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Books THE BEST COUNSELLORS.—A prince without letters, is a pilot without eyes. All his government is groping. In sovereignty it is a most happy thing not to be compelled; but so it is the most miserable not to be counselled. And how can he be counselled that cannot see to read the best counsellors (which are books); for they neither flatter us, nor hide from us? He may hear you will say; but how shall he always be sure to hear truth ļ or be counselled the best things, not the sweetest? They say princes learn no art truly, but the art of horsemanship. The reason is, the brave beast is no flatterer. He will throw a prince as soon as his groom.
Which is an argument, that the good counsellors to princes are the best instruments of a good age. For though the prince himself be of a most prompt inclination to all virtue ; yet the best pilots have need of mariners, besides sails, anchor, and other tackle.
(Discoveries : Illiteratus princeps).
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER. 77
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN
[Fletcher: Born, 1576. Died, 1625.
Beaumont: Born, 1586. Died, 1616. They wrote 53 plays, 40 of which are generally accepted as produced solely by Fletcher, and 13 by both authors.]
THE PLEASURE OF BOOKS.
Give me leave
(The Elder Brother, i., 2.)
THE WORTH OF A BOOK.
Duke. What's this ? a poor gown ?
Yes, sure, Sir,
on't) And of a mine far purer, and more precious ; This sells no friends, nor searches into counsels, And yet all counsel, and all friends live here, Sir; Betrays no faith, yet handles all that's trusty.
(The Loyal Subject, ii. 5.)
ROBERT HERRICK. [Born, 1591. Educated at Cambridge. Presented to the living of Dean Prior, 1629; ejected, 1648. Published “Hesperides; or, Works both Humane and Divine,” 1648. Restored to his living, 1660. Died, 1674.]
TO HIS BOOKE.
While thou didst keep thy candor undefild,
But when I saw thee wantonly to roame
Trust to good verses, then ;
They onely will aspire,
Are lost i’ th' funerall fire.
And when all bodies meet
In Lethe, to be drown'd;
With endless life are crown'd.
TO HIS BOOKE.
Thou art a plant, sprung up to wither never,
Thou shalt not all die ; for while love's fire shines
TO A FRIEND.
Looke in my booke, and herein see
ON HIS BOOKE.
The bound, almost, now of my booke I see;
THE CROWNING LINE.
For those my unbaptised rhymes,