* Plautus turned a mill; Terenee was a slave; Boethius died in a jail; Tasso was often distressed for a shilling; Benti- voglio was refused admission into an hospital he had himself founded; Cervantes died (almost) of hunger; Camoens ended his days in an almshouse; Vaugelas sold his body to the surgeons to support life; Burns died penniless, disappointed, and heart-broken; and Massinger, Lee, and Otway, were “steeped in poverty to the very lips.” Yet how consoling are John Taylor the Water Poet's lines! Addressing his friend, Wm. Fennor, he exclaims, “Thou say'st that poetry descended is From poverty: thou tak'st thy mark amiss-- In spite of weal or woe, or want of pelf, It is a kingdom of content itself,!” To the above unhappy list may be added Thomas Dekker the Dramatist. “Lent unto the Company the 'of February, 1598, to discharge Mr. Dicker out of the Counter in the Poultry, the some of Fortie Shillinges.” In another place Mr. Henslowe redeems Dekker out of the Clinke. This was a subject that awakened all Uncle Timothy's enthusiasm! “Age could not wither it, nor custom stale Its infinite variety.” But it produced fits of abstraction and melancholy; and Mr. Bosky knowing this, would interpose a merry tale or song. Upon the present occasion he made a bold dash from the sublime to the ridiculous, and striking up a comical voluntary, played us out of Little Britain.-- When I behold the setting sun, And shop is shut, and work is done, I strike my flag, and mount my tile, And through the city strut in style; While pensively I muse along, Listening to some minstrel's song, With tuneful wife, and children three-- O then, my love! I think on thee. In Sunday suit, to see my fair I take a round to Russell Square; She slyly beckons while I peep. And whispers, “down the area creep!” What ecstacies my soul await; It sinks with rapture--on my plate! When cutlets smoke at half-past three-- And then, my love! I think on thee. But, see the hour-glass, moments fly-- The sand runs out--and so must I! Parting is so sweet a sorrow, I could manger till to-morrow! One embrace, ere I again Homeward hie to Huggin Lane; And sure as goose begins with G, I then, my love! shall think on thee. Mr. William Shakspere says In one of his old-fashion'd plays,