sicke, to recreate their wearied senses. But when their pleasant supper was ended, and they had passed away the time with much talke, the queene and her partakers prepa red themselues to act the catastrophe of their bloody and nightly tragedy, and now to make a short riddance of their capitall foe's hatefull life, and yet they could haue wished, he might haue liued stil in extream pangs of lingering death. "Now when the sun began his daily circuit in the blushing orient, least his bright eye should discouer their secret and night-hooded murder, they suddenly threw the mangled and tormented body of Agamio into a fierce flaming fire, where it was quickly burnt and consumed into ashes. And although their reuenging minds were somwhat quieted when their enimy was quite dead, yet they were all content, that his memory should line somewhat longer, and euery one of them tooke some of his ashes, being his last reliques, and entombed it in their golden tablets, that so often as they did view it with their eie, they might conceiue new ioy in their hart, with a pleasant thought of their great victory ouer so stout a foe. And thus ended the lamentable tragedy of rash beleeuing and credulous Agamio, whose death may be a caueat for others not hastily to trust the faire wordes of an old foe, making a goodly shew of a fained reconciliation. Finis." J. H. ¶ The Contemplation of Sinners. 1499. 4to. Colophon. "Here endeth the treatyse called the Contemplacyon of Synners, for every daye of the weke a synguler Medytacyon. Emprentyd at Westmynster by Wynken de Worde the .x. daye of July, the yere of our Lorde .M.CCCC.lxxxxix."' "Namque huius mundi fallacis guadia vite ¶ Prologus. "At the deuoute and dylygent request of the ryght reuerende reuerende fader in god & lorde Rycharde bysshop of Dure. ham and lorde pryueseall of Englonde, this lytell boke named Contemplacon of Synners is compyled & fynysshed. The sayd blessyd fader in god desynynge gretly all vertue to encrease and vyce to be exyled, hath caused this booke to be enprynted to the entente that oft redynge this booke may surely serche and truely knowe the state of his conscyence." Mr. Dibdin, who has given a full account of this book (ii. 83) pronounces it in every respect a great curiosity. I select the following curious, though rude, alliterature verses from Monday's contemplation: "Tulit me a conspectu vite salubris rabida prosperitas.” Thy fadyd flourysshynge is fantasy felable The chaugeable chaunce of thy folyche fortoune The work has about eight curious wood-cuts, some of which have been copied by Mr. Dibdin. This account is taken from a copy in the library of Lee Priory, near Canterbury. The Miracle of the Peace in France. Celebrated by the Ghost of the Divine Do Bartas. Translated by Iostah Sylvester. Imprinted at London by Richard Bradocke for John Browne, and are to be sold at his shop in Fleet-streete at the signe of the Bible. 1599. pp. 70. In fours. This little article of a voluminous and very unequal writer has not been noticed by either Herbert or Ritson. It is dedicated in a sonnet to M. Anthony Bacone whose arms are on the back of the title. The contents are * Mr. Ellis in his second volume has given a specimen of Sylvester's poetry. The poem of "a contented mind” there selected must have been a close imitation of one inserted in the Cens. Lit. vol. x. p. 282. + The poems are to be found in the 4to. collection of Sylvester's works. sonnets sonnets relative to the peace, a dialogue vpon the troubles past betweene Heraclitys and Democritus; an ode on Astrea, and some epigrams and epitaphs. The ode may be selected as containing some pleasing and tender images, though dilated with too many of the usual conceits of the translation. "An ode of the loue and beauties of Astrea. To the most matchles, faire, and vertuous, M. M. H. Thou for whose sake my freedom I forsake, If more than my life I loue thee, 'Tis not, deare, the dewes ambrosiall Neuer were so fine a gold. 'Tis not for the polish't rowes Of those rockes whence prudence flowes, That I still my suite pursue; Though that in those countries new In the orient lately found, Be no pearles of such a price. Thy front euener than the yce, With blewe trailes enamel'd trimme, Would mooue rocks and rauish marble. 'Tis not all the rest beside, Which thy modest vaite doth hide What then, (O diuinest dame) What What fell heat of couetize Can procure me greater pleasure, When thou daign'st to smile on mee? What, what fruit of life delights Of those apples of thy brests? What (to finish) fairer limme, Or what member yet more trimme, Makes me make thee all mine obiect? By thy modest vaile supprest: Ah 'tis a thing farre more diuine, But, for thy faire soules respect, I loue thy fresh rosie cheeke And |