forth, but with trouble and pain.

The works of our author are,

Poems; first printed in Octavo, and afterwards being revised and
enlarged, there were several editions of them made, the third in 1654,
and the fourth in 1670. The songs in these poems were set to music, or
as Wood expresses it, wedded to the charming notes of Mr. Henry
Lawes, at that time the greatest musical composer in England, who was
Gentleman of the King's Chapel, and one of the private musicians to
his Majesty.

Coelum Britannicum; A Mask at Whitehall in the Banquetting House, on
Shrove Tuesday night February 18, 1633, London 1651. This Masque is
commonly attributed to Sir William Davenant. It was performed by the
King, the duke of Lenox, earls of Devonshire, Holland, Newport &c.
with several other Lords and Noblemen's Sons; he was assisted in the
contrivance by Mr. Inigo Jones, the famous architect. The Masque being
written by the King's express command, our author placed this distich
in the front, when printed;

Non habet ingenium: Caesar sed jussit: habebo
Cur me posse negem, posse quod ille putat.

The following may serve as a specimen of the celebrated sonnets of
this elegant writer.

BOLDNESS in LOVE.

Mark how the bashful morn in vain
Courts the amorous marigold
With sighing blasts, and weeping rain;
Yet she refuses to unfold.
But when the planet of the day
Approacheth with his powerful ray,
Then she spreads, then she receives
His warmer beams into her virgin leaves.

So shalt thou thrive in love, fond boy;
If thy tears and sighs discover
Thy grief, thou never shalt enjoy
The just reward of a bold lover:
But when with moving accents thou
Shalt constant faith and service vow,
Thy Celia shall receive those charms
With open ears, and with unfolded arms.

Sir William Davenant has given an honourable testimony in favour of
our author, with which I shall conclude his life, after observing that
this elegant author died, much regretted by some of the best wits of
his time, in the year 1639.

Sir William Davenant thus addresses him,

Not that thy verses are so smooth and high
As glory, love, and wine, from wit can raise;
But now the Devil take such destiny!
What should commend them turns to their dispraise.
Thy wit's chief virtue, is become its vice;
For every beauty thou hast rais'd so high,
That now coarse faces carry such a price,
As must undo a lover that would buy.

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