood and many a shady Grove,
Which oft hast borne thy Bowe, great huntresse, used to

rove

At many a cruell beast, and with thy darts to pierce The lion, panther, ounce, the bear, and tiger fierce;

And following thy fleet game, chaste mighty Forrests

queen,

With thy disheveld nymphs attyred in youthful greene, About the Launds hast scowred, and wastes both farre

and neere,

Brave huntress; but no beast shall prove thy quarries heere

Save those the best of chase, the tall and lusty Red,
The Stag for goodly shape, and statelinesse of head,

Is fitt'st to hunt at force. For whom when with his hounds

The laboring hunter tufts the thick unbarbed grounds,
Where harbor'd is the Hart; there often from his feed
The dogs of him doe find; or thorough skilfull heed,
The Huntsman by his slot, or breaking earth, perceaves,
Or entring of the thicke by pressing of the greaves,
Where he had gone to lodge. Now when the Hart doth
hear

The often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret lair,

He rouzing rusheth out, and through the brakes doth drive,

As though up by the roots the bushes he would rive.
And through the combrous thicks as fearefully he makes,
He with his branched head the tender saplings shakes,
That sprinkling their moyst pearle doe seeme for him to
weepe;

When after goes the Cry, with yellings lowd and deepe,
That all the forrest rings and every neighbouring place :
And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase.
Rechating with his horne, which then the hunter cheeres,
Whilst still the lustie Stag his high-palmed head upbeares,
His body shewing state, with unbent knees upright,
Expressing (from all beasts) his courage in his flight,
But when th' approaching foes still following he perceives,
That hee his speed must trust, his usuall walke he leaves,
And o'er the Champaine flies; which when th' assembly
find,

Each followes, as his horse were footed with the wind.
But beeing then imbost, the noble stately Deere,
When he hath gotten ground (the kennel cast arere)

Doth beat the brooks and ponds for sweet refreshing soyle;

That serving not, then proves if he his scent can foyle,

And makes amongst the heards and flocks of shag-wool'd sheep,

Them frighting from the guard of those who had their keepe.

But when as all his shifts his safety still denies,

Put quite out of his walke, the wayes and fallowes tries; Whom when the Plowman meets, his teame he letteth stand,

T'assaile him with his goad: so with his hooke in hand,
The Shepheard him pursues, and to his dog doth halow:
When, with tempestuous speed, the hounds and huntsmen
follow;

Until the noble Deere, through toil bereaved of strength,
His long and sinewy legs then fayling him at length,
The Villages attempts, enraged, not giving way
To anything hee meets now at his sad decay.
The cruell ravenous hounds and bloody hunters near,
This noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but feare,
Some banke or quick-set finds; to which his hanch
oppos'd,

He turnes upon his foes, that soone have him inclos'd.
The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay,
And as their cruell fangs on his harsh skin they lay,

With his sharp-poynted head he dealeth deadly wounds.
The Hunter, comming in to help his wearied hounds,
He desperatly assayles; untill opprest by force,
He who the Mourner is to his owne dying corse,
Upon the ruthlesse earth his precious teares let fall.
(From the Thirteenth Song.)

The woosell is the ouzel; the tydie, a golden-crested wren or a titmouse; nope, the bullfinch; hecco is a name for a woodpecker that assumes some thirty forms as various as hickwall, ickle, yuckel, hee-haw, and heigh-ho; greave is an old form of grove; emboss or imboss, said of a hunted animal, is to take shelter in a thicket; rechating is a particular measure on the horn.

Coleridge notes as admirable a passage on the cutting down of the old English forests:

Our trees so hacked above the ground, That where their lofty tops the neighbouring countries crowned, Their trunks, like aged folks, now bare and naked stand, As for revenge to Heaven each held a withered hand.

Ballad of Agincourt. Faire stood the wind for France, When we our Sayles advance, Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry;

But putting to the Mayne
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial trayne,

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnish'd in warlike sort,
Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt
In happy howre;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stop'd his way,
Where the French gen'rall lay

With all his power.

Which in his hight of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransome to provide

To the King sending.
Which he neglects the while,
As from a Nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile,

Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed.
Yet have we well begun,
Battels so bravely wonne
Have ever to the sunne

By Fame beene raysed.

And for myselfe (quoth he),
This my full rest shall be,
England ne'r mourne for Me,
Nor more esteeme me.
Victor I will remaine,
Or on this earth lie slaine,
Never shall shee sustaine

Losse to redeeme me.