Miscellanies in prose and verse: by Thomas Chatterton, the supposed author of the poems published under the names of Rowley, Canning, &c.

To the Printer of the St. James's Chronicle.

SIR,

AFTER the opinion which the reverend Mr. Thomas Warton has delivered, concerning the authenticity of the poems attributed to Row|ley, it may be expected that those who maintain a contrary doctrine, should publish some arguments in support of it. For my part I shall rather employ memory than sagacity on this subject, and have no weight to throw into either scale, except the fol|lowing parallels; observing at the same time, how extraordinary it is that so many coincidences should be discoverable between Shakespeare, Dryden, &c. and Rowley, whose name was never heard of till within these ten years past.

Now doeth Englonde weare a bloudie dresse, And wyth her champyonnes gore her face de|peyncte. Ecloque I. p. 5.

When I shall wear a garment all of blood, And stain my favours in a bloody mask. K. Henry IV. part I.

The tournament begynnes; the hammerrs sounde. Tourn. p. 28.

The armourers accomplishing the knights With clink of hammers closing rivets up, &c. K. Henry V.

And teares beganne to flowe. Syr C. Bawdin, p. 49.

And tears began to flow. Dryden's Alexander's Feast.

The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe. Syr C. Bawdin, p. 56.

For on the rope that hangs my dear Depends poor Polly's life. Beggar's Opera.

Whie art thou all that poyntelle canne bewreene? Aella, p. 76.

Is she not more than painting can express? Fair Penitent.

Botte thenn thie soughle woulde throwe thy vysage sheene. Aella, p. 76.

Your noble sprytes Speke yn youre eyne. Ibidem. p. 123.

Your spirits shine through you. Macbeth.

Without wommen, menne were pheeresTo salvage kynde. Aella, p. 90.

Lovely woman! nature made thee To temper man; we had been brutes without you. Venice Preserv'd.

And there ynn ale and wyne bee dreyncted everych woe. Aella, p. 93.

And drown in bowls the labours of the day. Pope's Iliad, book XXI.

The reste from nethe tymes masque must shew yttes face. Aella, p. 105.

Knavery's plain face is never seen till us'd. Othello.

Thou fyghtest anente maydens, and ne menne. Aella, p. 110.

Philip fought men, but Alexander women. Lee's Alexander.

Fen-vaipoures blaste thie everiche manlie powere. Aella, p. 113.

Ye fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the powerful sunTo fall and blast, &c. K. Lear.

Bee youre names blasted from the rolle of dome! Aella, p. 114.

My name be blotted from the book of life! K. Richard II.

Theie lepe ynto the sea, and bobblynge yield yer breathe. Aella, p. 126.

Then plug'd into the stream with deep despair,And her last sighs came bubbling up in air. Dryden's Virgil, book XII.

O forr a spryte al feere! Aella, p. 128.

O for a muse of fire! K. Henry V.

Hylles of yer bowkes dyd ryse opponne the playne. Aella, p. 130.

And thickening round him rise the hills of dead. Pope's Iliad.

Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, Whyte his rode as the sommer snowe. Aella, p. 136.

His beard as white as snow, All flaxen was his pole. Hamlet.

Mie love ys dedde, Gone to hys death-bedde. Aella, p. 136.

No, no, he is dead, Gone to his death-bed. Hamlet.

Brynge me a stede wythe eagle wynges for flyghte. Aella, p. 140.

Oh, for a horse with wings! Cymbeline.

Yee goddes, how ys a loverres temper formed! Sometymes the samme thynge wylle both bane and blesse. Aella, p. 140.

With what unequal tempers are we form'd; One day the soul, &c. Fair Penitent.

Maie ne thie cross stone of thie cryme bewree! Maie all menne ken thy valoure, fewe thie mynde! Aella, p. 159.

Take thy praise with thee to Heaven, Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave, But not remember'd in thy epitaph. K. Henry IV. part I.

Thys alleyn was unburled of alle my spryte: Mie honnoure, &c.

Mie hommeur yette somme drybblet joie maie fynde. Aella, p. 166.

Had it pleas'd Heaven To try me with affliction I should have found in some part of my soul A drop of patience. Othello.

Unburled, undelievre, unespryte. Goddwyn, p. 179.

Unhousel'd, unappointed, unaneal'd. Hamlet.

To the skyes The dailie contekes of the londe ascende. The wyddowe, fahdrelesse and bondemennes cries, Acheke the mokie aire, and Heaven astende. Goddwyn, p. 180.

Every day New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows Strike Heaven on the face. Macbeth.

Tenne bloddie arrowes ynne hys streynynge fyste. Goddwyn, p. 195.

—In his right hand Grasping ten thousand thunders. Milton's Paradise Lost, book VI.

Their soules from corpses unaknell'd depart. Battle of Hastings, p. 223.

Pope read unaknell'd for unaneal'd in Hamlet.

O, Chryste, it is a grief for me to telle. Battle of Hastings, p. 210.

O, Christe, my very hart doth bleed. Chevy Chase.

That he the sleeve unravels all theire fate. Battle of Hastings, p. 218.

Ravell'd sleeve of care. Macbeth.

The grey-goose pynion, that thereon was sett Estsoons wyth smokyng crymson bloud was wett. Battle of Hastings, p. 219.

The grey-goose wing that was thereon. In his heart's blood was wet. Chevy Chase.

His noble soule came roushyng from the wounde. Battle of Hastings, p. 227.

And the disdainful soul came rushing through the wound. Dryden's Virgil, book XII.

While life and dethe strove for the masterrie. Battle of Hastings, p. 230.

That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die. Macbeth.

Like cloudes of carnage. Battle of Hastings p. 251.

Clouds of Carnage blot the sun. Gray's Ode.

He closd his eyne in everlastynge nyghte. Battle of Hastings, p. 251.

Clos'd his eyes in endless night. Gray's Ode.

Ah, what avayld the lyons on his creste! Battle of Hastings, p. 251.

Ah, what avail his glossy varying dyes, His purple crest, &c. Pope's Windsor Forest.

As ouphant faieries, whan the moone sheenes bryghte, In littel circles daunce upon the greene, All living creatures slie far from their syghte, Ne by the race of destinie be seen; For what he be that ouphant faieries stryke, Their soules will wander, &c. Battle of Hastings, p. 232.

You moonshine revellers and shades of night, You ouphen heirs of fixed destiny, &c. —He who speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch, no man their works must eye. Merry Wives of Windsor, Warb. edit.

These parallel passages, Mr. Baldwin, occurred to me on casually looking over the poems imputed to Rowley; but some of your ingenius corre|spondents, who peruse them with greater attention, may furnish you with conformities continued through many particulars of superior consequence and notoriety.

I am, Sir, &c.