Though I have been a toss-pot these twenty good years,

And have drank so much liquor has made me a debtor,

I my days, that I know of, I never drank better: We found it so good, and we drank so profoundly, That four good round shillings were whipt away roundly;

And then I conceived it was time to be jogging, For our work had been done, had we stay'd t' other noggin.

From thence we set forth with more mettle and spright,

Our horses were empty, our coxcombs were light;
O'er Dellamore forest we, tantivy, posted,
Till our horses were basted as if they were roasted:
In truth, we pursued might have been by our
haste,

And I think Sir George Booth did not gallop so fast,

Till about two o'clock after noon, God be blest, We came, safe and sound, all to Chester i' th' west. And now in high time 'twas to call for some meat,

Though drinking does well, yet some time we must eat;

And i' faith we had victuals both plenty and good, Where we all laid about us as if we were wood: Go thy ways, mistress Anderton, for a good woman, Thy guests shall by thee ne'er be turn'd to a

To-night let us rest, for 'tis good Sunday's even, To-morrow to church, and ask pardon of Heaven. Thus far we our time spent, as here I have penn'd it,

An odd kind of life, and 'tis well if we mend it: But to-morrow (God willing) we'll have t' other bout,

And better or worse be't, for murder will out, Our future adventures we'll lay down before ye, For my Muse is deep sworn to use truth of the story.

CANTO II.

AFTER seven hours' sleep, to commute for pains taken,

A man of himself, one would think, might awaken; But riding, and drinking hard, were two such spells,

I doubt I'd slept on, but for jangling of bells, Which, ringing to matins all over the town, Made me leap out of bed, and put on my gown, With intent (so God mend me) I have gone to the choir,

When straight I perceived myself all on a fire; For the two fore-named things had so heated my blood,

That a little phlebotomy would do me good:
I sent for chirurgion, who came in a trice,
And swift to shed blood, needed not to be called

twice,

But tilted stiletto quite through the vein,
From whence issued out the ill humours amain;
When having twelve ounces, he bound up my arm,
And I gave him two Georges, which did him no
harm :

But after my bleeding, I soon understood
It had cool'd my devotion as well as my blood;
For I had no more mind to look on my psalter,
Than (saving your presence) I had to a halter;
But, like a most wicked and obstinate sinner,
Then sat in my chamber till folks came to dinner:
I dined with good stomach, and very good cheer,
With a very fine woman, and good ale and beer;
When myself having stuff'd than a bagpipe more
full,

I fell to my smoking until I grew dull;
And, therefore, to take a fine nap thought it best,
For when belly full is, bones would be at rest:
I tumbled me down on my bed like a swad,
Where, O! the delicious dream that I had!
Till the bells, that had been my morning molesters,
Now waked me again, chiming all in to vespers;
With that starting up, for my man I did whistle,
And comb'd out and powder'd my locks that

were grizzle ;

Had my clothes neatly brush'd, and then put on my sword,

Resolved now to go and attend on the word.

Thus trick'd, and thus trim, to set forth I begin, Neat and cleanly without, but scarce cleanly within;

For why, Heaven knows it, I long time had been
A most humble obedient servant to sin:
And now in devotion was even so proud,
I scorn'd (forsooth) to join pray'r with the crowd;
For though courted by all the bells as I went,
I was deaf, and regarded not the compliment,
But to the cathedral still held on my pace,
As 't were, scorning to kneel but in the best place.
I there made myself sure of good music at least,
But was something deceived, for 'twas none of

the best:

But however, I stay'd at the church's command

ing

Till we came to the "Peace passes all understanding,"

Which no sooner was ended, but whir and away, Like boys in a school when they've leave got to play;

All save master mayor, who still gravely stays Till the rest had left room for his worship and 's

mace:

Then he and his brethren in order appear,
I out of my stall, and fell into his rear;
For why, 'tis much safer appearing, no doubt,
In authority's tail, than the head of a rout.

In this rev'rend order we marchéd from pray'r;
The mace before me borne as well as the may'r;
Who looking behind him, and seeing most plain
A glorious gold belt in the rear of his train,
Made such a low congé, forgetting his place,
I was never so honour'd before in my days:
But then off went my scalp-case, and down went
my fist,

Till the pavement, too hard, by my knuckles was kiss'd;

By which, though thick-skull'd, he must understand this,

That I was a most humble servant of his; Which also so wonderfully kindly he took, (As I well perceived both b' his gesture and look,) That to have me dogg'd home he straitway appointed,

Resolving, it seems, to be better acquainted.

I was scarce in my quarters, and set down on

crupper,

But his man was there too, to invite me to supper;
I start up, and after most respective fashion
Gave his worship much thanks for his kind in-
vitation;

But begg'd his excuse, for my stomach was small,
And I never did eat any supper at all;
But that after supper I would kiss his hands,
And would come to receive his worship's com-
mands.

Sure no one will say, but a patron of slander,
That this was not pretty well for a Moorlander:
And since on such reasons to sup I refused,
I nothing did doubt to be holden excused;
But my quaint repartee had his worship possess'd
With so wonderful good a conceit of the rest,
That with more impatience he hop'd in his breeches
To see the fine fellow that made such fine speeches:
"Go, sirrah!" quoth he, "get you to him again,
And will and require, in his majesty's name,

That he come; and tell him, obey he were best, or
I'll teach him to know that he's now in West-
Chester."

The man, upon this, comes me running again, But yet minced his message, and was not so

plain;

Saying to me only, "Good sir, I am sorry

To tell you my master has sent again for you; And has such a longing to have you his guest, That I, with these ears, heard him swear and protest,

I said I was ready master may❜r to obey, And therefore desired him to lead me the way. We went, and ere Malkin could well lick her ear, (For it but the next door was, forsooth) we were there;

Where lights being brought me, I mounted the stairs,

The worst I e'er saw in my life at a mayor's:
But every thing else must be highly commended.
I there found his worship most nobly attended,
Besides such a supper as well did convince,
A may'r in his province to be a great prince;
As he sat in his chair, he did not much vary,
In state nor in face, from our eighth English
Harry ;

But whether his face was swell'd up with fat,
Or puff'd up with glory, I cannot tell that.
Being enter'd the chamber half length of a pike,
And cutting of faces exceedingly like
[Indies,
One of those little gentlemen brought from the
And screwing myself into congés and cringes,
By then I was half way advanced in the room,
His worship most rev'rendly rose from his bum,
And with the more honour to grace and to greet
me,

Advanced a whole step and an half for to meet

me;

Where leisurely doffing a hat worth a tester, He bade me most heartily welcome to Chester. I thank'd him in language the best I was able, And so we forthwith sat us all down to table.

Now here you must note, and 'tis worth ob

servation,

That as his chair at one end o' th' table had station;

So sweet mistress may'ress, in just such another, Like the fair queen of hearts, sat in state at the other;

By which I perceived, though it seemed a riddle, The lower end of this must be just in the middle: But perhaps 'tis a rule there, and one that would mind it

Amongst the town-statutes 'tis likely might find it. But now into th' pottage each deep his spoon claps, As in truth one might safely for burning one's chaps,

When straight, with the look and the tone of a scold,

Mistress may'ress complain'd that the pottage was cold;

"And all long of your fiddle-faddle," quoth she. Why, what then, Goody Two-Shoes, what if it be? "Hold you, if you can, your tittle-tattle," quoth he. I was glad she was snapp'd thus, and guess'd by th' discourse,

The may'r, not the gray mare, was the better horse,

And yet for all that, there is reason to fear,
She submitted but out of respect to his year:
However 'twas well she had now so much grace,

bum,

Nor open his napkin, until you do come." With that I perceived no excuse would avail, And, seeing there was no defence for a flail,

For had she proceeded, I verily thought
My turn would the next be, for I was in fault:
But this brush being past, we fell to our diet,
And ev'ry one there fill'd his belly in quiet.

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

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 tune. 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.