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When these brave men had distinguished themselves in the battle and in single combat with each other, in the midst of a generous parley, full of heroic sentiments, the Scotch earl falls; and with his dying words encourages his men to revenge his death, representing to them, as the most bitter circumstance of it, that his rival saw him fall:

With that there came an arrow keen
Out of an English bow,

Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart
A deep and deadly blow.

Who never spoke more words than those,
Fight on, my merry-men all,
For why, my life is at an end,
Lord Percy sees my fall.

Merry-men, in the language of those times, is no more than a cheerful word for companions and fellow-soldiers. A passage in the eleventh book of Virgil's Eneid is very much to be admired, where Camilla, in her last agonies, instead of weeping over the wound she had received, as one might have expected from a warrior of her sex, considers only, like the hero of whom we are now speaking, how the battle should be continued after her death:

Tum sic exspirans, &c.

VIRG. EN. xi. 820.

A gath'ring mist o'erclouds her cheerful eyes;
And from her cheeks the rosy colour flies,
Then turns to her, whom, of her female train.
She trusted most, and thus she speaks with pain:
'Acca, 'tis past! he swims before my sight,
Inexorable Death; and claims his right.
Bear my last words to Turnus; fly with speed,
And bid him timely to my charge succeed;
Repel the Trojans, and the town relieve:
Farewell'

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DRYDEN.

Turnus did not die in so heroic a manner; though our poet seems to have had his eye upon Turnus's speech in the last verse:

Lord Percy sees my fall.

Vicisti, et victum tendere palmas

Ausonii videre.

VIRG. ÆN. xii. 936.

The Latin chiefs have seen me beg my life.

DRYDEN.

Earl Percy's lamentation over his enemy is generous, beautiful, and passionate: I must only caution the reader not to let the simplicity of the style, which one may well pardon in so old a poet, prejudice him against the greatness of the thought:

Then leaving life, Earl Percy took
The dead man by the hand,
And said, Earl Douglas, for thy life
Would I had lost my land.

O Christ! my very heart doth bleed
With sorrow for thy sake;
For sure a more renowned knight
Mischance did never take.

That beautiful line, Taking the dead man by the hand,' will put the reader in mind of Æneas's behaviour towards Lausus, whom he himself had slain as he came to the rescue of his aged father:

At verò ut vultum vidit morientis et ora,
Ora modis Anchisiades pallentia miris ;
Ingemuit, miserans graviter, dextramque tetendit.

VIRG. ÆN. X. 821.

The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead;
He grieved, he wept, then grasp'd his hand and said,
Poor hapless youth! what praises can be paid
To worth so great! —

DRYDEN.

I shall take another opportunity to consider the other parts of this old song.

C

No. 71. TUESDAY, MAY 22, 1711.

-Scribere jussit amor.

Love bade me write.

OVID. EPIST. iv. 10.

THE entire conquest of our passions is so difficult a work, that they who despair of it should think of a less difficult task, and only attempt to regulate them. But there is a third thing which may contribute not only to the ease, but also to the pleasure, of our life; and that is, refining our passions to a greater elegance than we receive them from Nature. When the passion is Love, this work is performed in innocent, though rude and uncultivated minds, by the mere force and dignity of the object. There are forms which naturally create respect in the beholders, and at once inflame and chastise the imagination. Such an impression as this gives an immediate ambition to deserve, in order to please. This cause and effect are beautifully described by Mr. Dryden in the fable of Cymon and Iphigenia. After he has represented Cymon so stupid, that

He whistled as he went, for want of thought;

he makes him fall into the following scene, and shows its influence upon him so excellently, that it appears as natural as wonderful:

It happen'd on a summer's holiday,

That to the greenwood shade he took his way;
His quarter-staff, which he could ne'er forsake;
Hung half before, and half behind his back.
He trudg'd along, unknowing what he sought,
And whistled as he went, for want of thought.

By chance conducted, or by thirst constrain'd,
The deep recesses of the grove he gain'd;
Where in a plain, defended by the wood,
Crept through the matted grass a crystal flood,
By which an alabaster fountain stood :
And on the margin of the fount was laid
Attended by her slaves, a sleeping maid,
Like Dian and her nymphs, when, tir'd with sport,
To rest by cool Eurotas they resort:

The dame herself the goddess well express'd,
Not more distinguish'd by her purple vest,
Than by the charming features of her face,
And e'en in slumber a superior grace;
Her comely limbs composed with decent care,
Her body shaded with a slight cymar;
Her bosom to the view was only bare:
The fanning wind upon her bosom blows,
To meet the fanning wind her bosom rose;
The fanning wind and purling streams continue her repose.
The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes,

And gaping mouth, that testified surprise;
Fix'd on her face, nor could remove his sight,
New as he was to love, and novice in delight:
Long mute he stood, and leaning on his staff,
His wonder witness'd with an idiot laugh;

Then would have spoke, but by his glimm'ring sense
First found his want of words, and fear'd offence:
Doubted for what he was he should be known,
By his clown-accent, and his country tone.

But lest this fine description should be excepted against, as the creation of that great master, Mr. Dryden, and not on account of what has really ever happened in the world, I shall give you verbatim the epistle of an enamoured footman in the country to his mistress. Their surnames shall not be inserted, because their passion demands a greater respect than is due to their quality. James is servant in a great family, and Elizabeth waits upon the daughter of one as numerous, some miles off of her lover. James, before he beheld Betty, was vain of his strength, a rough wrestler, and quarrelsome cudgel-player; Betty a

public dancer at may-poles, a romp at stool-ball: he always following idle women, she playing among the peasants: he a country bully, she a country coquette. But love has made her constantly in her mistress's chamber, where the young lady gratifies a secret passion of her own, by making Betty talk of James; and James is become a constant waiter near his master's apartment, in reading as well as he can, romances. I cannot learn who Molly is, who it seems walked ten miles to carry the angry message which gave occasion to what follows :

:

"TO ELIZABETH.

"MY DEAR BETTY,

"REMEMBER your bleeding lover who lies bleeding at the wounds Cupid made with the arrows he borrowed at the eyes of Venus, which is your sweet person.

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Nay more, with the token you sent me for my love and service offered to your sweet person, which was your base respects to my ill conditions, when, alas! there is no ill conditions in me, but quite contrary; all love and purity, especially to your sweet person; but all this I take as a jest.

"But the sad and dismal news which Molly brought me struck me to the heart, which was it seems, and is, your ill conditions for my love and respects to you.

For she told me, if I came forty times to you, you would not speak with me, which words I am sure is a great grief to me.

"Now, my dear, if I may not be permitted to your sweet company, and to have the happiness of speaking with your sweet person, I beg the favour of you to accept of this my secret mind and thoughts, which hath so long lodged in my breast, the which if

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