‘Be every day of your long life like this. The sun, bright conquest, and your brighter eyes Have all conspired to blaze promiscuous light, And bless this day with most unequal lustre. Your royal father, my victorious lord, Loaden with spoils, and ever-living laurel, Is entering now, in martial pomp, the palace. Five hundred mules precede his solemn march, Which groan beneath the weight of Moorish wealth. Chariots of war, adorn’d with glittering gems, Succeed; and next, a hundred neighing steeds, White as the fleecy rain on Alpine hills; That bound, and foam, and champ the golden bit, As they disdain’d the victory they grace. Prisoners of war in shining fetters follow: And captains of the noblest blood of Afric Sweat by his chariot-wheels, and lick and grind, With gnashing teeth, the dust his triumphs raise. The swarming populace spread every wall, And cling, as if with claws they did enforce Their hold, through clifted stones stretching and staring As if they were all eyes, and every limb Would feed its faculty of admiration, While you alone retire, and shun this sight; This sight, which is indeed not seen (though twice The multitude should gaze) in absence of your eyes.’ This passage seems, in part, an imitation of Bolingbroke’s entry into London. The style is as different from Shakspeare, as it is from that of Witwoud and Petulant. It is plain that the imagination of the author could not raise itself above the burlesque. His Mask of Semele, Judgment of Paris, and other occasional poems, are even worse. I would not advise any one to read them, or if I did, they would not.