[17] This incident has been made the subject of much criticism to the disparagement of Fox. He, however, gives it as hearsay only, and, though the circumstantial details might not have been reported to him correctly, the substantial fact may be true nevertheless. Fox, too, was personally connected with the family of the Duke of Norfolk (at whose house the scene is said to have occurred), being once tutor in it.--Strype's Annals, pp 110, 368. [18] Strype's Annals, p. 242. [19] Fox, iii. 459. [20] Three Conversions, ii. 215. [21] Id. 230. [22] Id. ii.81, and Strype's Annals, p. 240. [23] Id. ii. 81, and Strype's Annals, p. 336. [24] Id. iii. 23. * * * * * SONGS, BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. From the _"Summer Féte,"_ just published. Some mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine, As in evenings like this no enjoyment to see; But, as I'm not particular--wit, love, and wine, Are for one night's amusement sufficient for me. Nay--humble and strange as my tastes may appear-- If driv'n to the worst, I could manage, thank heaven, To put up with eyes such as beam round me here, And with wine such as this is six days out of seven. So pledge me a bumber--your sages profound May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan; But as we are _not_ sages, why--send the cup round-- We must only be happy the best way we can. A reward by some king was once offer'd, we're told, To whoe'er could invent a new bliss for mankind; But talk of _new_ pleasures!--give me but the old, And I'll leave your inventors all new ones they find. Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss, Set sail in the pinnance of Fancy some day, Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this, And such eyes as we've here be the stars of my way! In the meantime, a bumper--your Angels on high, May have pleasures unknown to life's limited span; But, as we are _not_ angels, why--let the flask fly, We must only be happy _all_ ways that we can. * * * * * Oh, where art thou dreaming, On land or on sea? In my lattice is gleaming The watch-light for thee: And this fond heart is glowing To welcome thee home, And the night is fast going, But thou art not come: Thou com'st not--No, thou com'st not! 'Tis the time when night flowers Should wake from their rest, 'Tis the hour of all hours, When the lute murmurs best. But the flowers are half sleeping Till thy glance they see, And the hush'd lute is keeping Its music for thee: Yet thou com'st not--No, thou com'st not! * * * * * Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy? We've toys to suit all ranks and ages; Beside our usual fools' supply, We've lots of playthings too, for sages. For reasoners, here's a juggler's cup,