for the private use of his Highness, but was some years afterwards published by one of Sir John's grandsons, and occasioned much displeasure from the clergy, who did not fail to recollect that his conduct was of a piece with his doctrines, as he, together with Robert earl of Leicester, supported Sir Walter Raleigh in his suit to Queen Elizabeth for the manor of Banwell, belonging to the bishopric of Bath and Wells, on the presumption that the right reverend incumbent had incurred a Premunire, by marrying a second wife. Sir John appears to be a gentleman of great pleasantry and humour; his fortune was easy, the court his element, and which is ever an advantage to an author, wit was not his business, but diversion: 'Tis not to be doubted, but his translation of Ariosto was published after Spenser's Fairy Queen, and yet both in language and numbers it is much inferior, as much as it is reasonable to suppose the genius of Harrington was below that of Spenser. Mrs. Cooper remarks, that the whole poem of Orlando is a tedious medley of unnatural characters, and improbable events, and that the author's patron, Cardinal Hippolito De Este, had some reason for that severe question. Where the devil, Signior Ludovico, did you pick up all these damned lies? The genius of Ariosto seems infinitely more fit for satire than heroic poetry; and some are of opinion, that had Harrington wrote nothing but epigrams, he had been more in his own way. We cannot certainly fix the time that Sir John died, but it is reasonable to suppose that it was about the middle, or rather towards the latter end of James I's reign. I shall subjoin an epigram of his as a specimen of his poetry. IN CORNUTUM. What curl'd pate youth is he that sitteth there, So near thy wife, and whispers in her eare, And takes her hand in his, and soft doth wring her. Sliding his ring still up and down her finger? Sir, 'tis a proctor, seen in both the lawes, Retain'd by her in some important cause; Prompt and discreet both in his speech and action, And doth her business with great satisfaction. And think'st thou so? a horn-plague on thy head! Art thou so-like a fool, and wittol led, To think he doth the bus'ness of thy wife? He doth thy bus'ness, I dare lay my life. [Footnote 1: Muses Library, p. 296.] [Footnote 2: Ubi supra.] * * * * * THOMAS DECKER,