a mynd delightinge in sorrowe, from spirits wasted with passion, from a harte torne in peeces with care, grefe, and sorrowe." In Birch MS. 4128, is a copy of verses directed against Spanish pride and bigotry, written with considerable spirit. In Sloan MS. 1779, an imperfect poem occurs, which is said to have been composed in the Tower; and in No. 1303 of the same collection, an interesting and entire allegorical satire is preserved, which though somewhat long, seems highly deserving of incorporation in the present work.

Coxeter appears to have seen one of Ovid's Epistles translated by Robert earl of Essex. "This," says Warton, "I have never seen; and if it could be recovered, I trust it would only be valued as a curiosity. A few of his sonnets are in the Ashmolean museum, which have no marks of poetic genius: but he is a vigorous and elegant writer of prose "." Had Mr. Warton perused the following production, his candour would probably have allowed that the pen of lord Essex displayed vigour and imagination, if not elegance, even when it was wielded in the courts of Parnassus; and at a moment when discontent and mortification were the unfavourable inspirers of his muse.

See a letter from Essex to queen Elizabeth in the same manuscript.

Hist. of Eng. Poetry, vol. iii. p. 421.

"THE EARLE OF ESSEX, HIS BUZZE:

Which he made upon some Discontentment he received, a litle before his Journey into Ireland, Ano. Dni. 1598.

There was a tyme when bees could speake,

And then was I a syllye bee,

Who suckt on tyme untill my harte did breake,

Yet never founde that tyme would favor mee:
Of all the swarme I onelye could not thrive,
Yet brought I waxe and honye to the hive.

Then thus I buz'd, when tyme no sappe would give,"Why is this blessed tyme to me so drye,

Sith in the tyme the lazye drones doe live,

The waspe, the ante, the gnatt, the butterflye?"
In a tyme, with greife I kneeled on my knees,
And thus complayned to the kinge of bees:-

"God graunte (my leige) thy tyme may never ende:
And yet vouchsafe to heare my playnte of tyme,
Whome everye fearelesse flye hath founde a freinde,
And I cast downe when atomyes doe clime."
The kinge replyed but thus," Peace, foolishe bee,
Th' art borne to serve the tyme, the tyme not thee."

"The tyme not thee:"-this worde cutt short my winges, And made me worme-like creepe, that once did flye: Awefull regarde disputeth not with kinges,

Receiveth the repulse, yet never asketh whye?
Then from the tyme, a tyme I me withdrewe,
To sucke on henbane, hemlocke, nettle, and rue.

But from these leaves no dramme of sweete I drayne,

My headstronge fortune did my witts bewitche, The juice disperst blacke bloode in everye vaine,

For honye, gall; for waxe, I gathered pitche; My combe, a rifte; my hive, a leafe must bee; So chaung'de, the bees scarse tooke me for a bee.

I worke in weedes, when moone is in the wayne,
While all the swarme in sunshine tastes the rose,
On blacke ferne, loe! I seeke, and sucke my baine,
While on the eglantine the rest repose :
Havinge too much, they still repine for more,
And cloyde with sweetenesse, surfett on the store.

Swolne fatt with feastes, full merylye they passe,
In swarmes and clusters fallinge on the tree,
Where findinge mee to nymble on the grasse,

Some scorne, some muse, and some doe pittye me; And some me envy'e, and whisper to the kinge,"Some must be still, and some must have no stinge."

Are bees wax't waspes and spyders, to infect?
Doe honye bowells make the spyrites gall?
Is this the juice of flowers, to styrre suspect?

Is 't not enoughe to treade on them that fall?
What stinge hath patience, but a sighe and greife
That stinges nought but it selfe, without releife?

True patience is fitt provander for fooles;

Sadd patience watcheth still, and keepes the dore; And patience learnes thus to conclude in schooles,— Patiente I am, therefore I must be poore: "Greate king of bees! that rightest everye wronge, Listen to Patience in her dying songe."

I cannot feede on hemlocke, like some flyes,
Nor flye to everye flower to gather gayne;
Myne appetyte waites on my prince's eyes,
Contented with contempt, and pleasde with payne;
And yet I still expect an happye hower,

When you shall saye-" The bee shall sucke a flower!"

Of all the greifes that most my patience grate,
There's one that fretts mee in the highe'st degree,
To see some catterpillars bredd of late,

Croppinge the flower that should sustayne the bee:
Yet singled I, for that the wisest knowes

The mothe will eate the clothe; cankre, the rose.

Once did I see, by flyinge in the feilde,

Foule beastes to brouze upon the lillyes faire;
Vertue and beautye could not succour yeilde,
All's provandar for asses, but the ayre :
The partiall world of thee takes little heede,
To give them flowers that should on thistles feede.

Tis onelye I must drayne the Egiptian flowers:

Havinge no savour, bitter sappe they have;

And seeke out rotten toumbes, and deade men's bowers,

To byte on pathos, growinge by the grave.

If these I cannot finde, ah! haplesse bee,
Witchinge tobacco! I will flye to thee.

What though thou dye my lunges in deepest blacke,
A mourninge habite suites a sable state;
What though the fumes sounde memorye do cracke,
Forgetfulnesse is fittest for the smarte :-

O vertuous fume! let it be carv'de in oake,

That wordes, hopes, witts, and all the world, is smoake.

Five tymes twise tould, with promise unperform'de,
My hope's just heade was cast into a slumber;
Sweete dreame on gold, in dreames I then presum'de,
Amonge the bees though I was in the number:
Wakinge, I found hive, but hopes had made me vaine;
'Twas not tobacco that so stupifyed my brayne.

(Signed) ROBERT DEVOREUX, Earle of ESSEX and EWE, Earle Marshall of Englande."

Two of lord Essex's elegant Latin letters to Antonio Perez, are here added, by the kindness of Mr. Brand, from "Ant. Perezii ad Comitem Essexium, singularem Angliæ Magnatem, et ad alios Epistolarum;" an octavo volume printed at Paris, without date, in the antiquarian collection of that gentleman:

"My Lordus Essexius Antonio Perezio.

"A te rogo, charissime Antoni, cur tristis es? cur melancholiâ laboras? si laborare possis eâ, quâ tibi nimium places. Si sympathiam sentiebas tristiæ meæ, unà mecum emerge: sin aliquid acciderit, quod te turbet, eloquere. Nam me magis affligit incertus metus, quàm certus dolor: non operam meam, non consilium tibi offerre volo: operam infirmam præstabo, quòd viribus non valeo: consilium tu non nisi à te ipso possis mutuari, in quo fons consilii est : sed me offero, ut quod neque adjuvando, neque consulendo diminuere possum partem ejus ferendo levem. Vale animo, et corpore, aut utroque æger erit tuus.

"ESSEXIUS."