Sir John Suckling, Ed. William Carew Hazlitt

The Poems, Plays, and Other Remains of Sir John Suckling, Ed. William Carew Hazlitt, Reeves and Turner, London, 1892

W. W. [Wordsworth] observes: “Suckling was among the few who read Shakespeare in that age; of all poets he seems to have been his favourite. He not only imitated him in his writings, but praised and quoted him in all the polished circles of the day, of which he was a distinguished ornament.” (Introductory Notice, vi)

…[from J. Lawson] he was also an excellent musician, at an age when music was little cultivated in England. Every poet is supposed to be a musician in his ear, if not practically. Moore, in his ‘Retrospective of Prose’ writing in England, has named Milton as the only poet of eminence in England who was a practical musician, which is a piece of injustice to Sir J. Suckling, who was at least as great a proficient in music as Milton. (Introductory Notice, vi)

…that precocious intellect which Langbaine has assigned him—a return, we are gravely informed, made for the injustice of nature, which had delayed the period of his birth two months beyond the usual term of gestation. (Life of Sir John Suckling, xv)

…I should conclude with Dodsley that he was a polite rather than a deep scholar. Music, languages, and poetry were the accomplishments he most cultivated, and in which he was most desirous to excel; nor is it agreeable to this acknowledged vivacity of his constitution to imagine that more abstruse or graver subjects could very long engage his attention. (Life of Sir John Suckling, xviii)

…father’s decease. He died on the 27th of March 1627, in the fifty-eighth year of his age, an event which the constitutional gaiety of the son rendered peculiarly untoward, as the gravity of the father’s character, which was remarkable, would have operated essentially in diverting him from many youthful indiscretions into which he fell from this early exposure to the allurements of a gay and luxurious court… (Life of Sir John Suckling, xix)

[Footnote] For the amusement of those ladies which may honour this sketch with a perusal, I subjoin the following items of Sir John Suckling [father]’s will, in which these bequests are contained: —“I give to my beloved daughter Martha, a fayre ring, with eleaven diamonds: and to my two pretty twynnes Anne and Mary I give two rings with dyamonds in either of them—viz., to Anne a ring with 13 dyamonds in it, and to Mary one ring with 7 dyamonds in it. Item, I give to Elizabeth, my youngest daughter, a jewell with 19 dyamonds in it, and my late wyfe’s girdle of pearle. Item, I give to my very loving wife all her apparel, pearles, rings, and jewelles, which she now weareth, or hath in her possession: save only one chayne of dyamonds, which I lately bought by the help of Mr. Hardnett, a jeweler, and paid one hundred fifty-five pounds for the same, which is by her to be repayed to my executors within one yeare next after my decease; unless my eldest sonne and she agree about the redemption of the manor of Rose Hall. Item, I give to my well-beloved wyfe my my best coach and twoe of my best coach-horses, and she to dwell in my house in Dorset Court (in Fleet Street) soe longe as she remaynes my widdowe.” (Life of Sir John Suckling, xx)

“He was so famous at court,” says Sir William Davenant, “for his accomplishments and readie sparkling wit, that he was the bull that was bayted, his repartee and witt beinge most sparkling, when most set on and provoked.” But if we take a short retrospect of the national feelings and manners of that period, it will enable us to understand more clearly, how much a man of Suckling’s accomplishments must have been valued in a court like that of Charles I. The growing love of liberty, for which these times were now remarkable, was opposed by a spirit of devoted loyalty, as magnificent in its display as it was elevated in its principle. The severe and ascetic habits which the popular party combined with their democratic opinions served only to render them more hateful to the Cavaliers, by whom the refined amusements and gallantry of the court were pursued with a redoubled vivacity. (Life of Sir John Suckling, xxii-xxiii)

He became enamoured of play, and entered into habits of deep gaming with an eagerness unworthy of its cause. He distinguished himself in these, as in more defensible gratifications, and was soon known as the best bowler and card-player in the kingdom, to the neglect, probably, of worthier attainments. (Life of Sir John Suckling, xxiv)

As a card-player he was equally notorious, and became so enraptured with the fascinations of play, that he would frequently lie in bed the greater part of the day with a pack of cards before him, to obtain by practice the most perfect knowledge and management of their powers…That he never seriously injured his fortune by [gambling] is certain, from the large sums of money he was afterwards enabled to expend on worthier and patriotic purposes. (Life of Sir John Suckling, xxv)

When at his lowest ebb [in gambling], he would make himself glorious in apparel, and said that it exalted his spirits, and that he had then the best luck, when he was most gallant, and his spirits high. (Life of Sir John Suckling, xxvi)

The preceding recital of juvenile errors has been demanded by impartiality from the pen of biography; but it more gladly records that an earnestness of purpose, alike honourable and patriotic, marked the employment of Suckling’s latter years. His most valued associates were now men dignified by their virtue and distinguished by their abilities. (Life of Sir John Suckling, xxvi)

In this place may be mentioned a circumstance which is not only too singular in itself to pass unnoticed, but deserves recording as a triumph of Suckling’s pen, which on the present occasion reclaimed a relative from the path of folly, and rendered him an useful and respectable member of society. Charles Suckling, the youngest son of the poet’s uncle, Charles Suckling, Esq. of Woodton, had for some years indulged in a strange propensity of paying attentions to very young women, whom he deserted as they became marriageable, when he transferred his love to fresh objects more juvenile, who, in their turn, were in like manner discarded. / To wean his relative from this weak and dishonourable conduct, he tried, at his uncle’s request, the effects of raillery and stature… (Life of Sir John Suckling, xxvii)

It should be observed that this court was an engine of almost absolute authority, and its processes most alarming [footnote: Sir George Markham was fined 10,000 pounds in the Court of Star Chamber for striking Lord Darcy’s huntsman, who had given him foul language.] ; but Suckling so greatly possessed the favor of his sovereign, that he was speedily extricated from the dangers of his situation. He retired, however, without delay to his country seat, in obedience to the royal edict, and devoted himself almost exclusively to the charms of music and literature, till the increasing violence of faction again drew him into more active employment. In this interval were produced his best literary performances. (Life of Sir John Suckling, xxxii-xxxiv)

“Sir John came like a young prince for all manner of equipage and convenience, and had a cart-load of books carried down.” The last is a pleasing touch in this lively sketch, as it shows that the love of pleasure and expense in which he so greatly indulged was balanced by an equal ardour for literary enjoyments and rational pursuits. (Life of Sir John Suckling, xxxv)

An unhappy domestic occurrence excited a temporary gloom in our poet’s family. His eldest sister, Martha, had married Sir George Southcott, of Shillingford, in the county of Devon, who completed a course of conjugal unkindness by the appalling crime of suicide. This melancholy event drew from Suckling an admirable consolatory letter, the manly style and sentiments of which are worthy of his pen. (Life of Sir John Suckling, xxxvii)

But his efforts on behalf of his monarch were not confined to his pen. The Scottish League and Covenant having ended in open rebellion, he resolved on more active assistance…with a liberality which has never been surpassed, and perhaps rarely paralleled, presented his majesty with a troop of one hundred horsemen, whom he clothed and maintained from his private resources…With this reinforcement he joined the king’s army on its march to the north, which is said to have resembled a triumphal procession rather than a military expedition…It is well known that the whole English army fled…Had Suckling and his troops individually disgraced themselves, they would without doubt have been rendered amenable to martial law; but we find him retaining his monarch’s favour… (Life of Sir John Suckling, xxxviii-xlii)

With the utmost anxiety he had long watched the alarming and increasing dissesions between the king and his parliaments, and now addressed a letter on that pressing and important subject to his friend Henry Jermyn…This admirable composition is well known to every one conversant with English history; its maxims of sound policy, its correct judgment and acute foresight, would not disgrace the most refined and experienced politician. In this letter Suckling displays a strong inclination to heal the wounds which party rancour had inflamed between the king and his people; his allusions to the influence and conduct of the queen are beautifully expressed, and he points with delicacy to the necessity of her dismissing the Roman Catholic attendants by whom she was surrounded… It has been supposed that, as this letter was addressed to one of the king’s most confidential servants, it was intended for the royal perusal. That his majesty did read it, and dwelt with consideration on its important arguments, seems almost beyond a doubt, as the subsequent conduct of Charles was perfectly in unison with the advice it contains. (Life of Sir John Suckling, xliii-xliv)

…these active measures of Sir John Suckling and his friends could not long proceed unnoticed by the popular party, who had now obtained complete mastery in the parliament…a conspiracy (as it was termed by the Puritans) then in agitation against the whole kingdom. The conspirators had made arrangements, it was said, for bringing over a French army to co-operate with the Irish troops and the loyalists of the English nation…Suckling and his coadjutors, too well aware of their danger, absented themselves from the House, and were in consequence charged with high treason. This was on the 6th of May; on the 8th a proclamation was issued threatening them with the pains and penalties of their situation, unless they immediately surrendered themselves for examination; but Suckling was already beyond the seas… (Life of Sir John Suckling, xlvi)

Reduced, at length, in fortune, and dreading to encounter poverty, which his habits and temper were little calculated to endure—hurled from his rank in society—an alien, and perhaps friendless—his energies at length gave way to the complicated wretchedness of his situation, and he contemplated an act which he had himself condemned in others. / Purchasing poison of an apothecary at Paris, he produced death, says Aubrey, by violent fits of vomiting. Some writers, with great tenderness to his character, have attributed his end to other causes and dissimilar means; but, I regret to add, family tradition confirms the first and the most revolting narration. / The precise period of his death is uncertain, nor is the obscurity in which it remains enveloped likely to be removed. Aubrey states that he was buried in the cemetery attached to the Protestant Church at Paris… (Life of Sir John Suckling, l)

If this chronology be accurate, Sir John Suckling died in his thirty-fourth year… (Life of Sir John Suckling, li)

In person he was of the middle size, though but slightly made, with a winning and graceful carriage, and noble features. From Aubrey we have his picture touched with all the vigour of an original portrait: “Sir John Suckling was of middle stature and slight strength; brisk round eie, reddish fac’t, and red nosed (ill liver); his head not very big; his hayre a kind of sand colour; his beard turn’d up naturally, so that he had a brisk and graceful looke.” (Life of Sir John Suckling, lii)

Sir John Suckling died unmarried. (Life of Sir John Suckling, liii)

In descriptions of feminine grace and beauty he is peculiarly happy, and in his prose compositions is clear, nervous, and sparkling. (Life of Sir John Suckling, lv)

He fails most as a dramatist, though Phillips, says his plays continued to draw audiences to the theatres in his days. They did not, however, long retain popularity…Besides bearing very evident marks of crudity in the plans and hurry in the execution, they are marred by the recurrence of trifling incidents…They are deficient, moreover, in that sweetness of versification and originality of thought which elsewhere distinguish his compositions… (Life of Sir John Suckling, lvii)

“The Goblin,” it must be confessed, possesses little merit. The idea of the play is evidently borrowed from Shakespeare; and the same arguments may be advanced in defense of the machinery adopted in it as have been so powerfully adduced by Dr. Johnson in support of Shakespeare’s employment of witches in “Macbeth.” A belief in the agency of witchcraft was still an universal notion in Suckling’s time—nay, it had been rendered a fashionable illusion by the publication of King James’s work on demonology. (Life of Sir John Suckling, lx)

Since my coming ashore, I find that the people of this country are a kind of infidels, not believing in the Scripture; for though it be there promised there shall never be another Deluge, yet they do fear it daily, and fortify against it: that they are Nature’s youngest children, and so, consequently, have the least portion of wit and manners; or rather that they are her bastards, and so inherit none at all.
(To William Davenant, London, Nov. 18th, 1629, V2 173-174)

Before, therefore, I went to the king, I attended my Lord Treasurer, and told him that by more particular command I was more specially to wait upon his lordship; that I was to speak to the king that morning, but was come before to kiss his lordship’s hands. (To Sir Henry Vane, V2 176)

In conclusion I told him, that if there were anything in what I had said that could seem less fit to his lordship, or anything besides that his lordship could think more fit, I stood there ready to be disposed of by him, upon which he embraced me, thanked your lordship more especially for that address… (To Sir Henry Vane, V2 176)

I am not peremptory that things are so as I have here represented them; but I am certain they are thought to be so. Your lordship’s better judgment will resolve it… (To Sir Henry Vane, V2 178)

So that now a gallery, hung with Titian’s or Vandyke’s hand, and a chamber filled with living excellence, are the same thing to me; and the use that I shall make of that sex now will be no pother than that which the wiser sort of Catholics do of pictures… (To Aglaura [?], V2 179)

I would have you leave that foolish humour, Jack, of saying you are not in love with her, and pretending you careee not for her; for smothered fires are dangerous, and malicious humours are best and safest vented and breathed out. (A Dissuasion from Love, V2 181)

Though, madam, I have ever hitherto believed play to be a thing in itself as merely indifferent as religion a statesman or love made in privy-chamber; yet hearing you have resolved it otherwise for me, my faith shall alter without becoming more learned upon it, or once knowing why it should do so. So great and just a sovereignty is that your reason hath above all others, that mine must be a rebel to itself, should it not obey thus easily; and, indeed, all the infallibility of judgment we poor Protestants have, is at this time wholly in your hands. (?, V2 182)

…and without all question, the first Christians under the great persecutions suffered not in 500 years so many several ways as I have done in six days in this lewd town. (To Aglaura [?], V2 183)

Madam,—I thank heaven we live in an age in which the widows wear colours… (To Lady Southcot, V2 185)

…it being strange at all that a man who hath lived ill all his time in a house should break a window, or steal away in the night through an unusual postern. (To Lady Southcot, V2 185)

I must confess it is a just subject for our sorrow to hear of any that does quit his station without his leave that placed him there… (To Lady Southcot, V2 186)

Examples of such loving folly our times afford but few; and in those there are, you shall find the stock of love to have been greater, and their strengths richer to maintain it, than [it] is to be feared yours can be. ([addressed ‘Sir’] V2 187)

The ruins that either time, sickness, or the melancholy you shall give her, shall bring, must all be made up at your cost… ([addressed ‘Sir’] V2 188)

This I speak not out of a desire to increase your fears, which are already but too many, but out a hope that, when you know the worst, you will at once leap into the river, and swim through handsomely, and not, weatherbeaten with the divers blasts of irresolution, stand shivering upon the brink. ([addressed ‘Sir’] V2 188)

…I had much rather be mad with him that, when he had nothing, thought all the ships that came into the haven his, than with you who, when you have so much coming in, think you have nothing. ([addressed ‘Sir’] V2 189)

My Noble Lord,—Your humble servant had the honour to receive from your hand a letter, and had the grace upon the sight of it to blush. ([addressed ‘My Noble Lord’] V2 189)

Germany hath no whit altered me; I am still the humble servant of my Lord --- that I was… ([addressed ‘My Noble Lord’] V2 190)

Since you can breathe no one desire that was not mine before it was yours, or full as soon (for hearts united never knew divided wishes), I must chide you, dear princess, not thank you, for your present; and (if at least I knew how) be angry with you for sending him a blush, who needs must blush because you sent him one. If you are conscious of much, what am I then, who guilty am of all you can pretend to, and something more—unworthiness. But why should you at all, heart of my heart, disturb the happiness you have so newly given me, or make love feed on doubts, that never yet could thrive on such a diet? If I have granted your request! O, why will you ever say that you have studied me, and give so great an interest to the contrary! That wretched if speaks as if I would refuse what you desire, or could—both which are equally impossible. My dear princess, there needs no new approaches where the breach is made already; nor must you ever ask anywhere, but of your fair self, for anything that shall concern you humble servant. ([Entire], To Aglaura, V2 190)

Dost thou know what marriage is? ’Tis curing of love the dearest way, or waking a losing gamester out of a winning dream, and after a long expectation of a strange banquet, a presentation of a homely meal. (A letter to a friend [Carew] to dissuade him from marrying a widow which he formerly had been in love with, and quitted, V2 192-193)

Thou now perchance has vow’d all that can be vowed to any one face, and thinkest thou hast left nothing unsaid to it; do but make love to another, and if thou art not suddenly furnished with new language and fresh oaths, I will conclude Cupid hath used thee worse than ever he did any of his train. (A letter to a friend [Carew] to dissuade him from marrying a widow which he formerly had been in love with, and quitted, V2 193)

When I receive your lines, my dear princess, and find there expressions of a passion, though reason and my own immerit tell me it must not be for me, yet is the cosenage so pleasing to me, that I, bribed by my own desires, believe them still before the other. Then do I glory that my virgin-love has stayed for such an object to fix upon, and think how good the stars were to me that kept me from quenching those flames you or wild love furnished me withal in common and ordinary waters, and reserved me a sacrifice for your eyes. While thought thus smiles and solaces himself within me, cruel remembrance breaks in upon our retirements, and tells so sad a story that, trust, me, I forget all that pleased fancy said before, and turn[es] my thoughts to where I left you. Then I consider that storms neither know courtship nor pity, and that those rude blasts will often make you a prisoner this winter, if they do no worse. / While I here enjoy fresh diversion, you make the sufferings more by having leisure to consider them; nor have I now any way left me to make mine equal with them, but by often considering that they are not so; for the thought that I cannot be with you to bear my share is more intolerable to me than if I had borne more. But I was only born to number hours, and not enjoy them; yet can I never think myself unfortunate, while I can write myself Aglaura her humble servant. ([Entire], To Aglaura, V2 195)

When I consider, my dear princess, that I have no other pretence to your favours than that which all men have to the original of beauty, light, which we enjoy, not that ’tis the inheritance of our eyes, but because things most excellent cannot restrain themselves, but are ours, as they are diffusively good;… (To Aglaura, V2 196)

How pleasingly troublesome thought and remembrance have been to me, since I left you, I am no more able now to express, than another to have them so. You only could make every place you came in worth the thinking of; and I do think those places worthy my thought only, because you made them so. But I am to leave them, and I shall do’t the willinger, because the gamester still is so much in me, as that I love not to be told too often of my losses. (To Aglaura, V2 196)

Though desire, in those that love, be still like too much sail in a storm, and man cannot so easily strike, or take all in when he pleases; yet, dearest princess, be it never so hard, when you shall think it dangerous, I shall not make it difficult; though—well, love is love, and air is air; and, though you are a miracle yourself, yet do not I believe that you can work any. Without it I am confident you can never make these two, thus different in themselves, one and the self-same thing; when you shall, it will be some small furtherance towards it, that you have your humble servant, / J.S. / Whoso truly loves the air Aglaura, that he will never know desire, at least not entertain it, that brings not letters of recommendation from her, or first a fair passport. ([Entire] To Aglaura, V2 197)

Though I conceive you, ladies, so much at leisure that you may read anything, yet since the stories of the town are merely amorous, and sound nothing but love, I cannot, without betraying my own judgment, make them news for Wales. Nor can it be less improper to transport them to you, than for the king to send my Lord of C--- over ambassador this winter into Greenland. / It would want faith in so cold a country as Anglesey to say that your Cousin Duchess, for the quenching of some foolish flames about her, has endured quietly the loss of much of the king’s favour, of many of her houses, and of most of her friends. / Whether the disfigurement that travel or sickness has bestowed upon B.W---be thought so great by the Lady of the Isle as ’tis by others, and whether the alteration of his face has bred a change in her mind, it never troubles you, ladies, what old loves are decayed, or what new ones are sprung up in their room. Whether this lady be too discreet, or that cavalier not secret enough, are things that concern the inhabitants of Anglesey not at all. A fair day is better welcome and more news than all that can be said in this kind; and for all that I know now, the devil’s chimney is on fire, or his pot seething over, and all North Wales not able to stay the fury of it. Perchance, while I write this, a great black cloud is sailing from Mistress Thomas’s bleak mountains over to Baron-Hill, there to disgorge itself with what the sea or worse places fed it with before. / It may be, the honest banks about you turn bankrupt too, and break; and the sea, like an angry creditor, seizes upon all, and hath no pity, because he has been put off so long from time to time. For variety (and it is not impossible), some boisterous wind flings up the hangings; and thinking to do as much to your clothes, finds a resistance, and so departs, but first breaks all the windows about the house for it in revenge. / These things, now, we that live in London cannot help, and they are as great news to men that sit in boxes at Blackfriars, as the affairs of love to flannel weavers. / For my own part, I think I have made a great compliment when I have wished myself with you, and more than I dare make good in winter; and yet there is none would venture farther for such a happiness than your humble servant. ([Entire] For the two Excellent Sisters [probably Aglaura and her sister], V2 199-200)

…to despatch to you one of our cabinet council, Colonel Young, with some slight forces of canary, and some few of sherry, which no doubt will stand you in good stead, if they do not mutiny and grow too headstrong for their commander. Him Captain Puff of Barton shall follow with all expedition, with two or three regiments of claret; Monsieur de Granville, commonly called Lieutenant Strutt, shall lead up the rear of Rheinish and white. (The Wine-drinkers to the Water-drinkers, greeting: V2, 201-202)

Since joy, the thing we all so court is but our hopes stripped of our fears, pardon me if I be still pressing at it, and, like those that are curious to know their fortunes aforehand, desire to be satisfied… (Unknown, V2, 202)

I am not so ill a Protestant as to believe in merit, yet if you please to give answer under your own hand, such as I shall for ever rely upon, if I have not deserved it already, it is not impossible but I may. (Unknown, V2, 203)

Honest, Charles,—Were there not fools enou’ before the commonwealth of lovers, but that thou must bring up a new sect? Why delighted with the first knots of roses; and when they come to blow, can satisfy the sense, and do the end of their creation, dost not care for them? Is there nothing in this foolish transitory world that thou canst find out to set thy heart upon, but that which has newly left off making of dirt-pies, and is but preparing itself for loam and a green sickness? Seriously, Charles, and without ceremony, ’tis very foolish, and to love widows is as tolerable an humour, and as justifiable as thine,; for beasts that have been ride off their legs are as much for a man’s use as colts that are unwayed, and will not go at all. Why the devil such young things? Before these understand what thou wouldst have, others would have been granted. Thou dost not marry them neither, nor anything else. ’Sfoot, it is the story of the jackanapes and the partridges: thou starest after a beauty till it is lost to thee; and then lett’st out another, and starest after that till it is gone too! Never considering that it is here as in the Thames, and that while it runs up in the middle, it runs down on the sides; while thou contemplatest the coming-in and flow of beauty, that it ebbs with thee, and that thy youth goes out at the same time. After all this, too, she thou now art cast upon will have much ado to avoid being ugly. Pox on’t, men will say thou wert benighted, and wert glad of any inn. Well, Charles, there is another way, if you could find it out. Women are like melons—to green or too ripe are worth nothing—you must try till you find a right one. Taste all—but hark you, Charles, you shall not need to eat of all; for one is sufficient for a surfeit.—Your most humble servant. / I should have persuaded you to marriage; but, to deal ingenuously, I am a little out of arguments that way at this present. ’Tis honourable, there’s no question on’t; but what more, in good faith, I cannot readily tell. ([Entire] To a Cousin, who still loved young girls, and when they came to be marriageable, quitted them, and fell in love with fresh, at his father’s request, who desired he might be persuaded out of the humour, and marry. V2, 203-204)

Madame,—The distrust I have had of not being able to write to oyu anything which might pay the charge of reading, has persuaded me to forbear kissing your hands at this distance. So, like women that grow proud because they are chaste, I thought I might be negligent because I was not troublesome; and were I not safe in your goodness, I should be, madam in your judgment, which is too just to value little observances, or think them necessary to the right honouring my [perhaps, any] lady. (Unknown, V2 205)

Madam,—By the same reason the ancients made no sacrifice to death, should your ladyship send me no letters, since there has been no return on my side. But the truth is, the place affords nothing: all our days are (as the women here) alike, and the difference of Fair does rarely show itself. Such great state do beauty and the sun keep in these parts. I keep company with my own horses, madam, to avoid that of the men; and by this you may guess how great an enemy to my living contentedly my lady is, whose conversation has brought me to so fine a diet that, wheresoever I go, I must starve: all days are tedious, companies troublesome, and books themselves (feasts heretofore) no relish in them. Finding you to be the cause of all this, excuse me, madam, if I resent, and continue peremptory in the resolution I have taken to be, madam, during life your humbles servant. ([Entire] Unknown, V2 205-206)

Madam,—But that I know your goodness is not mercenary, and that you receive thanks either with as much trouble as men ill news, or with as much wonder as virgins unexpected love, this letter should be full of them. A strange, proud return you may think I make you, madam, when I tell you, it is not from everybody I would be thus obliged; and that, if I thought you did me not these favour because you love me, I should not love you, because you do me these favours. This is not language for one in affliction, I confess, and upon whom, it may be, at this present a cloud is breaking; but finding not within myself I have deserved that storm, I will not make it greater by apprehending it. / After all, lest, madam, you should think I take your favours as tribute, to my own great grief I here declare, that the services I shall be able to render you will be no longer presents, but payments of debts, since I can do nothing for you hereafter which I was not obliged to do before. Madam, your most humble and faithful servant. ([Entire] Unknown, V2 206)

There are two things which I shall not be ashamed to propound to you as ends, since the greater part of the wise men of the world have not been ashamed to make them theirs, and, if any has been found to contemn them, it hath been strongly to be suspected that either they could not easily attain them, or else that the readiest way to attain to them was to contemn them. These two are honour and wealth; and though you stand possessed of both of them, yet is the first in your hands like a sword which, if not through negligence, by mishchance hath taken rust, and needs a little clearing, and it would be much handsomer a present to posterity, if you yourself in your lifetime wipe it off. (My Lord, V2 208)

I confess, though, had vice so large an empire in the court as heretofore it has had, or were the times so dangerous that to the living well there wise conduct were more necessary than virtue itself… (My Lord, V2 209)