Thus thou and I the god have armid,

And set him up a deity; But my poor heart alone is harm'd, ,

Whilst thine the victor is, and free. CHARLES COTTON

Was born at Beresford in Staffordshire, 1630. He received

his education at Cambridge, and afterwards travelled : was twice married; had several children; resided principally at his family seat: and died in 1687. A curious anecdote

is related of him in the Biographia Dramatica. This pleasing and elegant author was chiefly distinguished

by his “ Virgil Travestie," and other burlesque translations, and in this style of writing was considered as only inferior to Butler. Vide Shiell's (commonly called Cibber's) Lives of the Poets. His “ Complete Angler," republished by Sir John Hawkins together with that of Izaac Walton, is also a deservedly popular performance. The following pieces are extracted from his “ Poems on several Occasions,” 8vo. 1689.

To Chloris.

LORD! how you take upon you still!

How you crow and domineer!
How! still expect to have your will,

And carry the dominion clear,
As you were still the same that once you were!

Fie, Chloris ! 'tis a gross mistake;
Correct your error,

and be wise!

I kindly still your kindness take,
But yet have learn'd, though love I prize,
Your froward humours to despise,
And now disdain to call them cruelties.

I was a fool whilst you were fair,

And I had youth ť excuse it;
And all the rest are so that lovers are :
I then myself your vassal sware,
And could be still so (which is rare),

But on condition that you not abuse it.

Tis beauty that to woman-kind

Gives all the rule and sway ; Which once declining, or declin'd,

Men afterwards unwillingly obey.

Yet still you have enough, and more than needs,

To rule a more rebellious heart than mine ; For as your eyes still shoot, my heart still bleeds,

And I must be a subject still:

Nor is it much against my will, Though I pretend to wrestle and repine.

Your beauties, sweet, are in their height,

And I must still adore ;

New years new graces still create,
Nay, maugre time, mischance, and fate,

You in your very ruins shall have more
Than all the beauties that have grac'd the world

before.

[Extract from “ Contentation” (32 stanzas,) addressed to

Izaac Walton.]

O SENSELESS man,

that murmurs still
For happiness, and does not know
(E'en though he might enjoy his will)

What he would have to make him so !

Is it true happiness, to be

By undiscerning Fortune plac'd
In the most eminent degree,

Where few arrive, and none stand fast?

Titles and wealth are Fortune's toils,

Wherewith the vain themselves ensnare;
The great are proud of borrow'd spoils,

The miser's plenty breeds his care.

Nor is he happy who is trim,
Trick'd

up

in favours of the fair; Mirrors, with every breath made dim,

Birds, caught in every wanton snare.

'Tis contentation that alone

Can make us happy here below; And when this little life is gone,

Will lift us up to heaven too.

A very

little satisfies An honest and a grateful heart; And who would more than will suffice,

Does covet more than is his part.

That man is happy in his share,

Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed; Whose necessaries bound his care,

And honest labour makes his bed.