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The heauens ful low ; he made to trowe,

and downe dyd he ensue:
And darkenes great, was under sat

his feete in clowdy hue.
He rode on hye: and dyd so flye,

upon the Cherubins ;
He came in sight; and made hys flight,

upon the wyng of wyndes.
His place he set: In darkenes great,

as secret there to byde ;
Wyth cloudes about ; — he set it out,

wyth waters blacke beside.
At hys great light; of present sight,

the cloudes past ouer quight;
As stones of hayle: do melt and quayle,

by coales in fire light.
The Lord from heauen ; sent down his leauen

and thundred thence in ire ;
He thunder cast ; in wonders blast,

wyth hayle and coales of fire. A verse or two of the eighty-sixth psalm, which is composed in double rhyme, with a cæsura between, shall form our second extract: 1. Bow downe thyne eare ;

O Lord beare
For thee I feare ;

As God most bye
have perfect
sence red
Whose fauour kynd

My hart would see severally or I fayne would finde;

thy grace at eye
joyntly.
For poore I lye ;

all wrapt in thrall,
My wante I
spye;

to thee I call.

To thee I call 2. My soule preserue ;

for thyne it is, Aye thee to serue;

unfainedly, So wholy bought;

it may not misse, Keepe thou in thought;

my Lord saye I, Thy seruant poore ;

to thee I call, To thee the more.

wythstand my fall.

Wythstand my fall. 3. Extend thy grace ;

saue me O Lord, And shew thy face ;

all louingly, In mercy so ;

thy grace aforde, I stand thereto;

assuredly, Wherto I hyed;

to seke for ease, And dayly cryed ;

I wyll not cease,

I wyll not cease,

These ceasures

5. For kynde thou art ;

O Lord of grace,
Of gentle hart ;

and mercifull,
To all a lyke;

in euery place, Who wyll the sake ;

most bountefull In stable fayth;

thou art to spie, In thee who stayth;

who mournth in thee,

who mournth in thee. The metre of the hundredth psalm is somewhat peculiar in the long rhyming word at the end of each line, of which we do not find another instance in the book. The metres throughout the volume are very varied and discursive :

O joy all men: terrestriall,
Reioyce in God: celestiall,
I byd not Jewes : especiall,
But Jewes and Greekes : in generall.
Serue ye thys Lord : heroicall,
Wyth ioy of hart: effectuall :
Seke ye hys sight: potentiall :
Wyth hymnes of myrth: most musicall.
Hys gates and courtes : tread usuall,
Wyth laudes and hymnes: poeticall :
Geue thankes to hym: continuall,
And blesse his name: most liberall.
For why this Lord : so principall,
Is sweete, hys grace: perpetuall :
Hys truth of word: stand euer shall,

With hundreth thankes: thus ende we all. One more quotation from the 137th psalm, “By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept,” &c., from which we have already given some examples from other versions, will conclude our extracts from this volume :

At water sides of Babilon,

euen there we sat and wept : While Syon mount, we thought upon,

remembring Gods precept. We hong among the Salow trees

our Harpes and Organs all : No ioy we had; with weeping eyes,

to matters musicall. They craued of us ; who thrald us wrong,

Some dyties melody ; In scorne they sayd; sing us some song

Of Syon merely,

How can we syng; sayd we agayne,

The Lordes sweete songes deuyne ;
In land so strange : who us constrayne,

we must all mirth resigne.
If I should thee, cast out of mynde ;

O good Jerusalem,
I would my hand, went out of kinde :

to play to pleasure them.
Yea, let my tonge, to palate sticke:

if that I minde thee not.
If Syons prayse, I should not seeke;

as chiefe to ioy in that. Parker's version is still extremely rare, and fortunate may he consider himself who is the possessor of a copy. The following are some of the prices which this volume has produced at different sales. Rice's sale, No. 1,003, 61. 88. 6d.; Sir Mark M. Sykes's do., pt. ii, No. 759, 111. 118.; Bindley's do., pt. iii, No. 1,167, 171. 178.; Bill. Ang. Poet., No. 534, 151. 158.; Bright's do., No. 4595, 401. 108.; Lea Wilson's do., No. 1008, 401.

There are copies in the Bodleian library; at Lambeth Palace; in Brazenose College library, and in the Grenville collection in the British Museum. In the catalogue of the latter library, vol. ii, p. 580, it is stated that “only eight copies are known of this curious version by Archbishop Parker."

A full description of the volume will be found in Dibdin's Typog. Antiq., vol. iv, p, 175. See also Warton's Hist. Eng. Poet., vol. iv, p. 4; Strype's Life of Archbp. Parker, pp. 33, 508, appendix, p. 165; Hawkins's Hist. of Musick, vol iii, p. 502; Cotton's List of Editions of the Bible, pp. 57, 146, 161; Brydges's Restituta, vol. i, p. 419; and Bibl. Ang. Poet., No. 534. Collation : Title A i, Sig. A to Yu, Aa to Yy iii, AA to ZZ iii, in fonrs.

Is old Blue Morocco, gilt leaves.

PARKER, (MARTIN.) — The Nightingale warbling forth her owne

disaster:-or, The Rape of Philomela, - Newly written in English Verse, by Martin Parker.

London. Printed by G. P. for William Cooke, and are to be sold at his shop neere Furnevals Inne Gate iu Holbourne. 1632. 8vo, pp. 44.

No other copy of this poetical volume is known. It came successively from the libraries of Major Pearson, Mr. Park, and Mr. Strettall, and was described by the second of these gentlemen in the Cens. Lit., vol. iii, p. 26. It is dedicated “To the Right Honorable Henry Parker Lord Morley and Mount Eagle, Baron of Rie &c.” After this follows a prose address from the author “ To the Iudicious Reader,” which is given at length in the Cens. Lit., then two seven-line stanzas, “ The Author to his Booke, and it to him in manner of a Dialogue”; commendatory verses by William Reeve, T. S., and Da. Price; and lastly a statement in prose of “ The Argument of this Poem or History.” The subject of the poem, which is written in seven-line stanzas, is the mournful tale of the transformation of Philomela and her sister into birds, paraphrased from the sixth book of Ovid's Metamorphoses, and commences thus :

When Tellus old by Hyems late opprest,
Was pittied and rescued by Ver,
And in her gorgeous mantle was new drest
Which Flora kindly bad bestow'd on her ;
I that did health before all wealth prefer

Walkt forth to take the benefit of th' ayre,

Wherewith Ambrosia might not then compare.
And chancing to passe by a curious grove
Which nature artificially had made,
Excelling that wherein the Queene of love
Her wanton toges with her coy lover play'd,
Therein I stept my selfe a while to shade

From Titan's force, which then full South was got

Reflecting rayes that were exceeding hot.
There as I lay reposed on the ground
Delighted with its oderiferous smell
The heavenly Quiristers about me round
Made musicke which did please my senses well ;
Especially the lovely Philomel.

Upon a hawthorne bough did warbling sit

You that will heare her song attend to it.
For by the figure call’d Prosopopeie
I'le tell her tale as though herselfe did speake,
You'l pardon give, if not so well as shee
I paint her story, for my braine's too weake,
For such a taske, yet I the ice will breake,

That others of more learning may ivdeavour
Further to wade in this deepe spatious river.

Then let your mindes suppose that you doe heare
A virgin rauisht and depriv'd of tongue,
For so the Nightingale that sings so cleare
Was once, as Ovid long agoe hath sung;
You maydens, wives, and men that heare her song

Regard it well, for it concerns you all
'Tis wofull, wonderfull, and tragicall.

The transformation of the three principal persons mentioned in the tale

From humane Creatures into senselesse Birds,

is thus related by Philomel in her own person:

I Philomel (turn'd to a Nightingale)
Fled to the woods, and 'gainst a bryer or thorne
I sit and warble out my mournfull tale :
To sleepe I alwaies have with heed forborne
But sweetly sing at evening, noone, and morne.

No time yeelds rest unto my dulcide throat

But still I ply my lachrimable note.
My sister Progne metamorphos'd was
Into a Swallow (as the Poet sayes :)
Both of us, all the Winter time doe passe
Unseene of any, till Hyperions rayes
Increase in hot influence, and the dayes

Are drawne in length by Nature's annuall course

The Swallow is a signe of Summer's force.
Upon her breast her marke of guilt she beares
Her back, head, wings, and traine doe mourne in sable
No pleasant note she sings, as any heares
But sounds forth accents sad and untunable,
Her flesh unfit to furnish any table ;

And if in any's hand she chance to dye

'Tis counted ominous, I know not why.
In signe of her unnaturall cookery
Within a smokie Chimney still she builds
While I (with other Birds) abrod doe flye
In pleasant woods, forrests, and fragrant fields ;
My tune a comfort unto mankind yeelds.

When April comes, then Country milkmaids long

And striue to heare the Nightingales sweet song. Yet still alone I loue to sit and sing Delighted best in melancholy shade : My Harmony doth make the woods to ring

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