My prisoners, on your majesty's behalf.

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what;

He should, or he should not;-for he made me mad,
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,

Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (God save the mark!)

And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;
And that it was a great pity, so it was,
That villanous salt-petre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly; and but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.

COURTIERS.

SHAKESPEARE.

Who wrap destruction up in gentle words, And bows, and smiles more fatal than their swords: Who stifle nature and subsist on art:

Who coin the face, and petrify the heart:

All real kindness for the show discard,
As marble polish'd and as marble hard :

Who do for gold what Christians do thro' grace,
"With open arms their enemies embrace :"
Who give a nod when broken hearts repine
"The thinnest food on which a wretch can dine."
Or, if they serve you, serve you disinclin'd:
And, in their height of kindness, are unkind.

YOUNG.

CRANMER. (His Prophecy)

This royal infant, (heaven still move about her!) Though in her cradle, yet now promises

Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,
Which time shall bring to ripeness: She shall be
(But few now living can behold that goodness)
A pattern to all princes living with her,
And all that shall succeed: Sheba was never
More covetous of wisdom, and fair virtue,
Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces,
That mould up such a mighty piece as this is,
With all the virtues that attend the good,

Shall still be doubled on her: truth shall nurse her,
Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her:
She shall be lov'd, and fear'd; Her own shall bless
her:

Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn,

And hang their heads with sorrow: Good grows with her :

In her days, every man shall eat in safety

Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours : God shall be truly known; and those about her From her shall read the perfect ways of honour. And by those claim their greatness, not by blood. SHAKESPEARE.

CRAZY KATE.

There often wanders one, whom better days Saw better clad, in cloak of satin, trimm'd With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound. A serving-maid was she, and fell in love

With one who left her, went to sea, and died. Her fancy follow'd him, through foaming waves To distant shores; and she would sit and weep

At what a sailor suffers: fancy too,
Delusive most where warmest wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,

And dream of transports she was not to know.
She heard the doleful tidings of his death-
And never smil'd again! and now she roams
The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,
And there, unless when charity forbids,
The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown
More tatter'd still; and both but ill conceal
A bosom heav'd with never-ceasing sighs.
She begs an idle pin of all she meets,

And hoards them in her sleeve: but needful food, Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes, Though pinch'd with cold, asks never.-Kate is craz❜d.

CRITICS.

COWPER.

(Few judge right)

.

'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing, or in judging ill;
But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss.
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.

POPE.

CRITICS.

(Servile)

Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, But catch the spreading notions of the town; They reason and conclude by precedent, And own stale notions which they ne'er invent. Some judge of authors' names, not works; and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.

Of all this servile herd, the worst is he,
That in proud dulness joins with quality:
A constant critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord:
What useful stuff this madrigal would be,
In some starv'd hackney sonnetteer or me!
But let a lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the style refines !

POPE.

CROMWELL. (Age of, Characterized)

When Cromwell fought for pow'r, and while h reign'd

The proud protector of the pow'r he gained,
Religion harsh, intolerant, austere,

Parent of manners like herself severe,
Drew a rough copy of the Christian face,
Without the smile, the sweetness or the grace;
The dark and sullen humours of the time
Judg'd ev'ry effort of the muse a crime;
Verse, in the finest mould of fancy cast,
Was lumber in an age so void of taste.

CURATE.

COWPER.

(Distress of a Poor One)

Pity! a man so good, so mild, so meek,

At such an age, should have his bread to seek ;
And all those rude and fierce attacks to dread,
That are more harrowing than the want of bread.
Ah! who shall whisper to that misery peace!
And say that want and insolence shall cease?
"But why not publish ?"-those who know too
well,

Dealers in Greek, are fearful 'twill not sell ;
Then he himself-is timid, troubled, slow,
Nor likes his labours nor his griefs to show ;

The hope of fame may in his heart have place.
But he has dread and horror of disgrace;
Nor has he that confiding, easy way,

That might his learning and himself display;
But to his work he from the world retreats,
And frets and glories o'er the favourite sheets.

CURIOSITY. (Effects of)

CRABBE.

Witness the sprightly joy when aught unknown Strikes the quick sense, and wakes each active power To brisker measures: witness the neglect Of all familiar prospects, though beheld With transport once; the fond attentive gaze Of young astonishment; the sober zeal Of age, commenting on prodigious things.For this the daring youth Breaks from his weeping mother's anxious arms, In foreign climes to rove; the pensive sage, Heedless of sleep or midnight's harmful damp, Hangs o'er the sickly taper; and untir'd The virgin follows, with enchanted step, The mazes of some wild and wond'rous tale.Hence, finally, by night The village-matron round the blazing hearth Suspends the infant audience with her tales, Breathing astonishment! of witching rhymes, And evil spirits; of the death-bed call Of him who robb'd the widow, and devour'd The orphan's portion; of unquiet souls Risen from the grave to ease the heavy guilt Of deeds in life conceal'd; of shapes that walk At dead of night, and clank their chains, and wave The torch of hell around the murderer's bed. At every solemn pause, the crowd recoil, Gazing each other speechless, and congeal'd With shivering sighs; till, eager for the event,

C