with his wonted fancifulness, nor in learned and majestical language, but in homely and rustic wise, some verses which have moved me, and haply the more inasmuch as they demonstrate to me that his genius hath been dampened by his adversities. Read them.

Cecil.

How much is lost when neither heart nor eye

Rosewinged Desire or fabling Hope deceives;

When boyhood with quick throb hath ceased to spy

The dubious apple in the yellow leaves;

When, rising from the turf where youth reposed,

We find but deserts in the far-sought shore;

When the huge book of Faery-land lies closed,

And those strong brazen clasps will yield no more.

Elizabeth. The said Edmund hath also furnished unto the weaver at Arras, John Blanquieres, on my account, a description for some of his cunningest wenches to work at, supplied by mine own self, indeed, as far as the subject-matter goes, but set forth by him with figures and fancies, and daintily enough bedecked. I could have wished he had thereunto joined a fair comparison between Dian—no matter—he might perhaps have fared the better for it; but poets’ wits—God help them!—when did they ever sit close about them? Read the poesy, not over-rich, and concluding very awkwardly and meanly.

Cecil.

Where forms the lotus, with its level leaves

And solid blossoms, many floating isles,

What heavenly radiance swift descending cleaves

The darksome wave! Unwonted beauty smiles

On its pure bosom, on each bright-eyed flower,

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