he published, seems to have been more resolute than his defence of the fortress. In the course of the civil war, he was made prisoner by the royalists, and when some of them were desirous of making an example of him, Denham, the poet, is said to have pleaded with his majesty that he would not hang him, for as long as Wither lived he (Denham) could not be accounted the worst poet in England. Wood informs us that he was afterwards constituted by Cromwell majorgeneral of all the horse and foot in the county of Surrey. In his addresses to Cromwell there is, mixed with his usual garrulity of advice and solemnity of warning, a considerable degree of adulation. His admonitions probably exposed him to little hazard; they were the croakings of the raven on the right hand. It should be mentioned however, to the honour of his declared principles, that in the "National Remembrancer" he sketched the plan of an annual and freely elected parliament, which differed altogether from the shadow of representation afforded by the government of the usurper. On the demise of Cromwell he hailed the accession of Richard with

joyful gratulation. He never but once in his life foreboded good, and in that prophecy he was mistaken.

At the Restoration, the estates, which he had either acquired or purchased during the interregnum, were taken from him. But the event which crushed his fortunes could not silence his pen, and he was committed first to Newgate and afterwards to The Tower, for remonstrances, which were deemed a libel on the new government. From the multitude of his writings, during a three years' imprisonment, it may be clearly gathered, that he was treated not only with rigour, but injustice; for the confiscation of his property was made by forcible entry, and besides being illegal in form, was directly contrary to the declaration that had been issued by Charles the Second before his accession. That he died in prison may be inferred from the accounts, though not clear from the dates of his biographers; but his last days must have been spent in wretchedness and obscurity. He was buried between the east door and the south end of the Savoy church, in the Strand.

SEE'ST thou not, in clearest days,
Oft thick fogs could heavens raise?
And the vapours that do breathe
From the earth's gross womb beneath,
Seem they not with their black steams
To pollute the sun's bright beams,
And yet vanish into air,
Leaving it (unblemish'd) fair?
So, my Willy, shall it be

With Detraction's breath and thee:

It shall never rise so high

As to stain thy poesy.

As that sun doth oft exhale
Vapours from each rotten vale ;
Poesy so sometimes drains
Gross conceits from muddy brains;
Mists of envy, fogs of spite,
"Twixt men's judgments and her light;
But so much her power may do
That she can dissolve them too.
If thy verse do bravely tower,

As she makes wing, she gets power!
Yet the higher she doth soar,
She's affronted still the more :
Till she to the high'st hath past,
Then she rests with Fame at last.
Let nought therefore thee affright,
But make forward in thy flight:
For if I could match thy rhyme,
To the very stars I'd climb;
There begin again, and fly
Till I reach'd eternity.
But, alas! my Muse is slow;
For thy pace she flags too low.

Yes, the more's her hapless fate,
Her short wings were clipp'd of late;
And poor I, her fortune ruing,
Am myself put up a muing.
But if I my cage can rid,
I'll fly, where I never did.

And though for her sake I'm crost,
Though my best hopes I have lost,
And knew she would make my trouble
Ten times more than ten times double;
I would love and keep her too,
Spite of all the world could do.
For though banish'd from my flocks,
And confined within these rocks,
Here I waste away the light,
And consume the sullen night;
She doth for my comfort stay,
And keeps many cares away.
Though I miss the flowery fields,

With those sweets the spring-tide yields;

Though I may not see those groves,
Where the shepherds chaunt their loves,

And the lasses more excel

Than the sweet-voiced Philomel;
Though of all those pleasures past,
Nothing now remains at last,

But remembrance, poor relief,

That more makes than mends my grief:
She's my mind's companion still,
Maugre Envy's evil will:

[* He was released from prison on the 27th July 1663, on his bond to the Lieutenant of the Tower for his good behaviour; and died, though not in prison, on the 2nd of May 1667.-See Willmott's Lives of the Sacred Poets, vol. i.]

Whence she should be driven to,
Were't in mortals' power to do.
She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow;
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace,
And the blackest discontents
Be her fairest ornaments.
In my former days of bliss,
His divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw,
I could some invention draw;
And raise pleasure to her height
Through the meanest object's sight:
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustling;
By a daisy, whose leaves spread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me,
Than all Nature's beauties can,
In some other wiser man.
By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Some things that may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness:
The dull loneness, the black shade
That these hanging vaults have made,
The strange music of the waves,
Beating on these hollow caves,
This black den, which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss;
The rude portals, that give light
More to terror than delight,
This my chamber of neglect,
Wall'd about with disrespect,
From all these, and this dull air,
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.

Therefore then, best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this!
Poesy, thou sweet'st content
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent;
Though they as a trifle leave thee,
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,
Though thou be to them a scorn

That to nought but earth are born;
Let my life no longer be

Than I am in love with thee !

Though our wise ones call it madness,

Let me never taste of gladness
If I love not thy mad'st fits
Above all their greatest wits!
And though some, too seeming holy,
Do account thy raptures folly,
Thou dost teach me to contemn
What makes knaves and fools of them!

[* The praises of poetry have been often sung in ancient and modern times; strange powers have been ascribed to it of influence over animate and inanimate auditors; its force over fascinated crowds has been acknowledged;

THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION.

SHALL I, wasting in despair,

Die because a woman's fair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,

Or the flow'ry meads in May;
If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be ?

Shall my foolish heart be pined,
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
The turtle-dove or pelican;

If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be !
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her well-deservings known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest,
Which may merit name of Best ;
If she be not such to me,

What care I how good she be ?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do,
That without them dare to woo ;

And, unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair:
If she love me, this believe-
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go:
If she be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be ?

THE STEDFAST SHEPHERD.

HENCE away, thou Siren, leave me,
Pish! unclasp these wanton arms;
Sugar'd words can ne'er deceive me,
(Though thou prove a thousand charms).
Fie, fie, forbear;

No common snare

Can ever my affection chain :

Thy painted baits,

And poor deceits,

Are all bestow'd on me in vain.

but before Wither, no one had celebrated its power at home; the wealth and the strength which this divine gift confers upon its possessor.-LAMB.]

SONG.

DRY those fair, those crystal eyes,
Which like growing fountains rise

To drown their banks! Grief's sullen brooks
Would better flow in furrow'd looks:
Thy lovely face was never meant
To be the shore of discontent.

Then clear those waterish stars again,
Which else portend a lasting rain;
Lest the clouds which settle there
Prolong my winter all the year,
And thy example others make
In love with sorrow, for thy sake.

[ His" Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes and Sonnets" (8vo. 1657) have a neatness, elegance and even a tenderness, which entitle them to more attention than they now obtain.]

SIC VITA.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood :
Even such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies;
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot :
The flight is past—and man forgot.

LIFE.

WHAT is the existence of man's life
But open war or slumber'd strife?
Where sickness to his sense presents
The combat of the elements,
And never feels a perfect peace
Till death's cold hand signs his release.

It is a storm-where the hot blood
Outvies in rage the boiling flood:
And each loud passion of the mind
Is like a furious gust of wind,
Which beats the bark with many a wave,
Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower-which buds, and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose;
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleep,
Then shrinks into that fatal mould
Where its first being was enroll'd.

It is a dream-whose seeming truth
Is moralised in age and youth;
Where all the comforts he can share
As wand'ring as his fancies are,
Till in a mist of dark decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial-which points out
The sunset as it moves about ;
And shadows out in lines of night
The subtle stages of Time's flight,
Till all-obscuring earth hath laid
His body in perpetual shade.

It is a weary interlude—

Which doth short joys, long woes, include:
The world the stage, the prologue tears;
The acts vain hopes and varied fears;
The scene shuts up with loss of breath,
And leaves no epilogue but Death!

As a dissenting clergyman. The dates of his rth and death are not given by Jacob. He

was author of a poem, entitled "Iter Boreale,” and "The Benefice," a comedy.

252

All the arts I have skill in,
Divine and human,
Yet all's not worth a shilling.
When the women hear me
They do but jeer me,
And say I am profane.
Once I remember

I preached with a weaver ;
I quoted Austin,

He quoted Dod and Clever:
I nothing got,

He got a cloak and beaver.
Alas, poor, &c.

Ships, ships, ships I discover,
Crossing the main ;
Shall I in and go over,
Turn Jew or Atheist,
Turk or Papist,

To Geneva or Amsterdam ?

Bishoprics are void

In Scotland, shall I thither!
Or follow Windebank
And Finch, to see if either

Do want a priest to shrieve them?
O no, 'tis blustering weather.
Alas, poor, &c.

Ho, ho, ho, I have hit it:
Peace, Goodman fool!
Thou hast a trade will fit it;
Draw thy indenture,

Be bound at a venture

An apprentice to a free-school;
There thou mayst command,
By William Lilly's charter;
There thou mayst whip, strip,
And hang, and draw and quarter,
And commit to the red rod

Both Will, and Tom, and Arthur.
Ay ay, 'tis hither, hither will I go.

Who, in the silence of the night,

Taking a fall that may untie

Eight of nine lives, and let them fly. Or may the midnight embers singe Thy dainty coat, or Jane beswinge

What, was there ne'er a rat nor mouse, Nor buttery ope; nought in the house But harmless lute-strings, could suffice

Leaving such relics as may be

For frets, not for my lute, but me.

Puss, I will curse thee! may'st thou dwell
With some dry hermit in a cell,

Where rat ne'er peep'd, where mouse ne'er fed,
And flies go supperless to bed ;

Or with some close-pared brother, where
Thou'lt fast each sabbath in the year;
Or else, profane, be hang'd on Monday,
For butchering a mouse on Sunday.
Or may'st thou tumble from some tower,
And miss to light upon all-four,

Did not thy conscious stomach find Nature profaned, that kind with kind Should stanch his hunger? think on that, Thou cannibal and cyclops cat! For know, thou wretch, that every string Is a cat's gut which art doth bring Into a thread; and now suppose Dunstan, that snuff'd the devil's nose, Should bid these strings revive, as once He did the calf from naked bones; Or I, to plague thee for thy sin, Should draw a circle, and begin