LAMENTATIO ESPERANTIÆ. Wa worth the time that ever I him saw, Wa worth the toung that ever persewit sic law, I was to hait sa sone for to complaine, Now will ilkane hold me abhominabill, ELIZABETH ELIZABETH GRYMESTON. THIS Poetical writer is not mentioned by Ritson, but was the author of the following work; "MISCELLANEA, MEDITATIONS, ME MORATIVES, by Elizabeth Grymeston, Non est rectum quod a Deo non est directum, London. Printed by Melch. Bradwood, for Folice Norton. 1604," This is a very rare and curious work. It is dedicated to the author's "Loving Sonne, Bernye Grymeston," and is a miscellaneous composition of verse and prose. The poetry is indifferent enough, but among the Memoratives at the end are some maxims, as good and judicious as any to be met with in Rochefoucault, or Bruyere. As for example: "The darts of lust are the eyes, and therefore fix not thy eye on that which thou mayst not desire. There is no moment of time spent which thou art not countable for, and therefore, when thou hearest the clocke strike, think there is now another houre come, whereof thou art to yeeld a reckoning. The LAMENTATIO ESPERANTIÆ. Wa worth the time that ever I him saw, Wa worth the toung that ever persewit sic law, I was to hait sa sone for to complaine, Now will ilkane hold me abhominabill, Now will thay hald my deides detestabill, The end of a dissolute life is a desperate death. There was never president to the contrary, but in the theefe in the Gospell: In one, lest any shuld despaire: in one alone, lest any should presume. Evil thoughts are the divels harbingers, for he lodgeth not but where they provide his entertainment. Indifferent equality is safest superiority. Where passions increase, complaints multiply. If thou givest a benefit, keepe it close; but if thou receiuest one, publish it, for that invites another. Let thy will be thy friend, thy minde thy companion, thy tongue thy servant. Age may gaze at beauties blossomes; but youth climbes the tree and enjoyes the fruit, Time is the herald of Trueth, and Trueth the daughter of Time. The young man may die quickly; but the old man cannot live long. There be foure good mothers have foure bad daughters: trueth hath hatred, prosperity hath pride, security hath perill, and familiarity hath contempt. Wisdome is that olive that springeth from the heart, bloometh on the tongue, and beareth fruit in the actions. Happy is that mishap whereby we passe to better perfection. The |