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CHARLES COTTON.

1630-1687.

He was the Author of Virgil Travertie, in which a single joke cost him dearly; his sacrilegious wit could not spare the sacred character of his Grandmother's Ruff, which he ridiculed in a couplet of that poem.

A stroke of the old Lady's pen, however, revenged her own wrongs and those of the Bard of Mantua at once, for she struck Cotton out of an estate of four hundred a year, which she had bequeathed to him in her will.

The works of this poet were once so popular, that the thirteenth edition of them was printed in 1751.

Song. Montross.

I.

Ask not, why sorrow shades my brow;
Nor why my sprightly looks décay?

Alas! what need I beauty now,

Since he, that loved it, dy'd to day,

11.

Can ye have ears, and yet not know
Mirtillo, brave Mirtillo's slain?

Can ye have eyes, and they not flow,
Or hearts, that do not share my pain?

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He's gone! he's gone! and I will go;
For in my breast, such wars I have,
And thoughts of him perplex me so
That the whole world appears my grave.

IV.

But I'le go to him, though he lie

Wrapt in the cold, cold arms of death :

And under yon sad cypress-tree,

I'le mourn, I'le mourn away my breath.

The Litany.

1.

FROM a ruler that's a curse,
And a government that's worse;
From a prince that rules by awe,
Whose tyrannick will's his law;

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From a kingdom, that from health
Sickens to a common-wealth ;
From such peers as stain their blood,
And are neither wise; nor good;

From a gentry steept in pots,

From unkennellers of plots,

III.

Libera nos, &c.

From a church without Divines,
And a Presbyter that whines;
From John Calvin, and his pupils,
From a sentence without scruples,
From a clergy without letters,
And a free state bound in fetters,

IV.

Libera nos, &c.

From the bustle of the town,

And the knavish tribe o' th' gown,
From long bills where we are debtors,
From bum-bailiffs, and their setters,

From the tedious city lectures,

And thanksgivings for protectors,

Libera nos, &c.

V.

From ill victuals when we dine,
And a tavern with ill wine;
From vile smoke in a short pipe,
And a landlord that will gripe;
From long reck'nings, and a wench
That claps in English; or in French,

Libera nos, &c.

VI.

From demeans, whose barren soil
Ne'er produc'd the barley oyl;
From a friend for nothing fit,
That nor courage has, nor wit;

From all lyars, and from those

Who write nonsense, verse, or prose,

VII.

Libera nos, &c.

From a virgin that's no maid;
From a kicking, stumbling jade;
From false servants, and a scold ;
From all women that are old,

From loud tongues that never lye,

And from a domestic spy,

Libera nos, &c.

VIII.

From a domineering spouse;
From a smoky, dirty house;
From foul linnen, and the noise
Of young children, girls, or boys;
From ill beds, and full of fleas;

From a wife with essenses,

Libera nos, &c.

IX.

From trapans of wicked men ;
From the interest of ten ;
From rebellion, and the sense
Of a wounded conscience;
Lastly, from the poets evil,

From his highness, and the devil,

Libera nos, &c.

* Oliver Cromwell.

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