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So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot ;

A heap of dust alone remains of thee,

'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall like those they sung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!



Wol.-Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a rip'ning, nips his shoot; And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd. Like little wanton boys, that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new-open'd. Oh, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,

More pangs and fears than war or women have ;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.—[Enter Cromwell.]
Why, how now, Cromwell?

Crom.—I have no power to speak, sir.
Wol. What, amaz'd


my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder A great man should decline ?

Crom.-How does your Grace ?

Wol. Why, well;

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now, and I feel within me

A peace above all earthly dignities;

A still and quiet conscience. The King has cur'd me,
I humbly thank his Grace; and, from these shoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity taken

A load would sink a navy, too much honour.
Oh, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heav'n!
Go get thee from me, Cromwell;

I am a poor fall'n man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master. Seek the King.
(That sun I pray may never set,) I've told him

What, and how true thou art; he will advance thee;

Some little memory of me will stir him

(I know his noble nature) not to let

Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make use now and provide
For thine own future safety.

Crom.-O my Lord!

Must I then leave you? Must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master?
Bear witness all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.
The King shall have my service, but my pray'rs
For ever, and for ever, shall be yours.

Wol.-Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries, but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman-
Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell,
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard, say then I taught thee;
Say Wolsey, that once rode the waves of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me:
Cromwell, I charge thee fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then
(Though th' image of his Maker) hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that wait thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's and Truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr!

Lead me in, and take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny, 'tis the King's. My robe,
And my integrity to Heav'n, are all

I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my King, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!


UNHAPPY White! while life was in its spring,
And thy young muse just wav'd her joyous wing,
The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away,
Which else had sounded an immortal lay.

Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science self destroy'd her favourite son!
Yes, she too much indulg'd thy fond pursuit,
She sowed the seeds, but Death has reap'd the fruit.
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow,
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low:
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart:
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel;
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.


How shocking must thy summons be, O Death!
To him that is at ease in his possessions;
Who counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnish'd for the world to come!
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement;
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help;
But shrieks in vain! How wishfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer; yet a little longer;

Oh, might she stay to wash away her stains;
And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight!
Her very eyes weep blood; and ev'ry groan
She heaves is big with horror. But the foe,
Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose,
Pursues her close through ev'ry lane of life;
Nor misses once the track; but presses on,
Till forc'd at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.



WE are told by some ancient authors, that Socrates was instructed in eloquence by a woman, whose name, if I am not mistaken, was Aspasia. I have indeed very often looked upon that art as the most proper for the female sex; and I think the universities would do well to consider whether they should not fill the rhetoric chairs with she-professors.

It has been said in the praise of some men, that they could talk whole hours together upon any thing; but it must be owned, to the honour of the other sex, that there are many among them who can talk whole hours together upon nothing. I have known a woman branch out into a long extempore dissertation upon the edging of a petticoat, and chide her servant for breaking a china cup, in all the figures of rhetoric.

Were women admitted to plead in courts of judicature, I am persuaded they would carry the eloquence of the bar to greater heights than it has yet arrived at. If any one doubts this, let him but be present at those debates which frequently arise among the ladies of the British fishery.'

The first kind, therefore of female orators which I shall take notice of, are those who are employed in stirring up the passions; a part of rhetoric in which Socrates's wife had perhaps made a greater proficiency than his above-mentioned teacher.

The second kind of female orators are those who deal in invectives, and who are commonly known by the name of the Censorious. The imagination and elocution of this set of rhetoricians is wonderful. With what a fluency of invention, and copiousness of expression, will they enlarge upon every little slip in the behaviour of another! With how many different circumstances, and with what variety of

The writer means the Fishwomen of Billingsgate.

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