CHARLES COTTON. cxci 



But what advantage will it be 

 That winds and tides are kind to me. 

 When still the wretched have their woes, 

 Wherever they their feet dispose? 

 What satisfaction, or delight 

 Are ragouts to an appetite? 

 What ease can France or Flanders give 

 To him that is a fugitive ? 

 Some two years hence, when you come o'er. 

 In all your state, ambassador, 

 If my ill nature be so strong 

 T' outlive my infamy so long, 

 You'll -find your little officer 

 Ragged as his old colours are ; 

 And naked, as he's discontent, 

 Standing at some poor sutler's tent, 

 With his pike cheek't, to guard the tun 

 He must not taste when he has done. 

 Hump, says my Lord, I'm half afraid. 

 My captain's turn'd a reformade, 

 That scurvy face I sure should know : 

 Yes faith, my Lord, 'tis even so, 

 I am that individual he : 

 I told your Lordship how 'twould be. 

 Thou didst so, Charles, it is confest. 

 Yet still I thought thou wert in jest; 

 But comfort 1 poverty's no crime, 

 I'll take thy word another time. 



This matters now are coming to. 

 And I'm resolv'd upon't ; whilst you, 

 Sleeping in fortune's arms, ne'er dream 

 Who feels the contrary extreme ; 

 Faith, write to me, that I may know 

 Whether you love me still, or no ; 

 Or if you do not, by what ways 

 I've pull'd upon me my disgrace ; 

 For whilst I still stand fair with you, 

 I dare the worst my fate can do ; 

 But your opinion longl^ I find, 

 I'm sunk for ever to mankind." 



His real feelings, and perhaps his situation, are however 

 most strongly described in his Ode to Poverty: — 



" Yet Poverty, as I do take it. 



Is not so epidemical 

 As many in the world would make it. 

 Who all that want their wishes poor do call ; 

 For if who is not with his divident 

 Amply content. 

 Within that acceptation fall. 

 Most would be poor, and peradventure all. 

 This would the wreiched with the rich confound ; 

 But I not call him poor does tiot abound, 

 But him, who snar'd in bonds, and endless strife, 

 The comforts wants more than supports of life ; 

 Him whose whole age is measur'd out by fears. 

 And though he has wherewith to eat, 



His bread does yet 

 Taste of afHiction, and his cares 

 His purest wine mix and allay with tears. 



Sic, but query if not a misprint for "gone." 



