Charles studied at Cambridge; and after travelling abroad, married the daughter of Sir Thomas Owthorp in Nottinghamshire, who does not appear to have lived long. His extravagance keeping him poor, he was compelled to eke out his means by translating works from the French and Italian, including those of a spirit somewhat kindred to his own--Montaigne. At the age of forty, he obtained a captain's commission in the army, and went to Ireland. There he met with his second wife, Mary, Countess Dowager of Ardglass, the widow of Lord Cornwall. She possessed a jointure of L1500 a-year, secured, however, after marriage, from her husband's imprudent and reckless management. He returned to his English estate, where he became passionately fond of fishing,--intimate with Izaak Walton, whom he invited in a poem, although now eighty-three years old, to visit him in the country--and where he built a fishing-house, with the initials of Izaak's name and his own united in ciphers over the door; the walls, too, being painted with fishing scenes, and the portraits of Cotton and Walton appearing upon the beaufet. Poor Charles had a less fortunate career than his friend, dying insolvent at Westminster in 1687. Careless gaiety and reckless extravagance, blended with heart, sense, and sincerity, were the characteristics of Cotton as a man, and were, as is usually the case, transferred to his poetry. He squandered his pence and his powers with equal profusion. His travestie of the 'Aeneid' is pronounced by Christopher North (who must have read it, however,) a beastly book. Campbell says, with striking justice, of another of Cotton's productions, 'His imitations of Lucian betray the grossest misconception of humorous effect, when he attempts to burlesque that which is ludicrous already.' It is like trying to turn the 'Tale of a Tub' into ridicule. But Cotton's own vein, as exhibited in his 'Invitation to Walton,' his 'New Year,' and his 'Voyage to Ireland,' (which anticipates in some measure the style of Anstey in the 'New Bath Guide,') is very rich and varied, full of ease, picturesque spirit, and humour, and stamps him a genuine, if not a great poet. INVITATION TO IZAAK WALTON. 1 Whilst in this cold and blustering clime, Where bleak winds howl, and tempests roar, We pass away the roughest time Has been of many years before; 2 Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks The dullest blasts our peace invade, And by great rains our smallest brooks Are almost navigable made; 3 Whilst all the ills are so improved Of this dead quarter of the year, That even you, so much beloved, We would not now wish with us here: 4 In this estate, I say, it is Some comfort to us to suppose, That in a better clime than this, You, our dear friend, have more repose; 5 And some delight to me the while, Though Nature now does weep in rain, To think that I have seen her smile, And haply may I do again.