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Yet many times he'll much out-strip his bounds,
And hunts not closely with the other hounds :
He'll venture on a lion in his ire;
Curs’d Choler was his dam, and Wrong his sire.
This Choler is a brach, that's very old,
And spends her mouth too much to have it hold :
She's very testy; an unpleasing cur,
That bites the very stones, if they but stir;
Or when that ought but her displeasure moves,
She'll bite and snap at any one she loves.
But my quick scented'st dog is Jealousy,
The truest of this breed's in Italy.
The dam of mine would hardly fill a glove,
It was a lady's little dog, call’d Love;
The sire a poor deformed cur, nam'd Fear,
As shagged and as rough as is a bear :
And yet the whelp turn'd after neither kind,
For he is very large, and near-hand blind.
Far-off he seemeth of a pretty colour,
But doth not prove so, when you view him fuller.
A vile suspicious beast, whose looks are bad,
And I do fear in time he will


mad. To him I couple Avarice, still poor; Yet she devours as much as twenty more; A thousand horse she in her paunch can put, Yet whine, as if she had an empty gut; And having gorg'd what might a land have found, She'll catch for more, and hide it in the ground. Ambition is a hound as greedy full, But he for all the daintiest bits doth cull; He scorns to lick up crumbs beneath the table, He'll fetch from boards and shelves, if he be able; Nay, he can climb, if need be; and for that With him I hunt the martin and the cat ; And yet sometimes in mounting he's so quick, He fetches falls are like to break his neck. Fear is well-mouth’d, but subject to distrust; A stranger cannot make bim take a crust: A little thing will soon his courage quail, And ’twixt his legs he ever claps his tail. With him, Despair now often coupled goes, Which by his roaring mouth each huntsman knows. None hath a better mind unto the game; But he gives off, and always seemeth lame.


My blood-hound Cruelty, as swift as wind,
Hunts to the death, and never comes behind ;
Who, but she's strapt and muzzled too withall,
Would eat her fellows, and the and all.
And yet she cares not much for any food,
Unless it be the purest harmless food.
All these are kept abroad at charge of many,

They do not cost me in a year a penny.”

This prolix allegory, however quaint, is ingenious and sensible. The reader lends it a doubtful approbation ; but the following lines come and go to the heart.

“ See'st thou not, in clearest days,
Oft thick fogs cloud heaven's rays ;
And that vapours which do breathe
From the earth's gross womb beneath,
Seem not to us with black steams
To pollute the sun's bright beams,
And yet vanish into air,
Leaving it, unblemish'd, fair?
So, my Willy, shall it be
With Detraction's breath on thee :
It shall never rise so high,
As to stain thy poesy.
As that sun doth oft exhale
Vapours from each rotten vale ;
Poesy so sometime drains
Gross conceits from muddy brains ;
Mists of envy, fogs of spite,
”Twixt men's judgements and her light :
But so much her power may do,
That she can dissolve them too.
If thy verse do bravely tower,
As she makes wing she gets power;
Yet the higher she doth soar,
She's affronted still the more :
Till she to the high'st hath past,
Then she rests with fame at last:
Let nought therefore thee affright,
But make forward in thy flight;
For, if I could match thy rhyme,
To the very stars I'd climb;
There begin again, and fly
Till I reach'd eternity,

But, alas ! my muse is slow;
For thy place she flags too low :
Yea, the more's her hapless fate,
Her short wings were clipt of late :
And poor I, her fortune rueing,
Am myself put up a mewing:
But if I my cage can rid,
I'll fly where I never did :
And though for her sake I am crost,
Though my best hopes I have lost,
And knew she would make


Ten times more than ten times double:
I should love and keep her too,
Spite of all the world could do.
For, though banish'd from my flocks,
And confin'd within these rocks,
Here I waste away the light,
And consume the sullen night,
She doth for my comfort stay,
And keeps many cares away.
Though I miss the flowery fields,
With those sweets the springtide yields,
Though I may not see those groves,
Where the shepherds chant their loves,
And the lasses more excel
Than the sweet-voic'd Philomel.
Though of all those pleasures past,
Nothing now remains at last,
But Remembrance, poor relief,
That more makes than mends my grief:
She's my mind's companion still,
Maugre Envy's evil will.
(Whence she would be driven, too,
Were't in mortal's power to do.)
She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow :
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace;
And the blackest discontents
To be pleasing ornaments.
In my former days of bliss,
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw,
I could some invention draw :

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And raise pleasure to her height,
Through the meanest object's sight,
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustlëing.
By a daisy, whose leaves spread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed ;
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me,
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.
By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Some things that may sweeten gladness,
In the very gall of sadness.
The dull loneness, the black shade,
That these hanging vaults have made ;
The strange music of the waves,
Beating on these hollow caves;
This black den which rocks imboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss :
The rude portals that give light
More to Terror than Delight:
This my chamber of Neglect,
Walld about with Disrespect.
From all these and this dull air,
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this.
Poesy, thou sweet'st content
That e'er heaven to mortals lent:
Though they as a trifle leave thee,
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,
Though thou be to them a scorn,
That to nought but earth are born,

my life no longer be
Than I am in love with thee,
Though our wise ones call thee madness,
Let me never taste of gladness,
If I love not thy madd’st fits
More than all their greatest wits.
And though some, too seeming holy,
Do account thy raptures folly,

Thou dost teach me to contemn
What make knaves and fools of them.”

This beautiful allusion to his own pursuits and misfortunes, has been often referred to with admiration, and ought never to be omitted in any collection of poetical extracts. It is calculated to throw a mild, pensive lustre, both on humanity and on poetry.

ART. VII.-The Life of Edward Lord Herbert of Cherbury.

Written by himself. London. For J. Dodsley, in PallMall, 1770.

The transition-age of our history, as the reign of James I. has been happily termed, is remarkable for so many instances of profligacy, corruption, and baseness, amongst our nobility, that were the character of Lord Herbert of Cherbury much less distinguished than it is, by the high qualities which adorn it, the contemplation of its excellences would be a most seasonable relief to our minds, when sickened with the vices of such men as Somerset and Northampton. The standard of honourable, and indeed of virtuous feeling, seems never to have been reduced lower amongst us than at this period, when even the most exalted spirits were unable entirely to soar above the mephitic atmosphere in which they were enveloped. The wisdom of Bacon could not prevent him from grovelling in the dust of a court, and soiling the splendours of a character which might have shone stainless through all ages, by arts which have rendered him a warning to posterity, when he should have been its highest example. The varied accomplishments of Raleigh, a man whom Nature had fashioned to be the model of all gallantry, honour, and wisdom, serve but as lights to draw into more conspicuous notice his faults and his follies, for of vices he ought surely to be acquitted. Not all the learning and patriotism of Coke can ever cleanse his fame from the blot with which his fierce inhumanity towards the unfortunate Raleigh has stained it. Thus, amongst nearly all the eminent men of that day, we look in vain for that conjunction of the great and the good, which is the only basis of a truly noble character.

There cannot be a stronger proof of the disorganized state of moral feeling at this period, than the various fates of the individuals whom we have just named. Somerset, a convicted adulterer and murderer, retired upon a pension.--Northampton, his accomplice, endowed an 'alms

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