ite Sir
Philip Sidney, and valued to be worth an hundred and twenty pounds per
annum. With this, and his annuity, and the advantage of his College,
and of his Oratorship, he enjoyed his genteel humour for clothes, and
Court-like company, and seldom looked towards Cambridge, unless the
King were there, but then he never failed; and, at other times, left
the manage of his Orator's place to his learned friend, Mr. Herbert
Thorndike, who is now Prebend of Westminster.[16]

[Sidenote: His health]

I may not omit to tell, that he had often designed to leave the
University, and decline all study, which he thought did impair his
health; for he had a body apt to a consumption, and to fevers, and
other infirmities, which he judged were increased by his studies;
for he would often say, "He had too thoughtful a wit; a wit like a
penknife in too narrow a sheath, too sharp for his body." But his
Mother would by no means allow him to leave the University, or to
travel; and though he inclined very much to both, yet he would by
no means satisfy his own desires at so dear a rate, as to prove an
undutiful son to so affectionate a Mother; but did always submit to
her wisdom. And what I have now said may partly appear in a copy of
verses in his printed poems; 'tis one of those that bear the title
of Affliction; and it appears to be a pious reflection on God's
providence, and some passages of his life, in which he says,

[Sidenote: "Affliction"]

Whereas my birth and spirit rather took
The way that takes the town:
Thou didst betray me to a lingering book,
And wrapt me in a gown:
I was entangled in a world of strife,
Before I had the power to change my life.

Yet, for I threaten'd oft the siege to raise,
Not simpering all mine age;
Thou often didst with academic praise
Melt and dissolve my rage:
I took the sweeten'd pill, till I came where
I could not go away, nor persevere.

Yet, lest perchance I should too happy be
In my unhappiness,
Turning my purge to food, thou throwest me
Into more sicknesses.
Thus dost thy power cross-bias me, not making
Thine own gifts good, yet me from my ways taking.

Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me
None of my books will show.
I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree,
For then sure I should grow
To fruit or shade, at least some bird would trust
Her household with me, and I would be just.

Yet, though thou troublest me, I mu