O'er hills and o'er valleys uncouth and uneven,
Until 'twixt the hours of twelve and eleven,
More hungry and thirsty than tongue can well tell,
We happily came to St. Winifred's well:

I thought it the pool of Bethesda had been,
By the cripples lay there; but I went to my inn
To speak for some meat, for so stomach did motion,
Before I did farther proceed in devotion:
I went into th' kitchen, where victuals I saw,
Both beef, veal, and mutton, but all on't was raw;
And some on't alive, but soon went to slaughter,
For four chickens were slain by my dame and
her daughter;

Of which to saint Win. ere my vows I had paid,
They said I should find a rare fricasée made:

I thank'd them, and straight to the well did repair, Where some I found cursing, and others at pray'r; Some dressing, some stripping, some out and some in,

Some naked, where botches and boils might be seen;

Of which some were fevers of Venus I'm sure,
And therefore unfit for the virgin to cure:
But the fountain, in truth, is well worth the sight,
The beautiful virgin's own tears not more bright;
Nay, none but she ever shed such a tear,

Her conscience, her name, nor herself, were more clear.

In the bottom there lie certain stones that look white,

But streaked with pure red, as the morning with light,

Which they say is her blood, and so it may be,
But for that, let who shed it look to it for me.
Over the fountain a chapel there stands,
Which I wonder has 'scaped master Oliver's
hands;

The floor's not ill paved, and the margin o' th'
Is inclosed with a certain octagonal ring; [spring
From each angle of which a pillar does rise,
Of strength and of thickness enough to suffice
To support and uphold from falling to ground
A cupola wherewith the virgin is crown'd.

Now 'twixt the two angles that fork to the north, And where the cold nymph does her basin pour forth,

Under ground is a place where they bathe, as 'tis said,

And 'tis true, for I heard folks' teeth hack in their head;

For you are to know, that the rogues and the ** Are not let to pollute the spring-head with their

sores.

But one thing I chiefly admired in the place,
That a saint and a virgin endued with such grace,
Should yet be so wonderful kind a well-willer
To that whoring and filching trade of a miller,
As within a few paces to furnish the wheels
Of I cannot tell how many water-mills:

I've studied that point much, you cannot guess why,

But the virgin was, doubtless more righteous than I.

And now for my welcome, four, five, or six lasses, With as many crystalline liberal glasses,

Did all importune me to drink of the water
Of Saint Winifreda, good Thewith's fair daughter.
A while I was doubtful, and stood in a muse,
Not knowing, amidst all that choice, where to
choose.

Till a pair of black eyes, darting full in my sight, From the rest o' th' fair maidens did carry me quite:

I took the glass from her, and whip, off it went,
I half doubt I fancied a health to the saint:
But he was a great villain committed the slaughter,
For St. Winifred made most delicate water.
I slipp'd a hard shilling into her soft hand,
Which had like to have made me the place have
profaned;

And giving two more to the poor that were there,
Did, sharp as a hawk, to my quarters repair.
My dinner was ready, and to it I fell,

I never ate better meat, that I can tell;
When having half dined, there comes in my host,
A catholic good, and a rare drunken toast:
This man, by his drinking, inflamed the scot,
And told me strange stories, which I have forgot;
But this I remember, 'twas much on 's own life,
And one thing, that he had converted his wife.

But now my guide told me, it time was to go, For that to our beds we must both ride and row; Wherefore calling to pay, and having accounted, I soon was down stairs, and as suddenly mounted: On then we travell'd, our guide still before, Sometimes on three legs, and sometimes on four, Coasting the sea, and over hills crawling, Sometimes on all four, for fear we should fall in; For underneath Neptune lay skulking to watch

us,

And, had we but slipp'd once, was ready to catch

us.

Thus in places of danger taking more heed,
And in safer travelling mending our speed:
Redland Castle and Abergoney we past,
And o'er against Connoway came at the last :
Just over against a castle there stood,

O' th' right hand the town, and o' th' left hand a wood;

"Twixt the wood and the castle they see at high

water

The storm, the place makes it a dangerous matter; And besides, upon such a steep rock it is founded, As would break a man's neck, should he 'scape being drowned:

Perhaps though in time one may make them to yield,

But 'tis pretti'st Cob-castle e'er I beheld.

The Sun now was going t' unharness his steeds, When the ferry-boat brasking her sides 'gainst the weeds,

Came in as good time as good time could be,
To give us a cast o'er an arm of the sea;
And bestowing our horses before and abaft,
O'er god Neptune's wide cod-piece gave us a
waft;

Where scurvily landing at foot of the fort,
Within very few paces we enter'd the port,
Where another King's Head invited me down,
For indeed I have ever been true to the crown.

DR. HENRY MORE was the son of a respectable gentleman at Grantham, in Lincolnshire. He spent the better part of a long and intensely studious life at Cambridge, refusing even the mastership of his college, and several offers of preferment in the church, for the sake of unbroken leisure and retirement. In 1640 he composed his Psychozoia, or Life of the Soul, which he afterward republished with other pieces, in a volume entitled Philosophical Poems. Before the appearance of the former work he had studied the Platonic writers and mystic divines, till his frame had become emaciated, and his faculties had been strained to such enthusiasm, that he began to talk of holding supernatural communications, and imagined that his body exhaled the perfume of violets. With the exception of these innocent reveries, his life and literary character were highly respectable. He corresponded with Des Cartes, was the friend of Cudworth, and as a divine and moralist was not only popular in his own time, but has been mentioned with admira

tion both by Addison and Blair. In the heat of rebellion he was spared even by the fanatics, who, though he refused to take the covenant, left him to dream with Plato in his academic bower. As a poet he has woven together a singular texture of Gothic fancy and Greek philosophy, and made the Christiano-Platonic system of metaphysics a ground-work for the fables of the nursery. His versification, though he tells us that he was won to the Muses in his childhood by the melody of Spenser, is but a faint echo of the Spenserian In fancy he is dark and lethargic. Yet his Psychozoia is not a common-place production: a certain solemnity and earnestness in his tone leaves an impression that he "believed the magic wonders which he sung."* His poetry is not, indeed, like a beautiful landscape on which the eye can repose, but may be compared to some curious grotto, whose gloomy labyrinths we might be curious to explore for the strange and mystic associations they excite.

tune.

Up then, renowned wizard, hermit sage,
That twice ten years didst in the desert won,
With sprites conversing in thy hermitage,
Since thou of mortals didst the commerce shun;
Well seen in these foul deeds that have foredone
Many a bold wit. Up, Marcus, tell again
That story to thy Thrax, who has thee won
To Christian faith; the guise and haunts explain
Of all air-trampling ghosts that in the world
[remain.

There be six sorts of sprites: Lelurion
Is the first kind, the next are named from air;
The first aloft, yet far beneath the moon,
The other in this lower region fare;
The third terrestrial, the fourth watery are;
The fifth be subterranean; the last

And worst, light-hating ghosts, more cruel far
Than bear or wolf with hunger hard oppress'd,
But doltish yet, and dull, like an unwieldy beast.

And truth he said, whatever he has told, As even this present age may verify,

If any lists its stories to unfold,
Of Hugo, of hobgoblins, of incubi,
Abhorred dugs by devils sucken dry;
Of leaping lamps, and of fierce flying stones,
Of living wool and such like witchery;
Or proved by sight or self-confessions, [tions.
Which things much credence gain to past tradi-
Wherefore with boldness we will now relate
Some few in brief; as of th' Astorgan lad
Whose peevish mother, in fell ire and hate,
With execration bold, the devil bad
Take him alive. Which mood the boy n' ote bear,
But quits the room-walks out with spirit sad,
Into the court, where lo! by night appear
Two giants with grim looks, rough limbs, black
grisly hair.

In arctic climes an isle that Thulé hight,
Famous for snowy monts, whose hoary heads
Sure sign of cold; yet from their fiery feet
They strike out burning stones with thunders dread,
And all the land with smoke and ashes spread;
Here wand'ring ghosts themselves have often
shown,

As if it were the region of the dead,

And met departed, met with whom they've known, In seemly sort shake hands, and ancient friendship own.

A world of wonders hither might be thrown
Of sprites and spectres, as that frequent noise
Oft heard upon the plain of Marathon,
Of neighing horses and of martial boys;
The Greek the Persian nightly here destroys
In hot assault embroil'd in a long war;
Four hundred years did last those dreadful toys,
As doth by Attic records plain appear,
The seeds of hate by death so little slaked are.

lute habits, the appointment of plenipotentiary at Ratisbon. At that place he had occasion to give a convivial party to some friends, of whom George was politely taking his leave at the door of his house, but having drunk freely, he had the misfortune to conclude the entertainment by falling down stairs and breaking his neck.

SONG.

FROM "LOVE IN A TUB."

LADIES, though to your conquering eyes
Love owes his chiefest victories,
And borrows those bright arms from you
With which he does the world subdue;
Yet you yourselves are not above
The empire nor the griefs of love.
Then rack not lovers with disdain,
Lest love on you revenge their pain:
You are not free because you're fair,
The boy did not his mother spare:
Though beauty be a killing dart,
It is no armour for the heart.

SONG.

FROM SOUTHERNE'S "DISAPPOINTMENT, OR THE MOTHER IN

FASHION."

SEE, how fair Corinna lies,
Kindly calling with her eyes:
In the tender minute prove her;
Shepherd! why so dull a lover
Prithee, why so dull a lover?

In her blushes see your shame,-
Anger they with love proclaim;
You too coldly entertain her:
Lay your pipe a little by;
If no other charms you try,
You will never, never gain her.

While the happy minute is,
Court her, you may get a kiss,
May be, favours that are greater:
Leave your piping to her fly;
When the nymph for love is nigh,
Is it with a tune you treat her?

Dull Amintor! fie, O! fie:
Now your Shepherdess is nigh
Can you pass your time no better?