29 The camp received him with a joyful cry,-- A cry, the hills and dales about that fill'd; Then Godfrey welcomed him with honours high; His glory quench'd all spite, all envy kill'd: 'To yonder dreadful grove,' quoth he, 'went I, And from the fearful wood, as me you will'd, Have driven the sprites away; thither let be Your people sent, the way is safe and free.' [1] 'Mo:' more. [2] 'Stilled:' dropped. [3] 'Dight:' aparelled. [4] 'Eath:' easy. [5] 'Chere:' expression. [6] 'Twined:' separated. SIR HENRY WOTTON Was born in Kent, in 1568; educated at Winchester and Oxford; and, after travelling on the Continent, became the Secretary of Essex, but had the sagacity to foresee his downfall, and withdrew from the kingdom in time. On his return he became a favourite of James I., who employed him to be ambassador to Venice,--a post he held long, and occupied with great skill and adroitness. Toward the end of his days, in order to gain the Provost- ship of Eton, he took orders, and died in that situation, in 1639, in the 72d year of his age. His writings were published in 1651, under the title of 'Reliquitae Wottonianae,' and Izaak Walton has written an entertaining account of his life. His poetry has a few pleasing and smooth-flowing passages; but perhaps the best thing recorded of him is his viva voce account of an English ambassador, as 'an honest gentleman sent to LIE abroad for the good of his country.' FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD. 1 Farewell, ye gilded follies! pleasing troubles; Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles; Fame's but a hollow echo, gold pure clay, Honour the darling but of one short day, Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damask'd skin, State but a golden prison to live in And torture free-born minds; embroider'd trains Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins; And blood, allied to greatness, is alone Inherited, not purchased, nor our own. Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth, Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. 2 I would be great, but that the sun doth still Level his rays against the rising hill; I would be high, but see the proudest oak Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke; I would be rich, but see men too unkind Dig in the bowels of the richest mind; I would be wise, but that I often see The fox suspected while the ass goes free; I would be fair, but see the fair and proud, Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud; I would be poor, but know the humble grass Still trampled on by each unworthy ass; Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd, if poor; Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; high, still envied more. I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair--poor I'll be rather.