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Gave, from two conquer'd parts o' th' world their name, 1

Nor thy great grandsire, nor thy father Paul,
Who fell at Cannæ against Hannibal,
Nor I (for 'tis permitted to the ag'd
To boast their actions) had so oft engag'd
In battles, and in pleadings, had we thought
That only fame our virtuous actions brought;
'Twere better in soft pleasure and repose
Ingloriously our peaceful eyes to close:
Some high assurance hath possest my mind,
After my death a happier life to find.
Unless our souls from the Immortal came,
What end have we to seek immortal fame?
All virtuous spirits some such hope attends,
Therefore the wise his days with pleasure ends.
The foolish and short-sighted die with fear
That they go no where, or they know not where;
The wise and virtuous soul, with clearer eyes,
Before she parts, some happy port descries.
My friends, your fathers I shall surely see,
Nor only those I lov'd, or who lov'd me;
But such as before ours did end their days,

Of whom we hear, and read, and write their praise.
This I believe: for were I on my way
None should persuade me to return, or stay:
Should some god tell me, that I should be born,
And cry again, his offer I would scorn;
Asham'd, when I have ended well my race,
To be led back to my first starting-place. . .
Hence from an inn, not from my home I pass,
Since nature meant us here no dwelling-place.
Happy when I, from this turmoil set free,
That peaceful and divine assembly see.
Then cease to wonder that I feel no grief
From age, which is of my delights the chief.
My hopes, if this assurance hath deceiv'd
(That I man's soul immortal have believ'd),
And if I err no power shall dispossess
My thoughts of that expected happiness:
Though some minute philosophers pretend,
That with our days our pains and pleasures end.
If it be so I hold the safer side,

For none of them my error shall deride;
And if hereafter no rewards appear,
Yet virtue hath itself rewarded here.


Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few but such as cannot write, translate. But what in them is want of art or vice, In thee is either modesty or choice. That servile path thou nobly dost decline Of tracing word by word, and line by line; These are the labour'd birth of slavish brains,

1 Scipio Africanus and Scipio Asiaticus.

Not the effect of poetry, but pains;
Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrowness affords
No flight for thoughts, but poorly sticks at words.
A new and nobler way thou dost pursue,
To make translations and translators too:
They but preserve the ashes, thou the flame,
True to his sense, but truer to his fame.
Fording his current, where thou find'st it low,
Let'st in thine own to make it rise and flow,
Wisely restoring whatsoever grace

It lost by change of times, or tongue, or place.
Nor fetter'd to his numbers and his times,
Betray'st his music to unhappy rhymes;
Nor are the nerves of his compacted strength
Stretch'd and dissolv'd into unsinew'd length:
Yet after all (lest we should think it thine),
Thy spirit to his circle does confine.


Old Chaucer, like the morning star,

To us discovers day from far;

His light those mists and clouds dissolv'd
Which our dark nation long involv'd:
But he descending to the shades,
Darkness again the age invades.
Next (like Aurora) Spenser rose,
Whose purple blush the day foreshows;
The other three with his own fires
Phoebus, the poet's god, inspires;
By Shakspere's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines,
Our stage's lustre Rome's outshines:
These poets near our princes sleep,
And in one grave their mansion keep.
They liv'd to see so many days,

Till time had blasted all their bays:

But cursed be the fatal hour

That pluck'd the fairest, sweetest flower

That in the Muses' garden grew,

And amongst wither'd laurels threw.

Time, which made them their fame outlive,
To Cowley scarce did ripeness give.

Old mother-wit and nature gave

Shakspere and Fletcher all they have;

In Spenser, and in Jonson, art

Of slower nature got the start;

But both in him so equal are,

None knows which bears the happier share:
To him no author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own;

He melted not the ancient gold,
Nor, with Ben Jonson, did make bold
To plunder all the Roman stores
Of poets and of orators:
Horace's wit and Virgil's state
He did not steal, but emulate!

And when he would like them appear,

Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear. . . .



[Abbas, king of Persia, is led to believe that his son Mirza is a traitor, and wishes to depose him and seize the crown. Haly, his favourite, who hates the prince, has invented the tale, and brought up false proofs. The king orders the prince's eyes to be put out. The minister becomes more and more powerful, and fearing lest the king should relent, he causes a poisoned draught to be conveyed to the prince. The king too late finds out the perfidy of his favourite, and dies after recommending the Princess Erythaea to take care of the young Sophy, who is heir to the throne. Haly tries to set aside the prince and elect a tool of his own; his design had almost succeeded when Abdall and Morat, two friends of the murdered prince, lead on the army and bring the infamous favourite Haly to justice, at the same time seating the prince's son, Sophy, upon the throne, where he reigns happily King of Persia.]

Enter the Prince, who has been undeservedly blinded by his father the King; at the other door is the Princess his wife, and Sophy his son. servant leads the Prince.


Servant (to Prince). Sir, the princess and your


Prince. Sophy, thou comest to wonder at Thy wretched father; why dost thou interrupt Thy happiness, by looking at an object

So miserable?

Princess. My lord, methinks there is not in your voice

The vigour that was wont, nor in your look
The wonted cheerfulness. Are you well, my lord?
Prince. No: but I shall be. I feel my health
a coming.

Princess. What's your disease, my lord?

Prince. Nothing, but I have ta'en a cordial,
Sent by the king, or Haly, in requital
Of all my miseries, to make me happy:
The pillars of this frame grow weak,

As if the weight of many years oppress'd them;
My sinews slacken, and an icy stiffness
Benumbs my blood.

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They snatch me to it;
My soul is on her journey, do not now
Divert, or lead her back, to lose herself
I' th' maze and winding labyrinths o' th' world:
I prythee do not weep, thy love is that
part with most unwillingly, or otherwise
I had not stayed till rude necessity
Had forced me hence.

Sophy, be not a man too soon,
And when thou art, take heed of too much virtue;
It was thy father's and his only crime,
Twill make the king suspicious; yet e'er time
By nature's course has ripen'd thee to man,
Twill mellow him to dust, 'till then forget
I was thy father, yet forget it not,

My great example shall excite thy thoughts

To noble actions.

Give not your passions vent, nor let blind fury And you, dear Erythaea, Precipitate your thoughts, nor set 'em working, Till time shall lend 'em better means and instruments

Than lost complaints. Where's pretty Fatima? I prythee call her.

Princess. I will, sir, I pray try if sleep will


Your torments, and repair your wasted spirits.
Prince. Sleep to those empty lids

Is grown a stranger, and the day and night
As undistinguish'd by my sleep, as sight.
O happiness of poverty! that rests
Securely on a bed of living turf,
While we with waking cares and restless thoughts
Lie tumbling on our down, counting the blessing
Of a short minute's slumber, which the plough-


Shakes from him, as a ransom'd slave his fetters.
Call in some musick; I have heard soft airs
Can charm our senses, and expel our cares.
Is Erythaea gone?

Servant. Yes, sir.

Prince. 'Tis well:

I would not have her present at my death.


Morpheus, the humble god, that dwells In cottages and smoky cells,

Hates gilded roofs, and beds of down; And though he fears no prince's frown, Flies from the circle of a crown.

Come, I say, thou powerful god,
And thy leaden charming rod,
Dipp'd in the Lethean lake,
O'er his wakeful temples shake,

Lest he should sleep and never wake.

Nature (alas) why art thou so
Obliged to thy greater foe?
Sleep, that is thy best repast,
Yet of death it bears a taste,

And both are the same thing at last.

Servant. So now he sleeps, let's leave him To his repose.

Enter the KING.

Enter the PRINCESS and SOPHY. Princess. He's gone! he's gone for ever: Oh that the poison had mistaken his,

And met this hated life! but cruel fate
Envied so great a happiness; fate that still
Flies from the wretched and pursues the blest.
Ye heav'ns! but why should I complain to them
That hear me not, or bow to those that hate me?
Why should your curses so outweigh your bless-

They come but single, and long expectation
Takes from their value: but these fall upon us
Double and sudden.
[Sees the KING.
Yet more of horror! then farewell my tears,
And my just anger be no more confin'd
To vain complaints, or self-devouring silence;
But break, break forth upon him like a deluge,
And the great spirit of my injur'd lord
Possess me, and inspire me with a rage
Great as thy wrongs, and let me call together
All my soul's powers, to throw a curse upon him
Black as his crimes!

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[Nicholas French, afterwards Bishop of Ferns, was born in the town of Wexford in 1604, from which he was sent early in life to the Irish College at Louvain. There before long he distinguished himself, and "there also he was received into holy orders." Soon after, hearing of the troubles of his country, he determined to return thither, and having been appointed parish priest of Wexford, "he became of such repute both for elocution, behaviour, prudence, and integrity that he was chosen one of the representatives of that town in the assembly of the confederate Catholics at Kilkenny." Before this time French had already completed his first work, A System of Philosophy, which so far as we can discover yet remains unpublished.

In 1643 French was appointed Bishop of Ferns, and in 1645 his election to the assembly at Kilkenny took place as stated. For the next few years he laboured busily in connection with political matters, giving good advice to the party to which he belonged, and not wanting courage to strike out against those he opposed. In 1651 he went as ambassador for his party to the Duke of Lorraine at Brussels, in which negotiation he was successful, though in the end, owing to no fault of the ambassador, all came to nought. In 1652, the year of the downfall of his political hopes, he published at Brussels his celebrated work, The

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DIED 1678.

Unkinde Desertor of Loyall Men and True Friends. In this he mercilessly belaboured the Duke of Ormond,' to whom he attributed the ultimate failure of his mission. Soon after we find him at Paris, where he was appointed coadjutor to the archbishop; but from this post he was shortly driven by the intrigues of Ormond and the exiled Charles II. In 1662 and 1665 he was at Santiago in Spain, as we know from some letters written by him from that place. In the latter year he writes also from Paris, and a little later he returned to the cloisters of St. Anthony's at Louvain.

Before he had scarcely well settled down in his old quarters he took up his pen again, and in quick order appeared his numerous tracts upon Irish affairs, among which were "Thirty Sheets of Reasons against the Remonstrance," "The Due Obedience of Catholics,” and “A Dissertation Justifying the Late War." In 1668 appeared his best work, from a literary point of view, The Settlement and Sale of Ireland; and in 1674 The Bleeding Iphigenia. Before this he became president of the Irish College, but about this time he moved to Ghent, where he was appointed coadjutor bishop, and where he died in the year 1678. He was buried in the church of St. Nicholas, and

The Duke of Ormond well known for his intrigues with Cromwellians and Charles II.

his funeral oration was pronounced by Thomas Stapleton, like himself an Irishman, and a distinguished scholar at Louvain.

In addition to the works named, French also wrote The Doleful Fall of Andrew Sall and The Friar Disciplined, as well as a larger work entitled Religion in England. His critics generally concur in giving him credit for great ability, but for this very reason they are hard upon him. One speaks of him as "a waspish prelate," another calls him "seditious," and Harris dubs him "a foul-mouthed writer," a name which is not deserved. As specimens of their kind of literature, and also as characteristic of the period in which they were written, his works are deeply interesting. Until a few years ago, however, they were among the rarest of the rare books. A reprint of some of the more popular of them has been published by Duffy and Son of Dublin.]



To know when to speak, and when to be silent, is a commendable virtue. Solomon, the wisest of men, taught this lesson to men in these words: Tempus est tacendi, and tempus loquendi. He began with tempus tacendi, and his reason was, truth is first learned by silence, next published by teaching. Socrates, that famous Grecian, sapientissimus hominum pronounced by the Oracle, did much commend silence unto his disciples, and with great reason, inasmuch as there is greater wisdom and less danger in being silent than in speaking; wherefore Symonides, one of the wisest men of his own time, was often heard to say, "Often have I repented to have spoken, never for having held my peace;" notwithstanding all these great encomis of silence, celebrated by so many wise sages in all times, nevertheless a long and unseasonable silence is and may be as blamable as the other is recommendable.

To be silent and hold my peace when an open injury is done to my religion, country, and parents, is neither wisdom, piety, nor virtue to be commended; this is, and hath been (as I perceive), the long silence the Catholics of Ireland had with the Lord Duke of Ormond, giving him both time and leisure to work their ruin and downfall, without preventing the same (in a just form and seasonable time), by their instant addresses to the king, council, or any else.

We have kept longer silence (to our great detriment) than Pythagoras his scholars have done, their silence was limited to five years only, before their public Tentamens in school for the performance of which Magister dixit was sufficient to them; but we, poor souls! have been silent near now upon thirteen years, suffering with all patience the open wrongs, and manifest detriments this noble man have done us, so that under the notion of a friend we discovered him at long running to be our open enemy.

Seneca tells us the ambitious man receiveth not so much contentment by seeing many behind him, as discontent by seeing any before him; there are many great men in this age sick of this disease, such as cannot know when they are well, and though great they be, will strive still to be greater, so that they can at no time be at ease or at quietness, much like that Italian, who being well must needs take physic and died thereof, upon whose sepulchre this epitaph was engraved, "I was well, and Would be better; I took physic and came to the phereter."

Plutarch expresseth naturally this unquietness of ambitious minds in Pyrrhus, king of Epirot, who having greatly enlarged his dominions with the conquest of the great kingdom of Macedonia, began also to design with himself the conquest of Italy; and having communicated his deliberation with his great counsellor Cineas he demanded his advice, whereto Cineas answered, that he greatly desired to know what he meant to do when he had conquered Italy? Sir, quoth Pyrrhus, the kingdom of Cicily is then near at hand, and deserveth to be had in consideration, as well for the fertility as for the riches and power of the island. Well, quoth Cineas, and when you have gotten Cicily, what will you then do? Quoth Pyrrhus, Africk is not far off, where there are divers goodly kingdoms, which partly by the fame of my former conquests, and partly by the valour of my soldiers, may easily be subdued. I grant it, quoth Cineas; but when all Africk is yours, what mean you then to do? When Pyrrhus saw that he urged him still with that question, then, quoth Pyrrhus, thou and I will be merry, and make good cheer; whereunto Cineas replied, if this shall be the end of your adventures and labours, what hindereth you from doing the same now? will not your kingdoms of Epyras and Macedonia suffice you to be merry and make good cheer? and if you had Italy, Cicily, Africk, and all

the world, could you and I be merrier than we are, or make better cheer than we do? will you therefore venture your kingdoms, person, life, honour, and all you have to purchase that which you have already? Thus said wise Cineas to Pyrrhus, reprehending his immoderate ambition, who knew not when he was well, neither yet what he would have, seeing he desired no more than that which he had already, which in the end cost him dear; for following his own ambition and unbridled appetite, to amplify his dominions, as he got much, so he lost much, being able to conserve nothing any time, and at length having entered the town of Ayros by force, he was killed with a brick batt thrown down by a woman from the top of a house; here you see the wretched end of Pyrrhus his ambition.

Had Ormond such a counsellor by him as Cineas was, and heard unto him, he had likely been happier than he is at present, such a counsellor I mean as would say unto him intrepidly, when he took the course of stripping honest gentlemen of their estates, My Lord, I would desire to know what you resolve to do when you have by hook and crook ingrossed the lands and inheritances of innocent persons, poor widows, and orphans unto yourself; when you have obtained all, is the thing you aim at only to make good cheer and be merry? if this be your design you need not trouble yourself so much, nor expose your conscience to danger, nor your honour to such an ignominious shame and infamy (which shall endure to all ages), in taking away that which is not your own; far better content yourself as you are, and feast upon that great patrimony your predecessors left. Cannot that estate which maintained them honourably (without damaging any other) maintain and content you? but I see this is an evil familiar, those exalted to the height of greatness and favour in the prince's eye have no counsellors that will speak freely the truth, as worthy Cineas did to Pyrrhus; few are near kings and princes can say that which Seneca excellently expressed to his friend Lucilius, thus, "They live not in courts and the houses of kings that will severly speak, and sincerely the truth." What man can without tears behold so many great personages, even Christians in this age, that live, and do far wickeder things than Gentiles or Pagans have done or do, which had more respect and regard to their idols (in whom they apprehended some deity) than those to the true and living God.

Titus Livius tells us Quintus Cincinnatus was carried from the plough to the dignity of a dictator, which war being ended, he returned cheerfully to the plough again; he relates also how the ambassadors of the Samnites found Curius Dentatus, another dictator, making ready and cleansing of roots for his supper, and even at that time, he says, there were no more in all the Roman armies of waiting men (such as we call calones) but two. Marcus Anthonius, not he (that fatal man to Cicero, and to the commonwealth), but another chosen consul of a great army designed into Spain, had but eight servants, so Carbo in the same dignity placed (as we read), had but seven; what shall I say of Cato the senior, who in the same employment, power, and commission for Spain, had but three; however, this Cato named the Censor (though contented wisely with such a small retinue) was captain general in their army, a famous orator, and a prudent counsellor reputed by the commonwealth (in the commonwealth) and by all Rome for his sober life, was called a good father to his children, a good husband to his wife, a frugal housekeeper, and a man (a great praise in those days) well skill'd in the plough.

Epaminondas, a famous captain, protector and flower of the Thebans, who fought so many battles valiantly, nevertheless it is written, he had but one suit of clothes, which, when required reparation, he was forced to keep house till mended and brought unto him. This Epaminondas I speak of died so poor, as not so much in his house could be had as to pay his funerals, which was performed by the commonwealth.

What need I speak in this place of Phocion, Socrates, Iphaltes, miracles of nature, and wisest of Athens? This Phocion, who fought twenty-six battles, victorious always, and triumphant over his enemies, yet a greater despiser of riches, honours, and titles (as histories do testify), refused one hundred talents sent unto him by Alexander the Great as a present, demanding of those who brought the present what was Alexander's meaning in sending to him alone, and only, that present; they replied, forasmuch as he takes you to be the only man of honour and merit amongst the Athenians; to this he answered briefly, Why then let Alexander leave me so during my life, which is a thing I cannot be if I receive and accept of his talents of gold.

These profane examples of those heroic

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