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 observa-
tion,

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.

66

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,
Though not to the man, to submit to his place;
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.

Supper being ended, and things away taken,
Master mayor's curiosity 'gan to awaken; [chair,
Wherefore making me draw something nearer his
He will'd and required me there to declare
My country, my birth, my estate, and my parts,
And whether I was not a master of arts;

And eke what the bus'ness was had brought me thither,

With what I was going about now, and whither :
Giving me caution, no lie should escape me,
For if I should trip, he should certainly trap me.
I answer'd, my country was famed Staffordshire;
That in deeds, bills, and bonds, I was ever writ
squire ;

That of land I had both sorts, some good, and some evil,

But that a great part on't was pawn'd to the Devil; That as for my parts, they were such as he saw; That, indeed, I had a small smatt'ring of law, Which I lately had got more by practice than reading,

By sitting o' th' bench, whilst others were pleading; But that arms I had ever more studied than arts, And was now to a captain raised by my deserts;

That the bus'ness which led me through Palatine ground

Into Ireland was, whither now I was bound;
Where his worship's great favour I loud will pro-
And in all other places wherever I came. [claim,
He said, as to that, I might do what I list,
But that I was welcome, and gave me his fist;
When having my fingers made crack with his gripes,
He call'd to his man for some bottles and pipes.
To trouble you here with a longer narration
Of the several parts of our confabulation,
Perhaps would be tedious; I'll therefore remit ye
Even to the most rev'rend records of the city,
Where doubtless, the acts of the may'rs are re-

corded,

And if not more truly, yet much better worded.

In short, then, we piped and we tippled Canary, Till my watch pointed one in the circle horary; When thinking it now was high time to depart, His worship I thank'd with a most grateful heart; And because to great men presents are acceptable, I presented the may'r, ere I rose from the table, With a certain fantastical box and a stopper; And he having kindly accepted my offer,

I took my fair leave, such my visage adorning, And to bed, for I was to rise early i' th' morning.

CANTO III.

THE Sun in the morning disclosed his light,
With complexion as ruddy as mine over night;
And o'er th' eastern mountains peeping up's head,
The casement being open, espied me in bed;
With his rays he so tickled my lids that I waked,
And was half ashamed, for I found myself naked;
But up I soon start, and was dress'd in a trice,
And call'd for a draught of ale, sugar, and spice;
Which having turn'd off, I then call to pay,
And packing my nawls, whipp'd to horse, and away.
A guide I had got, who demanded great vails,
For conducting me over the mountains of Wales:
Twenty good shillings, which sure very large is ;
Yet that would not serve, but I must bear his charges;
And yet for all that, rode astride on a beast,
The worst that e'er went on three legs, I protest :
It certainly was the most ugly of jades,
His hips and his rump made a right ace of spades;
His sides were two ladders, well spur-gall'd withal;
His neck was a helve, and his head was a mall;
For his colour, my pains and your trouble I'll spare,
For the creature was wholly denuded of hair;
And, except for two things, as bare as my nail,
A tuft of a mane, and a sprig of a tail;
And by these the true colour one can no more know,
Than by mouse-skins above stairs, the merkin below,
Now such as the beast was, even such was the rider,
With a head like a nutmeg, and legs like a spider;
A voice like a cricket, a look like a rat,
The brains of a goose, and the heart of a cat :
Even such was my guide and his beast; let them
The one for a horse, and the other an ass. [pass,

But now with our horses, what sound and what rotten,

Down to the shore, you must know, we were gotten; And there we were told, it concern'd us to ride, Unless we did mean to encounter the tide ;

And then my guide lab'ring with heels and with hands,

With two up and one down, hopp'd over the sands,
Till his horse, finding the labour for three legs too
Fol'd out a new leg, and then he had four : [sore,
And now by plain dint of hard spurring and whipping,
Dry-shod we came where folks sometimes take
shipping;

And where the salt sea, as the Devil were in't,
Came roaring t'have hinder'd our journey to Flint;
But we, by good luck, before him got thither,
He else would have carried us, no man knows
whither.

And now her in Wales is, saint Taph be her speed, Gott splutter her taste, some Welsh ale her had need;

For her ride in great haste, and

For fear of her being catch'd up by the fishes:
But the lord of Flint castle's no lord worth a louse,
For he keeps ne'er a drop of good drink in his house;
But in a small house near unto't there was store
Of such ale as (thank God) I ne'er tasted before;
And surely the Welsh are not wise of their fuddle,
For this had the taste and complexion of puddle.
From thence then we march'd, full as dry as we came,
My guide before prancing, his steed no more lame,
O'er hills and o'er valleys uncouth and uneven,
Until 'twixt the hours of twelve and eleven,
More hungry and thirsty than tongue can well tell,
We happily came to St. Winifred's well :
I thought it the pool of Bethesda had been,
By the cripples lay there; but I went to my inn
To speak for some meat, for so stomach did motion,
Before I did farther proceed in devotion:
I went into th' kitchen, where victuals I saw,
Both beef, veal, and mutton, but all on't was raw;
And some on't alive, but soon went to slaughter,
For four chickens were slain by my dame and her
daughter;

Of which to saint Win. ere my vows I had paid,
They said I should find a rare fricasée made :
I thank'd them, and straight to the well did repair,
Where some I found cursing, and others at pray'r;
Some dressing, some stripping, some out and some in,
Some naked, where botches and boils might be seen;
Of which some were fevers of Venus I'm sure,
And therefore unfit for the virgin to cure :
But the fountain, in truth, is well worth the sight,
The beautiful virgin's own tears not more bright;
Nay, none but she ever shed such a tear,

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

In the bottom there lie certain stones that look white, But streaked with pure red, as the morning with light,

Which they say is her blood, and so it may be,
But for that, let who shed it look to it for me.

Over the fountain a chapel there stands,
Which I wonder has 'scaped master Oliver's hands;
The floor's not ill paved, and the margin o' th'
Is inclosed with a certain octagonal ring; [spring
From each angle of which a pillar does rise,
Of strength and of thickness enough to suffice
To support and uphold from falling to ground
A cupola wherewith the virgin is crown'd.
Now 'twixt the two angles that fork to the north,
And where the cold nymph does her basin pour
forth,

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

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

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

sores.

But one thing I chiefly admired in the place,
That a saint and a virgin endued with such grace,
Should yet be so wonderful kind a well-willer
To that whoring and filching trade of a miller,
As within a few paces to furnish the wheels
Of I cannot tell how many water-mills:
I've studied that point much, you cannot guess why,
But the virgin was, doubtless, more righteous
than I.

And now for my welcome, four, five, or six lasses,
With as many crystalline liberal glasses,
Did all importune me to drink of the water
Of Saint Winifreda, good Thewith's fair daughter.
A while I was doubtful, and stood in a muse,
Not knowing, amidst all that choice, where to choose.
Till a pair of black eyes, darting full in my sight,
From the rest o' th' fair maidens did carry me quite;
I took the glass from her, and whip, off it went,
I half doubt I fancied a health to the saint:
But he was a great villain committed the slaughter,
For St. Winifred made most delicate water.
I slipp'd a hard shilling into her soft hand,
Which had like to have made me the place have

profaned;

And giving two more to the poor that were there, Did, sharp as a hawk, to my quarters repair.

My dinner was ready, and to it I fell,

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

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

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

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

'Twixt the wood and the castle they see at high

water

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

Perhaps though in time one may make them to
But 'tis pretti'st Cob-castle e'er I beheld. [yield,
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 afterwards 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

As

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

tune.

RISE then, Aristo's son, assist my Muse;
Let that high sprite which did enrich thy brains
With choice conceits, some worthy thoughts infuse
Worthy thy title and the reader's pains.
And thou, O Lycian sage! whose pen contains
Treasures of heavenly light with gentle fire,
Give leave awhile to warm me at thy flames,
That I may also kindle sweet desire

In holy minds that unto highest things aspire.

For I would sing the pre-existency
Of human souls, and live once o'er again,
By recollection and quick memory,
All that is past since first we all began;
But all too shallow be my wits to scan

So deep a point, and mind too dull to clear
So dark a matter. But thou, more than man,
Aread, thou sacred soul of Plotin dear,
Tell me what mortals are-tell what of old they
[were.

A spark or ray of the divinity,
Clouded with earthy fogs, yclad in clay,
A precious drop sunk from eternity,
Spilt on the ground, or rather slunk away;
For then we fell when we 'gan first t'assay,
By stealth of our own selves, something to been
Uncentering ourselves from our great stay,
Which fondly we new liberty did ween, [deem.
And from that prank right jolly wits ourselves did
[* Collins.]

Show fitly how the pre-existent soul
Enacts and enters bodies here below,
And then entire unhurt can leave this moul,
And thence her airy vehicle can draw,

In which by sense and motion they may know,
Better than we, what things transacted be
Upon the earth, and when they list may show
Themselves to friend or foe, their phantasie
Moulding their airy orb to gross consistency.

Wherefore the soul possess'd of matter meet,
If she hath power to operate thereon,
Can eath transform this vehicle to sight,
Dight with due colour figuration,

Can speak, can walk, and then dispear anon,
Spreading herself in the dispersed air,
Then, if she please, recall again what's gone :
Those th' uncouth mysteries of fancy are-
Than thunder far more strong, more quick than
lightning far.

Some heaving toward this strange activity
We may observe ev'n in this mortal state;
Here health and sickness of the phantasie
Often proceed, which working minds create,
And pox and pestilence do malleate,
Their thoughts still beating on those objects ill,
Which doth the master'd blood contaminate,
And with foul poisonous impressions fill,
And last, the precious life with deadly dolour kill.

All these declare the force of phantasie,
Though working here upon this stubborn clay;
But th' airy vehicle yields more easily,
Unto her beck more nimbly doth obey,
Which truth the joint confessions bewray
Of damned hags and masters of bold skill,
Whose hellish mysteries fully to display, [o'erspill.
The earth would groan, trees sigh, and horror all

But he that out of darkness giveth light,
He guide my steps in this so uncouth way;
And ill-done deeds by children of the night
Convert to good, while I shall hence assay
The noble soul's condition ope to lay,
And show her empire on her airy sphere,
By what of sprites and spectres stories say;
For sprites and spectres that by night appear
Be or all with the soul, or of a nature near.

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

There be six sort of sprites: Lelurion

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

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

Cameleon-like they thus their colour change,
And size contract, and then dilate again,
Like the soft earth-worm hurt by heedless chance,
Shrinks in herself to shun or ease her pain.
Nor do they only thus themselves constrain
Into less bulk, but if with courage bold,
And flaming brand, thou strike these shades in twain
Close quick as cloven air. So sang that wizard old.

And truth he said, whatever he has told,
As even this present age may verify,
If any lists its stories to unfold,
Of Hugo, of hobgoblins, of incubi,
Abhorred dugs by devils sucken dry;
Of leaping lamps, and of fierce flying stones,
Of living wool and such like witchery;

Or proved by sight or self-confessions,

Which things much credence gain to past traditions.

Wherefore with boldness we will now relate
Some few in brief; as of th' Astorgan lad
Whose peevish mother, in fell ire and hate,
With execration bold, the devil bad
Take him alive. Which mood the boy n'ote bear.
But quits the room-walks out with spirit sad,
Into the court, where lo! by night appear
Two giants with grim looks, rough limbs, black
grisly hair.

The walking skeleton in Bolonia,

Laden with rattling chains, that show'd his grave
To the watchful student, who without dismay
Bid tell his wants and speak what he would have,
Thus cleared he the house by courage brave.
Nor may I pass the fair Cerdinian maid
Whose love a jolly swain did kindly crave,
And oft with mutual solace with her staid,
Yet he no jolly swain, but a deceitful shade.

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

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

own.