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To hear me speak his good now?
CATH. Yes, good Cromwell,
I were malicious elfe.
CROM. This cardinal,
Though from an humble ftock, undoubtedly Was fashion'd to much honour from his cradle :
He was a fcholar, and a ripe and good one ;. Exceeding wife, fair fpoken, and perfuad
Lofty and four, to them that lov'd him not, But to those men that fought him, fweet as the fummer.
And though he were unfaitsfy'd in getting, (Which was a fin) yet in bestowing, Ma
He was most princely; ever witness for him Those twins of learning that he rais'd in
Ipswich and Oxford! one of which fell with
Unwilling to out-live the good he did it :
The other, though unfinish'd, yet so fa
So excellent in art, and still so rifing,
His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him;
CATH. After my death I wish no other
No other speaker of my living actions,
With thy religious truth and modesty,
Now in his afhes honour. Peace be with
Haffan; or, the Camel Driver.
N filent horror, o'er the boundless waste, The driver Haffan with his camels pass'd: One crufe of water on his back he bore, And his light fcrip contain❜d a scanty store A fan of painted feathers in his hand, To guard his fhaded face from fcorching fand.
The fultry fun had gain'd the middle sky, And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh: The beafts, with pain, their dufty way pur fue,
Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view !
With defperate forrow wild, th' affrighted
Sad was the hour, and lucklefs was the
day, When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my
Ah little thought I of the blafting wind, The thirft or pinching hunger that I find! Bethink thee, Hassan, where fhall thirst asfwage,
When fails this crufe, his unrelenting rage; Soon fhall this fcrip its precious load refign; Then what but tears and hunger fhall be thine?
Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear In all my griefs a more than equal share ! Here, where no fprings in murmurs break away,
Or mofs-crown'd fountains mitigate the day, In vain ye hope the green delights to know, Which plains more bless'd, or verdant vales
Mere rocks alone, and tastelefs fands are [around. And faint and fickly winds for ever howl
Sad was the hour, and lucklefs was the day,
When firft from Schiraz' walls I bent my
Curft be the gold and filver which perfuade
The gentle voice of peace, or pleasure's fong?
Or wherefore think the flow'ry mountain's
The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's