Mr. Owen, the _Brittish_ Epigrammatist, on this Book of _Utopia_, writeth thus; More's _Utopia_ and _Mercurius Britanicus_. _More_ shew'd the best, the worst World's shew'd by the: Thou shew'st what is, and he shews what should be. But at last he fell into the King's displeasure, touching the Divorce of Queen _Katherine_, and for refusing to take the Oath of Supremacy; for which he was committed to the Tower, and afterwards beheaded on _Tower-Hill_, July 6, 1635, and buried at _Chelsey_ under a plain Monument. Those who desire to be further informed of this Learned Knight, let them read my Book of _England's Worthies_, where his Life is set forth more at large. * * * * * _HENRY HOWARD_ Earl of _Surrey_. This Honourable Earl was Son to _Thomas Howard_ Duke of _Norfolk_, and _Frances_ his Wife, the Daughter of _John Vere_ Earl of _Oxford_. He was (saith _Cambden_) the first of our _English_ Nobility that did illustrate his high Birth with the Beauty of Learning, and his Learning with the knowledge of divers Languages, which he attained unto by his Travels into foreign Nations; so that he deservedly had the particular Fame of Learning, Wit and Poetical Fancy. Our famous Poet _Drayton_, in his _England's Heroical Epistles_, writing of this Noble Earl, thus says of him; The Earl of _Surrey_, that renowned Lord, Th'old _English_ Glory bravely that restor'd, That Prince and Poet (a Name more divine) Falling in Love with Beauteous _Geraldine_, Of the _Geraldi_, which derive their Name From _Florence_; whether to advance her Fame, He travels, and in publick Justs maintain'd Her Beauty peerless, which by Arms he gain'd. In his way to _Florence_, he touch'd at the Emperor's Court; where he fell in acquaintance with the great Learned _Cornelius Agrippa_, so famous for Magick, who shewed him the Image of his _Geraldine_ in a Glass, sick, weeping on her Bed, and resolved all into devout Religion for the absence of her Lord; upon sight of which, he made this Sonnet. All Soul, no earthly Flesh, why dost thou fade? All Gold, no earthly Dross, why look'st thou pale? Sickness, how dar'st thou one so fair invade? Too base Infirmity to work her Bale. Heaven be distempered since she grieved pines, Never be dry these my sad plantive Lines. Pearch thou my Spirit on her Silver Breasts, And with their pains redoubled Musick beatings, Let them toss thee to world where all toil rests, Where Bliss is subject to no Fear's defeatings; Her Praise I tune whose Tongue doth tune the Sphears, And gets new Muses in her Hearers Ears. Stars fall to fetch fresh light from her rich eyes, Her bright Brow drives the Sun to Clouds beneath. Her Hairs reflex with red strakes paints the Skies, Sweet Morn and Evening dew flows from her breath: _Phoebe_ rules Tides, she my Tears tides forth draws, In her sick-Bed Love sits, and maketh Laws.