ch of annoying the foe to be quite easy within;
the spiritual defences of Wither are a perpetual source of inward
sunshine, the magnanimity of the modern is not without its alloy of
soreness, and a sense of injustice, which seems perpetually to gall
and irritate. Wither was better skilled in the "sweet uses of
adversity;" he knew how to extract the "precious jewel" from the head
of the "toad," without drawing any of the "ugly venom" along with it.
The prison-notes of Wither are finer than the wood-notes of most of
his poetical brethren. The description in the Fourth Eclogue of his
_Shepherds Hunting_ (which was composed during his imprisonment in
the Marshalsea) of the power of the Muse to extract pleasure from
common objects, has been oftener quoted, and is more known, than any
part of his writings. Indeed, the whole Eclogue is in a strain so
much above not only what himself, but almost what any other poet has
written, that he himself could not help noticing it; he remarks that
his spirits had been raised higher than they were wont, "through the
love of poesy." The praises of Poetry have been often sung in ancient
and in modern times; strange powers have been ascribed to it of
influence over animate and inanimate auditors; its force over
fascinated crowds has been acknowledged; but, before Wither, no one
ever celebrated its power _at home_, the wealth and the strength
which this divine gift confers upon its possessor. Fame, and that too
after death, was all which hitherto the poets had promised themselves
from their art. It seems to have been left to Wither to discover that
poetry was a present possession, as well as a rich reversion, and
that the Muse had promise of both lives,--of this, and of that which
was to come.

The _Mistress of Philarete_ is in substance a panegyric protracted
through several thousand lines in the mouth of a single speaker, but
diversified, so as to produce an almost dramatic effect, by the
artful introduction of some ladies, who are rather auditors than
interlocutors in the scene; and of a boy, whose singing furnishes
pretence for an occasional change of metre: though the seven-syllable
line, in which the main part of it is written, is that in which
Wither has shown himself so great a master, that I do not know that I
am always thankful to him for the exchange.

Wither has chosen to bestow upon the lady whom he commends the name
of Arete, or Virtue; and, assuming to himself the character of