o be an inconsiderable piece, and by some not to
be his. But being published just before his death, it was taken for a
posthumous work, which had been composed by him in his younger
Days[3].

He translated out of Latin into English the Satires of Persius, Oxon.
1616, in apologizing for the defects of this work, he plays upon the
word _translate_: To have committed no faults in this translation,
says he, would have been to translate myself, and put off man. Wood
calls this despicable pun, an elegant turn.

7. Satires of Juvenal illustrated with Notes, Oxon. folio 1673. At the
end of which is the Fourth Edition of Persius, before mentioned.

8. Odes of Horace, Lond. 1652; this Translation Wood says, is so near
that of Sir Thomas Hawkins, printed 1638, or that of Hawkins so near
this, that to whom to ascribe it he is in doubt.

Dr. Holyday, who according to the same author was highly conceited of
his own worth, especially in his younger Days, but who seems not to
have much reason for being so, died at a Village called Eisley on the
2d day of October 1661, and was three days after buried at the foot of
Bishop King's monument, under the south wall of the [a]isle joining on
the south side to the choir of Christ Church Cathedral, near the
remains of William Cartwright, and Jo. Gregory.

Footnotes:
1. Athen. Oxon. 259. Ed. 1721.
2. Wood ubi supra.
3. Athen. Oxon. p. 260.

* * * * *

THOMAS NABBES.

A writer, in the reign of Charles I, whom we may reckon, says
Langbaine, among poets of the third rate, but who in strict justice
cannot rise above a fifth. He was patronized by Sir John Suckling. He
has seven plays and masks extant, besides other poems, which Mr.
Langbaine says, are entirely his own, and that he has had recourse to
no preceding author for assistance, and in this respect deserves
pardon if not applause from the critic. This he avers in his prologue
to Covent-Garden.

He justifies that 'tis no borrowed strain,
From the invention of another's brain.
Nor did he steal the fancy. 'Tis the fame
He first intended by the proper name.
'Twas not a toil of years: few weeks brought forth,
This rugged issue, might have been more worth,
If he had lick'd it more. Nor doth he raise
From the ambition of authentic plays,
Matter or words to height, nor bundle up
Conceits at taverns, where the wits do sup;
His muse is s