in black letter.  This copy of mine is of the greatest rarity, for it contains two dedicatory sonnets by Richard Niccols, one addressed to Lady Elizabeth Clere and the other to the Earl of Nottingham, which seem to have been instantly suppressed, and are only known to exist in this and, I believe, one or two other examples of the book.  These are, perhaps, worth reprinting for their curiosity.  The first runs as follows:—­

  My Muse, that whilom wail’d those Briton kings,
    Who unto her in vision did appear,
    Craves leave to strengthen her night-weathered wings
  In the warm sunshine of your golden Clere [clear];
  Where she, fair Lady, tuning her chaste lays
    Of England’s Empress to her hymnic string
  For your affect, to hear that virgins praise,
    Makes choice of your chaste self to hear her sing,
  Whose royal worth, (true virtue’s paragon,)
    Here made me dare to engrave your worthy name. 
  In hope that unto you the same alone
    Will so excuse me of presumptuous blame,
      That graceful entertain my Muse may find
      And even bear such grace in thankful mind.

The sonnet to the Earl of Nottingham, the famous admiral and quondam rival of Sir Walter Raleigh, is more interesting:—­

  As once that dove (true honour’s aged Lord),
    Hovering with wearied wings about your ark,
  When Cadiz towers did fall beneath your sword,
    To rest herself did single out that bark,
  So my meek Muse,—­from all that conquering rout,
    Conducted through the sea’s wild wilderness
  By your great self, to grave their names about
    The Iberian pillars of Jove’s Hercules,—­
  Most humbly craves your lordly lion’s aid
    ’Gainst monster envy, while she tells her story
  Of Britain’s princes, and that royall maid
    In whose chaste hymn her Clio sings your glory,
  Which if, great Lord, you grant, my Muse shall frame
  Mirrors most worthy your renowned name.

But apparently the “great Lord” would not grant permission, and so the sonnet had to be rigorously suppressed.

The Mirror for Magistrates has ceased to be more than a curiosity and a collector’s rarity, but it once assumed a very ambitious function.  It was a serious attempt to build up, as a cathedral is built by successive architects, a great national epic, the work of many hands.  In a gloomy season of English history, in a violent age of tyranny, fanaticism, and legalised lawlessness, it endeavoured to present, to all whom it might concern, a solemn succession of discrowned tyrants and law-makers smitten by the cruel laws they had made.  Sometimes, in its bold and not very delicate way, the Mirror for Magistrates is impressive still from its lofty moral tone, its gloomy fatalism, and its contempt for temporary renown.  As we read its sombre pages we see the wheel of fortune revolving; the same motion which makes the tiara glitter