htext.stanford.edu · 3 her grace’s (c l@ of bw husband, the duke,” printed in folio, r 1 3...

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d ness ; and morc cxtraordinrwy as flowing from a fcmalc of high rank, brought 9 up in courts. t 2 In clircct opposition ta tvhl: oha.ractcr of her writings, hcr manners are i

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- demic flattery, which, from its unmeasured encomiums, has rather depressed r 1 than elevated her fame. it has been a fertile prey for wits to fasten their P r 2 stings upon. But it is singular that it contains anlongst it authors such s 3 as Sir -Kenelm Digby, Thomas Hobbes, Joseph Glanrill, Dr. Henry More,

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Bishop Pearson, Archbishop Dolben, &c. E In modern days, an extract from the cc Description of Melancholy,” has c

3 Her Grace’s ( C L@ of BW Husband, the Duke,” printed in folio, r 1 1667, is a curious and valuable piece of biography; full of many amusing r 3 and instructive minutiæ, which would otherwise have perished; though not r 3 free from occasional marks of vanity and weakness. This volume I hope to r 3 have leisurqhereafter t o reprint at the Lec Priory Press.

been given with high praise in the second volume of (c The Comoisseur.” L

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Mr. Park, in his valuable edition of c c Lord &ford’s RoyaZ a7td k Noble A~thors,” informs us (vol. iii. p. 183) that to Sir Wdliltm Musgrave’s r copy of I C The Duke’s L@,” in the British Museum, is appended t g A ~ r

1 Epistle by the Duchess,” which contains a curious compendium of her r 3 Grace’s sentiments respecting her own skill in authorship; and has a true r relation of her birth, breeding, and life,” subjoined to it. ”he tract c g is very scarce; and contains many ingenious and interesting particulars. ‘

3 Her Grace was not only eminent for her gcnins, and her literary L 3 acquirements; but was possessed of every attraction of pcrson, and every r 5;1 moral quality; she w&s a pattern of conjugal affection and virtue. r 3 She died in London, at the close of 1679; and was buried in West- 3 minster Abbey, Januaq 7, 1674; where the Dultc erected a superb monu- p 3 ment t o her memory. She died without issue. t 3 OP the Duke, this is not the place to give a memoir. Lord Clarendon

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r has drawn his portrait to the life. On that rock let it stand; without any r fear that it can be shaken by tllc frivolous objections of Lord Orford. Tile E Duke died December 95 , 1676, %t. 84, leaving issuc by his first wifc, Eliza- r beth, daughter and heir of William Basset, Esq. of Blorc, in Staffordshire, r an only surviving son, Henry Cavendish, second and last Duke of New- castle of that name, who &ed 1691, whosc heir is tho Duke of Portland ; 3 and three daughters, of whom Lady Elizabeth married John Egerton, second

3 Earl of Bridgewater; a lady of incomparable virtue, bewty, and understand- E 3 ing, of whom her husband desired to have it recorded on her tomb, that E 3 he enjoyed almost twenty-two years all thc happiness that a man could L

receive in the sweet society of the best of wives.” From her thc Editor of r i these Poems is proud to record his descent.

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A DIALOGUE BETWEEN

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9 * MELANCHOLY AND MIRTH. i k g A S 1 was musing by myself done,

g Some did large houses build, and stately towers, g And some made orchards, gardens, and fine bowers; g some did in arts and sciences delight, g And some in contradiction, Reason’s fight; Z Some govern’d, like as kings do rule a state, g And some as republics, which monarchs hate;

Some privy-counsellors and judges were, Q # And some, as lawyers, pleaded at the bar; g Some priests, which do preach peace, and godly life, f: Others tumultuous were, and full o€ strife; $: Some were clebauch’d, did swagger, wench, and swear, g And some poor thoughts did tremble out of fear; 9 * Some jealous were, and d l things did suspect, g And others careless, every thing neglect;

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Some thoughts turn’d sllcplwrcls, nymphs, and shepherdesses, g So kind, as they did give cad1 othcr kisses; g Th’ express’d all sorts of lovers, and their passions, t And several ways of courtship and fine fashions; Q #

8 And those that lost, wcre forc’d to them to yield; # Some were heroic, generous and free, # # f: And some so base, to crouch with flibttery; SF:

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The Mind opprest with grief, all thoughts were sad, And mourn’d in black, no light of joy they had; Some with despair clid rage, were almost mad, And some so merry, nothing made them sad; And many more, which were too long to tell; For several thoughts in several places dwell; And last came too, which divcrsly were clress’d, One MELANCHOLY, th’ other MIRTI-I espress’d; MELANCHOLY was all in black array, And MIRTH was all in colours fresh ancl gay.

Her fat white arms about my neck; there hung; Embwc’d and kiss’d me oft, ancl strok’d my check, Saying she would no other lover seek; I’ll sing you songs, and please you every day, Invent new sports to pass the time away; I’ll h e p your heart, and guard it from that thief, Dull MELANCFIOLY, Ctre, or sadder Grief, And make your eyes with Mirth to overflow; With springing blood your cl~ceks soon fat shall pow; Your legs shall nimble be, your body light, And dl your spirits like to birds in flight; Mirth shall digest your meat, and malte you strong, Shall give you health, ancl your short clays prolong : Refuse me not, but take me to your wife; Far I shall make you happy all your life. But Melancholy she will malce you lean, Your cheeks s l d l hollow grow, your jaws bc sccn; Your eyes sllall buried be within your hcd, And look as pale, as if you were quite dead; a

M m m laughing came, and running to mc, flung

&Iect #oems. . . . .3 She’ll make you start at every noise you hear, And visions strange shall in your eyes appcar; b

Your stomach cold and raw, digesting naught, Your liver dry, your heart with sorrow fraught; Shriveled your skin, brows cloudy, and blood thick, Your sides be lank, your back to th’ belly stick: llms would it he, if you to her were wed; Nay, better far it were, that you were dead. Eler voice is low, ancl gives an hollow soundjc She l~ntcs the light, and is in darkness found; Or sits with blinking lamps, or tapers small, Which various shadows make against a wdl. She loves nought else but noise, which discord lnakcs, As croillring frogs, whose dwelling is in lakes; The ravens hoarse, and so thc mandrakes groan, And sllrcelting owls, which fly i’th’ night donc; Thc tolling bell, which for the dcad rings out; A d l , where rushing waters mn about; The roaring winds, which s l d w the ccdars tall, Plough up the seas, and beat the rocks witlml. SI11 loves to walk in the still moon-shine night, And in a thick dark grove she hkcs delight; In hollow caves, thatcht houses, and low cells SIle lows to live, and tllcre alone &e dwells. Her ears arc stopt with thoughts, her eyes purblind; For dl shc hears, or secs, is in thc mind : But in her inincl luxuriously she lives; Imagination several pleasures gives.

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Her face with laughter crumples on a heap, Which makes great wrinkles and ploughs furrows deep; Her eyes do water, and her skin turns red, Her mouth dotlz gapc, teeth bare, like one that's dead; Her sides do stretch, as set upon a last, Her stomach's hewing up, as if she'd cast; TiIer veins do swell, her joints seem as unset, Her pores are open, whence streams out a swea€; e

She fulsome is, and gluts the senses dl, Oflììrs herself, and comes before a call; Seeks company, and hates to be done, Though on unsent-for *mts afionts are thrown; Iicr house is built upon the golden sands, Yet no foundation has wlmeon it stands; A paltace 'tis, and of a great resort, It makes a noise, and gives a loud report, Yet underneath the roof disasters lie, Beat down the house, and many kill'd thereby : I dwell in groves, that gilt are wilh the sun,' Sit on the banks by which clear waters run; In summers hot, down in a shade I lie, My music is the buzzing of a fly, Which flies do in the sun-beams dance all day, And harmlessly do pass their time away: I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass, In fields, wherc corn is high, I often pass; Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see; Some brushy woods, and some d1 cllampaigns be; Returning back, I in fresh pastures p , To hear how shccp do bleat, and COWS cl0 IOW;

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They gently feed, and do no evil know, Have no designs each other wrong to do. In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on, Then I do live in a small house alone, Which being little and close doth make it warm; No wind or weather cold can do it harm; Although ’tis plain, yet cleanly ’tis within, Like to a soul that’s pure and clear from sin; And there 1 dwell in quiet and still peace, Not fill’d with cares, how riches to increase: I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless p1,leturcs; No riches are, but what the mind intreasures. Thus am I solitary, live alone, Yet better lov’d, the more that I am known; And though my fwe b’ ill-ftvour’d at first sight, After acquaintance it will give delight; For I am like a shade, who sits in me; He shall not wet, nor yet sun-burned be; I keep off blustering storms from doing hurt, When Mirth is often smutcll’d with dust and dirt: Refuse me not, for I shall constant be, Maintain your credit and your dignity.

THE PASTIMB AND RECREATION

OF

THE QUEEN OF FAIRLES IN F A I R Y - U m , TI-IE CENTRE OF THE EARTH."

QUEEN MAB, and all her company Dance on a, pleasant mole-hill high, T o small straw-pipes, wherein great pleasure They take, and keep just time and measure; All hand in hand, around, around, They dance upon this fairy-ground; And when she leaves her dancing ball, She cloth for ber attendants call, T o wait upon her to a, bower, Where she doth sit under a flower, T o slmcle her from the moon-shine bright, Where gnats do sing for her delight, Some high, some low, some middle strain, Making a concert very plain; T h e whilst the bat doth fly about, T o keep in order all the rout, And with her wings doth soundly pay Those, that malte noise, and not obey. A dewy waving leaf's made fit b For the Quccn's bath, wherc she doth sit,

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And her white limbs in beauty show, Like a new fallen flake of snow; Her maids do put l m garments on, Made of the pure light from the sun, Which do so many colours take, As various objects shadows make : Then to her dinner she goes strait, Where d l fdiries in order wait; A cover of a cobweb made Is there upon a mushroom laid; Her stool is of a thistle-down, And for her cup an acorn’s crown, Which of strong nectar full is fill’d, That from sweet flowers is distill’d; Flies of all sorts, both fat and good, As quails, snipes, partridge, are her food; Pheasants, Iarlts, cocks, and any kind, Both wild and tarney you there may find; And amelets made of ants’ eggs new, Of these high medts she eats but few; The dormouse yields her milk good store, For butter, cheese, and many more; This milk makes many a fine knack, When they fresh atlts’ cggs therein crack; Pudding, and custard, and seed-cake, Her well-skill’d cook knows how to make; To sweeten them the bee doth bring Pure honey, gather’d by her sting; But for her guard serves grosser meat; Of stall-fed dormice they do eat; When din’d, she goes to take the air In coach, which is a nut-shell fair; The lining’s soft and rich within, Macle of a glistering adder’s skin;

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And there six crickets draw her fast, When she a journey takes in haste; Or else two serve to pace a round, And trample on the fairy-ground. In hawks sometimes she takes delight, Which hornets are most swift in flight; Whose horns instead of talons will A Ay, as hawks a partridge, kill. But if she will a hunting go, Then she the lizzard maltes tlle doe; Wllich is so swift and ílect in chase, As her slow coach cannot lreep pace : Then on a grashopper she’ll ride, And gallop in the forest wide; Her bow is of a willow branch, To shoot the lizzard on the haunch; Her arrow simp, much like a blade, Of a rosemary leaf is made: Then home she’s called by thc cock, Who givcs her wming what’s the clock; And when thc moon doth hide her head, Their day is done, s’ne goes to bed; Meteors do serve, when they are bright, As torches do, to givc her light; Glow-worms for candles lightcd up, Stand on her table, while she doth sup; And in her chunlm t h y arc plac’d, Not fearing how the tallow waste : But women, that inconstant kind, Can ne’er fix in one phce their lnind; For she impatient of long stay, Drives to the upper earth away.

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x Take notice of all seed,

3 And what. the earth doth breed; x Then view the springs below,

x And mark how waters flow; 3 What makes the tide to rise x Up proudly to the skies, 3 x And ghrinking back descend, r(:

x As fearing to offend. w Also your wit doth view

m The vapour and the clcw, x In. summer's heat, that wet x Doth seem like the carth's sweat; x In winter-time, that dew m:

#t Like paint's white to the view; x Cold makes that tllick, white, dry;

x On the carth's black face, so hi r x As painted ladics are;

9c But, when a hcat is felt, x That frosty paint cloth melt.

w 'Illus hesv'n and earth you vicw, x And see what's old, wh t ' s new; x H*ow bodies transmigrate,

3 .Lives are preclcstinate. x Thus doth your wit reveal x What Nature would conceal.

x L. Huppy . My shepherd, % All thosc that live, do ltnow it, x 'I'lmt you are born a, poct,"

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a This pngc, nntl, indcccl, tllc w ~ m ~ c poctn, tIlong11 only in four-fwt g E vcrscs, puts one in mincl of t ~ ~ e nmncr of ( 6 IIkcdmorc's Crcntiou,'' a m x g pocm wl~icll Ilas bcen so strongly ant1 11ypcrl~olic~~LIy corrlnwndcd by Dr. x R 3 Johnson. x 3

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Your wit doth scarch mankind, In body and in mind; The appetites you measure, And weigh each several pleasure; Do figure every passion, And every humour’s fashion ; See how the fancy’s wrought, And what makes cvery thought; Fathom conceptions low, From whence opinions flow; Observe the Memory’s length, And Understanding’s strength ; Your wit doth Reason find, The centre of the mind, Wherein the rational soul Doth govern and controul; There doth she sit in state, Predestinate by‘fate, And by the Gods decree, That sovereign she should be.

And thus your wit can tell, How souls in bodies dwell; As that the mind dwells in the brain, And in tHc mind the soul doth reign, And in the soul the life doth last, For which the body it cloth not waste; Nor shall wit like the body die, But live in the world’s memory.

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WHEREIN POETRY emmy CONSISTS.

MOST of our modern writers now a-days, Consider not the fancy, but the phrase; As if fine words were wit, or one should sayy A woman’s handsome, if her cloaths be gay, Regarding not what beauty’s in the face, Nor what proportion doth the body grace; As when her shoes be high, to say she’s tall, And when she is straight lac’d, to say she’s small; When painted, or her hair is curl’d with art, Though of itself but plain, and her skin swart, We cannot sayy that from her thanks are due T o Nature, nor those arts in her we view, Unless she them invented, and so taught The world to set forth that, which is stark naught; But Fancy is the eye, gives life to all; Words, the complexion, as a whited wall; Fancy the form is, flesh, blood, skin and bone; Words are but shdows, substance they have none : But number is the motion, gives the grace, And is the count’nance of a well-fom’d face.

OP SORROWS TEARS.

INTO the cup of Love pour Sorrow’s tears, Where every drop a perfect image bears; And trickling down the hill of Beauty’s cheek, Fall on the breast, dive through, the heart to seek; Which heart would be burnt up with f ie of grief, Did not those tears with moisture give relief. i

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THE FUNXRAL OF CALAMITY.

CALAMITY was laid on Sorrow's hearse, And coverings had of melanchol;y verse; 5

Compassion, a kind friend, did mourning go, And tears about the corps, as flowers, strow; A garland of deep sighs by Pity made, Upon Calamity's sad corps was laid; Bells of complaints did ring it to the grave; Poets a monument of fame it gave.

\ AN ELEGY U PON

THE DEATH OF MY BROTHER."

DEAR BROTHER,

THE idea in my mind doth lie, And is entomb'd in my sad memory, Where every day I to thy shrine do go, And offer tears, which from mine eyes do flow; My heart, the fire, whose flames are ever pure, Shall on Love's altar hst, till life endure; My sorrows incense strew, of sighs fetch'd deep; My thoughts do watch while thy dear ashes sleep. Dear, blessed soul, though thou art gone, yet lives Thy fame on earth, and man thee praises gives: But all's too small; for thy heroic mind Was above all the praises of mankind.

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OF AN OAK IN A GROVE.

X A SHADY grove, whcre trees in equal space i Did grow, secm’d like a consecrated place;

Through spreading boughs the quivering light broke in, Much like to glass, or crystal shiver’d thin,

$ Wllich, when it is on R grecn carpet strew’d, fi So in this wood the light all broken sllew’d; 3 Yet this disturbed light the grove did grace, 4 As sadness doth B fair and beauteous face; i! Alid in thc midst m ancient Oak stood thcre,

Which l~cretoíbre did many offieringsa bear; 2 Wllosc branches all were hung with relics round,

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n It wars a custom in anciclrt tixllcs tu hang thcir ufterings on trces.

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o Q o 16 . . . . ssrect @oems. 8 8 H e now by age so feeble and weak doth grow, 8 That every blast is apt him down to throw; i His branches are all sear’d, his bark grown grey,

Most of his rind with time is peel’d away; 8 The liquid sap, which from the root did spring, 1 And to each trusty bough its food did bring, ,

8 Is all drunk up; there is no moisture left; 8 The root is rotten, and the body cleft. 8 Thus Time doth ruin, and brings all to decay, 8 Though to the Gods we still devoutly pray; 8 For this old Oak was sacred to great Jove, 8 Which was the king of all the Gods above : 8 But Gods, when they created things, they must, 8 Said they, all die at last, and turn to dust.

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SONG OE’ THE LADY HAPPY.

o POR every sense shall pleasure take,

o Not vex’d with every idle toy: o Each season shall our caterers be,

o To search the fand, and fish the sea; o To gather fruit and reap the corn, o That’s brought to us in PIenty’s horn;

o But not luxurious make a waste.

o We’ll clothe ourselves with softest silk, o And linen fine as white as milk, o We’ll please our sight with pictures rare;

Our nostrils with perfumed air; Our ears with sweet melodious sound,

And all our lives shall merry make : Our minds in full delight shall joy,

With which we’ll feast and please our taste,

o Whose substance can be no where found;

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Our taste with sweet delicious meat, And savory sauces we will eat: Variety each sense. shall feedy And change in them new appetites breed. Thus will in Pleasure’,p Comen,t I Live with delight, and with it die.

A MAN TO EIIS &lISTRESS.

0 DO not grieve, Dear Iacast, nor shed a tear, Since in your eyes my life doth still appear; And in your countenance my death I find; I’m buried in your melancholy mincl; But in your smiles I’m glorifiecl to rise, And your pure love doth me ctem a 1’ me : Thus by your favour you n Gocl mc n d w , But by your hatte n devil’s shape 1 take.

THE HUNTING OF TIIE HARZ.

& ~ W I X T two ridges of plough’d-land sat Wat, Wllose body prcss’d to th’ earth, lay close, and squat; EIis nose upon his two forc-kcct did lie; With his gray eycs hc ghrcd oblicply; His head hc always set qpiust tlw wind; H i s tail when tunl’d, his hair Mew up behind, And rnadc hi111 io get cold; bui hc being wise, Doth kecp his cost still down, so warm hc lies : Thus rcsts he all tlzc clay, till th’ sun doth set, Thcn up he riseth, liis relief to get, And walks about, until tlw sun cloth risc, Then coming bnck in’s formcr posture lics.

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At last poor Wat was found, as he there lay, By huntsmen, which came with their dogs that way; Whom seeing, he got up, and fast did run, Hoping some ways the cruel dogs to sl~un; But they by Nature had so quick a scent, That by their nose they trac'd what way 11e went, And with their deep wide moutl~s set forth a cry, Which answer'd was by Echo in the sky; Then Wat was struck with terror and with fear; Seeing each shadow, thought the dogs were tllcre, And running out some distance from their cry, To hide himself, his thoughts he did employ; Under a clod of earth, in sand-pit wiclc, Poor Wat sat close, hoping himself to hide; There long he hacl not been, but strait in's ears The winding horns and crying dogs he I~cars; Then starting up with fear, he leap'd, ancl snch Swift speed he made, the ground he scarce did touch; Into a great thick wood straightway he got, And underneath a broken bough he sat, Where every leaf, that with the wind did sllakc, Brought him such terror, that his heart did ache; That place he left, to champaign plains hc went, Winding about, for to deceive their sccnt, And while thcy snufiling were to find his track, Poor Wat being weary, his swift pace did slack; On his two hinder legs for ease he sat, His fore-feet rubb'd lis face from dust and sweat; Licking his feet, he wip'd his ears so clean, That none could tell that Wat had hunted been; But casting round about his fah gray eyes, The hounds in full career he near him 'spies; h

To Wat it was so terrible a sight, Fear gave him wings and made his body light;

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Though he was tir’d before by running long, Yet now his breath he never felt more strong; Like those that dying are, think health returns, When ’tis but a faint blast which life ont-burns; For spirits seek to guard the heart about, Striving with Death, but Death doth quench them out, The hounds so fast came on, and with such cry, That he no hopes had left, nor help could ’spy; With that the winds did pity poor Wat’s case, And with their breath the scent blew from that place; Thcn evcry nose was busily employ’d, Ancl cvery nostril WW set open wide, Ard every hcad dicl seek a scveral way, To find the gass or tmck where the scent lay; l-or witty industry is never slack; ’Tis lilcc to witchcraft, and brings lost things back : 13ut8 tl~ough the wind llar1 tied the scent up close, A busy clog thrust in his snuffling nose And drew it out; with that did foremost run, Then horns blcw loud, t h rest to follow on; The grcal, slow hounds their throats did set it base, Tllc h e t , swift houncls, m tenours next in place, The little beagles did a trcbk sing, And through t h air ilwir voices round did ring, Wlkh maclc such concert as they ran along, That, had t h y spcken words, ’t llad been a song; The horns kcpi timc, the men did shout for joy, And scem’cl most valiant, poor Wat to destroy; Spurring tllcir horscs to a full carcer, Swum rivers deep, IcqYd ditd~cs without fear, Endanger’cl life and limbs, so fast they’d ride, Only to sec how paticntly Wat dy’d; ,

At last the clogs so near his heels did get, That tllcir sharp teeth they in his breech did set;

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Then tumbling down he fell; with weeping eyes Gave up his ghost; and tlm poor Wat he dies. Men hooping loud, such acclamations made, As if the devil they imprisoned had, When they but did a shiftless creature kill ; To hunt, there needs no valiant soldier’s skill : But men do think that exercise and toil, To keep their health, is best, which makes most spoil, Thinking that food and nourishment so good, Which doth proceed from others flesh and blood. When they do lions, wolves, bears, tigers see Kill silly sheep, they say, they cruel be, But for themselves all creatures think too few; For luxury, wish God would make more new; As if God did make creatures for man’s meat, And gave them life and sense for man to eat; Or else for sport or recreation’s sake For to destroy those lives that God did make, Making their stomachs graves, which full they fill With murder’d bodies, which in sport they kill; Yet man doth think himself so gentle and mild, m l e n of all creatures he’s most crucl, wild; Nay, so proud, that he only thinks to live; That God it God-like naturc him did give, And that all creatures for his sake alone Were made, for him to tyrannize upon.

A TRUE RELATION

OF THE

BiM, Breedàng, L@, OB

MARGARET CAVENDISH,

WITH A

ßY

SIR EGERTON BRYDGES, M.P.

KENT :

1811.

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THIS MEMOIR

OF

MAXGARET CAVENDISI-P,

ERITBD BY

SIR EGERTON BRYDGES, M.P.

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DRAWN BY

FANCY'S PENCIL T O THE LIFE.

LONDON:

PRINTED DY J: MARTIN AND J. ALLESTRYEI AT THE DELL,

IN 9bINT PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD.

1G56.

PREFACE.

UTO-BIOGRAPHY is so attrsc-

tive, that in whatever manner it is executed, it seldom fails both to entertain and instruct. The Me-

moirs of Murgaret, Duchess of Newcastle, written by herself, appear to me very eminently to

possess this double merit. Whether they con- firm or refute the character of the literary and moral qualities of her Grace given by Lord Or- ford, I must leave the reader to judge. T h e simplicity by which they are marked will, in mincls constituted like that of the noble critic, seem to approximate to folly: otlms, less in- clined to sarcasm, and less infected with an arti-

ficial taste, will probably think far otherwise. That t h e Duchess was deficient in a culti-

vatecl judg~nent ; that her lmowledge was more

multifarioas than exact ; and that her powers of

fimcy anst sentiment mere more active than her

powers of reasoning, I will admit: but that her

productions, mingled a s they are with great absur-

dities, are wanting either in talent, or in virtue,

or even in genius, I cannot concede.

There i s an ardent ambition, which may

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perhaps itself be considered to prove superiority of intellect. cc I fear my ambition,” says the

Duchess, ‘( inclines to vain-glory ; for I am very ambitious ; yet ’tis neither for beauty, wit, titles,

wealth, or power, but as they are steps to raise me to Fancy’s Tower, which is to live by re-

membrance in after-ages !” In another place she

exhibits traits of herself, such as generally ac-

company genins. CC I wits addicted: her rac cc observes, “ from my childhood to contemplation,

ratller than conversation ; to solitariness, rather

than society ; to melancholy rather than mirth ; to write with the pen than to work with the

needle, passing my time with harmless fizncim, their company being pleasing, their conversation innocent, in which I talce such pleasure, RS I neglect my lmcdth ; for it is as great a grief to

neglect their society, as a joy to be in their C ~ I -

pany.” Again, she says : ‘‘ m y disposition is

more inclining to melancholy than merry ; but not cral.11~1 or peevish melaucholy, but soft,

melting, solitary, ancl contemp1;zting melancholy ; and I a m apt to weep athe her than laugh.”

Perhaps, however, it will be impossible to

@preface. . . . ,3

acquit the Duchess of vanity, as well as ambi-

tion, if it be vanity to intlulge a too general and indiscriminate love of distinction; and to ex-

patiate with too much miuuteness about oneself. Some of these minutiz now afford amusement,

arising from other pretensions than those with

which they were written.

Her Grace was the companion of the Duke's

misfortunes, t he solace of his exile, the sharer

of his poverty, In these gloomy clays she had less opportunity of being acquainted wit11 the

splendour of cmrts, and the characters and manners of men eminent on the theatre of practical

dife, than with the scenes and actions of her own lonely irnaginatiou. We do not, therefore, find

this Memoir fidl of anecdote, or history, or poli-

tical delineation. It is all domestic; and this

domestic ~ ~ i n t i n g is its charr11.

If thc Bdnchess hcrsalf n.ere oz~t of the

question, it is not nninteresting IO llave such a circnmstantial ncconut of the rest of the noble

family of ELJCAS. Whether their nlodc: of life be consiclcred a s common to others OF their rank, or pecnkw to thelnsehes, t h picture is plmsing

4 . . . . @IXf¿€atE.

and instructive. The mother’s character excites respect and affection. The bursting of the storms of civil war upon those days of peace, and virtue, and plenty, which smiled so treacherously on the youth of‘ the Dnchess, is truly affecting. cc In

such misfortunes,” says her Grace, cc my mother was of an heroic spirit, in suflering patiently

where there is no remedy; or to be industrious where she thought she coulcl help. She was of a grave behaviour, and had such a majestic grandeur, as it were continually hung about her, that it would strike a kind of awe to the he-

holders, and command respect from the rudest.” cc She lived to see the ruin of her children, ia which was her ruin, ancl then cliecl !l’---‘< Not only the family I am linked to is mined, but the family

from which I sprung by these unhappy tvars.” At pp. 1 1 and 1 Z, the Duchess has given

with exquisite nuiveth the acuonnt of her OM^

going into the world, as maid of honour to the

Queen, when tile Court was at Oxforcl, and her

subsequent attachment and marriage to the Duke, then Marquis of Newcastle. Not long after their marriage, the loss of the battle of

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Marston-moor drove them into exile. They moved from Paris to Holland, whence necessity

forced the Duchess to come to England to solicit relief out of the Duke’s immense estates, which the prevailing Powers had seized.

Her Grace remained a year and half in England, during which she wrote her ‘‘ Poems T and her ‘‘ Philosophical Fancies;” to which she made large additions after she returned abroad.

Afier her return also she wrote the volume from

which this ‘‘ Lfe ’I’ is extracted; and another

book. Her cc Wh-Zd’s Ozio” was, for the most part, written before she went to England.

f

In this exile, and under the disappointment

of her inerectual eflorts for relief, she says, ‘c Heaven hitherto hath kept us, and though Fortune hath been cross, yet we do submit, and

are both content with what is, and cannot be mended; and are so prepared, that the worst of

fortunes shall not afflict our minds, so as to make us unhappy, howsoever it doth pinch our

lives with poverty ; for, if tranquillity lives in an

honest mind,’ the mind lives in peace, although

the body sufier.”

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What can be more amiable and virtuous, than a resort to the consolations of literature in such a state 3 After the enjoyment of high and flattering rank, and splendid fortune, noble is the spirit that will not be hrolcen by the gripe of

Poverty, the expulsion from home; and kindred,

and friends, and the desertion of the world ! Under the blighting gl001n of such oppression to create wealth and a kingdom “ within the mind,” shews an intellectual energy, which ought not to be defrauded of its praise.

After the Restoration, peace and affluence once more shone upon them amid the long-lost domains of the Duke’s vast hereditary property.

Welbeck opened her gates to her Lord; and the castles of the North received with joy their heroic chieftain, whose maternal ancestors, the

baronial holise of OGLE, had ruled over them for centuries in Nortlaumberland. But Age hac1 now

made tlme Duke desirous only of repose; and

her Grace, the faithful companion of his fallen fortunes, was little disposed to quit the luxuri-

ous qniet of rural grandeur, which was as sooth-

ing to her disposition, as it was concorclant with

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$3Ertfmet . . . . 7 I

her duty. To such a pair the noisy and intoxi-

cated joy of a profligate cowt vvould probably

have been a thousand times more painful than all the wants of their late chilling, but calm,

poverty. They came not, therefore, to palaces

and levees ; but amused themselves in the country with literature and the arts. This solitary

state, this innocent magnificence, seems to llave I

afforded contempt and jests to the sophisticatcc1

Inob of clissolutc wits, who crowded round King Cllarles 11. These momentary buzzers in the

nrtificid sunshine of the regal presence, pro-

11ably tllonght that they, who having the power

to mis, with superior wealth, in the busy scenes

of high life, c o d cl prefer the insipid ch;mns of

lonely Nature, were only fit to be the butt of .their ridicule ! It is prolmble that the memory

of these witticisms might not llave entirely f d e d

before tIw cad y years of the late Lord Orford, who might llave caught the rnantle of these

spritcly oracles, d bave yronounccd on the

poor Duchess's cllaracter ancl amusements in a

Glnilur tone ! n Still P must not permit m y d f to be so far

heated by my sukject, as to surrender the ad- vantages of a just but candid discrimination.

Her Grace had, as I conceive, talents, as well as virtues, which raised her above the mnltitude, mlxh higher than her rank. Her powers, with

the aid of a little more arrangement, of something more of scholastic polish, and of a mode-

rate exertion of maturer judgment, might have produced writings, which posterity would llave esteemed both for their instruction and amusement. But I must arllnit that she wanted the primary qualities OF genius. She was neither

sublime nor pathetic. She had not the talent of seizing that selection of circumstances, of touching by a few single strokes those chords,

which, throngh the force of association in our

ideas, calls np at once whole pictures ! Imitators,

and they whose poetical faculties are not gemine, multiply images, by which, while they think

they are excelling their modely, they destroy the

whole charm.

Her Grace wantecl taste; she knew not

what to obtrude; ancl what to leave out. She pours forth every thing wit11 an undistinguishing

$heface. . . . . 9

hand, and mixes the serious, the colloquial, and even the vulgar, in a rrmnner which cannot be defended. In the Lije,” however, now re- printed, this great fault is less apparent than in

any other of her compositions. But we must not compare these composi-

tions with the more refined exactness of later times. In t h s e days what female writer was

there, who could endure the critical acumen of

the present period? Who now reads Mrs. Ka- tharine Phillips, better known by her poetical name of‘ Orindct 3 And Mrs. BelIn, who lived somewhat later, is more remarkable for her

licentiousness, thau for any better cplity. Even

of Mrs. Killegrew, the encornium bestowed by DI-. JohnsonzL is generally tllo-nght to he unde- served. The Countess of Pembroke, Lady Ca-

rew, Lady Wrothe, and it few others succeeded;

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A TRUE TCELATION

OF MY

Y fathcr was a gentleman, which title is

grounded and given by merit, not by princes; and 'tis the act of Timc,a not

favour: and though my father was not a

pcer of the r d m , yct there were few peers who had much greater estates, or livcd more noble therewith: yet

at that timc great titles wcre to be sold, b and not at so

high ratcs, hut 'tlmt his &&te might have easily purchased,

and was prest far to take; but my father did not esteem

This rcm;trk, and somcthing like this expression, lind been already used Ly Lord Bacon, with rcgurd to old nobility. If rank, station, or wealth, obtained hy II low nlan, were commonly thc rcsult of merit, the newcst Ilonours would bc tllc most worthy of rcspect; brit as it is too often otllurwisc, and wcaltll is 111orc apt tu follow narrtnv C U I I I I ~ I I ~ , alld perllaps fraud, than genrrous iudustrp or sltill, mrtl titlcs, instcad of heing the recompense of gcnernlly-sdnrittcd worth or tdcnts, too oftcn flow from an individuid act of w l ~ i n l or intercsl by ÍL corrupt Minister, the distinctions which have bccn crcatcd b y Time, arc, on the whole, more worthy of csteenl u11d admirat,ion, tlliLn those which fwour has procured to the present posscssor.

This relates to the rcign of Kink James. The fact is a matter of general, not aecrct history, and may he found even in the poges of Hume, which arc generally dcficicnt in minute dutails.

9 , , . . #&mofr Of tbE BUCbP#$ of NEbotaPstb.

titles, unless they were gained by heroic actions; and the kingdom being in a happy peace with all other nations, and in itself being governed by a wise king, King James,

there was no employments for heroic spirits; and towards the latter end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, BS soon as he came to man’s estate, he unfortunately, fortunately killed one Mr. Brooks in a single duel; for my hther by the laws of honour could do no less than call him to the field, to question him for an injury he did him, where their swords were to dispute, and one or both of their lives to decide the argument, wherein my fatlm had the better; and though my father by honour challenged him, with valour fought him, and in justice killed him, yet he suffered more than any person o€ quality usually doth in cases of honour; for though the laws be rigorous, yet the

present Princes most commonly arc gratious in those misfortunes, especially to the injured : but my father found it not, for his exile was from the time of his misfortunes to Queen Elizabeth’s death ; for the Lord Cobhamc being then a great man with Queen Elizabeth, and this gentle-

. . C ~ C I I . C I I N N J C I I I ) C J I I . C I I ~ Ø ) ~ t C I I Y I - u . S - ~ N I E C * M

e ‘I’hi~ was the Lord Cobham, whose subsequent misfortunes, condem- nation, loss of estate, long irnprisonmetlt, and tlerrth in miserable poverty, RB u Principal in what is called Raleigh’s Ptot, have been too often re- lated to need repetition. See more especially GLMemoirs of Kiug James’s PeL~S,’’ avo. 1804. It seems astonishing, though the fact stands on va-

rious autlion+,ies, th& Cobha~n, weak as hc was hoth in head and beart, ahodd cver have been a favouritc of the bold and magnanimous Queen.

r n @ m Q h Of tb& aUtbE$d O f M&C¿?$th. . . . , 3

man, Mr. Brooks, a kind of a favourite, ancl as I take it brother to the then Lord Cobham, which made Queen Eli- zabeth YO severe, not to pardon him: but King James of

blessed memory graciously gave hiln his pardon, and leave to return home to his native country, wherein he lived happily, and died pcaceably, leaving a wife and eight children, three sons, and five daughters, 1: being the youngest child he bad, and an infant when he died.

As for my breeding, it was according to my birth, and the nature of my sex; for my birth was not lost in my breeding; for as my sisters was, or had been bred, so

was 1 in plenty, or rather with superfluity; likewise we were brcd virtuously, modestly, civilly, honourably, ancl on honest principles : as for plenty, we had not only for ncccssity, convcniency, and decency, but for delight and pleasure to a superfluity; ’tis true wew did not riot, but we lived orderly; for riot, even in kings’ courts and princcs’ p:dlaces, brings ruin without content or pleasure, when orclcr in less fortunes sllall live morc plentifully and deliciously than princes, that live ia a hurly-burly, as I Inay terln it, in wllich t h y are seldom well served, for &orcler obstructs; besides, it doth disgust life, distract the appetites, ancl yield no true relish to the semes; for pleasure, delight, pcace and felicity, live in method and

temperance. As for our garments, my mother did not o d y delight

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4 , . . , @enwile of t@ B U C ~ ~ B Ø of NebCaçMg,

to see us neat and cleanly, fine and gay, but rich and costly; mdintaining us to the height of her estate, but

not beyond it; for we were so far from being in debt, before these wars, as we were rather before-haud with the

world; buying all with ready money, not on the score;

for although after my father’s death the estate was divided

between my mother and her sons, paying such a sum of

money for portions to her daughtcrs, either at the clay of their marriage, or when they should come of age; yet by reason she and her children agreecl with a mutna1 con-

sent, all their aEGrs were managed so wcll, as shc livcd

not in a much lower condition than when my father lived;

’tis true, my mother might have increased her daughters

portions by a thrifty spring, yet shc cllose to bestow it

on our breeding, honest pleasures, and harmless clcligllts,

out of an opinion, that if she bred us with nccdy ncces-

sity, it might cllance to create in us sllarking qualities,

mcan thoughts, and base actions, which she kt~cw my father, ils well as herself, clid abhor: “likewise wc were

brgd tenderly, for my m o t h naturally did strive to plcnse

and delight her cllildren, not to cross and torment them,

terrifying them with threttts, or lashing tl~ern with slavish whips; but instead of tllreats, rcason wits used to persuade

us, and insteacl of lashes, t h dcformitics of vice was discovered, and the Graccs and Virtues wcre presented unto us; also we were bred with respectful attendance, every

#'hmtu o f t.Be Dutbeg$ of N e i ~ o r n ~ t ~ o . . . .

one being severdly waited upon; and all her servants in

general used the same respect to her children, (even those

that were very young) as they did to herself; for she suf-

fered not her servants eitller to be rude before us, or

to riolnincer ovcr us, which all vdgar servants are apt, and ofttimes which some haGe leave to do; likewise she

nevcr suffered the vulgar serving-men to be in the nur-

sery among the nurse-maids, lest their rude love-making might do unseemly actions, or speak unlmnclsome words

in the presence of her children, knowing that youth is apt to take infection by ill examples, having not the rea-

son of distinguishing good from bad; neither were w e suftercd to have any hmiliarity with the vulgar servants,

or couvcrsation : yct caused us to demean ourselves with

an humble civility towards them, as they with a dutiful

rcspect l o us; not because they were servants were we so reserved; for many noble persons are forced to serve

through ncccssity; but by reason the vulgar sort of ser-

vants arc' i ls ill bred as meanly born, giving children ill

examples aud worsc counscl. As for tutors, although we hacl for d1 sorts of virtues,

as singing, dancing, playing on music, reading, writing, working, s~nd t h like, yet we werc not kept strictly there-

to; thcy wcre rather for formality than benefit; for my mot,her carcd rmt so much for our dancing and fiddling,

singing ancl prating of several languages, as that we should

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6 . . . . f l e l n o h of tbe 318utbe~ of Nohrta~tIe.

be bred virtuously, modestly, civilly, honourably, and on

honest principles. As for my brothers, of which I had three, I know not

how they were bred ; first, they were bred when I was not

capable to observe, or before I was ' born; likewise the breeding of men were after different manner of ways from

those of women; but this I know, that they loved Virtue,

endeavoured Merit, practised Justice, and spoke Truth;

they were constantly loyal, and truly valiant; two of my

three brothers were excellent soldiers, and martial disci-

pliners, being practised therein; for though they might have lived upon their own estates very honourably, yet

they rather chose to serve in the wars under the States of Holland, than to live idly at home in pcace : my brother, Sir Thomas Lucas, there having a troop of horse; my brother, the youngest, Sir Charles Lucas, serving therein; but he served the States not long, for after he had been at the siege and taking of some towns, he returned home

again; and though he had the less experience, yet he was like to have provcd the better soldier, if better could have

been, for naturally he had a practic genius to the warlike

arts, or mts in war, as natural poets have to poetry : but

his life was cut off before he could arrive ' to the perfection thereof; yet he writ CCA Treatise of the Arts in War," but by reason it was in characters, and the key thereof

lost, we cannot as yet understand any thing therein, at

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Memoft of tb^ BDut~e~~ of Neiucastle. . . . . 7

least not so as to divulge it.d My other brother, the Lord Lucas, who was heir to my father’s estate, and as it were the father to take care of us all, is not less valiant than they were, although his skill in the discipline of war was not so much, being not bred therein, yet he had more skill in the use of the sword, and is more learned in other arts and sciences than they were, he being a great scho- lar, by reason he is given much to studious contempla- tiome

Their practice was, when they met together, to exercise themselves with fencing, wrestling, shooting, and such like exercises, for I observed they did seldom hawk or hunt, and very seldom or never dance, or play on music, saying it was too effeminate for masculine spirits; neither had they skill, or did’use to play, for ought I could hew, at cards or dice, or the like games, nor given to any vice, as I did know, unless to love a mistress werc a crime, not that I know any they had, but what report did say, and usually reports are false, at kast exceed the truth.

As for the pastimes of my sisters when they were in the country, it was to read, work, walk, and discourse

~-.~*u#-æ-.r.muu-@æ+----

J See an account of Sir Clludes Lucas, in ‘‘ Lord Cla~endon’s His- t09.y.’’

e His descendant and representative, the only surviving daughter of the Iste Earl of I-Iardwiclte, now enjoys the Bnrony of Lucas, as heir to this brotller.

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8 . . , , N e m o i r of tip Bucbe~$ O€ N & m t I e .

wit11 each other; for though two of my three brothersf were married, my brotber the Lord Lucas to a virtuous and beautiful lady, daughter to Sir Christopher Nevilc, son

to the Lord Abergavenny, and my brother Sir ThoAas

Lucas to a virtuous lady of an ancient family, one Sir John Byron's daughter;g likewise, three of m y four sisters, one married Sir Peter Killegrew, the other Sir Wil- liam Walter, the third Sir Edmund Pye, the fourth as

yet unmarried, yet most of them lived with my nlother,

-p---~--uw#-&w-u~

f Sir Thomas Lucas of St. John's, n a r Colchester, marricd Mary, daugllter of Sir John Fermor of Eston-Neston, in Nortllanlpt,orlsllirc, by whom he had Thomas Lucas of St. Jolln's, near Colchcsler, Esq. who by Elizabeth, daughtcr and colleir of John Lcighton of L011do11, Gent. had three sons and five daughters, vis.

1. John Lucas of St. John's, ncar Colchestcr, aftcrwarcls I,od Lucns,

who married Anne, daughter of Sir Christopher Ncvillc, Kt. youqcr brother of the Lord Abergavenny, by whom he llad John, his son ant1 k i r , born allout 1624.

8. Sir Thomas Lucas, a captain in L011dot1, who marricd B clnugllt,cr of Sir John Byron, Kt. by whom llc had u. son, Thomas.

3. Sir Charlcs Lucas. 4. Mary, wife of Sir Peter Killcgrew, Kt. 5. Anne. fi. Elizalxth, wife of Willi;un Waltcr, Esq. 7. Catherine, wife of Sir Edrnund Pye of London, K I . 8. Mnrpret, afterwards Dwhces of Newcastle. X.

Arms. Argent, a fcss betwccl1 six annulets, gulcs. E Sister to tllc ancestor of thc prcscnt Lord B~UJII; by which must

be corrected an errar in the new Edition of ~ ' ~ o t ~ i ~ ~ s ' s ~ e w u g e , " w i d 1 statcs the DUC~WSS to have been tllc issue of thiv mnrriqe.

- I Z - æ ~ N L I I I I I . * - - ~ ~ ~ - ~ ~ - - ~ - ~ - * - - 0 * ~ * 0 * ~ . ~ . 0 , - ~ , ~ ~ *

* HWI. m s . ISSQ, f. 59.

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fllemotr of tbc DucBe~g OC MebcatJtIe, . . . . g

especially when she was at her country-house, living most commonly at London half the year, which is the Metro- politan city of England :h but when they were at London, they were dispersed into several houses of their own, yet for the most part they met every day, feasting each other like Job's children. But this unnatural war came like a whirlwind, which felled down their houses, where some in the wars were crusht to death, as my youngest brother Sir Charles Lucas, and my brother Sir Thomas Lucas;

and though my brother Sir Thomas Lucas died not immediately of his wounds, yet a wound he received on his head in Ireland shortened his life.

But to rehearse their rccreations. Their customs were in winter timc to go somctilnes to plays, or to ride in thcir coaches about the streets to see the concourse and recourse of people; and in the spring time tfo visit the Spring-garden, Hide-park, and the like places; and sometimes they would have music, and sup in bargcs upon

the walcr; L these harmless recreations they would pass thcir time away with; for I observed, they did seldom

make visits, nor never went abroad with strangers in their company, but only themselvcs in a flock together agree-

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A beautiful picture of family l~armony and affection; and curious . as shcwiag thc custom of the grcatcr gcntry to pnss the winter in London

even then. This is also a vcry curious picture of manncrs.

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10 . , . . m e m o i r af tl je B U C ~ ~ G Ø of %fCbJragt1&

I ing SO well, that thcre seemed but one mind amongst

them: and not only my own brothers and sisters agreed

so, but m y brothcrs and sisters in law, and their children,

although but young, had the lilte agreeable natures and

affectionable dispositions : for to my best remembrance I do not know that ever they did fall out, or had any angry

or unkind disputes. Likewise, I did observe, that my

sisters were so far from mingling themselves with any

other coInpany, that they had no familiar conversation or

intimate acquaintance with the families to which cach

other were linkt to by marriage, the family of the one

being as great strangers to the rest of my brothers and

sisters, as the family of the other.

But scunetime rLfter this war began, I know not how

thcy livccl; for tllough most, of thcm werc in O.dord,

wherein thc King was, yet after the Queen went from Ox- ford, ancl so out of Englard, I was parted from tlletn; for

when tllc Q u e m ~7as in Oxford, I had a great desirc to

be one of her maids of honour, hearing the Queen had

not the same numbcr she was used to have, whereupon I wooed ancl won my ~notller to k t me go; for my mother,

being fond of d l her children, was dcsirous to please tllcxn,

which made her consent to my request. But my brothcrs

and sisters seemod not very well pleased, by reason I llnd never been from homc, nor sclclom out of their sight; for

though they knew I \voulcl not bchavc myself to their, or

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flernaft. of tljo 3lucf1egg of NcIutnstIe. . . . . 11

my own dishonour, yet they thought I might to my disad- vantage, being unexperienced in tlle world; which indeed I did, for I was so bashful when I was out of my mother’s,

brothers’, and sisters’ sight, whose presence used to give me confideme, thinking I could not do amiss whilst any one of them were by, for I knew they would gently re-

form me if I did; besides, I was ambitious they shoulcl

approve of m y actions and bclliLviour, t h t when Z was

gone from tllern, I was lilCe onc-tlmt 11ac1 no fozmncliltion to

stand, or guidc to direct me, which matlc nle afraid lest I should wandcr with ignorance out of t h ways of honour,

so that I knew not how to behave myself. Besides, I had heard that the world is apt to lay aspersions even on tlle

innocent, €or which I durst neither look up with my cyes,

nor speak, nor be any way sociable, insomuch as I was

thought a natural fool; indced I liad not much wit, yet l’ was not an idiot, m y wit was according to my years; and though I might have learnt more wit, and advanccd my understandir~g by h i n g in it court, yet being dull, fear- ful, and bashful, I neither l~ccdcd what was said ur prac-

tised, but just what, belongcd to m y loyal duty, rtlld my own Ilonest reputation; and, idccd, I was SO afraid to

dishonour my friends aud family by my indiscrecl actions,

that I wthcr chose to be accounted n fool, than to h tllougIlt rude or wanton; in truth, my bashfulness’ and fears made me repent m y going from home to s e the

1% . , . . @Xemoír of t f ~ ~ 3Buc~o~f; of Nebcastle,

world abroad, and much I did desire to return to my mother again, or to my sister Pye, with whom I often lived when she was in London, and loved with a super- natural affection: but my mother advised me there to stay, although I put her to morc charges than if she had kept me at home, and the more, by reason she and my brothers were sequestered from their estates, and plundered of all their goods; yet she maintained me so, that I was in a condition rather to lend than to borrow, which courtiers usually are not, being always necessitated by reason of great expenses courts put them to. But my mother said, it would be a disgrace for me to return out of the court so soon after I was placed; so I continued almost two years, until such time as I was married from thence; for my Lord Marquis of Newcastle did approve of those bashful fears which many condemncd, and would choose such a wife ‘is hc might bring to his own humours, and not such an onc as was wedded to self-conceit, or one thnt had Been tempered to the humours of another; for which he wooed me for 11;s wife; and though I did dread marriage, and shunned men’s companies as

much as I could, yet I could not, nor had not the power to refuse him, by reason my affections were k e d on him, and he was the only person I ever was in love with. Neither was I ashamed to own it, but gloried therein, for it was not amorous love, I never was infected therewith; it

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#lemotr of tbc Butljesss o f Nebta~tI~ , , , . . 13

is a disease, or a passion, or both, I only know by relation, not by experience; neither could title, wealth, power, or person entice me to love; but my love was honest and honourable, being placed upon merit, which affection joyed at the farne of his worth, pleased with delight in his wit, proud of the respect he used to me, and triurnph- ing in the affections he profest for me, which affections he hath confirmed to me by a deed of time, sealed by constancy, and assigned by an unalterable decree of his promise; which makes me happy in clespight of Fortune’s frowns; for though misfortunes may and do oft dissolve base, wild, loose, and ungrounded affections, yet She hath no powcr of those that are united either by merit, justice, gratitude, duty, fidelity, or the like; and though my lord hath lost his estate, and banished out of his country for his loyalty to his king and country, yet neither despised Poverty, nor pinching Necessity could make him break the bonds of friendship, or weaken his loyal duty to his king or country. k

1

But not only the family I am linkt to is ruined, but

the family from which I sprung, by these unhappy was;

which ruin my mother lived to see, and then died, having

u-#Y----P-uaæ--

k Thc wholc of this lonE passage i5 in scntimcnt, and in tiic spirit of thc langwage, (though some of t,he p a h of it arc awltwardly constructed) highly amiable, elnqucnt, and nlfccting.

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14 . . . . m a n t o h of tbe BucDc~pi o€ Nobcastle.

lived it widow many years, for she never forgot my father so as to marry again; indeed, he remained so lively in her memory, and her grief was so lasting, as she never rnen-

tioncd his name, though she spokc often of him, but love and grief caused tears to flow, and tender sighs to rise, nmurning in sad complaints; she made her house her cloyster, inclosing herself as it were therein, for she seldom went abroad, unless to church; but these unhappy wars forced hcr out, by reason she and her children were loyal to the king; for which they plundered her and my brothers of all their goods, plate, jewels, money, corn, cattle, and the like; cut down their woods, pulled down their houses, and sequestered them from their lands and livings; but in such misfortunes my mother was of an heroic spirit, in suffering patiently where there is no remedy, or to l x industrious where she thought she could help: she was of a grave belraviou-, and had such a majestic grzlncteur, as it were continually hung about her,

that it would strike a. kind of an awe to thc beholders, and command respect from the rudest; I mean the rudoest of civilized people, I mean not such barbarous people as

plundered her, and used her crueIly, for they would have pulled God out of heaven, had they had power, as they did Royalty out of his throne : also her beauty was beyond the ruin of Time, for she had a well-favoured loveliness in her face, a pleasing sweetness in her countenance, and

I

#Uemofr of tbc B ~ u c l ~ e 4 ~ o f Netuen$iKa. . . . .l5 *

a well-tempered complexion, as neithcr too red nor too

pale, even to her dying hour, although in years, and by

her dying, one might think death was enamoured with

her, €or he embraced her in a sleep, and so gently, as if

he were afraid to hurt her: also she was an affectionate

mother, breeding her children with a most industrious

care, and tender love; ancl having eight children, three

sons and five daughters, there was not any one crooked,

or any ways deforrncd; neither were they dwarfish, or of a

giant-like stature, but every wdys proportionable ; lilre-

wise well featured, clear cornplcxions, brown hairs, but some lighter than others, sound teeth, swcet breaths,

pldn speeches, tunedde voices, I Inem not so mucl1 to

sing as in speaking, as not stuttcring, nor wharling in the throat, or speaking tllrongh tllc nose, or hosrsely, unless they had a cold, or squealringly, which impedimcnts many

h:ive : neither were their voices of too low a stmiin, or

too high, but their notes and worcls werc tuneable and

timely : I hope this truth will llot o i h d my rcadcrs, and lest they should tl~ink T am a partial rcgister, 1 daw not

commend my sisters, as to say t h y were handsome; although many would say they were wry handsome: but this I dare say, thcir beauty, if m y they had, was not so

lasting as my motller's, Time making stzddcner ruin in

their faccs than in hers; likewise my mother w:ts a, good

mistress to her servants, taking care of her servants in

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16 , . . *srnoir of tbe a u t ~ ~ s ! ~ of ~ob;’caglt~e.

their sickness, not sparing any cost she was able to bestow for their recovery : neither did she exact from them more in their health than what they with ease, or rather like pastime, could do: she would freely pardon a fault, and forget an injury, yet sometimes she would be angry; but never with her children, the sight of them would pacify her, neither would she be angry with others, but when she had cause, as with negligent or knavish servants, that would lavishly or unnecessarily waste, or mbtlely and thievishly steal; and though she would often complain that her family was too great for her weak management, and often pressed my brother to take it upon him, yet I observe she took a pleasure, and some little pride, in the governing thereof: she was very skilful in leases, and setting of lands, and court-keeping, ordering of stewards, and the like aflàirs : also I observed, that my mother, nor

brothcrs, beforc these wars, had ever any law-suits, but what an attorney dispatched in a Term with small cost; but if they had, it was more tlmn I knew of: but, as T said, my mother lived to see the ruin of her’children, in which was her ruin, and then died : m y brother Sir Thomas

Lucas soon after; my brother Sir Charles Lucas after him, being shot to death for his loyal service, for he was

most constmtly loydl and courageously active; indeed he

had a superfluity of courage. My eldest sister died some- time before my mother, her death being, as I believe,

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l $Hamoile of tbc Butbe$r; o f Ks!urngtk, . . . 17

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she doted, being very pretty, sweet natured, and had cl11 1

hastened though gricf of her only daughter, on whicll

~ extraordinary wit for her age, she dying of a consump-

tion; my sister, her mother, dicd solne half a year after

of the same disease, and though time is apt to waste

remembrance as a consumptivc body, or to wear it orzt

like a garlncnt into rags, or to mouldcr it into dust; yet

1 I find the natural dlicctions I have for my friends, are

1 beyoncl the lengtll, strcngtll, and powcr of tirne: for I s~ ' lament the loss so long as I livc, also the loss of my lorcl's noble brother, which dicd not long aftcr I rdurned from

~ Englttncl, he bcing then sick of an ague, whose Favours

i and my tlmdfulacss, ingratitudc shall n e w disjoin; for

i I will build his mollument of truth, though 1 cannot of

, marble, and hang rny tears and scutcheons on Iris tomb.

He was nobly generous, wisely valiant, naturally civil,

honcstly kind, truly loving, virtuously temperate; his ~ promise wis like a fixt dccrec, his words were destiny, his

¡ life was holy, liis disl)osition mild, his behaviour courteous,

his discourse pleasing; lie hacl sl rcady wit and a. spacious l , knowledge, a settlcrl judgmcnt, a clear uuclerstamding, a

I rational insight; hc was learncd in all arts and sciences,

but especially in the mathematics, in which study he

spent most part of his time; and though his tongue

i preacht not ~ r ~ o r d philosophy, yct his life taught it; indeed he was auch a person, that he might have been a

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1s . , . . $&moir of tbe Bucjjegs of Nebta~tle.

pattern for all mankind to take : he loved my lord his

brother with a, doting affection; as my lord did him, for

whose sake I suppose he was so nobly generous, carefully

kind, and respectful to me; for I dare not challengc his

hvours as to myself, Ilaving not merits to deserve them;

he was for a time the preserver of my lifc, for after 1 was

married some two or three years, my lord travelled out of

France, from the city of Paris, in which city he resided

the timc he was there, so went into Holland, to a town

called Rotterdam, in wllidl placc hc stayed some six

months; from thence he returned to Brabant, unto t h

city of Antwerp, wllich city wc passecl through, when we

went into Holland; and in that cit#y my lord settled him-

self and family, choosing it ihr thc most pleasantest, and

quietest place to retire himself and ruincd fortunes in:

but after we hac1 remainecl some timc therein, we grew ex-

trelncly neccssitntcd, traclesmen being there 1101. so rich as

to trust my lord f u so much, or so long, as those of

France; yet t h y were so civil, kind and clluritable, as to

trust him for its mucll as they wcre able; but at last

ncccssity inforced mc to return into England to seck for

relief; for I llearing my lord’s estate, amongst thc rcst of

many more cstatcs, was to be sold, anci that the wives of

the owners should llavc an allowancc tlwrefrom, it p r e UlhCII-~).HWH.W.~~-~~u~~~~-~~--~---------~

’ Sir Cherles C í ~ v e n t ~ l ’ s cllarilcter is dri~tvrl in eql1ally glowing co-

lours by Lord Clarcndon.

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ZO , , . , mmoft: of toe BUC$PB~J of NebDcaBtk.

was to be the most loyal subject t o his king and country :

but I whisperingly spole to my brother to conduct me out

of that ungentlemanly place, so without speaking to them

one word, good or bad, I returned to my lodgings; and as that Committee was the first, so was it the last I ever was

at as a petitioner; 'tis true I went sometimes to Drury House to inquire how the land was sold, but no other

ways, although some reported I was at the Parliarncnt

House, and at this Committee and at that Committee, and what T should say, and how I was answered; but the

customs of England being changecl as well as the laws, where women become pleaders, attornies, petitioners and

the like, running about with their several causes, com- plaining of their several grievances, exclaiming against their several enemies, bragging of their several favours

they receive from the powerful; thus trafficing with idle words bringing in false reports and vai11 discourse; for the

truth is, our sex doth nothing but justle for the pre- eminence of words, I mem not for speaking well, but

speaking much, as they do €or the pre-eminence of place, words rushing against words, thwarting and crossing each other, and pulling with reproaches, striving to throw each other down with disgrace, thinking to advance themselves

thereby; but if our sex would but well consider and ration-

ally ponder, they will perceive and find, that it is neither words nor place that can advance them, but worth and

t

$4hnoLr o f t i j e B u c T p ~ of Nrboeastle, . . . .g1

r

merit: nor can words or place disgrace them, but incon- stancy and boldness : for an honest heart, a noble soul, a chaste life, and a true speaking tongue, is the throne, sceptre, crown, and footstool, that advances them to an honourable renown, 1 mean not noble, virtuous, discreet, and worthy persons, whom necessity did enforce to submit, comply, and follow their own suits; but such as had nothing to lose, but made it their trade to solicit; but I despairing, being positively denied at Goldsmith’s Hall; besides, I had a firm faith, or strong opinion, that the pains was more than the gains, and being unpractised in public employments, unlearned in their uncouth ways,

ignorant of the humours and dispositions of those persons to whom I was to address my suit, and not knowing where the power lay, and being not a good flatterer, I did not trouble myself, or petition my enemies ; besides

I am naturally bashful, not that I am ashamed of my

, mind or body, m y birth or lxecding, my actions or fortunes, for my bashfulness is iu my nature, not for any crime, and thougll I have strived and reasoned with m y - self, yet that which is inbred, I find is difficult to root out, but I do not find that my basldihess is concerned with the qualities of the persons, but the number, for

were I enter amongst a coxupany of Lazarouses, I should be as much out of countenrmce as if they were all Czsars or Alexanders, Cleopatras or Queen Didos; neither do

m .

29 . , . . # ! h o i u OC t3je D~ut~ef;~ of Nsl~cnstls,

I find my bashfulness riseth so often in blushes, as con-

tracts my spirits to a cldl paleness ; but the best of it is,

most commonly it soon vauisheth away, and many times

before it can be perceived, and the more foolish, or un-

worthy, I conccivc the company to be, tllc worse I am,

and the best rcmcdy I evcr found was, is to persuade mp- self that all those persons 1 m’cet arc wise and virtuous; the reason I take to be is, that the wise and virtuous c m -

sure least, excuse most, praise best, estecm rightly, judge justly, behave tllemselvcs civilly, denmm tlmnsclves re-

spectfully, and speak modestly, when fools or unworthy

persons are apt to commit al~surciitic\s, as to be bold, rude,

uncivil both in words alil actions, forgetting or not well

understanding themselves, or thc ‘company they are with;

a d though I mver met such sorts of ill bred creatures,

yct nnturdly I llave suoh an aversion to such kind OC

people, as I a111 afraid to meet them, as children arc

afraid of spirits, or those that are afraid to see or mcct

devils; which makes me tllillk this natural defect in me,

if it be a defect, is ratllcr a fear tlml a bashfulness; but

wllatsoevcr it is, I find it troublcsomc, €or it lmth mmy

times obstructed the passage of 1ny specch, ancl pcrrturlul

my natural actions, forcing a constraincdncss or unusual

motions; but, however, since i t is rathcr a t‘car of others

than a bashful distrust of myself, I despair of a perfect

cure, unless nature as well as human govcrnmcuts could

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$hxtoft . of tip 3 ! h t ~ c $ ~ i of Wsl\lrn$tle. . . . .23

be civilized and brought into a methodical order, ruling

the words ancl actions with a supreme power of reason,

and the authority of discretion; but a rude nature is

worse than a brute nature, by so nluch more as m m is

bcttcr than beast; but thosc that are of civil natures and

-gclrtlc dispositions are as much ncarcr to celestial crea-

tures, as those that are of rude or cruel are to devils : but,

in fine, aftcr 1 had been in England a year and half, in

which time I gave some half a score visits, and went with

my lord’s brothcr to hear music in onc Mr. Lawcs’sn house

three or four times, as also some tllrce or four times to

Hicle Park with my sisters, to take the air; clsc I never

stirrcd out of my loclgiugs, unlcss to sec my fxotlwrs am1

sisters; nor scldoln did I drcss myself, as talting no de-

light to adorn myself, since he I only desired to plcase

was absent; although report did clress me in a llundrcd

sevcral fashions: ’tis true, when I clid dress myself, I did

cncletwour to c l 0 it to my best becoming, both in rcspect

to myself and thosc I weut to visit, or chanced to meet;

but after I had bceu in Eng1;d a yen zlncl a, half, part of

which tirnc T writ a book of poems, and a, lietlc book

called m y c c PhiEosop7~ictd Funcies,” to which I haw writ

B large addition sincc I returned out of England; besicles

this book ancl one other: a s for my book intitled Tltc

U I H . C . W . N ~ æ ~ ~ I . C u I C Z Z E . S I ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ u * I ~ u I . ~ . H I C m V E

n Lawcs was R cclcbriltctl musical composer, the fricnrl of Milton.

24 , . . memofr of tbc ailCbEG$ o f WtfuragtIe.

Worki’s Olio,” I writ most part of it before I went into

England; but being not of a merry, although not of a froward or peevish disposition, became very melancholy, by reason I was from m y lord, which made my mind so

restless, as it did break my sleeps, and distemper my health, with which growing impatient of a longer delay, I resolved to return, although I was grieved to leave Sir Charles, my lord’s brother, he being sick of an ague, of which sickness he died: for though his ague was cured, his life was decayed; he being not of r2 strong constitution could not, as it did prove, recover his health, for the dregs

of his ague did put out the lamp of his lifc ; yet heaven knows I did not think his life was so near to an end, for his doctor had great hopes of his perfect recovery; and by reason he was to go into the country for change of air, where I should have been a trouble, rather than any ways service- able; besides, more charge the longer I stayed, for which I made the more haste to return to my lord, with whom I had rather be as a poor beggar, than to be mistress of the world absented from him; yet, heaven hitherto hat11 kept us, and fiough Fortune hath been cross, yet we do sub-

mit, and are both content with what is, arid cannot be

mended, and are so prepared that the worst of fortunes shall not d i c t our mincis, so as to make us unhappy, howsoever it doth pinch our livcs with povcrty; for, if

trauquillity lives in an honest mind, the mind lives in

flomoir of tbo 3 h c ~ w of NotDeagtk, . . , 25

peace, although the body suffer: but Patience hnth armed us, and Misery hath tried us, and finds us Fortune-proof;

for the truth is, my lord is a person whose humour is neither estrslvagantly merry, uor unnecessarily sad; his mind is above his fortune, as his gcncrosity is above his

purse; his couragc abovc danger; his justice above bribes;

bis friendship ahove sclf-intcrcst; his truth too firm for falsehood ; his telnpcrance beyond temptation; his convcr-

sation is plcnsing and aEdde; his wit is cpick; and his juclgmcnt is strong, distinguishing clcarly without clouds

of mistdws, dissecting truth, so its they justly admit not of disputes: his discourse is always new upun the occasion, without troubling the henrcrs with olcl historicul relations, nor stuft with uselcss scntcnces; his behaviour is manly without formality, ancl free without constraint; and his miud Imth the same freedom : his nature is nobJe,

and his disposition sweet; his loydty is proved by his public scrvice for his king and country, by his often

hazarcliug of his lik, by thc loss o€ his estate, ancl the banishmcut of his person, by his necessitatcd condition,

and his constal~t allcl pticnt suffering; but, howsoever our

fortunes arc, WC are buth content, spending our time harmlessly, for my lord plcaseth himsclf with the manage-

ment of some few horses, and exercises himself with the use of the sword; wl~ich two arts he hath brought by his studious thoughts, rational experience, and industrious

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26 . . . , flomoir of ae Bucbep14 of Mshlca$tIe.

practice, to an absolute perfection: and though he hath taken as much pains in those arts, both by study and

practice, as chymists for the philosopher’s stone, yet he

hath this advantage of them, that he hath found the

right a d the truth thereof and therein, which chymists

never fOUhCl in their art, and I believe never will: also he

recreates himself with his pen, writing what his wit dic-

tates to him; but I pass my time rather with scribbling

than writing, with words than wit; not that I speak much, because I am addicted to contemplation, unless I am with

my lord; yet then I rather attentively listen to what he

says, than impertinently speak; yet when I am writing,

and sad fained stories, or serious humours, or melancholy

passions, I am forced many times to express them with

the tongue before I can write them with the pen, by rw- son those thoughts that are sa,d, serious, and melan-

choly, arc apt to contract and to draw too much back,

which oppression doth as it were overpower or smother

the conception in the brain; but when some of those

thoughts are sent out in words, they give the rest more

liberty to place thcmsclvcs in a more methodical order,

marching more regularly with my pen, on the ground of

white papcr; but my letters seem rather as a ragsed rout,

than a well armed body; for the brain being quicker in

creating than the hand in writing, or the memory in rc-

tainiug, many fancics are lost, by reason they ofttimncs

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~ o m o i t of tbe auebes$ of ~ t h m $ t I e . . . , .27

outrun the pen; where I, to keep speed in the race, write

so fast as I stay not so long as to write my lettcrs plain, insomuch as some have taken my hand-writing for some

strange clmmcter; and being accustomed so to do, T: can-

not now write very plais, when I strive to write my best;

indeed, my ordit~ary hand-writing is so bad as few can

read it, so as to write it h i r for the press; but, however,

that little wit T have it delights me to scribble it out, and

disperse it about, for I being addicted from my childhood

to contcrnplation rdther tllan conversation, to solitariness

rather than society, to mclancholy rather tlml mirth, to

write with the pen than to work with a needle, passing

my time with harmless fancies, their company h i n g

pleasing, Ih i r conversation innocent, in which I talce such plestsurc, as I neglect my health; for it is as great a

grief to leave their socicty, as a joy to bc in their com-

pany; m y only trouble is, lest my brain should grow bar-

ren, or that the rod of my Fancies should become insipid, withering into n dull stupidity for want of nmturing sub-

jects to writc on; for I being of n lmy naturc, ancl not of

an active disposition, as solnc are that love to journey .

from town to town, from place to place, from house to

house, delighting in variety of CO1~l~)R1lY, making still one

where the greatest number is; likewise in playing at cards,

or any othcr games, in which I ncither have practised,

nor have 1[ m y skill therein : as for dancing, although it

' I

8s. . . . memoir of tbo ;1PlutO~!gss of NeIota$tlt.

be a graceful art, and becometh unmarried persons well,

yet for those that are married, it is too light an action,

disagreeing with the gravity thereof; and for revelling I am of too dull a nature to make one in a merry society;

as for feasting, it would neither agree with my humour or

constitution, for my diet is for the most part sparing, as a

little boiled chicken, or the like, my drink most commonly

water, for though I have an indifferent good appetite, yet

I do often fast, out of an opinion that if I should cdt

much, and exercise little, which I do, only walking a slow

pace in my chamber, whilst my thoughts run apace in my

brain, so that the motions of my mind hinders the active

exercises of my body; for should I dance or run, or walk

apace, I should dance my thoughts out of measure, run my fancies out of breath, and tread out the feet of my

numbers; but because I would not bury myself quite

from the sight of the world, I go sometimes abroad, sel-

dom to visit, but only in my coach about the town, or about solne of the strects, which we ml1 here a tour,

where all the chief of the town go to sce and to be seen ; likewise all strangers of what quality soever, as all great

princes or queens that make any short stay: for this town

being a passage or thoroughfiire to most parts, causeth

many times persons of great quality to be here, though not as inhabitants, yet to lodge for some short time; and all such, as I said, take a dcligllt, or at least go to see the

@ h o f t OE & B u c f p ~ of Ne(uensjt1e. . . . .z9

custom thereof, which most cities of note in Europe, for all I can bear, hath such like recreations for the effeminate sex, although for my part I Emd rather sit at home and write, or walk, as I said, in my chamber and con- template; but I hold necessary sometimes to appear abroad: besides I do find, that several objects do bring new materials for my thoughts and fancies to build upon; yet I must say illis in the behalf of my thoughts, that I ncver found them idle; for if the senses brings no work in, they will work of themselves, like silk-worms that spins out

of their own bowels: neither can I say I think the time tedious when I am alone, so I be near my lord, and know he his well. But now I have declared to my readers my birth, breeding, and actions, to this part of my life, I mem the material parts, for should I write every particular, BS my childish sports and the like, it would be ridiculous and tedious; but I have been honourably born

and nobly matched; I have been bred to elevated thoughts, not to a dejected spirit; my life hath been ruled with honesty, attcnded by modesty, and directed by truth: but since I have writ in generd thus far of my life, I think it fit I should speak something of my humour,

particularly practice and disposition; as for my humour,

I was from my childhood givealto contcmplation, being more take nor delighted with thoughts than in conversation with a society, insomuch as I would wdk two or

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30 . . . . @entoir of tbe BbucBefs$ o f Mebcnf;t'Le.

three hours, and never rest, in a musing, considering, con- templating manner, remoning wi h myself of every thing

my senses did present; but when I was in the company of

my naturd friends, I was very attentive of what they said

or did; but for strangers I regarded not much what they said, but many times I did observe their actions, where-

upon my reason as judge, and my thoughts as accusers,

or excusers, or approvers and commenders, did plead, or

appeal to accuse, or complain thereto; also I never took

delight in closets, or mbinets of toys, hut in thc variety

of fine clothes, ancl such toys as only were to adorn my per-

son : likewise I had a natural stupidity towards the learning

of any other language than my native tongue, for I could

sooner and with more facility understand the sense than

remember the words, and for want of such memory

makes me so unlearned in foreign languages as I am: as for my practice, I was never very activc, by rcason I was

given so much to contemplation; Besides, my brothers and

sisters were for the most part serious, and staid in their

actions, not given to sport nor play, nor dance about,

whose company I keeping, made me so too: but I ob-

served, that although their actions were staid, yet they

would be very merry amongst themselves, delighting in each

others' company: also they would in thcir discourse ex-

press the general actions of the world, judging, condemn-

ing, approving, commending, as they thought good, and

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@&moil: af tBe Z l u c b e s ~ of KebcngtIe. . . . .31

with those that wcre innocently harmless, they wodd make themselves merry therewith; as for my study of books it was litLk, yet 1 chose ratlm to read, than to

employ my time in m y other work, or practice, and when I read what I understood not, I would ask my brotller, the Lord Lucas, he being learned, the sense or nleaniag thereof; but my scrious study could not be n1uch, by reason I took great cklight in attiring, fine dressing, and Fashions, especially such fashions as I did invent myself, not taking that pleasure in such fashions as was invented by others : also I d2d dislike any should follow my fashions, foi I always took delight in a singularity, even in accoutre- ments of habits; but wlmtsoever I was addicted to, either in fashion of clothes, contemplation of thoughts, actions

of life, they were lawful, honcst, honourable, and mo-

dest, of which I cm avouch to thc world with a great confidence, because it is a pure truth; as for my disposition, it is more inclining to bc melancholy than mcrry, but not crahbcd or peevishly meI;tncholy, but soft, melting, soli twy, and contcmplating melancholy ; and I am apt to weep rather tlxm laugh, not that I do often either of

them; also I m tender-natured, for it troubles my con-

science to kill a fly, and t h groans of a dying beast strike my sod : ;Jso where Z place a particular affktion, I love

extramlinnrily and constantly, yct not fondly, but soberly and observingly; TJOt to hang íhout them as a troub~c,

39 . , . , f l tmoic of t$e DUC~EBI of NrtuenstIe+

-_I-

but to wait upon them as a servant; but this affection

will take no root, but wherc I: think or find merit, 2nd

have leave both from Divine and Moral Laws; yet I fincl this passion so troublesome, as i t is the only torment of

my life, €or fear any evil misfortune, or accident, or sick-

ness, or death, should come unto them, insomuch as I am never freely at rest. Likewise I am grateful, for I never received a curtesy but I am impatient, and trottblcd

until 1 can return it; dso I am chste, both by nature

and education, insomucll as I do alhor an uncllustc

thought: likewise I am scldom angry, as my servants

may wibuess for me, for 1 rathcr clbose to sul"c'er some

inconveniences than .clisturE) my tlmughI,s, which makes

me wink many tirncs nt iheir faults; but when I ixm

angry, I am very angry, but yet it is soon over, and I am

easily p d i e d , if it be not such all injury LIS may create a

bate; neither am I apt to be emeptious or jealous; but if

I hme the least symptom of this pszssion, I declme it to

those it concerns, for I never let it lie smothering in my

breast tu breed a malignant discase in the mind, which

might break out into cxtramgant passions, or rciling

speeches, or indiscreet actions; but I examine moderatcly,

reason soberly, and plead gently in my own behalf, through

a desire to keep those affections I had, or at kast thought

to have; and truly I am so vain, as to be so selfLconccited,

or SO naturally partial, to think my friends have as much

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flemair of tbc ~ ~ U C ~ P G P n€ ÃWmstle. . . . .33

reason to love me as another, since none can love more

sincerely than I, and it were an injustice to prefer a

fainter afCection, or to esteem the lmdy more than the mind ; likewise I am neither spiteful, envious, nor l m -

licious; I repine not at the gifts that Nature, or Fortune

bestows upon others, yet I am a great emulator; for

though I wish none worse than they are, yet it is lawful

for mc to wish myself the best, and to do my honest en-

deavour tllereunto; for I think it no crime to wish my-

self thc exactest of Nature's works, my thread of life the

longcst, m y chain of dcstiny the strongest, my mind the

pcaceablcst, my life the pleasantest, my dcath the easiest,

and the grcakst Sai~t in heavcn; also to do my endeavour,

so far as honour and honcsty cloth allow of', to bc the

higlmt on Fortune's wheel, and to hold the whecl from

tnrning, if I can, and if it be commendable to wish ano-

thers good, it were a sin not to wish my own; for as

envy is a vice, sa emubtion is a virtue; but emulation is

in the way to ambition, or indced it is it noble ambition;

Ilut I fear my ambition inclilles to vain-glory, for I am very ambitious; yet 'tis ncitlwr for beauty, wit, titles,

wealth, or power, but 8s they are stcps to raise me to

Fancy's Tower, which ig to live by rcmernbrance in aftcr-

ages: likewise I am, that the vulgar calls, proud, not of a

self-conccit, or to slight or conclenm any, but scortling

to do rl, Base * or mean act, and c1isd;tining rude or un-

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34 . . . . $Noznoir of tBe ZIaltcboCjs of Nmcrtgtle.

worthy persons; insomuch, that if I should find any that

were rude, or too bold, I should be apt to be so pas- sionate, as to affront them, if I can, unless discretion

should get betwixt my passion ancl their boldness, which

sometimes perchancc it might, if discretion should crowd

hard for place; for though I am naturally bashful, yet in

such a cause my spirits would be all on fire; otherwise I am

so well bred, as to be civil to all persons, of all degrees

or qualities: likewise I am so proud; or rather just to m y lord, as to abate ao t lhg of the quality of his wife, for if honour be the mark of merit, and his master's royal

favour, mho will Favour none but those that have merit to

deserve, it were a baseness for me to neglect the cere-

mo~:y thereof: also in some cam I an1 naturally a cow-

ard, and in other cases very valiant; as for example, if

any of m y ncnrest friends were in d i ~ ~ g ~ r , I should never

cousider my lifc in striving to help them, though I were sure to do tlwm no good, ant1 woulcl willhgly, nay cheer-

fully, resign my life for their sakes: likcwisc I should not

spare my life, if honour bids me die; but in a danger

wherc m y friends, or my honour is not concerned or en-

gagecl, but only my life io be unprofitably lost, I am the

veriest coweud in nature, as upon the sen, or any danger-

ous places, or of thievcs, or firc, or the like; nay the

shootiug of a gun, although but a pop-gun, will makc me

start, and stop my hearing, much less have I courage to

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&Blemoír: of tb^ Btltip~ of NoIuen~tIe. . . . .35

discharge one; or if a sword should be held against me,

although but in jest, H an1 afraid: also as I am not covet-

ous, SO I am not prodigal, but of t h two I am inclining

to be prodigal, yet I cannot say to EL vain prodigality, be-

cause I imagine it is to a, l~~ofitihle end; for perceiving

the world is given, or apt to honour t h outside more

than t h insicle, worshipping show more than substance;

and I am so vain, if it be a vanity, as to endeavour to be

worshiped, rather than not to be regarded; yet I shall

nevcr be so prodigal as to impoverish my friends, or go

beyond the linlits or fwility of our estate, and though 1 desire to appcar to the best advantage, whilst T live in the

view of thc public world, yct I could most willingly ex-

cludc myself, so as never to see the face of any creature,

but my lord, as long as I live, caclosing myself like an

anchoret, wearing a frixe gown, tied with a cord about

my waste: but I hope my readers will not think me vain

for writing my life, since there have been many that have

done the like, as CtEsar, Ovicl, and many more, both

rncn and women; and I know no reason I may not do it

as well as they: but I verily believe some censuring rea-

ders will scornfully say, CCWhy hat11 this lady writ her own

life? since none cares to know whose daughter she was,

or whose wife she is, or how she was brcct, or what for-

tune she had, or how she lived, or what lmrnour or disposition she was of?” I answer that it is true, that ’tis to

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36 . . , , fletnoir o f tbe PUC~PM af TqeIueabtIe.

/

no purpose to the readers, but it is to the authoress, be-

cause I writ it for my own sake, not theirs; neither did

I intend this piece for to delight, but to divulge; not to

please the fancy, but to tell the truth, lest after-ages

should mistake, in not knowing I was daughter to one

Master Lucas of St. John’s, near Colchester, in Essex,

second wife to the Lord Marquis of Newcastle; for my lord having had two wives, I might easily have been o

mistaken, especially if I should die, and my lord marry

again.

~ I Z N - . C W . - ~ - N - - u - - - ~ - - ~ - N # - U ~ ,

0 It is remarkable that this has, notwitl~standing, bem the case. See

The Lo~ttgrr’8 Conmon-Place Book,” BOI. iii. p. 398.

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ROBERT DEVEREUX,

AND

GEORGE VILLIERS,

COMPrIRED -4ND CONTRASTEI).

&y SIR HENRY WOTTON, KNIGHT.

A NEW EDlTION.

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TO

R. P. GILL1

THIS TRACT

A3

A SMALL MARK O P KESPRCT AND FRIENDSHIP,

I t

o r THE

EARL OF ESSEX

AND

D U K E OF B U C K I N G H A M :

ElJl'I'SY BY

SII- XGERTQN BRYDGES, M.P.

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ADVERTISEMENT.

HE fozIowing spirited sketch of the characters of two Noblemepz who once .filled a conspicuous sfution in

SIR HENRY WOTTON is too well known, both as cc $tate,sman and an Author, to a,llow any discourse about lha ìn this place. His talents und

his peculiar opportunities oj' information regurd- ing these great men., of wh.om he has written, give a weight to his opiwions, which it is impossible for modern speculators to possess.

It would have Been more conscordant with the Edìtor's wìshes, if his other nunzerous avoca- t,ìon,s had permitted him to huve digested and ex- pyessed the passing sentiments to which these pages have g b e n occasion, and to hctve added a

f e w plotes.

--..

f I

ROBERT EARL

OF

DEVEREUX, OF ESSEX;

A N D

S O M E

ommtvnTIONs BY WAY OF PARALLEL, IN

TIlE TIME OF THEIR ESTATES OF FAVOUR.

"1ll'r'I~l;N 11Y

SIR HENRY WOTTON, KNT.

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OF

ROBICRT DEVEREUX, EARL OF ESSEX;

AND

GEORGE VILLIERS, D U K E OF B WCKINGIIAM:

Some Obseruations by way of Parallel, àn the E r n e of their Estutes of Fat'otw.

MONGST those historical employments, whereunto I haye devoted my latter 1 years, (for I read, that old men live more

by lrrxemory than by hope), we thought it w o u l d be a little time not ill spent, to con- fer the fortunes and the natures of these two great personages of so late knowledge. Whem-ein I intend to do them right with the truth thereof, and myself with the free- d o m -

T h e beginning of the Earl of Essex I must attribute wholly, or in great part, to nxy Lord of Leicester; but yet as an in- t r o d u c e r or supporter, not as a teacher: for as 1 go ahng, it will easily appear that. he neither lived nor clied by his discipline.

4 . . . . PBofwrt BBeberaus, %arel of %$$ex.

Always certain it is, that he drew him first into the fatal circle, Erom a kind of resolved privatcness at Bis house at Lamgsie in South Wdes ; where, after the Academical life, he had taken such a taste of the rural, as I have heard him say, (and not upon any flashes or filmes of melancholy, or traverses of discontent, but in a serene and quiet mood), that he could well have bent his mind to a retired course. About which time, the said Earl of Leicester bewrayed a meaning to plant h i m in the Queen's favour; which was diversely interpreted by such as thought that great artizan of court to do nothing by chance, nor much by affection. Some, therefore, were of opinion, that feeling more and more in himself the weight of timc, and being alrncbst tired (if there be a satiety in power) with that assiduous attendance, and intensivc circumspection, which a long inchdgent fortune did require, he was grown not unwilling, for his own ease, to bestow hancl- sornely upon another some part of the pains, and perlxq3s of the envy.

Others conceived rather, that having

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he sprung without any help, by a kind of congenial composure (as we may term it) to the likeness of our late Sovereign and Master of ever blessed memory; who,-taking him into his regard, taught hirn more and more to please himself, and moulded him, (as it were) Platonically, to his own idea; delighting first in the choice of the materials, because he found him susceptible of good form; and afterward, by degrees, as great architects use to do, in tlx worlman- ship of his regal lland: nor staying here, after he had hardened and polished hirn about ten years in the school of observance, (for so a Court is,) and in the furnace of trial about himself, (fix Be was a king could peruse men as well as books,) he made him the associate of' his Heir Apparent, together with the now Lorcl Cottington (as an acl- junct of singular experience and trust) in foreign travels, and' in a husiness of love, and of 110 equal hazard (if' the tenderness of our zeal clid not then deceive us;) enough, the world must confess, to kindle affection even betwixt t11c distantest con- ditïons; so as by the various and inward

s . , . .38o’bnt BBaberrttx, %ml of ?Esses.

1

without the Queen’s consent, or SO much as her knowledge; whereby he left his friends and dependents near six months in desperate suspence what would become of .him. And to speak truth, not without good reason : for, first, they might well consider, that he was himself not well plumed in favour for such a flight: besides, that now he wanted a Lord of Leicester at home (for he was dead the year before) to smooth his absence, and to quench the practices at Court. But, -above all, it lay open to every man’s discourse, that though the bare of- fence to his Sovereign and Mistress was too great an adventure, yet much more, when she might (as in this case) have fairly di5-

charged her displeasure U ~ Q I I her laws. Notwithstanding, a noble report corning home before him, at his return all was‘ clew, and this excursion was estcemed b11t a sdly of youth. Nay, he grew every day more and more in her gracious conceit: whether such intermissions as these CIO sometimes fornent a-Rection ; or that, lmving committed a fault, he 1,ecarne the Inore obsequious and pliant t~ redeern it: or thab

George WCTIiett.4~, Buh of %ucktztgpam, . . . . g

she yet had not received into her royal breast any shadows of his popularity.

when Sir Fulke Grevile (late Lord Brook) a man in appearance intrinsical with him, or at least admitted to his melanchdy hours, either belike espying some weariness in the Queen, or perhaps (with little change of the word, tlzough more in the danger) some weariness towards him; and working upon the present matter (as he wks dexterous and close) had almost super- induced into favour the Earl of Southamp- ton; which yet being timely discovered, my Lord of Essex chose to evaporate his thoughts in a Sonnet (being his common way) to be sung before the Queen, (as it was) by one Hales, in whose voice she took some pleasure; whereof the complot, me- thinks, had as much of the Hermit as of the Poet,

There was another time long after, ’

‘<And if thou should’st by her be now forsaken, She made thy heart too strong for to be ahalcen.”

As if he had been casting one eye back at the least to his former retiredness.

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10 , , . . %oBett 3Dcbsreux, Ear1 of %B$PX.

But all this likewise quickly vanished, and there was a good while after fair weather oves-head. Yet still, I know not how, like a gathering of cloucls, till towards his latter time, when his hunmurs grew tart, as being now in the lees of favour, it brake forth into certain sudden recesses; sometimes from the Court to Wstnsted; otherwhiles unto Greenwich ; often to his own clxm- ber; doors shut, visits forbiclden, and which was worse, diverse contestations (between) even with the Queen herself, (dl preambles of ruin ;) wherewith, though now and then he did wring out of her Majesty some petty contentments, (as a man would press sour grapes) yet in the mean tirne was forgotten the counsel of a wise, ancl then a prophetical f&md, who told him, that such courses as those were like hot waters, wl~ich help at a pang, but if they be tao often used will spoil the stomach.

On the Duke's part, we haw no such abrupt strains and precipices as these, but a fiair fluent and uniform course under both kings: and surely, as there was in his natural constitution a marvelous equality,

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G e o q e VflIters, Buke of %utktngbnm, . . . . n ,

whereof I s ld l speak more afterwards; so thFre was an image of it in his fortune, running (if I may borrow an ancient com- parison) as smoothly as a numerous verse, till it met with certain rubs in Parliament, whereof I am induced By the very subject which P handle, to say somewhat, so far as shall concern the ciifference between their times.

When my Lord of Essex stood in fa- V O I I ~ , the Parliaments were calm: nay, II find it a true observation, that there was no ilnpcachment of any nobleman by the Commons from the reign of Ming Henry the Sixth, until the eighteenth of Ming James, nor any intervenient precedent of -that nature ; not that something or other could be wanting to be said, while men are men: for not to go higher, we are taught easily so muck by the very ballads and libels of the Leicestrian time.

But, about the aforesaid year, many yo~mg ones being chosen into the House of Commons, more than had been usual in great councils, (who though of the weakest wings, yet arc the highest flyers,) there

12 . . . .3fto6ert Beberaus, %ad o€ %$$ex.

arose a certain unfortunate and unfruithl spirit in some places ; not sowing, but pick- ing at every stone in the field, rather than tending to the general harvest. And thus far the consideration of the nature of the time Bath transported me, and the occasion of the subject.

Now, on the other side, I must with the like liberty observe two weighty and watchful solicitudes, (as 1 may call them) which kept the Earl i a extreme and con- tinual caution, like a bow still bent; whereof the Duke’s thoughts were absolutely free.

First, he was to wrestle with a Queen’s declining, or ratlux with her very setting age, (as we may term it,) which, besides other respects, is commonly even of itself the more urnbraticm and apprehensive, as for the most part all horizons are charged with certain vapours towards their evening,

The other was a matter of more cir- cumstance, standing thus, viz.

’All princes, especially those whom God hath not blessed with natural issue, are (by wisdom of state) somewhat shy of their

6 U J r p viltiele% B u h of @utkingbam, . . . . 13

successors; and to speak with due rever- ence, there may be reasonably supposed in Queens regnant, a little proportion of tenderness that way, more than in Kings. NOW there were in Court two names of power, and almost of faction; the Essexian and the Cecilian, with their adherents; both well enough enjoying the present, and yet both looking to the future, and therefore both holding correspondence with some of the principal in Scotland; and had received advertisements I and instructions either from them, or immediately from the King, as indubiate Heir of this Imperial Crown.

But, lest they might detect one another, this was mysteriously carried by several instruments and conducts, and on the Essexian side, in truth, with infinite hazard: for Sir Robert Cecil, who (as Secretary of State) did dispose the public addresses, had prompter andl safer conveyance; whereupon I cannot but relate a memorable passage on either part, as the story following shd declare.

The Earl of Essex had accommodated Master Anthony Bacon in partition of his

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14 , . , . %abort Bobtreur, %ad of %ØZar,

house, and had assigned him a noble entertainment. This was a gentleman of im- potent feet, but a nimble head, and through his hand ran all the intelligences with Scot- land; who being of a provident nature (contrary to his brother the' Lord Viscount St. Albans) and well knowing the advantage of a dangerous secret, would many times cunningly let fdl some words, as if he could much amend his fortunes under the Ce- cilians, (to whom he "cvas near of alliance and in blood also,) and who had made (as he was not unwilling should be believed) some great proffers to win him away; which once or twice he pressed so far, and with such tokens and signs of apparent discontent to my Lord Henry Howard, afterwards Earl of Northampton, (who was of the party, and stood himself in much um- brage with the Queen) that he flies presently to my Lord of Essex, (with whom he was commonly prima? admissionis, by his bed-side in the morning,) and tells him, that unless that gentleman were presently satisfied with sonle round sum, all would be vented.

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This took the Earl at that time ill pro- vided, (as indeed oftentimes his coffers were low,) whereupon he was fain suddenly to give hirr) Essex-house; which the good old Lady Walsingham did afterwards disengage out of her own store with 2500 pounds: and before, he had distilled 1500 pounds at another time by the same skill. So as we nlay rate this one secret, as it was finely carried, at 4000 pounds in present money; besides, at the least, 1000 pounds of annual pension to a private and bed-rid gentleœ man. What would he have gotten if he could have gone about his own business?

There was anather accident of the same nature on the Cecilim side, much more pleasant, but less chargeable, for it cost nothing but wit. The Queen having for a good while not heard any thing from Scotland, and being thirsty of news, it fell out that her Majesty going to take the air' towards the Heath, (the Court being then at Greenwich) and Master Se- cretary Cecil then attending her, a post Came crossing - by, and blew l is horn; the Queen, out of curiosity, asked him from

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whence the dispatch came, and being answered, from Scotlahd; she stops the coach, and calleth for the packet. The Secretary, though he knew there were in it some letters from his correspondents, which to dis- cover were as SO many serpents, yet made more shew of diligence, than of doubt to s k y ; and- asks some that stood by (for- sooth in great haste) for a knife to cut up the packet, (for otherwise he might perhaps have awalwd a little apprehension;) but in the mean time approaching with the packet in his hancl, at a pretty distance from the Queen, he telleth her it looked and smelt ill-savouredly, coming out of a filthy budget, and that it should be fit first to open and air it, because he knew she was averse fion1 ill scents. And so being dismissed home, he got leisure by this sca- sonable shifk, to sever what he would not

These two accidents, precisely true, and known to few, 1 have reported as not altogether extravagant from my purpose, to shew how the Earl stood in certain per- plexities, wherewith the Duke's days were

aeotp 3iNIfrt.s, duke of Bucltfttgbam, . . . . l 7

not distracted. And this hath been the historical part (as it were) touching the difference between them in ille rising and flowing of their fortunes.

1: will now consider their several en- dowments of person and mind, and then a little of their actions and ends.

T h e Earl was a pretty deal, the taller, and much the stronger, and of' the abler body: but the Dulce had the neater limbs and fieeer delivery; he was also the up- righter, and of the more comely lraotions; for the Earl did bend a little in the neck, t hough ratlm forwards tllan downwards; and he was so far from being a good dan- cer, that he was no graceft11 goer. If we touch particulars, the Duke exceeded izl the daintiness of his leg and foot, and the Ewl ill the incomparable fairness and fine shape of his hands; which (though it be but feminine praise) he took from his father. For the general air, the Earl' hacl the closer and more reserved! countenance, being by nature somewhat more cogitive, ancl (which was strange) never more than at meals, when others are least: insomuch,

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1s . . , .3&05& Be6srmr, %ar[ of %$$ex*

as he was wont to make his observation of himself, that to solve any knotty business which cumbered his mind, his ablest hours were when he had checlml his first appetite with two or three morsels, after which he sate usually for a good while silent; yet Be would play well anci willingly at some games of greatest attention, which shewed that when ke listed, he could licence

The Duke, on the other side, even in the midst of so many diversions, had continually a very pleasant and vacant face, (as 1 may well call it) proceeding, no doubt, from a sil~gular assurance in his tenqm-. And yet I must here give h i m a rawr CU- logy, wlricll the malignest eye cannot deny him; that certainly, never man in his place ard power r-licl entcrtain g '1 * cntness more f'mniliarly, nor whose looks were less tainted with his felicity; wherein I insist the rather, because this, in my judgment, was one of his greatest virtues ancl victories of hiIn- self.

. But to proceed, in the attiring and ornament of their bodies, the Duke had (z

his tl1oughts.

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in the midst of any physical potion, and after he had licked l i s lips, he would drink off the rest; But I am weary of such slight animadversions.

To come, therefore, to the inward fur- niture of their minds, I will thus much declare :

The Earl was of good erudition, bav- ing been placed at study in Cambridge, very young, by the Lord Burlei& his guardian, mi th affectionate, and delilx!rate care, under the oversight of Doctor Whit- @Et, then master of Trinity College, and after Arclhislmp of Canterbury: a man (by the way) surely sf most reverend and sacred memory, and (as I may well say) even of the primitive temper; when the Church by lowness of spirit, did flourish in high examples; which 1 l ~ w c inserted as cz due recorclation of his virtues, having been much obligecl to him for many favours in my younger time.

About sixteen years of his age, (for thither he came at twclve) he took the formality of Master of Arts, and kept his public acts. And here 1 must not smother

what I have received by constant information, that his own father died with a very cold conceit of h i m ; scarne say, througll the affection to his second son, Walter Devereux, who was indeed a, dianlond of the time, anci both Qf an hardy and deli- cate temper and mixture: but it seems t& Earl, like certain vegetaldes, did bud ancl open slowly; Nature sometimes delighting to play an afier-game as well as Fortune, which had both their turns and tides in course.

T he Duke was illiterate, yet had learned at court, first to sift and question well, anci to supply his own defects, by the drawing or flowing unto h i m of the best instruments of experience anci knowledge, born whom he had a sweet and attractive manner, to suck what might be for the public or his own proper use; so as the less he was favoured by the Muses, he was the more by the Graces.

To consicler them in their pure natu- rals, X conceive the Earl’s intellectual faculties to have been his stronger pal% and in the Duke his practical.

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Yet all know, tlmt he likewise at the first was much under the expectation of his after-proof; such a solar influence there is in the sovereign aspect. For their abilities of discourse or pen, the Earl was rz very acute and sound speaker when he would intend it; and for his writings, they are beyond example, especially in his familiar letters ancl things of clclight at court, when he would admit his serious habits, as may be yet seen in his impresses and inventions of entertainment, and above all in his dar- ling piece of love, and self-love. His style was an elegant perspicuity, rich of phrase, but seldom any bold metaphors; ancl so far from tumour, that it rather wanted a

The Duke's delivery of his mind, I conceive not to be so sharp, as solid and grave; not so solid ancl deep, as pertinent, ,

and apposite to the times and occasions. The Earl I account the more liberal,

ancl the Duke the more magnificent; for I do not remember that my Lord of Essex in all his life-time cl id build or adorn any house, the Queen perchance spending l is

I

her; and one lady likewise (that I may civilly spare to nominate, for her sex sake) whom he used to term the Spider of the Court: yet generally in the sensitive part of their natures, the Earl was the worst philosopher, being a resenter, and a weak dissembler of the least disgrace : and laere- in likewise, as in the rest, no good pupil to my Lord of Leicester, who was wont to put all his passions in his pocket.

In the growth of their fortunes, the Duke was a little the swifter, and much the greater; for from a younger brother's mean estate, he rose to the highest degree whereof am subject warns capable, either in title OF trust. Therein I must confess, much more consortable to Charles Bran- dm, under Henry the Eighth, who ~7as equal to him in both.

Ror matter of donative ancl addition of substance, P do not believe the Duke did much exceed him, all consiclered, under both kings.

For that which the Earl of Esses had received from lacr Majesty, besides tlle fees of his offices, and the disposition of great

30 . . . . PBoltPett Bebrueux, Enri of %$Sex,

cavalry not a trooh of Biscoigners, mounted in haste, but the greater part gentlemen of family, a d of piclct resolution, anci such as charged home both in front and on both flanks into the very sea; about sixcore of their ZOO horse strewed upon the sand, and none of them but one killed with a great shot; and after this, their foot likewise coming on to charge, till not liking the business, they fell to flinging of stones, and so walked away: I: say, these things considered and laid together, we have great ,

reason to repute it a great impression upon an unknown place, and a noble argument, that upon occasion, ~ 7 e have not lost our ancient vigour.

Only I clouPd m7ish that the Duke, who then in the animating of the soldiers shewed theni, very ezninent assurance of his valour, hacl afterwarcls remembered that rule of Apelles, Manuna de tabula'. But he was greecly of honour, and hot upon the public ends, ancl too confident in the prosperity of beginnings, as somewllere Polybius, that great critic of ,war, obser~etl1 of young lea-

l

Georp WflItotsi, 3Duite of 31h~tkLnggnm, . . .33

city, was by the Earl's special command suddenly discharged from all further attendance, or access unto him, out of an inward displeasure then taken against his sharp and importune infusions, and out of a glimmering oversight, that he would prove the very instrument of his ruin.

X must adcl Ilereunto, that about the same time my Lord had received kom the Countess of Warwick (a lady powerful in the Court, and indeed a virtuous user of her power) the best advice that P think wa,s ever given from either sex; that when he was free from restraint, he should closely talce any out-lodging at Greenwich, and sometimes when the Queen went abroad in a good humour, (whereof she would give him notice) he should come forth, and hu111ble himself belbre her in the field.

This counsel sunk much into him, and for some days he resolved it: but in the meayd. time, through theh intercession of' the Earl of SouthampLon, whom Cuffe had pined, he was restored to my Lord's ear; and SO working advantage upon his dis- graces, a d zrpon the vain f-bunclation of

36 . . . . ao5ett Boboreus, %ad of ?i&$cx.

Fortune: they were both of ancient blood, and of foreign extraction : they were both of straight and goodly stature, and of able and active bodies: they were 110th industrious and assiduous, and attentive to their ends: they were both early Privy Counsellors, and irnployed at home in the secretest and weightiest afliairs in the Court and State: they were both likewise Commanders abroad in chief, as well by sea as by land: both Masters of the Horse at home, both chosen Chancellors of the same University, namely, Cambridge : they were both indubitible strong, ancl high-minded men; yet of sweet and accostable nature, almost equally delighting in the press and afluence of c k - pendants anel suitors, which are always the berries, and sonlclimes the briars of fa- vourites. Thcy were both married to very virtuous ladies, ancl sole heirs, and left issue of their sex, alil bot11 their wives converted to contrary religions. They were both i11 themselves rare ancl excellent examples of: temperance and sobriety; but neither of them of continency.

Lastly, after they had been both sub-

C6oozg.e Wtlif~rg, Bulte of ?ißttckfn@m. . . . -37

ject (as all greatness and splendour is) to certain obliquies of their actions; they both concluded their earthly felicity in unnatural ends, and with 110 @eat clistancc of time in the space eitllcr of life or fa170ur.

And so having clisclmrged this poor cxercise of my pcn according to my knowledge and reality, lct us commit those two noble peers to their e t c r d rest, with their memorable allilities remaining in few, and their compassiouate infirmities common to all.

htext.stanford.edu · 3 her grace’s (c l@ of bw husband, the duke,” printed in folio, r 1 3...

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