Gascoigne was born in 1540, in Essex, of an ancient family. He was educated at Cambridge, and entered at Gray's Inn, but was disinherited by his father for extravagance, and betook himself to Holland, where he obtained a commission from the Prince of Orange. After various vicissitudes of fortune, being at one time taken prisoner by the Spaniards, and at another receiving a reward from the Prince of three hundred guilders above his pay for his brave conduct at the siege of Middleburg, he returned to England. In 1575, he accompanied Queen Elizabeth in one of her progresses, and wrote for her a mask, entitled 'The Princely Pleasures of Kenilworth.' He is said to have died at Stamford in 1578. He is the author of two or three translated dramas, such as 'The Supposes,' a comedy from Ariosto, and 'Jocasta,' a tragedy from Euripides, besides some graceful and lively minor pieces, one or two of which we append.
GOOD-MORROW.
You that have spent the silent night
In sleep and quiet rest,
And joy to see the cheerful light
That riseth in the east;
Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart,
Come help me now to sing:
Each willing wight come, bear a part,
To praise the heavenly King.
And you whom care in prison keeps,
Or sickness doth suppress,
Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps,
Or dolours do distress;
Yet bear a part in doleful wise,
Yea, think it good accord,
And acceptable sacrifice,
Each sprite to praise the Lord.
The dreadful night with darksomeness
Had overspread the light;
And sluggish sleep with drowsiness
Had overpress'd our might:
A glass wherein you may behold
Each storm that stops our breath,
Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould,
And sleep like dreadful death.
Yet as this deadly night did last
But for a little space,
And heavenly day, now night is past,
Doth show his pleasant face:
So must we hope to see God's face,
At last in heaven on high,
When we have changed this mortal place
For immortality.
And of such haps and heavenly joys
As then we hope to hold,
All earthly sights, and worldly toys,
Are tokens to behold.
The day is like the day of doom,
The sun, the Son of man;
The skies, the heavens; the earth, the tomb,
Wherein we rest till than.
The rainbow bending in the sky,
Bedcck'd with sundry hues,
Is like the seat of God on high,
And seems to tell these news:
That as thereby He promised
To drown the world no more,
So by the blood which Christ hath shed,
He will our health restore.
The misty clouds that fall sometime,
And overcast the skies,
Are like to troubles of our time,
Which do but dim our eyes.
But as such dews are dried up quite,
When Phoebus shows his face,
So are such fancies put to flight,
Where God doth guide by grace.
The carrion crow, that loathsome beast,
Which cries against the rain,
Both for her hue, and for the rest,
The devil resembleth plain:
And as with guns we kill the crow,
For spoiling our relief,
The devil so must we o'erthrow,
With gunshot of belief.