CHARLES COTTON. clxxiii 



Is lay'd aside ; and though by living verse, 

 Strew'd on this Hero's and that Statesman's hearse, 

 His pen graves characters by which they live 

 A longer life, than brass or marble give : 

 Yet has this generous Poet no return. 

 None to weep o'er his urn, nay, scarce an urn. 

 O undiscerning world ! The Soldier's brave 

 Either for what he wants, or thirsts to have : 

 His breast opposing against fire and flame. 

 Either for riches or a glorious name. 

 Reward and honour make the Soldier's trade. 

 And if he either win, the man's well paid. 

 The Statesman, on the other side, takes pains 

 To smooth that war to peace, and works his brains, 

 Or to appease an enemy, or make 

 Such friends, as may at need make good the stake. 

 Nor is his reverend care, when all is done, 

 More for his country's safety, than his own ; 

 And that which makes his city's freedom dear, 

 Is that himself and his inhabit there. 

 Whereas the Poet, by more generous ways 

 Distributes boughs of oak, and shoots of bays 

 According to due merit, nor does take 

 Thought of reward, but all for virtue's sake. 

 It were in vain to'write on other score, 

 The Poet knows his lot is to be poor : 

 For whatsoe'er's well done, well writ, well said. 

 The Bard is ever the last man that's paid ; 

 The wary world has wisely taken time, 

 J Till the Greek Calends to account for rhyme. 



Nor do I here intend the gold that's hurl'd 

 Like flaming brands thorough the peaceful world, 

 To make whole kingdoms into faction split. 

 Should be supposed the recompense of wit : 

 The Poet scorns that sordid seed of earth. 

 The world's alluring, but unhappy birth. 

 All he desires, all that he would demand, 

 Is only that some amicable hand 

 "Would but irriguate his folding bays 

 With due, and only with deserved praise; 

 Yet even this, so modest a request. 

 The age denies." 



That edition of Brome's Poems contains an epistle to Cotton 

 with his answer ; but the latter is only remarkable for the abhor- 

 rence which he expressed at being obliged to live in the country 

 with no other friends, visitors, or company, 



*' But such, as I still pray, I may not see. 

 Such craggy, rough-hewn rogues, as do not fit, 

 Sharpen and set, but blunt the edge of wit ; 

 Any of which (and fear has a quick eye) 

 If through a perspective I chance to spy, 

 Though a mile' off, I take the alarm and run 

 As if I saw the Devil or a dun ; 

 And in the neighbouring rocks take sanctuary. 

 Praying the hills to fall and cover me ; 

 So that my. solace lies amongst my grounds, 

 And my best company's my horse and hounds.'* 



The same feeling of dislike at being separated from his literary 

 companions, and from those intellectual enjoyments which a 

 capital, and a capital only, affords, may be frequently traced in his 



