The Emperor Sigismund, of Germany, made a solemn offering of the _holy heart_ of St. George, the tutelary Saint of England, upon the altar of St. George’s chapel at Windsor, during his visit in 1416 to Henry V. ❦ [Sidenote: Duelling.] At Malta, duelling is permitted by _law_, but under this curious restriction; the duellists are enjoined on the severest penalties, to desist and put up their swords at the desire of a _priest_, a _woman_, or a _knight_. ❦ _Delight in disorder._ A sweet disorder in the dresse, Kindles in cloaths a wantonesse, A lawne about the shoulders throwne, Into a fine distraction; An erring lace, which here and there, Enthral the crimson stomacher; A cuffe neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to fly confusedly: A winning wave (deserving note) In the tempestuous petticoat: A careless shoe-string, in whose tye, I see a wilde civility, Does more bewitche me, than when art Is too precise in every part. ❦ _Lord Strafford’s Meditations in the Tower. MSS. (Harl.)_ Go, empty joys, With all your noise, And leave me here alone, In sad sweet silence to bemoan The fickle worldly height, Whose danger none can see aright Whilst your false splendors dim the sight. Go, and ensnare, With your trim ware, Some other worldly wight, And cheat him with your flattering sight! Rain on his head a shower Of honour, greatness, wealth, and power, Then snatch it from him in an hour. Fill his big mind With gallant wind Of insolent applause; Let him not fear the curbing laws, Nor king, nor people’s frown; But dream on something like a crown, Then, climbing upwards, tumble down! Let him appear In his bright sphere Like Cynthia in her pride, With star-like troops on every side; For number and clear light, Such as may soon o’erwhelm him quite, And blind them both in one dead night! Welcome, sad night, Grief’s sole delight! Thy mourning best agrees With honor’s funeral obsequies. In Thetis’ lap he lies, Mantled with soft securities, When too much sun light dims his eyes. Was he too bold Who needs would hold With curbing reins to sway, And make Sol’s fiery steeds obey? Therefore as rash was I, Who with ambitious wings did fly In _Charles’s Waine_ too hastily! I fall! I fall! Whom shall I call? Alas! shall I be heard, Who now am neither lov’d nor fear’d? You, who have vow’d the ground To kiss, where my blest steps were found, Come, catch me at my last rebound! Now each admires Heaven’s twinkling fires, Whilst from their glorious seat, Their influence gives light and heat. But oh! how few there are, (Though danger from the act be far,) Will run to catch a falling star!