y attracted the attention of James, and he was made chaplain
to the King. He became preacher at Lincoln's Inn, and afterwards was
made Dean of St. Paul's. He lived to be fifty-eight.

His sermons are full of antitheses and epigrammatic diction. There is
an airy lightness in his letters and poems, but he scarcely ever
actually reaches humour. The following poem, an epistle to Sir Edmund
Herbert at Juliers, will give an idea of his style.

"Man is a lump, where all beasts kneaded be,
Wisdom makes him an ark where all agree;
The fool in whom these beasts do live at jar,
Is sport to others, and a theatre.
Nor scapes he so, but is himself their prey,
All which was man in him is eat away,
And now his beasts on one another feed,
Yet couple in anger, and new monsters breed.
How happy's he, which hath due place assigned
To his beasts, and disaforested his mind!
Empaled himself to keep them out, not in,
Can sow, and dares trust corn where they've been;
Can use his horse, goat, wolf, and every beast,
And is not ass himself to all the rest."

Bishop Hall was born in 1574, and commenced his extensive literary
labours by writing when twenty-three years of age, at Emmanuel College,
Cambridge, three books of satires called Virgidemiae. These books he
calls "_Toothless_ Satyres, _poetical_, _academical_, _and moral_," and
he attacks bad writers, astrologers, drunkards, gallants, and others.
Alluding to the superabundance of indifferent poetry in his days, he
says:--

"Let them, that mean by bookish business
To earn their bread, or holpen to profess
Their hard-got skill, let them alone for me
Busy their brains with deeper bookery.
Great gains shall bide you sure, when ye have spent
A thousand lamps, and thousand reams have rent
Of needless papers; and a thousand nights
Have burned out with costly candle-lights."

In the following year, he produced three books of "Byting Satyres." In
these he laughs at the effeminacy of the times--the strange dresses and
high heels.

"When comely striplings wish it were their chance
For Caenis' distaff to exchange their lance,
And wear curled periwigs, and chalk their face
And still are poring on their pocket-glass;
Tired with pinned ruffs and fans and partlet strips
And busks and verdingales about their hips;
And tread on corked stilts, a prisoner's pace,
And make their napkin for a spitting place,
A