The soule is the greatest thing in the least continent.

Let the limits of thy power be the bounds of thy will.

No greater comfort than to know much: nq Jesse labour than to say little.

Give a lazie clerke a lean fee."

JOHN PHYLLIPS.

AMONG rare tracts, perhaps there is none more rare, or in itself more curious, than this which I am about to describe.

Ritson makes mention of a John Philip, who wrote A rare and strange historicall account of Cleomenes and Sophonisbe, surnamed Juliet, very pleasant to reade." I presume John Phyllips is a different person, and a new name to be added to a Catalogue of our English Poets. The following is the title of his book.

"A Commemoration of the Right Noble and Vertuous Ladye Margrit Duglasis Good Grace, Countes of Lennox, Daughter to the renowned and most excellent Princesse, Margarit, Queene

7

of

of Scotland, espoused to King James the Fourth of that Name: in the Dayes of her most puissaunt and magnificent Father, Henry the Seaventh of England, Fraunce and Ireland, King.

Wherein is rehearsed hir godly Life, her Constancy and perfit Patience in Time of Infortune, her godly and last Farewell taken of all poble Estates at the Howre of her Death, the Ninth Day of March, 1577, at her House of Hackney, in the Countie of Middlesex; and now Jyeth enterred the Thyrd of April, in the Chappel of King Henry the Seaventh, her worthy Grandfather, 1578, and Anno 20 of our Soveraigne, Lady Queene Elizabeth, by God's Permission, of England, Fraunce and Irelande, Queene." The Poem is thus inscribed:

"To all Right Noble, Honorable, Godlye and Worshipfull Ladies, John Phillip wisheth the feare of God, prosperitie and peace in Jesus Christ."

I subjoin the following specimen:

All flesh is grasse, and doth wither away,

Even as the flower that doth partch with the sunne,
No physick can serve our lyves for to staye

When the clockes past, and the hower full runne,
By death to all sortes Gods will must be donne,
But how or when, no mortall man doth knowe,
Ne yet in what sorte death will bring him lowe.

Some

Some by long sicknesse theyr lyves do resigne,
Some with the sworde are constrained to dye,
And some by famine to earth do incline,

And some in the floudes deepe drentched do lye,
Some by the lawes from death cannot fly,

Subject to miseries we are on the earth,
And certain to dye, even from our fyrst byrth.

No charter of life is graunted to man,

Our time is but short, our dayes are not long, Our substaunce is death, and do what we can,

To earth we shall tourne be we never so stronge.
Let us not thinke then that death doth us wrong,

When, or in what sort, he shall us arest,
No, let us be ready to welcome this guest.

Consider that time runnes on without stay,

If he once passe by he will not turne back;
And as the time fades mans days weare away,

For the web of this lyfe runnes still unto wrack.
In time keepe watch then, least death the house sack,
For such as live carelesse, glorying in sinne,

Seeke to themselves destruction to winne.

At the end is

"Yours at commaunde in the Lord, John Phyllips.

Imprinted at London, by John Charlewood, dwelling in Barbycan, at the signe of the Halfe Eagle and Key."

VOL. II.

I

A FIG

of Scotland, espoused to King James the Fourth of that Name: in the Dayes of her most puissaunt and magnificent Father, Henry the Seaventh of England, Fraunce and Ireland, King,

Wherein is rehearsed hir godly Life, her Constancy and perfit Patience in Time of Infortune, her godly and last Farewell taken of all poble Estates at the Howre of her Death, the Ninth Day of March, 1577, at her House of Hackney, in the Countie of Middlesex; and now lyeth enterred the Thyrd of April, in the Chappel of King Henry the Seaventh, her worthy Grandfather, 1578, and Anno 20 of our Soveraigne, Lady Queene Elizabeth, by God's Permission, of England, Fraunce and Irelande, Queene." The Poem is thus inscribed:

"To all Right Noble, Honorable, Godlye and Worshipfull Ladies, John Phillip wisheth the feare of God, prosperitie and peace in Jesus Christ."

I subjoin the following specimen:

All flesh is grasse, and doth wither away,

Even as the flower that doth partch with the sunne,
No physick can serve our lyves for to staye
When the clockes past, and the hower full runne,
By death to all sortes Gods will must be donne,
But how or when, no mortal! man doth knowe,

Ne yet in what sorte death will bring him lowe.

Some by long sicknesse theyr lyves do resigne,
Some with the sworde are constrained to dye,
And some by famine to earth do incline,

And some in the floudes deepe drentched do lye,
Some by the lawes from death cannot fly,

Subject to miseries we are on the earth,
And certain to dye, even from our fyrst byrth.

No charter of life is graunted to man,

Our time is but short, our dayes are not long,
Our substaunce is death, and do what we can,

To earth we shall tourne be we never so stronge.
Let us not thinke then that death doth us wrong,
When, or in what sort, he shall us arest,
No, let us be ready to welcome this guest.

1

Consider that time runnes on without stay,

If he once passe by he will not turne back k;
And as the time fades mans days weare away,

For the web of this lyfe runnes still unto wrack.
In time keepe watch then, least death the house sack,
For such as live carelesse, glorying in sinne,

Seeke to themselves destruction to winne.

At the end is

"Yours at commaunde in the Lord, John Phyllips.

Imprinted at London, by John Charlewood, dwelling in Barbycan, at the signe of the Halfe Eagle and Key."

VOL. II.

I

A FIG