The excellent lord Buckhurst, the late earl of Dorset and Middlesex, was a friend to our poet, who, as he was a man of wit and parts himself, knew how to set a just value on those who excelled. He had also promises of places and employment from lord chancellor Clarendon, but, as if poor Butler had been doomed to misfortunes, these proved[2] meer court promises. Mr. Butler in short, affords a remarkable instance of that coldness and neglect, which great genius's often experience from the court and age in which they live; we are told indeed by a gentleman, whose father was intimate with Butler, Charles Longueville, Esq; that Charles II. once gave him a gratuity of three hundred pounds, which had this compliment attending it, that it passed all the offices without any fee, lord Danby being at that time high treasurer, which seems to be the only court favour he ever received; a strange instance of neglect! when we consider King Charles was so excessive fond of this poem of Hudibras; that he carried it always in his pocket, he quoted it almost on every occasion, and never mentioned it, but with raptures.

This is movingly represented in a poem of our author's, published in his remains called Hudibras at Court. He takes occasion to justify his poem, by hinting its excellences in general, and paying a few modest compliments to himself, of which we shall transcribe the following lines.

Now you must know, sir Hudibras, With such perfections gifted was, And so peculiar in his manner, That all that saw him did him honour; Amongst the rest, this prince was one, Admired his conversation: This prince, whose ready wit, and parts Conquer'd both men and women's hearts; Was so o'ercome with knight and Ralph, That he could never claw it off. He never eat, nor drank, nor slept, But Hudibras still near him kept; Nor would he go to church or so, But Hudibras must with him go; Nor yet to visit concubine, Or at a city feast to dine, But Hudibras must still be there, Or all the fat was in the fire. Now after all was it not hard, That he should meet with no reward, That fitted out the knight and squire, This monarch did so much admire? That he should never reimburse The man for th' equipage and horse, Is sure a strange ungrateful thing In any body, but a King. But, this good King, it seems was told By some, that were with him too bold, If e'er you hope to gain your ends, Caress your foes, and trust your friends. Such were the doctrines that were taught, 'Till this unthinking King was brought To leave his friends to starve and die; A poor reward for loyalty.

After having lived to a good old age, admired by all, though personally known but to few, he died September 25, 1680, and was buried at the expence of his good friend Mr. Longueville of the Temple, in the church-yard of St. Paul's Covent-Garden. Mr. Longueville had a strong inclination to have him buried in Westminster Abbey, and spoke with that view to several persons who had been his admirers, offering to pay his part, but none of them would contribute; upon which he was interred privately, Mr. Longueville, and seven or eight more, following him to the grave. Mr. Alderman Barber erected a monument to Butler in Westminster-Abbey.

The poem entitled Hudibras, by which he acquired so high a reputation, was published at three different times; the first part came out in 1668 in 8vo. afterwards came out the second part, and both were printed together, with several additions, and annotations; at last, the third and last part was published, but without any annotations, as appears by the printed copy 1678. The great success and peculiarity of manner of this poem has produced many unsuccessful imitations of it, and some vain attempts have been made to translate some parts of it into Latin. Monsieur Voltaire gives it a very good character, and justly observes, that though there are as many thoughts as words in it, yet it cannot be successfully translated, on account of every line's having some allusion to English affairs, which no foreigner can be supposed to understand, or enter into. The Oxford antiquary ascribes to our author two pamphlets, supposed falsely, he says, to be William Prynne's; the one entitled Mola Asinaria, or the Unreasonable and Insupportable Burthen pressed upon the Shoulders of this Groaning Nation, London 1659, in one sheet 4to. the other, Two Letters: One from John Audland, a Quaker, to William Prynne; the other, Prynne's Answer, in three sheets fol. 1672. The life writer mentions a small poem in one sheet in 4to. on Du Val, a notorious highwayman, said to be written by Butler. These pieces, with a great many others, are published together, under the title of his Posthumous Works. The life writer abovementioned has preserved a fragment of Mr. Butler's, given by one whom he calls the ingenious Mr. Aubrey, who assured him he had it from the poet himself; it is indeed admirable, and the satire sufficiently pungent against the priests.

No jesuit e'er took in hand To plant a church in barren land; Nor ever thought it worth the while A Swede or Russ to reconcile. For where there is no store of wealth, Souls are not worth the charge of health. Spain in America had two designs: To sell their gospel for their mines: For had the Mexicans been poor, No Spaniard twice had landed on their shore. 'Twas gold the Catholic religion planted, Which, had they wanted gold, they still had wanted.

Mr. Dryden[3] and Mr. Addison[4] have joined in giving testimony against our author, as to the choice of his verse, which they condemn as boyish and being apt to degenerate into the doggrel; but while they censure his verse, they applaud his matter, and Dryden observes, that had he chose any other verse, he would even then have excelled; as we say of a court favourite, that whatever his office be, he still makes it uppermost, and most beneficial to him.

We cannot close the life of this great man, without a reflection on the degeneracy of those times, which suffered him to languish in obscurity; and though he had done more against the Puritan interest, by exposing it to ridicule, than thousands who were rioting at court with no pretensions to favour, yet he was never taken notice of, nor had any calamity redressed, which leaves a stain on those who then ruled, that never can be obliterated. A minister of state seldom fails to reward a court tool, and a man of pleasure pays his instruments for their infamy, and what character must that ministration bear, who allow wit, loyalty and virtue to pass neglected, and, as Cowley pathetically expresses it,

'In that year when manna rained on all, why should the muses fleece be only dry.'

The following epigram is not unworthy [of] a place here.

Whilst Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, No gen'rous patron would a dinner give; But lo behold! when dead, the mould'ring dust, Rewarded with a monumental bust! A poet's fate, in emblem here is shewn, He ask'd for bread, and he received—a stone.

Footnotes: 1. Life of Butler, p 6. 2. Posthumous Works of Wycherly, published by Mr. Theobald. 3. Juv. Ded. 4. Spect. No. 6. Vol. i.

* * * * *



EDMUND WALLER Esq;

Was descended of a family of his name in Buckinghamshire, a younger branch of the Wallers of Kent. He was born March 3, 1605 at Coleshill, which gives Warwickshire the honour of his birth. His father dying when he was very young, the care of his education fell to his mother, who sent him to Eton School, according to the author of his life, but Mr. Wood says, 'that he was mostly educated in grammaticals under one Dobson, minister of Great Wycombe in Bucks, who had been educated in Eton school,' without mentioning that Mr. Waller had been at all at Eton school: after he had acquired grammar learning, he was removed to King's college in Cambridge, and it is manifest that he must have been extremely assiduous in his studies, since he acquired so fine a taste of the ancients, in so short a time, for at sixteen or seventeen years of age, he was chosen into the last Parliament of King James I. and served as Burgess for Agmondesham.

In the year 1623, when Prince Charles nearly escaped being cast away in the road of St. Andre, coming from Spain, Mr. Waller wrote a Poem on that occasion, at an age when, generally speaking, persons of the acutest parts just begin to shew themselves, and at a time when the English poetry had scarce any grace in it. In the year 1628 he addressed a Poem to his Majesty, on his hearing the news of the duke of Buckingham's death, which, with the former, procured him general admiration: harmony of numbers being at that time so great a novelty, and Mr. Waller having, at once, so polished and refined versification, it is no wonder that he enjoyed the felicity of an universal applause. These poems recommended him to court-favour, and rendered him dear to persons of the best taste and distinction that then flourished. A Writer of his life observes, as a proof of his being much caressed by people of the first reputation, that he was one of the famous club, of which the great lord Falkland, Sir Francis Wainman, Mr. Chillingworth, Mr. Godolphin, and other eminent men were members. These were the immortals of that age, and to be associated with them, is one of the highest encomiums which can possibly be bestowed, and exceeds the most laboured strain of a panegyrist.

A circumstance related of this club, is pretty remarkable: One evening, when they were convened, a great noise was heard in the street, which not a little alarmed them, and upon enquiring the cause, they were told, that a son of Ben Johnson's was arrested. This club was too generous to suffer the child of one, who was the genuine son of Apollo, to be carried to a Jail, perhaps for a trifle: they sent for him, but in place of being Ben Johnson's son, he proved to be Mr. George Morley, afterwards bishop of Winchester. Mr. Waller liked him so well, that he paid the debt, which was no less than one hundred pounds, on condition that he would live with him at Beconsfield, which he did eight or ten years together, and from him Mr. Waller used to say, that he learned a taste of the ancient poets, and got what he had of their manner. But it is evident from his poems, written before this incident of Mr. Morley's arrest, that he had early acquired that exquisite Spirit; however, he might have improved it afterwards, by the conversation and assistance of Mr. Morley, to whom this adventure proved very advantageous.

It is uncertain, at what time our author was married, but, it is supposed, that his first wife Anne, daughter and heir of Edward Banks, esq; was dead before he fell in love with lady Dorothy Sidney, daughter to the earl of Leicester, whom he celebrates under the name of Sacharissa. Mr. Waller's passion for this lady, has been the subject of much conversation; his verses, addressed to her, have been renowned for their delicacy, and Sacharissa has been proposed, as a model to succeeding poets, in the celebration of their mistresses. One cannot help wishing, that the poet had been as successful in his Addresses to her, as he has been in his love-strains, which are certainly the sweetest in the world. The difference of station, and the pride of blood, perhaps, was the occasion, that Sacharissa never became the wife of Waller; though in reality, as Mr. Waller was a gentleman, a member of parliament, and a person of high reputation, we cannot, at present, see so great a disproportion: and, as Mr. Waller had fortune, as well as wit and poetry, lord Leicester's daughter could not have been disgraced by such an alliance. At least we are sure of one thing, that she lives for ever in Waller's strains, a circumstance, which even her beauty could not have otherwise procured, nor the lustre of the earl of Sunderland, whom she afterwards married: the countess of Sunderland, like the radiant circles of that age, long before this time would have slept in oblivion, but the Sacharissa of Waller is consigned to immortality, and can never die but with poetry, taste, and politeness.

Upon the marriage of that lady to lord Spenser, afterwards earl of Sunderland, which was solemnized July 11, 1639, Mr. Waller wrote the following letter to lady Lucy Sidney, her sister, which is so full of gallantry, and so elegantly turned, that it will doubtedly give pleasure to our readers to peruse it.

MADAM,

'In this common joy at Penshurst[1], I know, none to whom complaints may come less unseasonable than to your ladyship, the loss of a bedfellow, being almost equal to that of a mistress, and therefore you ought, at least, to pardon, if you consent not to the imprecations of the deserted, which just Heaven no doubt will hear. May my lady Dorothy, if we may yet call her so, suffer as much, and have the like passion for this young lord, whom she has preferred to the rest of mankind, as others have had for her; and may his love, before the year go about, make her taste of the first curse imposed upon womankind, the pains of becoming a mother. May her first born be none of her own sex, nor so like her, but that he may resemble her lord, as much as herself. May she, that always affected silence and retirement, have the house filled with the noise and number of her children, and hereafter of her grand-children; and then may she arrive at that great curse, so much declined by fair ladies, old age; may she live to be very old, and yet seem young; be told so by her glass, and have no aches to inform her of the truth; and when she shall appear to be mortal, may her lord not mourn for her, but go hand in hand with her to that place, where we are told there is neither marrying, nor giving in marriage, that being there divorced, we may all have an equal interest in her again! my revenge being immortal, I wish all this may befall her posterity to the world's end, and afterwards! To you, madam, I wish all good things, and that this loss may, in good time, be happily supplied, with a more constant bedfellow of the other sex. Madam, I humbly kiss your hands, and beg pardon for this trouble, from

'Your ladyship's 'most humble servant, 'E. WALLER.'

He lived to converse with lady Sunderland when she was very old, but his imprecations relating to her glass did not succeed, for my lady knew she had the disease which nothing but death could cure; and in a conversation with Mr. Waller, and some other company at lady Wharton's, she asked him in raillery, 'When, Mr. Waller, will you write such fine verses upon me again?' 'Oh Madam,' said he, 'when your ladyship is as young again.'

In the year 1640, Mr. Waller was returned Burgess for Agmondesham, in which Parliament he opposed the court measures. The writer of his life observes[2], 'that an intermission of Parliaments for 12 years disgusted the nation, and the House met in no good humour to give money. It must be confessed, some late proceedings had raised such jealousies as would be sure to discover themselves, whenever the King should come to ask for a supply; and Mr. Waller was one of the first to condemn those measures. A speech he made in the House upon this occasion, printed at the end of his poems, gives us some notion of his principles as to government.' Indeed we cannot but confess he was a little too inconstant in them, and was not naturally so steady, as he was judicious; which variable temper was the cause of his losing his reputation, in a great measure, with both parties, when the nation became unhappily divided. His love to poetry, and his indolence, laid him open to the insinuations of others, and perhaps prevented his fixing so resolutely to any one party, as to make him a favourite with either. As Mr. Waller did not come up to the heighths of those who were for unlimited monarchy, so he did not go the lengths of such as would have sunk the kingdom into a commonwealth, but had so much credit at court, that in this parliament the King particularly sent to him, to second his demands of some subsidies to pay the army; and Sir Henry Vane objecting against first voting a supply, because the King would not accept it, unless it came up to his proportion; Mr. Waller spoke earnestly to Sir Thomas Jermyn, comptroller of the houshold, to save his master from the effects of so bold a falsity; for, says he, I am but a country gentleman, and cannot pretend to know the King's mind: but Sir Thomas durst not contradict the secretary; and his son the earl of St. Alban's, afterwards told Mr. Waller, that his father's cowardice ruined the King.

In the latter end of the year 1642, he was one of the commissioners appointed by the Parliament, to present their propositions for peace to his Majesty at Oxford. Mr. Whitelocke, in his Memorials, tells us, that when Mr. Waller kissed the King's hand in the garden at Christ's Church, his Majesty said to him, 'though you are last, yet you are not the worst, nor the least in our favour.' The discovery of a plot, continues Mr. Whitelocke, 'then in hand in London to betray the Parliament, wherein Mr. Waller was engaged, with Chaloner, Tomkins, and others, which was then in agitation, did manifest the King's courtship of Mr. Waller to be for that service.'

In the beginning of the year 1643, our poet was deeply engaged in the design for the reducing the city of London, and the Tower, for the service of his Majesty, which being discovered, he was imprisoned, and fined ten thousand pounds. As this is one of the most memorable circumstances in the life of Waller, we shall not pass it slightly over, but give a short detail of the rise, progress, and discovery of this plot, which issued not much in favour of Mr. Waller's reputation.

Lord Clarendon observes[3], 'that Mr. Waller was a gentleman of very good fortune and estate, and of admirable parts, and faculties of wit and eloquence, and of an intimate conversation and familiarity with those who had that reputation. He had, from the beginning of the Parliament, been looked upon by all men, as a person of very entire affections to the King's service, and to the established government of church and state; and by having no manner of relation to the court, had the more credit and interest to promote the service of it. When the ruptures grew so great between the King, and the two houses, that many of the Members withdrew from those councils, he, among the rest, absented himself, but at the time the standard was set up, having intimacy and friendship with some persons now of nearness about the King, with his Majesty's leave he returned again to London, where he spoke, upon all occasions, with great sharpness and freedom, which was not restrained, and therefore used as an argument against those who were gone upon pretence, that they were not suffered to declare their opinion freely in the House; which could not be believed, when all men knew what liberty Mr. Waller took, and spoke every day with impunity, against the proceedings of the House; this won him a great reputation with all people who wished well to the King; and he was looked upon as the boldest champion the crown had in either House, so that such Lords and Commons who were willing to prevent the ruin of the kingdom, complied in a great familiarity with him, at a man resolute in their ends, and best able to promote them; and it may be, they believed his reputation at court so good, that he would be no ill evidence there of other men's zeal and affection; so all men spoke their minds freely to him, both of the general distemper, and of the passions and ambition of particular persons, all men knowing him to be of too good a fortune, and too wary a nature, to engage himself in designs of hazard.'

Mr. Tomkins already mentioned, had married Waller's sister, and was clerk of the Queen' council, and of very good fame for honesty and ability; great interest and reputation in the city, and conversed much with those who disliked the proceedings of the Parliament, from whom he learned the dispositions of the citizens on all accidents, which he freely communicated to his brother Waller, as the latter imparted to him whatever observations he made from those with whom he conversed. Mr. Waller told him, that many lords and commons were for a peace. Mr. Tomkins made the same relation with respect to the most substantial men of London, which Mr. Waller reported to the well affected members of both houses; and Mr. Tomkins to the well affected citizens; whence they came to a conclusion, that if they heartily united in the mutual assistance of one another, they should be able to prevent those tumults which seemed to countenance the distractions, and both parties would be excited to moderation. The lord Conway at that time coming from Ireland incensed against the Scotch, discontented with the Parliament here, and finding Waller in good esteem with the earl of Nor[t]humberland, and in great friendship with the earl of Portland, entered into the same familiarity; and being a soldier, in the discourses they had, he insinuated, it was convenient to enquire into the numbers of the well affected in the city, that they might know whom they had to trust to. Mr. Waller telling Mr. Tomkins this, the latter imparted it to his confidents there; and it was agreed, that some trusty persons in every ward and parish about London should make a list of all the inhabitants, and by guessing at their several affections, compute the strength of that party which opposed an accommodation, and that which was for it.

Lord Clarendon declares, that he believes this design, was to beget such a combination among the well affected parties, that they would refuse to conform to those ordinances of the twentieth part, and other taxes for the support of the war; and thereby or by joint petitioning for peace, and discountenancing the other who petitioned against it, to prevail with the Parliament to incline to a determination of the war, 'but that there ever was, says the earl, 'any formed design either of letting the King's army into London, which was impossible to be effected, or raising an army there, and surprizing the Parliament, or any person of it, or of using any violence in, or upon the city, I could never yet see cause to believe.' But it unluckily happened, that while this combination was on foot, Sir Nicholas Crisp procured a commission of array to be sent from Oxford to London, which was carried by the lady Aubigny, and delivered to a gentleman employed by Sir Nicholas to take it of her; and this being discovered at the same time Mr. Waller's plot was, the two conspiracies were blended into one; tho' the earl of Clarendon is satisfied that they were two distinct designs. His lordship relates the discovery of Mr. Waller's plot in this manner: 'A servant of Mr. Tomkins, who had often cursorily overheard his master and Mr. Waller discourse of the subject which we are upon, placed himself behind the hangings, at a time when they were together; and there whilst either of them discovered the language and opinion of the company which they kept, overheard enough to make him believe, that his information and discovery could make him welcome to those whom he thought concerned, and so went to Mr. Pym, and acquainted him with all he had heard, or probably imagined. The time when Mr. Pym was made acquainted with it, is not known; but the circumstance of publishing it was such as filled all men with apprehensions.'

'It was on Wednesday the 31st of May, their solemn fast day, when being all at their sermon in St. Margaret's church, Westminster, according to their custom, a letter or message was brought privately to Mr. Pym; who thereupon with some of the most active members rose from their seats, and after a little whispering together, removed out of the church. This could not but exceedingly affect those who stayed behind. Immediately they sent guards to all the prisons, at Lambeth-house, Ely-house, and such places where malignants were in custody, with directions to search the prisoners, and some other places which they thought fit should be suspected. After the sermon was ended, the houses met, and were only then told, that letters were intercepted going to the King and the court at Oxford, which expressed some notable conspiracy in hand, to deliver up the Parliament and the city into the hands of the Cavaliers; and that the time for the execution of it drew near. Hereupon a committee was appointed to examine all persons they thought fit, and to apprehend some nominated at that time; and the same night this committee apprehended Mr. Waller and Mr. Tomkins, and the next day such as they suspected.'

The Houses were, or seemed to be, so alarmed with the discovery of the plot, that six days after they took a sacred vow and covenant, which was also taken by the city and army, denouncing war against the King more directly than they had done before. The earl of Portland and lord Conway were imprisoned on Mr. Waller's accusation, and often confronted with him before the committee, where they as peremptorily denying, as he charging them, and there being no other witness but him against them, they were kept a while in restraint, and then bailed. Mr. Waller, after he had had 'says the earl of Clarendon, with incredible dissimulation, acted such a remorse of conscience, that his trial was put off out of christian compassion, till he should recover his understanding (and that was not till the heat and fury of the prosecutors was abated by the sacrifices they had made) and by drawing visitants to himself of the most powerful ministers of all factions, had by his liberality and penitence, his receiving vulgar and vile sayings from them with humility and reverence, as clearer convictions, and informations than in his life he had ever had; and distributing great sums to them for their prayers and ghostly council, so satisfied them, that they satisfied others; was brought at his suit to the bar of the House of Commons on on the 4th of July 1643, where being a man in truth very powerful in language, and who, by what he spoke, and the manner of speaking it, exceedingly captivated the good will, and benevolence of his hearers, with such flattery, as was most exactly calculated to that meridian, with such a submission as their pride took delight in, and such a dejection of mind and spirit, as was like to couzen the major part. He laid before them, their own danger and concernment if they should suffer one of their body, how unworthy and monstrous soever, to be tried by the soldiers, who might thereby grow to such power hereafter, that they would both try those they would not be willing should be tried, and for things which they would account no crime, the inconvenience and insupportable mischief whereof wise commonwealths had foreseen and prevented, by exempting their own members from all judgments but their own. He prevailed, not to be tried by a Council of War, and thereby preserved his dear-bought life; so that in truth he did as much owe the keeping his head to that oration, as Cataline did the loss of his to those of Tully; and having done ill, very well, he by degrees drew that respect to his parts, which always carries some companion to the person, that he got leave to compound for his transgression and them to accept of ten thousand pounds for his liberty; whereupon he had leave to recollect himself in another country (for his liberty was to be banishment) how miserable he had made himself in obtaining that leave to live out of his own. And there cannot be a greater evidence of the inestimable value of his parts, than that he lived in the good affection and esteem of many, the pity of most, and the reproach and scorn of few, or none.'

After this storm had subsided, Mr. Waller travelled into France, where he continued several years. He took over his lady's jewels to support him, and lived very hospitably at Paris, and except that of lord Jermyn, afterwards earl of St. Alban's, who was the Queen of England's prime minister when she kept her court there, there was no English table but Mr. Waller's; which was so costly to him, that he used to say, 'he was at last come to the Rump Jewel.' Upon his return to England, such was the unsteadiness of his temper, he sided with those in power, particularly the Lord Protector, with whom he lived in great intimacy as a companion, tho' he seems not to have acted for him. He often declared that he found Cromwell very well acquainted with the Greek and Roman story; and he frequently took notice, that in the midst of their discourse, a servant has come to tell him, that such and such attended; upon which Cromwell would rise and stop them; talking at the door, where Mr. Waller could over-hear him say, 'The lord will reveal, the lord will help,' and several such expressions; which when he returned to Mr. Waller, he excused, saying, 'Cousin Waller, I must talk to these men after their own way.'

In 1654 he wrote a panegyric on Oliver Cromwell, as he did a poem on his death in 1658. At the restoration he was treated with great civility by King Charles II, who always made him one of his party in his diversions at the duke of Buckingham's, and other places, and gave him a grant of the provostship of Eaton-College; tho' that grant proved of no effect. He sat in several Parliaments after the restoration, and wrote a panegyric upon his Majesty's return, which however, was thought to fall much short of that which he before had wrote on Cromwell. The King one day asked him in raillery, 'How is it Waller, that you wrote a better encomium on Cromwell than on me.' May it please your Majesty, answered the bard, with the most admirable fineness, 'Poets generally succeed best in fiction.' Mr. Waller continued in the full vigour of his genius to the end of his life; his natural vivacity bore up against his years, and made his company agreeable to the last; which appears from the following little story.

King James II having ordered the earl of Sunderland to desire Mr. Waller to attend him one afternoon; when he came, the King carried him into his closet, and there asked him how he liked such a picture? 'Sir, says Mr. Waller, my eyes are dim, and I know not whose it is.' The King answered, 'It is the Princess of Orange;' and says Mr. Waller, 'she is like the greatest woman in the world.' 'Whom do you call so, said the King,' 'Queen Elizabeth, said he.' 'I wonder, Mr. Waller, replied the King, you should think so; but I must confess, she had a wise council;' and Sir, said Mr. Waller, 'did you ever know a Fool chuse a wise one.'

Mr. Waller died of a dropsy October 21, 1687. Finding his distemper encrease, and having yielded all hopes of recovery, he ordered his son-in-law Dr. Peter Birch, to desire all his children to join with him, and give him the sacrament. He at the same time professed himself a believer in revealed religion with great earnestness, telling them, that he remembered when the duke of Buckingham, once talked profanely before King Charles, he told him, 'My lord, I am a great deal older than your grace, and I believe I have heard more arguments for atheism, than ever your grace did; but I have lived long enough to see, there was nothing in them, and so I hope will your grace.' It is said, that had Mr. Waller lived longer, he would have inclined to the revolution, which by the violent measures of James II. he could foresee would happen. He was interred in the church-yard of Beaconsfield, where a monument is erected to his memory, the inscriptions on it were written by Mr. Thomas Rymer.

He left several children behind him: He bequeathed his estate to his second son Edmund, his eldest, Benjamin, being so far from inheriting his father's wit, that he had not a common portion. Edmund, the second Son, used to be chosen member of Parliament for Agmondesham, and in the latter part of his life turned Quaker. William, the third son, was a merchant in London, and Stephen, the fourth, a civilian. Of the daughters, Mary was married to Dr. Peter Birch, prebendary of Westminster; another to Mr. Harvey of Suffolk, another to Mr. Tipping of Oxfordshire.

These are the most material circumstances in the life of Mr. Waller, a man whose wit and parts drew the admiration of the world upon him when he was living, and has secured him the applause of posterity. As a statesman, lord Clarendon is of opinion, he wanted steadiness, and even insinuates, that he was deficient in point of honour; the earl at least construes his timidity, and apparent cowardice, in a way not very advantageous to him.

All men have honoured him as the great refiner of English poetry, who restored numbers to the delicacy they had lost, and joined to melifluent cadence the charms of sense. But as Mr. Waller is unexceptionally the first who brought in a new turn of verse, and gave to rhime all the graces of which it was capable, it would be injurious to his fame, not to present the reader with the opinions of some of the greatest men concerning him, by which he will be better able to understand his particular excellencies, and will see his beauties in full glow before him. To begin with Mr. Dryden, who, in his dedication to the Rival Ladies, addressed to the earl of Orrery, thus characterizes Waller.

'The excellency and dignity of rhime were never fully known till Mr. Waller sought it: He first made writing easily an art; first shewed us to conclude the sense most commonly in distichs, which in the verses of those before him, runs on for so many lines together, that the reader is out of breath to overtake it.'

Voltaire, in his letters concerning the English nation, speaking of British poets, thus mentions Waller. 'Our author was much talked of in France. He had much the same reputation in London that Voiture had in Paris; and in my opinion deserved it better. Voiture was born in an age that was just emerging from barbarity; an age that was still rude and ignorant; the people of which aimed at wit, tho' they had not the least pretensions to it, and sought for points and conceits instead of sentiments. Bristol stones are more easily found than diamonds. Voiture born with an easy and frivolous genius, was the first who shone in this Aurora of French literature. Had he come into the world after those great genius's, who spread such glory over the age of Lewis XIV, he would either have been unknown, would have been despised, or would have corrected his stile. Waller, tho' better than Voiture, was not yet a finished poet. The graces breathe in such of Waller's works as are wrote in a tender strain; but then they are languid thro' negligence, and often disfigured with false thoughts. The English had not at this time attained the art of correct writing; but his serious compositions exhibit a strength and vigour, which could not have been expected from the softness and effeminacy of his other pieces.'

The anonymous author of the preface to the second part of our author's poems, printed in the year 1690, has given his character at large, and tells us; 'That Waller is a name that carries every thing in it that is either great, or graceful in poetry. He was indeed the parent of English verse, and the first who shewed us our tongue had beauty and numbers in it. The tongue came into his hands like a rough diamond; he polished it first, and to that degree, that artists since have admired the workmanship without pretending to mend it. He undoubtedly stands first in the list of refiners; and for ought I know the last too; for I question whether in Charles II's reign; the English did not come to its full perfection, and whether it had not had its Augustan age, as well as the Latin.' Thus far this anonymous author. If I may be permitted to give my opinion in so delicate a point as the reputation of Waller, I shall take the liberty to observe, that had he, in place of preceding, succeeded those great wits who flourished in the reign of Charles II, he could never have rose to such great reputation, nor would have deserved it: No small honour is due to him for the harmony which he introduced, but upon that chiefly does his reputation stand. He certainly is sometimes languid; he was rather a tender than a violent lover; he has not that force of thinking, that amazing reach of genius for which Dryden is renowned, and had it been his lot to have appeared in the reign of Queen Anne, I imagine, he would not have been ranked above the second class of poets. But be this as it may, poetry owes him the highest obligations for refining it, and every succeeding genius will be ready to acknowledge, that by copying Waller's strains, they have improved their own, and the more they follow him, the more they please.

Mr. Waller altered the Maid's Tragedy from Fletcher, and translated the first Act of the Tragedy of Pompey from the French of Corneille. Mrs. Katharine Philips, in a letter to Sir Charles Cotterell, ascribes the translation of the first act to our author; and observes, that Sir Edward Filmer did one, Sir Charles Sidley another, lord Buckhurst another; but who the fifth, says she, I cannot learn.

Mrs. Philips then proceeds to give a criticism on this performance of Waller's, shews some faults, and points out some beauties, with a spirit and candour peculiar to her.

The best edition of our author's works is that published by Mr. Fenton, London 1730, containing poems, speeches, letters, &c. In this edition is added the preface to the first edition of Mr. Waller's poems after the restoration, printed in the year 1664.

As a specimen of Mr. Waller's poetry, we shall give a transcript of his Panegyric upon Oliver Cromwell.

A Panegyric to my Lord PROTECTOR, of the present greatness and joint interest of his Highness and this Nation.

In the YEAR 1654.

While with a strong, and yet a gentle hand You bridle faction, and our hearts command, Protect us from our selves, and from the foe, Make us unite, and make us conquer too;

Let partial spirits still aloud complain, Think themselves injur'd that they cannot reign, And own no liberty, but where they may Without controul upon their fellows prey.

Above the waves as Neptune shew'd his face To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race; So has your Highness, rais'd above the rest, Storms of Ambition tossing us represt.

Your drooping country, torn with civil hate, Restor'd by you, is made a glorious state; The feat of empire, where the Irish come, And the unwilling Scotch, to fetch their doom.

The sea's our own, and now all nations greet, With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet. Your pow'r extends as far as winds can blow, Or swelling sails upon the globe may go.

Heav'n, that hath plac'd this island to give law, To balance Europe, and her states to awe, In this conjunction doth on Britain smile; The greatest leader, and the greatest isle.

Whether this portion of the world were rent By the rude ocean from the Continent, Or thus created, it was sure design'd To be the sacred refuge of mankind.

Hither th' oppressed shall henceforth resort Justice to crave, and succour at your court; And then your Highness, not for our's alone, But for the world's Protector shall be known.

Fame swifter than your winged navy flies Thro' ev'ry land that near the ocean lies, Sounding your name, and telling dreadful News To all that piracy and rapine use.

With such a chief the meanest nation blest, Might hope to lift her head above the rest: What may be thought impossible to do By us, embraced by the seas, and you?

Lords of the world's great waste, the ocean, we Whole forests send to reign upon the sea, And ev'ry coast may trouble or relieve; But none can visit us without your leave.

Angels and we have this prerogative, That none can at our happy seats arrive; While we descend at pleasure to invade The bad with vengeance, and the good to aid.

Our little world, the image of the great, Like that, amidst the boundless ocean set, Of her own growth hath all that nature craves, And all that's rare, as tribute from the waves.

As AEgypt does not on the clouds rely, But to the Nile owes more than to the sky; So what our Earth and what our heav'n denies, Our ever-constant friend the sea, supplies.

The taste of hot Arabia's spice we know, Free from the scorching sun that makes it grow; Without the worm in Persian silks we shine, And without planting drink of ev'ry vine.

To dig for wealth we weary not our limbs. Gold (tho' the heaviest Metal) hither swims: Our's is the harvest where the Indians mow, We plough the deep, and reap what others sow.

Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds; Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds; Rome (tho' her eagle thro' the world had flown) Cou'd never make this island all her own.

Here the third Edward, and the Black Prince too, France conq'ring Henry flourish'd, and now you; For whom we staid, as did the Grecian state, Till Alexander came to urge their fate.

When for more world's the Macedonian cry'd, He wist not Thetys in her lap did hide Another yet, a word reserv'd for you, To make more great than that he did subdue.

He safely might old troops to battle lead Against th' unwarlike Persian, and the Mede; Whose hasty flight did from a bloodless field, More spoils than honour to the visitor yield.

A race unconquer'd, by their clime made bold, The Caledonians arm'd with want and cold, Have, by a fate indulgent to your fame, Been from all ages kept for you to tame.

Whom the old Roman wall so ill confin'd, With a new chain of garrisons you bind: Here foreign gold no more shall make them come, Our English Iron holds them fast at home.

They that henceforth must be content to know No warmer region than their hills of snow, May blame the sun, but must extol your grace, Which in our senate hath allow'd them place.

Preferr'd by conquest, happily o'erthrown, Falling they rise, to be with us made one: So kind dictators made, when they came home, Their vanquish'd foes free citizens of Rome.

Like favour find the Irish, with like fate Advanc'd to be a portion of our state: While by your valour, and your bounteous mind, Nations, divided by the sea, are join'd.

Holland, to gain your friendship, is content To be our out-guard on the continent: She from her fellow-provinces wou'd go, Rather than hazard to have you her foe.

In our late fight, when cannons did diffuse (Preventing posts) the terror and the news; Our neighbour princes trembled at their roar: But our conjunction makes them tremble more.

Your never-failing sword made war to cease, And now you heal us with the acts of peace Our minds with bounty and with awe engage, Invite affection, and restrain our rage.

Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won, Than in restoring such as are undone: Tygers have courage, and the rugged bear, But man alone can whom he conquers, spare.

To pardon willing; and to punish, loath; You strike with one hand, but you heal with both. Lifting up all that prostrate lye, you grieve You cannot make the dead again to live.

When fate or error had our Age mis-led, And o'er this nation such confusion spread; The only cure which cou'd from heav'n come down, Was so much pow'r and piety in one.

One whose extraction's from an ancient line, Gives hope again that well-born men may shine: The meanest in your nature mild and good, The noble rest secured in your blood.

Oft have we wonder'd, how you hid in peace A mind proportion'd to such things as these; How such a ruling sp'rit you cou'd restrain, And practise first over your self to reign.

Your private life did a just pattern give How fathers, husbands, pious sons shou'd live; Born to command, your princely virtues slept Like humble David's while the flock he kept:

But when your troubled country call'd you forth, Your flaming courage, and your matchless worth Dazling the eyes of all that did pretend, To fierce contention gave a prosp'rous end.

Still as you rise, the state, exalted too, Finds no distemper while 'tis chang'd by you; Chang'd like the world's great scene, when without noise The rising sun night's vulgar lights destroys.

Had you, some ages past, this race of glory Run, with amazement we shou'd read your story; But living virtue, all atchievements past, Meets envy still to grapple with at last.

This Caesar found, and that ungrateful age, With losing him, went back to blood and rage. Mistaken Brutus thought to break their yoke, But cut the bond of union with that stroke.

That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars Gave a dim light to violence and wars, To such a tempest as now threatens all, Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall.

If Rome's great senate cou'd not wield that sword Which of the conquer'd world had made them lord, What hope had our's, while yet their pow'r was new, To rule victorious armies, but by you?

You, that had taught them to subdue their foes, Cou'd order teach, and their high sp'rits compose: To ev'ry duty you'd their minds engage, Provoke their courage, and command their rage.

So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane, And angry grows; if he that first took pain To tame his youth, approach the haughty beast, He bends to him, but frights away the rest.

As the vext world, to find repose, at last Itself into Augustus' arms did cast: So England now doth, with like toil opprest, Her weary head upon your bosom rest.

Then let the muses, with such notes as these, Instruct us what belongs unto our peace; Your battles they hereafter shall indite, And draw the image of our Mars in fight;

Tell of towns storm'd, of armies overcome, Of mighty kingdoms by your conduct won, How, while you thunder'd, clouds of dust did choak Contending troops, and seas lay hid in smoke.

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And ev'ry conqueror creates a muse; Here in low strains your milder deeds we sing, But there, my lord, we'll bays and olive bring,

To crown your head; while you in triumph ride O'er vanquish'd nations, and the sea beside: While all your neighbour princes unto you, Like Joseph's sheaves, pay reverence and bow.

Footnotes: 1. The ancient seat of the Sydneys family in Kent; now in the possession of William Perry, esq; whose lady is niece to the late Sydney, earl of Leicester. A small, but excellent poem upon this delightful seat, was published by an anonymous hand, in 1750, entitled, PENSHURST. See Monthly Review, vol. II. page 331. 2. Life, p. 8, 9. 3. History of the Rebellion, Edit. Oxon. 1707, 8vo.

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JOHN OGILBY,

This poet, who was likewise an eminent Geographer and Cosmographer, was born near Edinburgh in the year 1600[1]. His father, who was of an ancient and genteel family, having spent his estate, and being prisoner in the King's Bench for debt, could give his son but little education at school; but our author, who, in his early years discovered the most invincible industry, obtained a little knowledge in the Latin grammar, and afterwards so much money, as not only to procure his father's discharge from prison, but also to bind himself apprentice to Mr. Draper a dancing master in Holbourn, London. Soon after, by his dexterity in his profession, and his complaisant behaviour to his master's employers, he obtained the favour of them to lend him as much money as to buy out the remaining part of his time, and set up for himself; but being afterwards appointed to dance in the duke of Buckingham's great Masque, by a false step, he strained a vein in the inside of his leg, which ever after occasioned him to halt. He afterwards taught dancing to the sisters of Sir Ralph Hopton, at Wytham in Somersetshire, where, at leisure, he learned to handle the pike and musket. When Thomas earl of Strafford became Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, he was retained in his family to teach the art of dancing, and being an excellent penman, he was frequently employed by the earl to transcribe papers for him.

In his lordship's family it was that he first gave proofs of his inclination to poetry, by translating some of AEsop's Fables into English verse, which he communicated to some learned men, who understood Latin better than he, by whose assistance and advice he published them. He was one of the troop of guards belonging to the earl, and composed an humourous piece entitled the Character of a Trooper. About the time he was supported by his lordship, he was made master of the revels for the kingdom of Ireland, and built a little theatre for the representation of dramatic entertainments, in St. Warburgh's street in Dublin: but upon the breaking out of the rebellion in that kingdom, he was several times in great danger of his life, particularly when he narrowly escaped being blown up in the castle of Rathfarnam. About the time of the conclusion of the war in England, he left Ireland, and being shipwrecked, came to London in a very necessitous condition. After he had made a short stay in the metropolis, he travelled on foot to Cambridge, where his great industry, and love of learning, recommended him to the notice of several scholars, by whose assistance he became so compleat a master of the Latin tongue, that in 1646 he published an English translation of Virgil, which was printed in large 8vo. and dedicated to William marquis of Hereford. He reprinted it at London 1654 in fol. with this title; The Works of Publius Virgilius Maro, translated and adorned with Sculptures, and illustrated with Annotations; which, Mr. Wood tells us, was the fairest edition, that till then, the English press ever produced. About the year 1654 our indefatigable author learned the Greek language, and in four year's time published in fol. a translation of Homer's Iliad, adorned with excellent sculptures, illustrated with Annotations, and addressed to King Charles II. The same year he published the Bible in a large fol. at Cambridge, according to the translation set forth by the special command of King James I. with the Liturgy and Articles of the Church of England, with Chorographical Sculptures. About the year 1662 he went into Ireland, then having obtained a patent to be made master of the revels there, a place which Sir William Davenant sollicited in vain. Upon this occasion he built a theatre at Dublin, which cost him 2000 l. the former being ruined during the troubles. In 1664 he published in London, in fol. a translation of Homer's Odyssey, with Sculptures, and Notes. He afterwards wrote two heroic poems, one entitled the Ephesian Matron, the other the Roman Slave, both dedicated to Thomas earl of Ossory. The next work he composed was an Epic Poem in 12 Books, in honour of King Charles I. but this was entirely lost in the fire of London in September 1666, when Mr. Ogilby's house in White Fryars was burnt down, and his whole fortune, except to the value of five pounds, destroyed. But misfortunes seldom had any irretrievable consequences to Ogilby, for by his insinuating address, and most astonishing industry, he was soon able to repair whatever loss he sustained by any cross accident. It was not long till he fell on a method of raising a fresh sum of money. Procuring his house to be rebuilt, he set up a printing-office, was appointed his Majesty's Cosmographer and Geographic Printer, and printed many great works translated and collected by himself and his assistants, the enumeration of which would be unnecessary and tedious.

This laborious man died September 4, 1676, and was interred in the vault under part of the church in St. Bride's in Fleet-street. Mr. Edward Philips in his Theatrum Poetarum stiles him one of the prodigies, from producing, after so late an initiation into literature, so many large and learned volumes, as well in verse as in prose, and tells us, that his Paraphrase upon AEsop's Fables, is generally confessed to have exceeded whatever hath been done before in that kind.

As to our author's poetry, we have the authority of Mr. Pope to pronounce it below criticism, at least his translations; and in all probability his original epic poems which we have never seen, are not much superior to his translations of Homer and Virgil. If Ogilby had not a poetical genius, he was notwithstanding a man of parts, and made an amazing proficiency in literature, by the force of an unwearied application. He cannot be sufficiently commended for his virtuous industry, as well as his filial piety, in procuring, in so early a time of life, his father's liberty, when he was confined in a prison.

Ogilby seems indeed to have been a good sort of man, and to have recommended himself to the world by honest means, without having recourse to the servile arts of flattery, and the blandishments of falshood. He is an instance of the astonishing efficacy of application; had some more modern poets been blessed with a thousandth part of his oeconomy and industry, they needed not to have lived in poverty, and died of want. Although Ogilby cannot be denominated a genius, yet he found means to make a genteel livelihood by literature, which many of the sons of Parnassus, blessed with superior powers, curse as a very dry and unpleasing soil, but which proceeds more from want of culture, than native barrenness.

Footnote: 1. Athen Oxon. vol. ii. p. 378.

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WILMOT, Earl of ROCHESTER.

It is an observation founded on experience, that the poets have, of all other men, been most addicted to the gratifications of appetite, and have pursued pleasure with more unwearied application than men of other characters. In this respect they are indeed unhappy, and have ever been more subject to pity than envy. A violent love of pleasure, if it does not destroy, yet, in a great measure, enervates all other good qualities with which a man may be endowed; and as no men have ever enjoyed higher parts from nature, than the poets, so few, from this unhappy attachment to pleasure, have effected so little good by those amazing powers. Of the truth of this observation, the nobleman, whose memoirs we are now to present to the reader, is a strong and indelible instance, for few ever had more ability, and more frequent opportunities, for promoting the interests of society, and none ever prostituted the gifts of Heaven to a more inglorious purpose. Lord Rochester was not more remarkable for the superiority of his parts, than the extraordinary debauchery of his life, and with his dissipations of pleasure, he suffered sometimes malevolent principles to govern him, and was equally odious for malice and envy, as for the boundless gratifications of his appetites.

This is, no doubt, the character of his lordship, confirmed by all who have transmitted any account of him: but if his life was supremely wicked, his death was exemplarily pious; before he approached to the conclusion of his days, he saw the follies of his former pleasures, he lived to repent with the severest contrition, and charity obliges all men to believe that he was as sincere in his protestations of penitence, as he had been before in libertine indulgence. The apparent sorrow he felt, arising from the stings and compunctions of conscience, entitle him to the reader's compassion, and has determined us to represent his errors with all imaginable tenderness; which, as it is agreeable to every benevolent man, so his lordship has a right to this indulgence, since he obliterated his faults by his penitence, and became so conspicuous an evidence on the side of virtue, by his important declarations against the charms of vice.

Lord Rochester was son of the gallant Henry lord Wilmot, who engaged with great zeal in the service of King Charles I. during the civil wars, and was so much in favour with Charles II. that he entrusted his person to him, after the unfortunate battle of Worcester, which trust he discharged with so much fidelity and address, that the young King was conveyed out of England into France, chiefly by his care, application and vigilance. The mother of our author was of the ancient family of the St. Johns in Wiltshire, and has been celebrated both for her beauty and parts.

In the year 1648, distinguished to posterity, by the fall of Charles I. who suffered on a scaffold erected before the window of his own palace, our author was born at Dichley, near Woodstock, in the same county, the scene of many of his pleasures, and of his death. His lordship's father had the misfortune to reap none of the rewards of suffering loyalty, for he died in 1660, immediately before the restoration, leaving his son as the principal part of his inheritance, his titles, honours, and the merit of those extraordinary services he had done the crown; but though lord Wilmot left his son but a small estate, yet he did not suffer in his education by these means, for the oeconomy of his mother supplied that deficiency, and he was educated suitable to his quality. When he was at school (it is agreed by all his biographers) he gave early instances of a readiness of wit; and those shining parts which have since appeared with so much lustre, began then to shew themselves: he acquired the Latin to such perfection, that, to his dying day, he retained a great relish for the masculine firmness, as well as more elegant beauties of that language, and was, says Dr. Burnet, 'exactly versed in those authors who were the ornaments of the court of Augustus, which he read often with the peculiar delight which the greatest wits have often found in those studies.' When he went to the university, the general joy which over-ran the nation upon his Majesty's return, amounted to something like distraction, and soon spread a very malignant influence through all ranks of life. His lordship tasted the pleasures of libertinism, which then broke out in a full tide, with too acute a relish, and was almost overwhelmed in the abyss of wantonness. His tutor was Dr. Blandford, afterwards promoted to the sees of Oxford and Worcester, and under his inspection he was committed to the more immediate care of Phinehas Berry, fellow of Wadham College, a man of learning and probity, whom his lordship afterwards treated with much respect, and rewarded as became a great man; but notwithstanding the care of his tutor, he had so deeply engaged in the dissipations of the general jubilee, that he could not be prevailed upon to renew his studies, which were totally lost in the joys more agreeable to his inclination. He never thought of resuming again the pursuit of knowledge, 'till the fine address of his governor, Dr. Balfour, won him in his travels, by degrees, to those charms of study, which he had through youthful levity forsaken, and being seconded by reason, now more strong, and a more mature taste of the pleasure of learning, which the Dr. took care to place in the most agreeable and advantageous light, he became enamoured of knowledge, in the pursuit of which he often spent those hours he sometimes stole from the witty, and the fair. He returned from his travels in the 18th year of his age, and appeared at court with as great advantage as any young nobleman ever did. He had a graceful and well proportioned person, was master of the most refined breeding, and possessed a very obliging and easy manner. He had a vast vivacity of thought, and a happy flow of expression, and all who conversed with him entertained the highest opinion of his understanding; and 'tis indeed no wonder he was so much caressed at a court which abounded with men of wit, countenanced by a merry prince, who relished nothing so much as brilliant conversation.

Soon after his lordship's return from his travels, he took the first occasion that offered, to hazard his life in the service of his country.

In the winter of the year 1665 he went to sea, with the earl of Sandwich, when he was sent out against the Dutch East India fleet, and was in the ship called the Revenge, commanded by Sir Thomas Tiddiman, when the attack was made on the port of Bergen in Norway, the Dutch Ships having got into that port. It was, says Burnet, 'as desperate an attempt as ever was made, and during the whole action, the earl of Rochester shewed as brave and resolute a courage as possible. A person of honour told me he heard the lord Clifford, who was in the same ship, often magnify his courage at that time very highly; nor did the rigour of the season, the hardness of the voyage, and the extreme danger he had been in, deter him from running the like the very next occasion; for the summer following he went to sea again, without communicating his design to his nearest relations. He went aboard the ship commanded by Sir Edward Spragge, the day before the great sea-fight of that year; almost all the volunteers that went in that ship were killed. During the action, Sir Edward Spragge not being satisfied with the behaviour of one of the captains, could not easily find a person that would undertake to venture through so much danger to carry his command to the captain; this lord offered himself to the service, and went in a little boat, through all the shot, and delivered his message, and returned back to Sir Edward, which was much commended by all that saw it.' These are the early instances of courage, which can be produced in favour of lord Rochester, which was afterwards impeached, and very justly, for in many private broils, he discovered a timid pusillanimous spirit, very unsuitable to those noble instances of the contrary, which have just been mentioned.

The author of his life prefixed to his works, which goes under the name of M. St. Evremond, addressed to the Duchess of Mazarine, but which M. Maizeau asserts not to be his, accounts for it, upon the general observation of that disparity between a man and himself, upon different occasions. Let it suffice, says he, 'to observe, that we differ not from one another, more than we do from ourselves at different times.' But we imagine another, and a stronger reason may be given, for the cowardice which Rochester afterwards discovered in private broils, particularly in the affair between him and the earl of Mulgrave, in which he behaved very meanly[1]. The courage which lord Rochester shewed in a naval engagement, was in the early part of his life, before he had been immersed in those labyrinths of excess and luxury, into which he afterwards sunk. It is certainly a true observation, that guilt makes cowards; a man who is continually subjected to the reproaches of conscience, who is afraid to examine his heart, lest it should appear too horrible, cannot have much courage: for while he is conscious of so many errors to be repented of, of so many vices he has committed, he naturally starts at danger, and flies from it as his greatest enemy. It is true, courage is sometimes constitutional, and there have been instances of men, guilty of every enormity, who have discovered a large share of it, but these have been wretches who have overcome all sense of honour, been lost to every consideration of virtue, and whose courage is like that of the lion of the desart, a kind of ferocious impulse unconnected with reason. Lord Rochester had certainly never overcome the reproaches of his conscience, whose alarming voice at last struck terror into his heart, and chilled the fire of the spirits.

Since his travels, and naval expeditions, he seemed to have contracted a habit of temperance, in which had he been so happy as to persevere, he must have escaped that fatal rock, on which he afterwards split, upon his return to court, where love and pleasure kept their perpetual rounds, under the smiles of a prince, whom nature had fitted for all the enjoyments of the most luxurious desires. In times so dissolute as these, it is no wonder if a man of so warm a constitution as Rochester, could not resist the too flattering temptations, which were heightened by the participation of the court in general. The uncommon charms of Rochester's conversation, induced all men to court him as a companion, tho' they often paid too dear for their curiosity, by being made the subject of his lampoons, if they happened to have any oddities in their temper, by the exposing of which he could humour his propensity to scandal. His pleasant extravagancies soon became the subject of general conversation, by which his vanity was at once flattered, and his turn of satire rendered more keen, by the success it met with.

Rochester had certainly a true talent for satire, and he spared neither friends nor foes, but let it loose on all without discrimination. Majesty itself was not secure from it; he more than once lampooned the King, whose weakness and attachment to some of his mistresses, he endeavoured to cure by several means, that is, either by winning them from him, in spite of the indulgence and liberality they felt from a royal gallant, or by severely lampooning them and him on various occasions; which the King, who was a man of wit and pleasure, as well as his lordship, took for the natural sallies of his genius, and meant rather as the amusements of his fancy, than as the efforts of malice; yet, either by a too frequent repetition, or a too close and poignant virulence, the King banished him [from] the court for a satire made directly on him; this satire consists of 28 stanzas, and is entitled The Restoration, or the History of the Insipids; and as it contains the keenest reflexions against the political conduct, and private character of that Prince, and having produced the banishment of this noble lord, we shall here give it a place, by which his lordship's genius for this kind of writing will appear.

The RESTORATION, or The History of INSIPIDS, a LAMPOON.

I.

Chaste, pious, prudent, Charles the second, The miracle of thy restoration, May like to that of quails be reckon'd, Rain'd on the Israelitish nation; The wish'd for blessing from Heaven sent, Became their curse and punishment.

II.

The virtues in thee, Charles, inherent, Altho' thy count'nance be an odd piece, Prove thee as true a God's Vicegerent, As e'er was Harry with his cod-piece: For chastity, and pious deeds, His grandsire Harry Charles exceeds.

III.

Our Romish bondage-breaker Harry, Espoused half a dozen wives. Charles only one resolv'd to marry, And other mens he never ——; Yet has he sons and daughters more Than e'er had Harry by threescore.

IV.

Never was such a faith's defender; He like a politic Prince, and pious, Gives liberty to conscience tender, And does to no religion tie us; Jews, Christians, Turks, Papists, he'll please us With Moses, Mahomet, or Jesus.

V.

In all affairs of church or state He very zealous is, and able, Devout at pray'rs, and sits up late At the cabal and council-table. His very dog, at council-board, Sits grave and wise as any lord.

VI.

Let Charles's policy no man flout, The wisest Kings have all some folly; Nor let his piety any doubt; Charles, like a Sov'reign, wise and holy, Makes young men judges of the bench, And bishops, those that love a wench.

VII.

His father's foes he does reward, Preserving those that cut off's head; Old cavaliers, the crown's best guard, He lets them starve for want of bread. Never was any King endow'd With so much grace and gratitude.

VIII.

Blood, that wears treason in his face, Villain compleat in parson's gown, How much is he at court in grace, For stealing Ormond and the crown! Since loyalty does no man good, Let's steal the King, and out-do Blood.

IX.

A Parliament of knaves and sots (Members by name you must not mention) He keeps in pay, and buys their votes, Here with a place, there with a pension: When to give money he can't cologue 'em, He does with scorn prorogue, prorogue 'em.

X.

But they long since, by too much giving, Undid, betray'd, and sold the nation, Making their memberships a living, Better than e'er was sequestration. God give thee, Charles, a resolution To damn the knaves by dissolution.

XI.

Fame is not grounded on success, Tho' victories were Caesar's glory; Lost battles make not Pompey less, But left him stiled great in story. Malicious fate does oft devise To beat the brave, and fool the wise.

XII.

Charles in the first Dutch war stood fair To have been Sov'reign of the deep, When Opdam blew up in the air, Had not his Highness gone to sleep: Our fleet slack'd sails, fearing his waking, The Dutch had else been in sad taking.

XIII.

The Bergen business was well laid, Tho' we paid dear for that design; Had we not three days parling staid, The Dutch fleet there, Charles, had been thine: Tho' the false Dane agreed to fell 'em, He cheated us, and saved Skellum.

XIV.

Had not Charles sweetly chous'd the States, By Bergen-baffle grown more wise; And made 'em shit as small as rats, By their rich Smyrna fleet's surprise: Had haughty Holmes, but call'd in Spragg, Hans had been put into a bag.

XV.

Mists, storms, short victuals, adverse winds, And once the navy's wise division, Defeated Charles's best designs, 'Till he became his foes derision: But he had swing'd the Dutch at Chatham, Had he had ships but to come at 'em.

XVI.

Our Black-Heath host, without dispute, (Rais'd, put on board, why? no man knows) Must Charles have render'd absolute Over his subjects, or his foes: Has not the French King made us fools, By taking Maestricht with our tools?

XVII.

But Charles, what could thy policy be, To run so many sad disasters; To join thy fleet with false d'Estrees To make the French of Holland masters? Was't Carewell, brother James, or Teague, That made thee break the Triple League?

XVIII.

Could Robin Viner have foreseen The glorious triumphs of his master; The Wool-Church statue Gold had been, Which now is made of Alabaster. But wise men think had it been wood, 'Twere for a bankrupt King too good.

XIX.

Those that the fabric well consider. Do of it diversly discourse; Some pass their censure on the rider, Others their judgment on the horse. Most say, the steed's a goodly thing, But all agree, 'tis a lewd King.

XX.

By the lord mayor and his grave coxcombs, Freeman of London, Charles is made; Then to Whitehall a rich Gold box comes, Which was bestow'd on the French jade[2]: But wonder not it should be so, sirs, When Monarchs rank themselves with Grocers.

XXI.

Cringe, scrape no more, ye city-fops, Leave off your feasting and fine speeches; Beat up your drums, shut up your shops, The courtiers then will kiss your breeches. Arm'd, tell the Popish Duke that rules, You're free-born subjects, not French mules.

XXII.

New upstarts, bastards, pimps, and whores, That, locust-like, devour the land, By shutting up th'Exchequer-doors, When there our money was trapann'd, Have render'd Charles's restoration But a small blessing to the nation.

XXIII.

Then, Charles, beware thy brother York, Who to thy government gives law; If once we fall to the old sport, You must again both to Breda; Where, spite of all that would restore you, Grown wise by wrongs, we should abhor you.

XXIV.

If, of all Christian blood the guilt Cries loud of vengeance unto Heav'n, That sea by treach'rous Lewis spilt, Can never be by God forgiv'n: Worse scourge unto his subjects, lord! Than pest'lence, famine, fire, or sword.

XXV.

That false rapacious wolf of France, The scourge of Europe, and its curse, Who at his subjects cries does dance, And studies how to make them worse; To say such Kings, Lord, rule by thee, Were most prodigious blasphemy.

XXVI.

Such know no law, but their own lust; Their subjects substance, and their blood, They count it tribute due and just, Still spent and spilt for subjects good. If such Kings are by God appointed, The devil may be the Lord's anointed.

XXVII.

Such Kings! curs'd be the pow'r and name, Let all the world henceforth abhor 'em; Monsters, which knaves sacred proclaim, And then, like slaves, fall down before 'em. What can there be in Kings divine? The most are wolves, goats, sheep, or swine.

XXVIII.

Then farewel, sacred Majesty, Let's pull all brutish tyrants down; Where men are born, and still live free, There ev'ry head doth wear a crown: Mankind, like miserable frogs, Prove wretched, king'd by storks and dogs.

Much about this time the duke of Buckingham was under disgrace, for things of another nature, and being disengaged from any particular attachment in town, he and lord Rochester resolved, like Don Quixote of old, to set out in quest of adventures; and they met with some that will appear entertaining to our readers, which we shall give upon the authority of the author of Rochester's Life, prefixed to his works. Among many other adventures the following was one:

There happened to be an inn on New-market road to be lett, they disguised themselves in proper habits for the persons they were to assume, and jointly took this inn, in which each in his turn officiated as master; but they soon made this subservient to purposes of another nature.

Having carefully observed the pretty girls in the country with whom they were most captivated, (they considered not whether maids, wives, or widows) and to gain opportunities of seducing them, they invited the neighbours, who had either wives or daughters, to frequent feasts, where the men were plied hard with good liquor, and the women sufficiently warmed to make but as little resistance as would be agreeable to their inclinations, dealing out their poison to both sexes, inspiring the men with wine, and other strong liquors, and the women with love; thus they were able to deflower many a virgin, and alienate the affections of many a wife by this odd stratagem; and it is difficult to say, whether it is possible for two men to live to a worse purpose.

It is natural to imagine that this kind of life could not be of long duration. Feasts so frequently given, and that without any thing to pay, must give a strong suspicion that the inn-keepers must soon break, or that they were of such fortune and circumstances, as did not well suit the post they were in.—This their lordships were sensible of, but not much concerned about it, since they were seldom found long to continue in the same sort of adventures, variety being the life of their enjoyments. It was besides, near the time of his Majesty's going to Newmarket, when they designed, that the discovery of their real plots, should clear them of the imputation of being concerned in any more pernicious to the government. These two conjectures meeting, they thought themselves obliged to dispatch two important adventures, which they had not yet been able to compass.—There was an old covetous miser in the neighbourhood, who notwithstanding his age, was in possession of a very agreeable young wife. Her husband watched her with the same assiduity he did his money, and never trusted her out of his sight, but under the protection of an old maiden sister, who never had herself experienced the joys of love, and bore no great benevolence to all who were young and handsome. Our noble inn-keepers had no manner of doubt of his accepting a treat, as many had done, for he loved good living with all his heart, when it cost him nothing; and except upon these occasions he was the most temperate and abstemious man alive; but then they could never prevail with him to bring his wife, notwithstanding they urged the presence of so many good wives in the neighbourhood to keep her company. All their study was then how to deceive the old sister at home, who was set as a guardian over that fruit which the miser could neither eat himself, nor suffer any other to taste; but such a difficulty as this was soon to be overcome by such inventions. It was therefore agreed that lord Rochester should be dressed in woman's cloaths, and while the husband was feasting with my lord duke, he should make trial of his skill with the old woman at home. He had learned that she had no aversion to the bottle when she could come secretly and conveniently at it. Equipped like a country lass, and furnished with a bottle of spiritous liquors, he marched to the old miser's house. It was with difficulty he found means to speak with the old woman, but at last obtained the favour; where perfect in all the cant of those people, he began to tell the occasion of his coming, in hopes she would invite him to come in, but all in vain; he was admitted no further that the porch, with the house door a-jar: At last, my lord finding no other way, fell upon this expedient. He pretended to be taken suddenly ill, and tumbled down upon the threshold. This noise brings the young wife to them, who with much trouble persuades her keeper to help her into the house, in regard to the decorum of her sex, and the unhappy condition she was in. The door had not been long shut, till our imposter by degrees recovers, and being set on a chair, cants a very religious thanksgiving to the good gentlewoman for her kindness, and observed how deplorable it was to be subject to such fits, which often took her in the street, and exposed her to many accidents, but every now and then took a sip of the bottle, and recommended it to the old benefactress, who was sure to drink a hearty dram. His lordship had another bottle in his pocket qualified with a Opium, which would sooner accomplish his desire, by giving the woman a somniferous dose, which drinking with greediness, she soon fell fast asleep.

His lordship having so far succeeded, and being fired with the presence of the young wife, for whom he had formed this odd scheme, his desires became impetuous, which produced a change of colour, and made the artless creature imagine the fit was returning. My lord then asked if she would be so charitable as to let him lie down on the bed; the good-natured young woman shewed him the way, and being laid down, and staying by him at his request, he put her in mind of her condition, asking about her husband, whom the young woman painted in his true colours, as a surly, jealous old tyrant. The rural innocent imagining she had only a woman with her, was less reserved in her behaviour and expressions on that account, and his lordship soon found that a tale of love would not be unpleasing to her. Being now no longer able to curb his appetite, which was wound up beyond the power of restraint, he declared his sex to her, and without much struggling enjoyed her.

He now became as happy as indulgence could make him; and when the first transports were over, he contrived the escape of this young adultress from the prison of her keeper. She hearkened to his proposals with pleasure, and before the old gentlewoman was awake, she robbed her husband of an hundred and fifty pieces, and marched off with lord Rochester to the inn, about midnight.

They were to pass over three or four fields before they could reach it, and in going over the last, they very nearly escaped falling into the enemy's hands; but the voice of the husband discovering who he was, our adventurers struck down the field out of the path, and for the greater security lay down in the grass. The place, the occasion, and the person that was so near, put his lordship in mind of renewing his pleasure almost in sight of the cuckold. The fair was no longer coy, and easily yielded to his desires. He in short carried the girl home and then prostituted her to the duke's pleasure, after he had been cloyed himself. The old man going home, and finding his sitter asleep, his wife fled, and his money gone, was thrown into a state of madness, and soon hanged himself. The news was soon spread about the neighbourhood, and reached the inn, where both lovers, now as weary of their purchase as desirous of it before, advised her to go to London, with which she complied, and in all probability followed there the trade of prostitution for a subsistance.

The King, soon after this infamous adventure, coming that way, found them both in their posts at the inn, took them again into favour, and suffered them to go with him to Newmarket. This exploit of lord Rochester is not at all improbable, when his character is considered; His treachery in the affair of the miser's wife is very like him; and surely it was one of the greatest acts of baseness of which he was ever guilty; he artfully seduced her, while her unsuspecting husband was entertained by the duke of Buckingham; he contrived a robbery, and produced the death of the injured husband; this complicated crime was one of those heavy charges on his mind when he lay on his death-bed, under the dreadful alarms of his conscience.

His lordship's amours at court made a great noise in the world of gallantry, especially that which he had with the celebrated Mrs. Roberts, mistress to the King, whom she abondoned for the possession of Rochester's heart, which she found to her experience, it was not in her power long to hold. The earl, who was soon cloyed with the possession of any one woman, tho' the fairest in the world, forsook her. The lady after the first indignation of her passion subsided, grew as indifferent, and considered upon the proper means of retrieving the King's affections. The occasion was luckily given her one morning while she was dressing: she saw the King coming by, she hurried, down with her hair disheveled, threw herself at his feet, implored his pardon, and vowed constancy for the future. The King, overcome with the well-dissembled agonies of this beauty, raised her up, took her in his arms, and protested no man could see her, and not love her: he waited on her to her lodging, and there compleated the reconciliation. This easy behaviour of the King, had, with many other instances of the same kind, determined my lord Hallifax to assert, "That the love of King Charles II, lay as much as any man's, in the lower regions; that he was indifferent as to their constancy, and only valued them for the sensual pleasure they could yield."

Lord Rochester's frolics in the character of a mountebank are well known, and the speech which he made upon the occasion of his first turning itinerant doctor, has been often printed; there is in it a true spirit of satire, and a keenness of lampoon, which is very much in the character of his lordship, who had certainly an original turn for invective and satirical composition.

We shall give the following short extract from this celebrated speech, in which his lordship's wit appears pretty conspicuous.

"If I appear (says Alexander Bendo) to any one like a counterfeit, even for the sake of that chiefly ought I to be construed a true man, who is the counterfeit's example, his original, and that which he employs his industry and pains to imitate and copy. Is it therefore my fault if the cheat, by his wit and endeavours, makes himself so like me, that consequently I cannot avoid resembling him? Consider, pray, the valiant and the coward, the wealthy merchant and the bankrupt; the politician and the fool; they are the same in many things, and differ but in one alone. The valiant man holds up his hand, looks confidently round about him, wears a sword, courts a lord's wife, and owns it; so does the coward. One only point of honour, and that's courage, which (like false metal, one only trial can discover) makes the distinction. The bankrupt walks the exchange, buys bargains, draws bills, and accepts them with the richest, whilst paper and credit are current coin; that which makes the difference is real cash, a great defect indeed, and yet but one, and that the last found out, and still till then the least perceived.—Now for the politician; he is a grave, diliberating, close, prying man: Pray are there not grave, deliberating, close, prying fools? If therefore the difference betwixt all these (tho' infinite in effect) be so nice in all appearance, will you yet expect it should be otherwise between the false physician, astrologer, &c. and the true? The first calls himself learned doctor, sends forth his bills, gives physic and council, tells, and foretells; the other is bound to do just as much. It is only your experience must distinguish betwixt them, to which I willingly submit myself."