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a tyraunt, or a brainlesse person that seeketh nothing but to bring all to confusion. Soe what horrible blasphemie there foloweth euery blast of mens mouthes, and yet there be very few that consider it. But yet it is so great a matter: as it hath pleased the Holy Ghost to teache vs, that if we mind to giue glory vnto God and to blesse his name as becommeth vs, we must be fully perswaded, that God doeth not anything without reason. So then let vs not charge him, neither with crueltie nor with ignorance, as though he did thinges of spite or at randon: but let vs acknowledge that in al points and in al respects hee proceedeth with wonderfull iustice, exceeding great goodnesse, and infinite wisdome, so as there is nothing but vprightnesse and equitie in all his doings. True it is that here remaineth one point more to debate: that is to wit, how Iob acknowledged God to be the taker away of the things that he was spoyled of by theeues, which seemeth a very straunge thing vnto us. But forasmuch as this tyme wyll not serue to declare it now: we will reserue it tyl to morowe.

Sermons of Maister Iohn Caluin vpon the Booke of Iob translated out of French by ARTHUR GOLDING. Lond., 1584, p. 32.

The congregatio of the hypocrites shal be desolate and fire shal deuoure the houce of bribes.

If a man haue gathered briers and thornes and made a fagotte of them they uill be so snarled as hee will be lothe to putte hys hande to them, and hee shall not knowe on what side to take holde of them and specially if hee woulde drawe out a bough of them hee cannot. But if hee putte fire to them, immediately they kindle, and crackle, and cast a farre greater blase than if they were fast and substantial wood.

Euen so it is with the wicked. They bee lyke thornes and bryers, and when they be plashed one within another, a man cannot tell howe to vndoe them, nother can he well come at them. But assoone as God putteth fire to them, then must they needes cracke in pieces and vtterly consume out of hande.

Ib., p. 288.

FLORIO'S TRANSLATION OF MONTAIGNE, 1613. (Handbk., pr. 67.) Suicide criminal.

Many are of opinion that without the expresse commandmente of him that hath placed vs in this world we may bi no means

forsake the garrison of it, and that it is in the hands of God onely, who therein hath placed-vs, not for ourselves alone, but for his glorie, and others service, when ever it shall please him to discharge vs hence, and not for vs to take leave: That we are not born for ourselves, but for our countrie: The lawes for their owne interest require an accompt at our hands for ourselves, and have a just action of murther against-vs. There is more constancie in vsing the chaine that holds-vs, then breaking the same and more triall of stedfastnesse in Regulus, then in Cato. MONTAIGNE'S Essayes, done into English by JOHN FLORIO. Lond., 1613, p. 194.

Anger not always to be repressed.

A slave, who was a lewd and vicious man, but yet whose eares were somewhat fedde with philosophicall documents, having for some faults by him committed, by the commandement of Plutarche his master, beene stripped naked, whilst another servant of his whipped him, grombled in the beginning that he was whipped without reason, and had done nothing: But in the end, mainly crying out, he fell to rayling and wronging his master, vpbraiding him, that he was not a true philosopher, as he vanted himselfe to be, and how he had often heard him say that it was an vnseemly thing in a man to be angrie. And that he had made a booke of it: And now all plonged in rage, and engulfed in choller to cause him so cruelly to be beaten, was cleane contrarie to his owne writing. To whom Plutarche, with an vnaltered and milde-settled countenance, said thus vnto him. What! Thou raskall, whereby doest thou judge I am now angrie? Doth my countenance, doth my voice, doth my colour, or doth my speech give thee any testimonie that I am either mooved or chollerike. Me seemeth, mine eyes are not staringly-wilde, nor my face troubled, nor my voice frightfull or distempered. Doe I waxe redde? Doe I foame at the mouth? Dooth any word escape me I may repent hereafter? Doe I startle and quake? Doe I rage and ruffle with anger? For, to tell thee true, these are the right signes of choler and tokens of anger. Then turning to the party that whipped him, Continue still thy worke, quoth he, whilst this fellow and I dispute of the matter.

Ib., book ii., p. 401.

CHAPTER IV.

THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

Section 1. The reign of James I., 1603-1625.

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2. From the death of James 1. to the Restoration.

3. From the Restoration to the death of William III.

THE seventeenth century is one of the most active in English literature: it contains also some of the chief names in French literature. It is the age of the maturity of Shakespeare's genius; of Milton; of the new philosophy; of ethics; of purest theology; of the commencement of modern prose style; and of the general extension of scholarship, oriental and classical.

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72. Sir Thomas Overbury, 1580-1613. (Handbook, par. 327.) One of the most accomplished gentlemen about the court of James I. His Characters; or, Witty Descriptions of the properties of Sundry Persons, forms part of his Miscellaneous Works.

A Fair and Happy Milkmaid.

Is a country wench, that is so far from making herself beautiful by art, that one look of hers is able to put all face physic out of countenance. She knows a fair look is but a dumb orator to commend virtue, therefore minds it not. All her excellencies stand in her so silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her knowledge. The lining of her apparel, which is herself, is far better than outsides of tissue; for though she be not arrayed in the spoil of the silkworm, she is decked in innocence -a far better wearing. She doth not, with lying long in bed, spoil both her complexion and conditions; nature hath taught her too, immoderate sleep is rust to the soul; she rises therefore with Chanticlere, her dame's cock, and at night makes the lamb her curfew. In milking a cow, and straining the teats through her fingers, it seems that so sweet a milk-press makes the milk whiter or sweeter; for never came almond-glore or aromatic ointment on her palm to taint it. The golden ears of corn fall and kiss her feet when she reaps them, as if they wished to be bound and led prisoners by the same hand that felled them. Her breath is her own, which scents all the year long of June, like a newmade haycock. She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with pity; and when winter evenings fall early, sitting at her merry wheel, she sings defiance to the giddy wheel of fortune. She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance will not suffer her to do ill, being her mind is to do well. She bestows her year's wages at next fair, and in choosing her garments, counts no bravery in the world like decency. The garden and beehive are all her physic and surgery, and she lives the longer for it. She dares go alone and unfold sheep in the night, and fears no manner of ill because she means none; yet, to say truth, she is never alone, but is still accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts and prayers, but short ones; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not palled with ensuing idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreams are so chaste, that she dare tell them; only a Friday's dream is all her superstition; that she

conceals for fear of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is, she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheet.

A Franklin.

His outside is an ancient yeoman of England, though his inside may give arms (with the best gentleman) and never fee the herald. There is no truer servant in the house than himself. Though he be master, he says not to his servants, Go to field, but, Let us go; and with his own eye doth both fatten his flock, and set forward all manner of husbandry. He is taught by nature to be contented with a little; his own fold yields him both food and raiment, be is pleased with any nourishment God sends, whilst curious gluttony ransacks, as it were, Noah's ark for food, only to feed the riot of one meal. He is never known to go to law; understanding to be law-bound among men is like to be hide-bound among his beasts; they thrive not under it, and that such men sleep as unquietly as if their pillows were stuffed with lawyers' penknives. When he builds, no poor tenant's cottage hinders his prospect; they are, indeed, his alms-houses, though there be painted on them no such superscription. He never sits up late but when he hunts the badger, the vowed foe of his lambs; nor uses he any cruelty, but when he hunts the hare; nor subtilty, but when he setteth snares for the snipe, or pitfalls for the blackbird; nor oppression, but when in the month of July he goes to the next river and shears his sheep. He allows of honest pastime; and thinks not the bones of the dead any thing bruised or the worse for it, though the country lasses dance in the churchyard after even-song. Rock-Monday, and the wake in summer, shrovings, the wakeful catches on Christmas-eve, the hokey or seed-cake, these he yearly keeps, yet holds them no relics of popery. He is not so inquisitive after news derived from the privy closet, when the finding an eyry of hawks in his own ground, or the foaling of a colt come of a good strain, are tidings more pleasant and more profitable. He is lord paramount with in himself, though he hold by never so mean a tenure, and dies the more contentedly, (though he leave his heir young,) in regard he leaves him not liable to a covetous guardian. Lastly, to end him, he cares not when his end comes; he needs not fear his audit, for his quietus is in heaven.

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