<<AN.2>> P. 10. JOHN PINCHBACK, COL[ONEL]. Pinchback neither is nor was, I believe, a name of common occurrence; and it is just possible that the Colonel may be the very "old Jack Pinchbacke" mentioned by Sir Nicholas L'Estrange, in his MERRY PASSAGES AND JESTS, of which a selection was given by Mr. Thoms in his ANECDOTES AND TRADITIONS, 1839. L'Estrange, it is true, describes the Colonel as a "gamester and rufler, daubed with gold lace;" but this is not incompatible with the identity between the PINCHBACKE, who figures in LUCASTA, and OLD JACK, who had perhaps not always been "a gamester and ruffler," and whose gold lace had, no doubt, once been in better company than that which he seems to have frequented, when L'Estrange knew him. The "daubed gold lace," after all, only corresponds with the picture, which Lovelace himself may have presented in GUNPOWDER ALLEY days. <<EXASTIKON. Pseudetai hostis ephe-dolichos chronos oiden ameiben Ounoma, kai panton mnemosynen olesai. Oden gar poiein agathen ponos aphthonos esti, Hon medeis aion oiden odousi phagein. Oden soi, phile, doke men aphthiton, ogathe, mousa, Hos eis aionas ounoma ee teon.>> Villiers Harington, L.C. TO HIS MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MR. RICHARD LOVELACE, ON HIS POEMS. He that doth paint the beauties of your verse, Must use your pensil, be polite, soft, terse; Forgive that man whose best of art is love, If he no equall master to you prove. My heart is all my eloquence, and that Speaks sharp affection, when my words fall flat; I reade you like my mistresse, and discry In every line the quicknesse of her eye: Her smoothnesse in each syllable, her grace To marshall ev'ry word in the right place. It is the excellence and soule of wit, When ev'ry thing is free as well as fit: For metaphors packt up and crowded close Swath <ye> minds sweetnes, and display the throws, And, like those chickens hatcht in furnaces, Produce or one limbe more, or one limbe lesse Then nature bids. Survey such when they write, No clause but's justl'd with an epithite. So powerfully you draw when you perswade, Passions in you in us are vertues made; Such is the magick of that lawfull shell That where it doth but talke, it doth compell: For no Apelles 'till this time e're drew A Venus to the waste so well as you. W. Rudyerd.<7.1> <7.1> Only son of Sir Benjamin Rudyerd, Kt., known as a poet and a friend of poets, and as a warm advocate of Episcopacy. See MEMOIRS OF SIR B. R., edited by Manning, 1841, 8vo, p. 257.