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'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful:"

She wish'd she had not heard it;-yet she wish'd That heav'n had made her such a man;-She thank'd


And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. On this hint I spake.
She lov'd me for the dangers I had past;
And I lov'd her that she did pity them.
-This, only, is the witchcraft I have used.



ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends! once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead.


peace, there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger:

Stiffen the sinews,-summon up the blood,-
Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage:
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head,
Like the brass cannon;-let the brow o'erwhelm it,
As fearfully, as doth a galled rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.

Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide; Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To his full height!-On, on, you noble English, Whose blood is set from fathers of war-proof! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,

Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought,
And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument.
Dishonour not your mothers. Now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you!
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war!-And you, good yeomer,
Whose limbs were made in England, shew us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding: which I doubt not:
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start.

The game's afoot.

Follow your spirit: and, upon this charge,
Cry-God for Harry! England! and St. George!



O THOU, that with surpassing glory crown'd, Look'st from thy sole dominion like the God Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars Hide their diminish'd heads; to thee I call, But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams, That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere; Till pride and worse ambition threw me down, Warring in Heav'n against Heav'n's matchless King: Ah, wherefore! he deserv'd no such return From me, whom he created what I was In that bright eminence, and with his good Upbraided none: nor was his service hard. What could be less than to afford him praise, The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks, How due! yet all his good prov'd ill in me, And wrought but malice; lifted up so high I disdained subjection, and thought one step higher Would set me highest, and in a moment quit The debt immense of endless gratitude, So burdensome, still paying, still to owe, Forgetful what from him I still receiv'd, And understood not that a grateful mind By owing, owes not but still pays, at once Indebted and discharg'd; what burden then? O had his powerful destiny ordain'd Me some inferiour angel, I had stood Then happy; no unbounded hope had rais'd

Ambition. Yet why not? some other power
As great might have aspir'd, and me, though mean,
Drawn to his part; but other powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshaken from within
Or from without, to all temptations arm'd.
Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?
Thou hadst whom hast thou then or what t' accuse,
But Heav'n's free love dealt equally to all?
Be then his love accurs'd, since love or hate,
To me alike, it deals eternal wo.

Nay curs'd be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep a lower deep
Still threat'ning to devour me opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
O then at last relent: is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduc'd
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
Th' Omnipotent. Ah me, they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of Hell.
With diadem and sceptre high advanc'd,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery; such joy ambition finds.
But say I could repent, and could obtain

By act of grace my former state; how soon

Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay

What feign'd submission swore? ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void :
For never can true reconcilement grow

Where wounds of deadly hate have pierc'd so deep;
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall: so should I purchase dear

Short intermission bought with double smart.

This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging peace:
All hope excluded thus, behold in stead
Of us out-cast exil'd, his new delight,
Mankind created, and for him this world.
So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear;
Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost;
Evil be thou my good; by thee at least
Divided empire with Heav'n's King I hold,
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As Man ere long and this new world shall know.



Some wit of old-such wits of old there were-
Whose hints shew'd meaning, whose allusions care,
-By one brave stroke to mark all human kind,
Call'd clear blank paper every infant mind;
Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote,
Fair Virtue put a seal, or Vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent and true !-
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.
I-(can you pardon my presumption?)-I,
No wit, no genius, yet, for once, will try.
Various the papers, various wants produce:
The wants of fashion, elegance and use.
Men are as various; and, if right I scan,
Each sort of paper represents some man.
Pray note the fop ;-half powder, and half lace!
Nice as a bandbox were his dwelling-place.
He's the gilt-paper which apart you store,
And lock from vulgar hands in the scrutoire.
Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,
Are copy-paper of inferior worth;

Less priz'd; more useful; for your desk decreed;
Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.

The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare, Starve, cheat and pilfer, to enrich an heir, Is coarse brown paper; such as pedlars choose To wrap up wares which better men will use.

Take next the miser's contrast; who destroys
Health, fame and fortune in a round of joys.
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout:
He's a true sinking paper, past all doubt.
The retail politician's anxious thought

Deems this side always right, and that stark naught;
He foams with censure; with applause he raves;
A dupe to rumours, and a tool to knaves:
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,
While such a thing as fools-cap has a name.

The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high;
Who picks a quarrel if you step awry ;
Who can't a jest, a hint, or look endure !—
What is he? What !-Touch-paper to be sure.
What are our poets? (take them as they fall-
Good, bad, rich, poor; much read; not read at all,)
Them and their works in the same class you'll find:
They are the mere waste-paper of mankind.
Observe the maiden, innocently sweet!
She's fair white-paper! an unsullied sheet;
On which the happy man whom fate ordains
May write his name, and take her for his pains.
One instance more, and only one, I'll bring!
'Tis the great man who scorns a little thing;
Whose thought, whose deeds, whose maxims are his


Form'd on the feelings of his heart alone.
True, genuine, royal-paper, is his breast:
Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.



YOUNG Slouch, the farmer, had a jolly wife,
That knew all the conveniences of life;
Whose diligence and cleanliness supply'd
The wit which nature had to him deny'd:

But then-she had a tongue that would be heard,
And make a better man than Slouch afeard.
This made censorious persons of the town

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