himself; is generally too much for him who has a real attachment; and he, at length, yields to gracing our pages with as accurate a portrait as his art and zeal will permit him to take. In this kind we may instance the papers on the Memoirs of a Cavalier, by Defoe; and the Arcadia of Sir Philip Sidney; which never could have been written without a sincere and ardent love of the subject, which a wading and plodding up to them in regular succession must have damped or destroyed. Besides, we have long tasks in the performance of our duty, which cannot fail to be attended with some portion of weariness and disgust; so that, unless we were privileged to light now and then upon a flower, though not in the beaten path, we should be inclined to throw up our labours at once. We may add, that an attention to chronological order would have filled our earlier numbers with such authors as we are at present about to review; an argument which may be more forcibly felt at the end than at the beginning of this article we well know that such an arrangement would have conferred as little pleasure upon our readers as profit upon ourselves. While, however, Skelton is not exactly of our choice, he is yet a curious, able, and remarkable writer, and one who was styled, in his turn, by as great a scholar as ever lived, the light and ornament of Britain. And as he doubtless produced a considerable effect upon English poetry and the English language, he is well worthy of a notice here.

Very little is known of the life of John Skelton, and that little to be got from the Athena Oxonienses. He passed through Oxford with a high reputation, and became rector of Dysse, in Norfolk, when he fell under the displeasure of Nykke, bishop of Norwich. Not only because he " was esteemed more fit for the stage than the pew or pulpit," but because he indulged too freely in his writings, in censures on the Monks and Dominicans; and, moreover, had the hardihood to reflect, in no very mild terms, on the manners and life of Cardinal Wolsey. For which last offence he was so closely pursued by the cardinal's officers, that he was obliged to take sanctuary at Westminster, where he was kindly entertained by John Islip, the abbot, and continued there till the time of his death. Anthony Wood adds, that "Erasmus, in an epistle to King Henry VIII., stiles this poet Britannicarum Literarum Lumen et Decus, and of the like opinion were many of his time. Yet the generality said, that his witty discourses were biting; his laughter opprobrious and scornful; and his jokes commonly sharp and reflecting." Skelton's reputation was undoubtedly high among his cotemporaries; and we cannot give a better evidence of it, nor, at the same time, introduce Skelton better to the notice of our readers,

than by the praises of his friend Thomas Churchyard, who is, at the same time, recommending the early English poets in general.

"Nor scorne your mother-tongue,
O babes of English breed:

I have of other language seen
And you at full
may read
Fine verses trimly wrought,
And couch'd in comely sort ;
But never you or I, I trowe,
In sentence plaine and short,

Did ever yet beholde with

In any foraigne tongue,

eye,

A higher verse, a statelyer style,

That may be read or sung,

Than is this day, indeed,

Our English verse and rhyme,

The grace whereof doth touch the Gods,

And reach the cloudes sometime!

Thro' earth and waters deepe

The pen by skill doth passe,
And featly nips the worlde's abuse,
And shows us, in a glass,

The vertue and the vice
Of every wight alive:

The hony-combe that bee doth make

Is not so sweet in hive,

As are the golden leaves

That drop from poets' head,

Which do surmount our common talke

As far as gold doth lead.

The flour is sifted cleane,

The bran is cast aside,

And so good corne is known from chaffe,
And each fine grain is spied.

Piers Ploughman was full plaine,
And Chaucer's spreet was great;
Earl Surrey had a goodly veine,
Lord Vaux the marke did beat.
And Phaer did hit the pricke
In things he did translate,
And Edwards had a special gift;
And divers men, of late,
Have helpt our English tongue,
That first was base and brute.

Oh! shall I leave out Skelton's name,
The blossom of my fruit!
The tree whereon, indeed,

My branches all might grow :
Nay, Skelton wore the laurel wreath,
And past in schools, ye know,
A poet for his art,

Whose judgement sure was high,
And had great practise of the pen,
His workes they will not lie;
His termes to taunts did leane,
His talke was as he wrate;

Full quick of wit, right sharp of wordes,

And skilful of the state;

Of reason ripe and good,

And to the hateful minde,

That did disdaine his doings still,

A scorner of his kinde;

Most pleasant every waye,
As poets ought to be,

And seldom out of princes' grace,

And great with each degree:
Thus have you heard at full

What Skelton was, indeed;

A further knowledge shall you have
you his books do read.

If
I have, of mere good will,

These verses written here,
To honour virtue as I ought,

And make his fame appear;
That wore the garland gay

Of laurel leaves but late,

Small is my pain, great is his praise,

That thus such honour gate."

The contents of this book appear to have been printed separately in small pamphlets, and afterwards collected by Skelton himself; at least they are preceded by an introduction from the hand of the poet himself, in which he, however, in enumerating his works, speaks of many which are not to be found here. This introduction is an allegorical piece, in which the Queen of Fame and Dame Pallas are personages, who at length hand the poet over to Occupation, who gives him employment, and sets certain fair ladies about composing him a laurel. To each of them, Skelton addresses copies of verses. One set, to Mistress Margaret Hussey, is beautiful, and gives one an idea

of a most amiable character. In this instance we will modernize

the spelling.

"To Mistress Margaret Hussey.

Merry Margaret

As midsummer flower,

Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower,
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good, and no badness;

So joyously,

So maidenly,
So womanly,
Her demeaning
In every thing,
Far, far passing
That I can indite,
Or suffice to write,
Of merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower;
As patient and as still,
And as full of good will
As fair Isiphil,
Coliander,

Sweet Pomander,

Good Cassander;

Stedfast of thought,

Well made, well wrought,
Far may be sought

Erst you can find

So courteouse, so kind,
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,

Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower."

After the introduction, which is styled the Crown of Laurel, the different pieces follow; the principal of which, are The Bouge of the Court, an allegorical poem on the vices of a court; The Duke of Albany, full of virulent abuse of the Scots; Ware the Hawk, against the vices of the clergy; The Tunning of Eleanor Rumming, a very singular and humorous but very

coarse description of an old ale-woman, and her female customer. Why come ye not to court, a satire on Cardinal Wolsey; with various others.

In the Bouge of Court there are some striking short passages out of the usual style of Skelton, such as this personification of Suspicion.

"And when he came walking soberly

With hum, and hah, and with a crooked look,
Methought his head was full of jealousy,
His eyne rolling, his handes fast they quoke,
And to-me-ward the straight way he took :
God speed, brother, quoth he then,
And thus to talk with me he began."

And this, of Riot.

"With that came Riot rushing all at once,
A rustic galand to ragged and to rente:
And on the board he whirl'd a pair of bones,
Quartre, treye, deuce, he clatter'd as he went;
Now have at all by Saint Thomas of Kent.
And ever he threw, and kist I, wot ne'er what,
His hair was growing thorow out his hat.

Then I beheld how he disguised was,
His head was heavy for watching over night,
His eyne bleared, his face shone like a glass,
His gown so short, that it ne cover might
rump; he went so all for summer light.
His hose was guarded with a list of

His

green,

Yet at the knee they were broken, I ween.

His coat was checker'd with patches red and blue,

Of Kirkby Kendal was his short demy;

And aye he sang in faith decon thou crew;
His elbow bare, he ware his geer so nye,
His nose dropping, his lips were full dry;
And by his side his whynard and his pouch
The devil might dance therein for any

crouch."

And also the following, of Dissimulation.

"Disdain I saw with Dissimulation,
Standing in sad communication.

But there was pointing and nodding with the head,