golden snares set by deceiving Love; and how often seen alluring cheeks, to which hyacinthine purple, and even the blush of your flower, O Adonis, are pale.

But as for me, while yet the indulgence of the blind boy permits, I am preparing with what haste I can to leave these happy walls, and with the aid of divine moly to guide my steps far from the infamous halls of faithless Circe. It is also fixed that I return to the sedgy marshes of Cam, and once more enter the hoarse murmur of the schools. Meanwhile accept the small tribute of a faithful friend, even these few words coaxed into alternate measures.1

From Elegy 4. At the Age of Eighteen. To his tutor, Thomas Young, now performing the duties of Chaplain to the English merchants at Hamburg.2

Away, my letter, speed through the boundless sea; go, seek the Teutonic lands over the smooth expanse of the deep; have done with lingering delays, and let nothing, I pray, thwart your going, nothing stay the haste of your course. I shall myself implore Eolus, who restrains the winds in his Sicilian cave, and the green gods, and cerulean Doris with her company of nymphs, to give you a peaceful journey through their realms. But, if possible, procure for yourself the swift team wherewith Medea in flight rode from the face of her husband, or that with which young Triptolemus reached the Scythian shores, a welcome messenger from the city of Eleusis. And when you descry the yellow sands of Germany, turn your course to the walls of rich Hamburg, which, as the legend runs, derives its name from Hama, slain, it is said, by a Cimbrian club. There dwells a pastor, renowned for his simple piety, instructed to feed the flocks of Christ. In truth he is more than half my soul, and I am forced to live half my life without him. Alas, how many seas, how many mountains, intervene and part me from my other dearer self! 1 Elegy 1. 9-62; 85-92.

2 Translated by W. MacKellar.

Dearer is he to me than you, Socrates, wisest of the Greeks, were to Alcibiades of the stock of Telamon; dearer even than the great Stagirite to his noble pupil, whom a Chaonian mother bore to Libyan Jove. What the son of Amyntor and what the halfdivine son of Philyra were to the king of the Myrmidons, such is this man to me. He was my guide when I was first threading the Aonian shades, and the sacred greenswards of the cloven hill; he first led me to drink of the Pierian water, and favored by Clio I thrice wet my lips with Castalian wine. But thrice has flaming Ethon passed the sign of the Ram, and newly clothed his fleecy back with gold; and twice, Chloris, you have bestrewn the old earth with new grass, and twice Auster has swept away your wealth, since my eyes were permitted to feast on his face, or my ears to drink in the sweet music of his voice.

Go, then, and in your course outstrip the roaring East Wind. Whatever admonition you may need, circumstance will teach and you yourself will see. You will find him perhaps sitting with his charming wife, fondling on his knee the pledges of their love; or perchance turning over some stout volume of the ancient Fathers, or the Holy Scriptures of the one true God; or shedding the heavenly dew upon the souls of feeble men, which is religion's sublime work of healing. But only let it be your care to greet him, as the custom is, and to speak as would befit your master were he present. Fix your shy glances for a brief space on the ground, then remember with modest lips to speak these words:

'If in the midst of battles there is leisure for the gentle Muses, a faithful hand sends you these verses from the shores of England. Though it be late, accept this cordial greeting."1

From a Letter to Alexander Gill. London, May 20, 1628.

I received your letters and your poem, with which I was highly delighted, and in which I discover the majesty of a poet and the style of Virgil. I knew how impossible it would be for a person of 1 Elegy 4. 1-53.

your genius entirely to divert his mind from the culture of the Muses, and to extinguish those heavenly emotions, and that sacred and ethereal fire which is kindled in your heart; for what Claudian said of himself may be said of you, your 'whole soul is instinct with the fire of Apollo.'1

From a Letter to Alexander Gill. Cambridge, July 2, 1628.

When your letter arrived, I was strenuously engaged in that work concerning which I had given you some obscure hints, and the execution of which could not be delayed. One of the Fellows of our college, who was to be the respondent in a philosophical disputation for his degree, engaged me to furnish him with some verses, which are annually required on this occasion; since he himself had long neglected such frivolous pursuits, and was then intent on more serious studies. Of these verses I sent you a printed copy, since I knew both your discriminating taste in poetry and your candid allowances for poetry like mine. If you will in your turn deign to communicate to me any of your productions, you will, I can assure you, find no one to whom they will give more delight, or who will more impartially endeavor to estimate their worth; for as often as I recollect the topics of your conversation (the loss of which I regret even in this seminary of erudition) I cannot help painfully reflecting on what advantages I am deprived by your absence, since I never left your company without an increase of knowledge, and always had recourse to your mind as to an emporium of literature.2

From a Letter to Thomas Young. Cambridge, July 21, 1628.

Your many recent services must prevent me from entertaining any suspicion of your forgetfulness or neglect. Nor do I see how you could possibly forget one on whom you had conferred so many favors. Having an invitation into your part of the country in the spring, I shall readily accept it, that I may enjoy the 1 Familiar Letters, No. 2. Prose Works 3. 488. 2 Familiar Letters, No. 3. Prose Works 3. 489.

deliciousness of the season as well as that of your conversation; and that I may withdraw myself for a short time from the tumult of the city to your rural mansion, as to the renowned portico of Zeno, or Tusculan of Tully, where you live on your little farm, with a moderate fortune, but a princely mind; and where you practise the contempt, and triumph over the temptations, of ambition, pomp, luxury, and all that follows the chariot of fortune or attracts the gaze and admiration of the thoughtless multitude. 1

From a Letter to Richard Heth. Westminster, December 13, 1652.

If I were able, my excellent friend, to render you any service in the promotion of your studies, which at best could have been but very small, I rejoice, on more accounts than one, that that service, though so long unknown, was bestowed on so fruitful and so genial a soil, which has produced an honest pastor to the Church, a good citizen to our country, and to me a most acceptable friend. Of this I am well aware not only from the general habits of your life but from the justness of your religious and political opinions, and particularly from the extraordinary ardor of your gratitude, which no absence, no change of circumstances or lapse of time, can either extinguish or impair. Nor is it possible, till you have made a more than ordinary progress in virtue, in piety, and the improvement of the mind and heart, to feel so much gratitude towards those who have in the least assisted you in the acquisition. Wherefore, my pupil, a name which with your leave I will employ, be assured that you are among the first objects of my regard; nor would anything be more agreeable to me, if your circumstances permit as much as your inclination, than to have you take up your abode somewhere in my neighborhood, where we may often see each other, and mutually profit by the reciprocations of kindness and of literature. But this must be as God pleases, and as you think best. Your future communications may, if you 1 Familiar Letters, No. 4. Prose Works 3. 490.

please, be in our own language, lest (though you are no mean proficient in Latin composition) the labor of writing should make each of us more averse to write; and that we may freely disclose every sensation of our hearts without being impeded by the shackles of a foreign language.1

From a Letter to the noble Youth, Richard Jones. Westminster, September 21, 1656.

As often as I have taken up the pen to answer your last letter, some sudden interruptions have occurred to prevent the completion of my purpose. I afterwards heard that you had made an excursion to the adjoining country. As your excellent mother is on the eve of departing for Ireland, whose loss we have both no small occasion to regret, and who has to me supplied the place of every relative, she will herself be the bearer of these letters to you. You may rest assured of my regard, and be persuaded it will increase in proportion as I see an increasing improvement in your heart and mind. This, by the blessing of God, you have solemnly pledged yourself to accomplish. I am pleased with this fair promise of yourself, which I trust you will never violate.

Though you write that you are pleased with Oxford, you will not induce me to believe that Oxford has made you wiser or better. Of that I require very different proof. I would not have you lavish your admiration on the triumphs of the chiefs whom you extol, and things of that nature in which force is of most avail. For why need we wonder if the wethers of our country are born with horns which may batter down cities and towns? Do you learn to estimate great characters, not by the quantity of their animal strength, but by the habitual justice and temperance of their conduct.

Adieu, and make my best respects to the accomplished Henry Oldenburgh, your college chum.2

1 Familiar Letters, No. 13. Prose Works. 3. 505. 2 Familiar Letters, No. 19. Prose Works 3. 511.