Here I saw a poor man walking on the bank or sea-wall, as they call it, by himself. I walked awhile also about, seeing the houses all shut up; at last I fell into some talk, at a distance, with this poor man. First I asked him how people did there-abouts? “Alas! sir,” says he, “almost desolate; all dead or sick: here are very few families in this part, or in that village,” pointing at Poplar, “where half of them are not dead already, and the rest sick.” Then pointing to one house, “There they are all dead,” said he, “and the house stands open; nobody dares go into it. A poor thief,” says he, “ventured in to steal something, but he paid dear for his theft, for he was carried to the churchyard too, last night.” (3) I arrived at the fleet in less than half an hour. The enemy was so frightened when they saw me that they leapt out of their ships, and swam to shore, where there could not be fewer than thirty thousand souls. I then took my tackling, and fastening a hook to the hole at the prow of each, I tied all the cords together at the end. While I was thus employed, the enemy discharged several thousand arrows, many of which stuck in my hands and face; and besides the excessive smart, gave me much disturbance in my work. My greatest apprehension was for my eyes, which I should have infallibly lost, if I had not suddenly thought of an expedient. 4. We give two extracts, one dramatic and one non-dramatic, from the blank verse of the time. Does the verse strike you as being passionate, interesting, or profound? How would you describe it? Discuss the meter--its regularity, melody, and power. (1) It must be so--Plato, thou reason’st well, Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread and inward horror Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself and startles at destruction? --’Tis the Divinity that stirs within us; ’Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, And intimates Eternity to man. ADDISON, _Cato_ (2) Be wise to-day: ’tis madness to defer; Next day the fatal precedent will plead; Thus on, till wisdom is push’d out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time; Year after year it steals till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene. If not so frequent, would not this be strange? That ’tis so frequent, _this_ is stranger still. YOUNG, _Night Thoughts_