The hero conqueror of Azincour, Henry of England!—wretched that I am, I might have reigned in happiness and peace, My coffers full, my subjects undisturb’d, And Plenty and Prosperity had loved To dwell amongst them: but mine eye beheld The realm of France, by faction tempest-torn, And therefore I did think that it would fall An easy prey. I persecuted those Who taught new doctrines, tho’ they taught the truth: And when I heard of thousands by the sword Cut off, or blasted by the pestilence, I calmly counted up my proper gains, And sent new herds to slaughter. Temperate Myself, no blood that mutinied, no vice Tainting my private life, I sent abroad Murder and Rape; and therefore am I doom’d, Like these imperial Sufferers, crown’d with fire, Here to remain, till Man’s awaken’d eye Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds, And warn’d by them, till the whole human race, Equalling in bliss the aggregate we caus’d Of wretchedness, shall form One Brotherhood, One Universal Family of Love.” [5] In the former edition I had substituted _cable_ instead of _camel_. The alteration would not be worth noticing were it not for the circumstance which occasioned it. _Facilius elephas per foramen acus_, is among the Hebrew adages collected by Drusius; the same metaphor is found in two other Jewish proverbs, and this appears to determine the signification of καμηλος Matt. 19. 24. [6] The same idea, and almost the same words are in an old play by John Ford. The passage is a very fine one: Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched, Almost condemn’d alive! There is a place, (List daughter!) in a black and hollow vault, Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, But flaming horror of consuming fires; A lightless sulphur, choak’d with smoaky foggs Of an infected darkness. In this place Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts Of never-dying deaths; there damned souls Roar without pity, there are gluttons fed With toads and adders; there is burning oil Pour’d down the drunkard’s throat, _the usurer Is forced to sup whole draughts of molten gold_; There is the murderer for ever stabb’d, Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul He feels the torment of his raging lust. _(’Tis Pity she’s a Whore.)_ I wrote this passage when very young, and the idea, trite as it is, was new to me. It occurs I believe in most descriptions of hell, and perhaps owes its origin to the fate of Crassus. After this picture of horrors, the reader may perhaps be pleased with one more pleasantly fanciful: