ed and taken out of the Pope's Letters now sent unto his Oratour here resident, declaring in what terms he doth stand with the French King; alledging that he hath nothing done, nor intendeth to do, to the prejudice of your Highnesse and the Emperour. And albeit his Holynesse's demeanour in this behalfe is not so laudable, ne of such sort as I would it were, yet it is not so evill as it hath ben bruted and reported; trusting that after the arrivall of my last letters, wherein I have ben round and plain, his sayd Holynesse shall alter his copie, and percase shew himselfe according to such expectation as your Highnesse and I have had of him. And thus Jesus preserve your most noble and royall estate. At my howse besides Westminster, the fifth day of February, by your Most humble Chapleyn,

T. Cardis Ebor.

A Letter of Lady Margaret to her Son; (omitted to be inserted in its proper place).

My oune suet and most deere Kynge and all my worldly joy, yn as humble maner as y can thynke y recommand me to your Grace, and moste hertely beseche our lord to blesse you; and my good herte wher that you sa that the Frenshe Kyng hathe at thys tyme gevyn me courteyse answer and wretyn . . lettyre of favour to hys corte of Parlyment for the treve expedicyon of my mater

whyche soo long hathe hangyd, the whyche y well know he dothe especially for your sake, for the whyche my..... ly beseeche your Grace yt to gyve hym your favourabyll .... thanks and to desyr hym to contenew hys. . . yn. e.me. And, yeve yt soo myght leke your Grace, to do the same to the Cardynall, whyche as I understond ys your feythfull trew and lovyng servant. Y wysse my very joy, as y efte have shewed, and y fortune to gete thys or eny parte therof, ther shall nedyr be that or eny good y have but yt shalbe yours, and at your comaundement as seurly and with as good a wyll as eny ye have yn your cofyrs, as wuld God ye cowd know yt as veryly as y thynke yt. But my der herte, y wull no more encombyr your Grace with ferder wrytyng yn thys matter, for y ame seure your chapeleyn and servante Doctour Whytston hathe shewed your Hyghnes the cyrcomstance of the same. And yeve yt soo may plese your Grace, y humbly beseche the same to yeve ferdyr credense also to thys berer. And Our Lord gyve you as longe good lyfe, helthe, and joy, as your moste nobyll herte can dessyre, with as herty blessyngs as our Lord hathe gevyn me power to gyve you. At Colynweston the xiiijth day of January, by your feythfull trewe bedwoman, and humble modyr,

MARGARET R.

This letter and the preceding are printed in

Ellis's Collection of Original Letters.

No. VI.

Of the following copies of verses, the first three are entered upon the fly-leaf of Baker's own Copy of his Reprint of the Funeral Sermon of Lady Margaret, in his own hand-writing; and the fourth is prefixed to his History of St. John's College.

TO MY FOUNDER, UPON HIS PICTURE.

Accept this Offering, from th' unenvy'd Store,
Of him that wants the Power, but wishes more.
Had I improv'd the Hours that thou dost give,
Vain were faint Colours, thou in Verse should'st live.
Had thy large Bounty been deserv❜dly mine,
Thy Name should flourish bright in every Line.
Ah! how thy Seed lyes waste in barren Soil,
That wants true Vigor, tho' it wants not Oil.
Ah! how unequal are my best Returns,
And yet my breast with zeal and flaming burns.
For if my Heart is known, a gratefull Mind
I bear, with strong Desires and unconfin'd.
To thee I dare appeal, if thou dost know,
Or now concernst thyself with Things below.
Oft had I sent my fervent Vows to Heaven,
Were this the Time, or ought were now forgiv'n.
Oft had I pray'd for thee, as thou desires,
Could I believe thee hurt by purging Fires.
Thy past Desires they were, nor are they so,
'Twas thy mistaken wish whilst here below.
Thy Joys compleated, useless Prayers may cease,
And end in Praise to him that gives thee Peace.
And yet thy Bounty may I either sing,

Or may the Fountain stop, whence it should spring.

Januar: quarto, die Fundatori meo sacro, eique commemorando destinato.

UPON THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER'S PICTURE, WHEN SENT TO THE COLLEGE BY MY LD. WEYMOUTH.

Welcome from Exile, happy Soule, to me,

And to these Walls, that owe their Rise to thee.
Too long thou'rt banisht hence, with Shame disgrac't,
Thy Arms thrown down, thy Monument defac't.
Thy Bounties, great like thee, involv'd in Night,
Till some bold Hand shall bravely give them Light.
Too long oppress't by Force, and Power unjust,
Thy Blood a Sacrifice to serve a Lust.

In vain proud Herod bids thee be forgot,

Thy Name shall brightly shine, whilst his shall rot.

UPON TWO DESERVING MASTERS, DR. SHORTON AND DR. METCALF2.

And may those Worthies, that did share his Fate,
Partake his Honors long, as they are late.

Hard was his Fate, unequal was his Lot,
That built our Walls, and finisht, was forgot.
But more unequal his, and less deserv'd,
That banisht was the Walls that he preserv❜d.
That free from Guilt did share his Patron's Crimes,
And neither were their own, but were the Time's.
O Father! O our Glory! Ah our Shame!
That giv'st us Plenty, whilst we wound thy Name,
And pay our Thanks in undeserved blame.

O may due Monuments be rais'd to thee,
Just to thy worth, not such as come from me.
May thy succeeding Sons bear gratefull Sense,
And expiate for those, that drove thee hence.
Ne'er the Curse of that ungratefull Race,
may

Fall on those guiltless Heads, that hold their Place.

The first Master and Builder of the College. • The third Master, deprived in 1537.

UPON MYSELF, AND TO MY GOD.

My God! and what am I?—A Thing of nought, Hid from myself, and yet compos'd of Thought. How vain these thoughts! how oft without Effect! And yet I please myself that I reflect.

Proud of a Phantom, that can only show

That I more surely think, than surely know ;
Ruffled with Passions, with Affections blind,
Involved in Clouds, nor Rest, nor Light I find,
Till he that breath'd the Spark, does reinspire my Mind.
Thou that breath'st Life into the unthinking Clod,
Be thou my Light, as thou hast been my God.
Thou took'st me from the Womb,-since, me upheld,
Be thou my Strength, as thou hast been my Shield;
As surely so thou art,-from Death, from Tears
Thou oft preserv’dst me,—oft renew'dst my Years,
Dispell'd my Sorrows, banish'd all my Fears.
To Dangers oft expos'd, thy Help implor'd
By Follies lost,-as oft I've been restor❜d.
When Duty call'd me forth to risque my all,
Just was my Lot, but easy was my Fall;
The Griefs and Suff'rings that mean Souls annoy,
Thou mak'st them light to me, and turn'st to joy;
So light, that if in ought I bear thy Cross,
It grieves that nought I merit by the Loss.
My Sins more justly scourges might demand,
Should Justice strike, as Mercy holds thy Hand;
In that my Refuge, there I place my Rest,
Not hurt by Frowns, in Spite of Fortune blest.
For all these Mercies, just Returns from me

Are due, and yet my best Returns I owe to thee;
My Pray'rs, my Vows, and all that should be mine,
E'en these are due to thee, and truly thine.

Oh were I thine myself! The Offering's made,
Were it as worthy thee, as freely paid.
But Worth! forbid the Word, my Sins forbid ;
Pardon's my Plea, and Sins by Mercy hid.