I have a hand in all; the statist's veins

Flow in the blood of gold; the courtier bathes
His supple and lascivious limbs in oil

Which my brow sweats: what lady brightly spher'd
But takes delight to kiss a golden beard?

Those pleaders, forenoon players, act my parts
With liberalk tongues and desperate-fighting spirits,
That wrestle with the arms of voice and air;
And lest they should be out, or faint, or cold,
Their innocent clients hist them on with gold:
What holy churchman's not accounted even,
That prays three times to me ere once to heaven?
Then to let shine the radiance of my birth,
I am th' enchantment both in hell and earth.

Here's golden majesty enough, I trow! and, Gold, art thou so powerful, so mighty, and yet snaffled with a poor padlock? O base drudge, and too unworthy of such an angel-like form! much like. a fair sleek-faced courtier, without either wit or virtue; thou that throwest the earthen bowl of the world, with the bias the wrong way, to peasantry, baseness, ingentility, and never givest desert his due, or shakest thy yellow wings in a scholar's study! But why do I lose myself in seeking thee, when thou art found of few but illiterate hinds, rude boors, and hoary penny-fathers,' that keep thee in perpetual durance, in vaults under false boards, subtle-contrived walls, and in horrible dark dungeons bury thee most unchristian-like, without amen, or the least noise of a priest or clerk, and make thee rise again at their pleasures many a thousand time before doomsday; and yet

will not all this move thee once to forsake them, and keep company with a scholar that truly knows how to use thee?

By this time I had framed an elaborate poetical building — a neat, choice, and curious poem,-the first-fruits of my musical-rhyming study, which was dispersed into a quaint volume fairly bound up in principal vellum, double-filleted with leafgold, strung most gentlemanlike with carnation silk riband; which book, industriously heaped with weighty conceits, precious phrases, and wealthy numbers, I, Oliver Hubburd, in the best fashion I might, presented to Sir Christopher Clutchfist, whose bountiful virtue I blaze in my first epistle." The book he entertained but, I think, for the cover's sake, because it made such a goodly show on the backside and some two days after, returning for my remuneration, I might espy-O lamentable sight, madam!—my book dismembered very tragically; the cover ript off, I know not for what purpose, and the carnation silk strings pulled out and placed in his Spanish-leather shoes; at which ruthful prospect I fell down and sounded;" and when I came to myself again, I was an ant, and so ever since I have kept me.

NIGHTINGALE.

There keep thee still;

Since all are ill,

Venture no more;

'Tis better be a little ant

Than a great man and live in want,
And still deplore:

first epistle] See p. 551. " sounded] i. e. swooned.

So rest thee now

From sword, book, or plough.

By this the day began to spring,
And seize upon her watchful eyes,
When more tree-quiristers did sing,

And every bird did wake and rise:
Which was no sooner seen and heard,
But all their pretty chat was marr'd;
And then she said,
We are betray'd,

The day is up, and all the birds
And they abroad will blab our words.

With that she bade the ants farewell,
And all they likewise Philomel:

Away she flew,
Crying

Tereu!

And all the industrious ants in throngs Fell to their work and held their tongues.

APPENDIX.

THE TRIUMPHS

OF

HONOUR AND INDUSTRY.