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which he must be allowed to have a superlative genius), and flow and then penning a catch or ft ditty, instead of inditing odes and sonnets, the gentlemen of the bon yout in the pit would never have been pnt to all that grimace in damning the frippery of state, the poverty and languor of thought, the unnatural wit, and inartificial structure of his dramas.

" I am, Sir, your very humble servant.
" Peteb De Qctb."

No. 997. THURSDAY, JUNE 5, 1712.

• Doler ijwe dijertum

Fecerat Ovid. Metam. Xiii. 228.

For gprief impir'a me then with eloquence. Drydeh.

As the Stoic philosophers discard all passions in general, they will not allow a wise man so much as to pity the afflictions of another. " If thou seest tby friend in trouble," says Epiotetus, " thou mayest put on a look of sorrow, and condole with him, but take care that thy sorrow be not real." The more rigid of this seet would not comply so far as to show even such an outward appearance of grief: but when one told them of any calamity that hid befallen even the nearest of their acquaintance, would immediately reply, " What is that to me T If you aggravated the circumstances of the affliction, and showed now oOe misfortune was followed by another, the answer was still, " All this may be true, but what ia it to me?"

Por my own part, I am of opinion, compassion does not only refine and civilize human nature, but has something in it more pleasing and agreeable than what can be met with in such an indolent happiness, such an indifference to mankind as that in Which the Stoics placed their wisdom. As love is the most delightful passion, pity is nothing else but love softened by a degree of Mrrow. In short, it is a kind of pleasing anguish, as well as generous sympathy, that knits mankind together, and blends tliem in the sitae common lot.

Those who have laid down rules for rhetoric or poetry, advise the writer to work himself up, if possible, to the pitch of sorrow which he endeavours to produce in others. There are none therefore who stir up pity so much as those who indite their own sufferings. Grief has a natural eloquence belonging to it, and breaks out in more moving sentiments than can be supplied by the finest imagination. Nature on this occasion dictates a thousand passionate things, which cannot be supplied by art.

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It is for this reason that the short speeches or sentences which we often meet witli in histories, make a deeper impression on the mind of the reader, than the most laboured strokes in a wellwritten tragedy. Truth and matter of fact sets the person actually before us in the one, whom fiction places at a greater distance from us in the other. I do not remember to have seen any ancient or modern story more affecting than a letter of Ann of Bologne, wife to King Henry the Eighth, and mother to Queen Elizabeth, which is still extant in the Cotton library, as written by her own hand.

Shakespeare himself could not have made her talk in a strain so suitable to her condition and character. One sees in it the expostulation of a slighted lover, the resentments of an injured woman, and the sorrows of an imprisoned queen. I need not acquaint my reader that this princess was then under prosecution for disloyalty to the king's bed, and that she was afterwards publicly beheaded upon the same account, though this prosecution was believed by many to proceed, as she herself intimates, rather from the king's love to Jane Seymour, than from any actual crime in Ann of Bologne.

Queen Ann Boleyn's last letter to King Henry. " Sin,

Cotton Lib. " Your grace's displeasure, and my imprisoment, are Otho. C. 10. things so strange unto me, as what to write, or what to excuse, I am altogether ignorant. Whereas you send unto me (willing me to confess a truth, and so obtain your favour) by such an one, whom you know to be mine ancient professed euemv, I no sooner received this message by him, than! rightly conceived your meaning; and if. as you say, confessing a truth indeed may procure my safety, I shall with all willingness and duty perform your command.

" But let not your grace ever imagine, that your poor wife will ever be brought to acknowledge a fault, where not so much as a thought thereof preceded. And to speak a truth, never prince had wife more loyal in all duty, and in all true affection, than you have ever found in Ann Boleyn: with which name and place 1 could willingly have contented myself, if God and your grace's pleasure had been so pleased. Neither did I at any time so far forget myself in my exaltation or received queeuship, but that I always looked for such an alteration as I now find; for the ground of my preferment being on no surer foundation than your grace's fancy, the least alteration I knew was fit and sufficient to draw that fancy to some other object. You have chosen me from a l«w estate to be your queen and companion, far beyond my desert or desire. If then you found me worthy of such honour, good your grace, let not any light fancy, or bad counsel of mine enemies, withdraw your princely favour from me; neither let that stain, that unworthy stain, of a disloyal heart towards your good grace, erer cast ao foul a blot on your most dutiful wife, and the infant princess your daughter. Try me, good king, but let me have a lawful trial, and let not my sworn enemies sit as my accusers and judges; yea, let me receive an open trial, for my truth shall fear no open shame; then shall you see either mine innocence cleared, your suspicion and conscience satisfied, the ignominy and slander of the world stopped, or my guilt openly declared. So that whatsoever God or you may determine of me, your grace may be freed from an open censure; and mine offence being so lawfully proved, your grace is at liberty, both before God and man, not only to execute worthy punishment on me as an unlawful wife, but to follow your affection, already settled on that party, for whose sake I am now as I am, whose name I could some good while since have pointed unto, your grace not being ignorant of my suspicion therein.

" But if you have already determined of me, and that not only my death, but an infamous slander must bring you the enjoying of your desired happiness; then I desire of God, that he will pardon your great sin therein, and likewise mine enemies, the instruments thereof, and that he will not call you to a strict account for your unprincely and cruel usage of me, at his general judgment-seat, where both you and myself must shortly appear, and in whose judgment I doubt not (whatsoever the world may think of me) mine innocence shall be openly known and sufficiently cleared.

" My last and only request shall be, that myself may only bear the burden of your grace s displeasure, and that it may not touch the innocent souls of those poor gentlemen, who (as I understand) *re likewise in strait imprisonment for my sake. If ever I have found favour in your sight, if ever the name of Ann Boleyn hath been pleasing in your ears, then let me obtain this request, and I will so leave to trouble your grace any further, with mine earnest prayers to the Trinity, to have your grace in his good keeping, and to direct you in all your actions. From my doleful prison in the Tower, this sixth of May;

" Your most loyal and ever faithful wife, "ann Boleyn."

Addisos. L.

No. 393. FRIDAY, JUNE 6, 1713.

Inaanire pant crrta rations modoque noR. 2, Sat. Hi. 2T1.

- You'd be a fool With art and wisdom, and be mad by rale. Sbeech.

Ctnthio and Flavia are persons of distinction in this town, who have been lovers these ten months last past, and writ to each other for gallantry sake, Under those feigned names; Mr. Such-a-one and Mrs. Suob-a-one not being capable of raising the soul out of the ordi nary tracts and passages of life up to that elevation which makes the life of the enamoured so much superior to that of the rest of the world. But ever since the beauteous Cecilia has made such a figure as she now does in the circle of charming women, Cynthio baa been secretly one of her adorers. Lsctitia has been the finest woman in town these three months, and so long Cynthio has acted the part of a lover very awkwardly in the presence of Flavia. Flavia has been too blind towards him, and has too sincere an heart of her own, to observe a thousand things which would have discovered this change of mind to any one less engaged than she was. Cynthio was musing yesterday in the piazza in Covent-garden, and was saying to himself that he was a very ill man to go in visiting and professing love to Flavia, when his heart was enthralled to another. " It is an infirmity that I am not constant to Flavia; but it would be still a greater crime, since I cannot continue to love her, to profess that I do. To marry a woman with the coldness that usually indeed comes on after marriage, is ruiniug one'sself with one's eyes open; besides, it is really doing her an injury." This last consideration forsooth, of injuring her in persisting, made him resolve to break off upon the first favourable opportunity of making her angry. When he was in this thought, he saw Robin the porter, who "waits at Wills' coffee-house, passing by. Robin, you must know, is the best man in town for carrying a billet; the fellow has a thin body, swift step, demure looks, siifficient sense, and knows the town. This man carried Cynthio's first letter to Flavia, and, by frequent errands ever since, is well known to her. The fellow covers his knowledge of the nature of his me*,' sages with the most exquisite low humour imaginable. The fir* he obliged Flavia to take, was by complaining to her that he had t wife and three children, and if she did not take that letter, wbicl he was sure there was no harm in, but rather love, his family mus go Bupperless to bed, for the gentleman would pay him acoordins as he did his business. Robin, therefore, Cynthio now thought fi to make use of, and gave him orders to wait before Plavia's door, and if she called him to ber, and asked whether it was Cynthio who passed by, be should at first be loth to own it was, but upon importunity confess it. There needed not much search into that part of the town to find a well-dressed hussy fit for the purpose Cynthio designed her. As soon as he believed Robin was posted, he drove by Flavia's lodgings in a hackney coach and a woman in it. Bobin was at the door talking with Flavia's maid, and Cynthio pulled up the glass as surprised, and hid his associate. The report of this circumstance soon flew up stairs, and Robin could not deny but tlie gentleman favoured* his master; yet if it was he, he was sure the lady was but his cousin whom he had seen ask for him; adding, that he believed she was a poor relation; because they made her wait one morning till he was awake. Flavia immediately writ the following epistle, which Robin brought to Wills'.

"June 4,1718. "sib, "It is vain to deny it, basest, falsest of mankind; my maid, as well as the bearer saw you.

" Thb Injobed Flavia."

After Cynthio had read the letter, he asked Robin how she looked, aud what she said at the delivery of it. Robin said she spoke short to him, and called him back again, and bad nothing to say to him, and bid him, and all the men of the world go out of bersight; but the maid followed, and bid him bring an answer. Cynthio returned as follows:—

"June 4, Three afternoon, 1712. "madam, "That your maid and the bearer has seen me very often is very certain; but I desire to know, being engaged at piquet, what your letter means by ' it is in vain to deny it.' I shall stay here all the evening.

" Your Amazed Cynthio."

As soon as Robin arrived with this, Flavia answered.—

" Dear Cynthio, " I have walked a turn or two in my anti-chamber since I writ to you, and have recovered myself from an impertinent fit which yon ought to forgive me, and desire you would come to me immediately to laugh off a jealousy that you and a creature of the town went by in a hackney-coach an hour ago.

" I am your most humble servant,

" FtAVtA.

" I will not open the letter which my Cynthio writ upon the • Resembled.

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