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Or, to fome defpot's lawlefs will betray'd,
Give them to know what wretches they have made!
Beneath the lafh let them refign their breath,
Or court, in chains, the clay-cold hand of death.
Or, worst of ills! within each callous breaft,
Cherish uncurb'd the dark internal peft;
Bid Av'rice fwell with undiminish'd rage,
While no new worlds th' accurfed thirft affuage;
Then bid the monsters on each other turn,
The fury paffions in diforder burn;
Bid Difcord flourish, civil crimes increase,
Nor one fond with arife that pleads for peace-
Till, with their crimes in wild confufion hurl'd,
They wake t' eternal anguish in a future world.
Evening, or the Fugitive. An Ameri-
can Eclogue. GREGORY.
AY whither, wand'rer, points thy cheerlefs way.
When length'ning fhades announce the clofe of
In yon wild wafte no friendly roof thou'lt find
The haunt or ferpents and the favage kind.
And fure rememb'rance mocks me, or I trace
In thine the femblance of Zamboia's face?
Yet fcarce thy felf! for in thy alter'd eye
I read the records of hard destiny.
From thy rack'd bofom fighs that ccafelefs flow,
A man befpeak thee exercis'd in woe.
Say, then, what chance has burst thy rigid chains,
Has led thee frantic o'er thefe diftant plains?
What potent forrows can thy peace
What crimes conceal'd prey on thy anxious breaft?
No crimes this heart infeft, this hand defile,
Or frantic drive me o'er a foreign foil.
A murder'd wife and wrongs unmatch'd I mourn,
And buried joys that never fhall return
If then thou'rt tempted by the traitor's meed,
Take this poor life, and profper by the deed!
Not the rich produce of Angola's shore,
Not all the mifer's heap'd and glittering ftore,
Not all that pride would grafp, or pomp difplay,
Should tempt this hand the wretched to betray.
No traitors dwell within this bleft domain,
The friends of peace we live, a guilelefs train.
Grief dims thy eye, or gladly wouldft thou fee
Thy lov'd Mombaze yet furvives in me.
Canft thou forget? I taught thy youth to dare
The fylvan herd, and wage the defp'rate war.
Canft thou forget? One common lot we diew,
With thee inchain'd, a captive's fate I knew.
Distrust me not, but unreferv'd difclofe
The anxious tale that in thy bofom glows.
To part our griefs is oft to mitigate,
And focial forrows blunt the darts of fate.
Dear to my fight that form, and doubly dear Thy well-known accents meet Zamboia's car.
[O! had I died, and left the name of flave
Deep, deep entomb'd within an early grave!
O! had I died, ere ruthlefs fates conftrain,
With thee enthrall'd, to cross the western main!
O! to have met a glorious death in arms,
And ne'er beheld Melinda's fatal charms!
Time would be fhort, and memory would fail,
To dwell diftinétly on the various tale.
Tedious to tell what treach'rous arts were tried,
To footh the fmart of ftill revolting pride.
I liv'd, and lov'd-then kifs'd the fatal chain;
No joy but one to cheer a life of pain.
Yet witnefs bear, thou dear departed ghoft,
That lonely ov'ft thy Gambia's facred coaft!
How fweet the toil that inet the morning's ray,
How light the labour that o'er-lafted day!
The reed-built hovel, and the fcanty fare,
Imperial blifs could give, Melinda there!
Soft was my pillow, on thy gentle breast,
When o'er-prefs'd Nature droop'd in want of reft!
And if a rebel tear difgrac'd my eye,
Thine was the tear, and thine the burfting figh.
Bliss I could boaft, unenvied had it pafs'd,
But blifs too great for hapless flaves to last.
A wretch, who banifh'd from his native clime,
Defil'd with many a black and monftrous crime,
Prefided o'er us, and with iron hand
Held favage fway o'er all the fervile band.
In him each hellifh paflion rudely glow'd,
And cruelty in him moft cruel fhew'd.
Him luft infernal, one fad ev'ning, led
T' invade the chaftenefs of my marriage bed:
I chanc'd to approach-the caitiff I furpris'd-
My wife preferv'd, and had his guilt chafitis'd
While full with vengeance boil'd my wounded
But chance referv'd him for a bafer part. [heart:
Meanwhile, o'erjoy'd that vice e'en once had fail'd,
I blefs'd the gods that innocence prevail'd.
The baffled villain, now a foe profefs'd,
Rolls fcenes of blood within his rankling breaft;
With coward arts he forg'd a crafty tale;
And hands unrighteous poize the partial fcale.
Imputed crimes to crufh the weak fuffice,
Hearfay is guilt, and damning fact furmife.
Where uncurb'd will ufurps the place of laws,
No friendly pleader takes the wretch's caufe.
Our tyrant's fears each want of proof fupplied,
We ftand condemn'd, unquestion'd, and untried.
O! had the grief and fhame been all my own,
And the black vengeance lit on me alone!
But harfher fates a harder curfe decreed;
Thefe eyes were doom'd to fee Melinda bleed.
I faw her by relentless ruffians bound,
The brandifh'd fcourge inflict the mortal wound;
Her tender frame abus'd, and mangled o'er,
I faw her welt'ring in a flood of gore.
The murd'rous fcene had foon a dreadful close-
And do I live! and can I speak my wees!
Her pregnant womb no longer could fuftain
The public fhame, and agony of pain;
A birth abortive robb'd her of her breath,
And pangs convulfive feal'd her eyes in death.
This Eclogue was written during the American war.
One only pledge my weary foul detains,
This hapless infant, all that now remains;
The mournful image of my once-lov'd wife,
And ties me down awhile to hated life.
Elfe this bold hand thould liberty reftore,
And my rapt fpirit feck a happier thore.
Thro' devious paths with timid hafte we fly,
Where yon blue mountains meet the bending
Nor ferpents' haunts I dread, nor deferts drear,
The master-favage, Man, alone I fear.
There, where the putrid vapours flagging plav,
And the dull wheel hums doleful thro' the day:
There children dwell who know no parents' care;
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there;
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed,
Forfeken wives, and mothers never wed;
Dej ted widows with unheeded tears,
And crippled age with more than childhood fears!
Since from our native realms compell'd to The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they !
Such pointed forrows have not touch'd my heart.
Infatiate plunderers! could it not fuffice
To rend, inhuman, all the focial ties?
From guiltlefs joys that blefs'd our native foil,
Dragg'd to a life of mifery and toil;
Would you yet take the little God has given,
And intercept the gracious dews of Heaven?
Your rage for blood, wild as your thirft of gain,
Shall no refpects, not truths divine, rettrain?
'Th' eternal fabric can a name undo?
Is rape and murder fanctified in you?
And us, what laws, as impious as fevere,
Forbid the common rites of man to fhare?
Didft thou, creative Power! thy views confine
For one proud race the fpacious earth defign?
For them alone does plenty deck the vale,
Blush in the fiuit, and tinge the fcented gale?
For them the feafons all their fweets unfold?
The moping idiot, and the madman gay.
Here too the fick their final doom receive, Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve: Where the loud groans from fome fad chamber flow,
Mix'd with the clamours of the crowd below;
Here forrowing they each kindred forrow fean,
And the cold charities of man to man:
Whofe laws indeed for ruin'd age provide,
And ftrong compulfion plucks the fcrap from
But ftill that scrap is bought with many a figh,
And pride embitters what it can't deny.
Some jaring nerve that baffles your repose;
Say ye, oppress'd by some fantastic woes,
Who prefs the downy couch, while flaves advance
With timid eye, to read the diftant glance;
Who with fad prayers the weary doctor teafe
To name the nameless ever-new difeafe;
Blooms the fresh rofe, and thines the waving gold Who with mock-patience dire complaints endure,
O no! all bounteous is thy equal hand,
And thy fix'd laws irrevocable ftand!
Haplefs Zamboia! had it been thy fate
With me to fhare my more propitious state;
Thy foul had breath'd no impious with to die,
Nor the big tear had trembled in thine eye.
Disjoin'd from thee, I too to flavery went;
But Heaven a father, not a master, lent.
He feeins as Virtue's felf in mortal guife;
Tho' wealthy, fimple; and tho' modeft, wife.
Bleft be the hand that life and freedom gave!
That pow'r can boaft, exerted but to fave!
Bleft the fage tongue that ftor'd the vacant mind,
The manners foften'd, and the heart refiu'd!
That, ftill to Heaven's unerring dictates true,
Eternal truth unfolded to our view!
But, come! thy faint and weary limbs repofe,
Forgetful of thy fears, thy griefs compofe;
By morning's dawn with carneft foot I speed,
Nor fleep thefe eyes till I behold thee freed.
Some wealth I have; and, did I prize it more,
Well fpar'd for this I deem the facred store.
So talk'd thefe friends, and to the cottage hafte;
While fad Zamboia his purfuers trac'd.
The ruffian band arreft the hapless fwain,
And pray'rs, and tears, and promises are vain :
Their vengeful fervour, no-not gifts abate;
But, bound in chains, they drag him to his fate "
Which real pain, and that alone, can cure;
How would ye bear in real pain to lie,
Defpis'd, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath.
Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?
Such is that room which one rude beam divides,
And naked rafters form the floping fides ;
Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are fets,
And lath and mud are all that lie between:
Save one dull pane,that, ccartely patch'd, gives way
To the rude tempeft, yet excludes the day:
Here, on a matted flock, with duft o'erfpread,
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;
For him no hand the cordial cup apples,
Nor wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes;
No friends with toft difcourfe his pain beguile,
Nor promife hope till fickness wears a smile.
$127. Defcription of a Country Apothecary. CRABBE
BUT foon a loud and hafty fummons calis,
Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls: Anon a figure enters, quaintly near, All pride and bus'nefs, butle and conceit; Wich looks unalter'd by thefe fcenes of woe, With speed that, entering, (peaks his hafte to go;
* A higher reward is generally offered for the head of a fugitive negro than for bringing him alive.
He bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries fate and phyfic in his eye;
A potent quack, long vers'd in human ills,
Who firft infilts the victim whom he kills;
Whofe murd'rous hand a drowly bench protect,
And whofe moft tender mercy is neglect.
Paid by the parish for attendance here,
He wears contempt upon his fapient fneer;
In hafte he feeks the bed where mifery lies,
Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes;
And, fome habitual queries hurried o'er,
Without reply, he rushes on the door;
His drooping patient, long inur'd to pain,
And long unheeded, knows remonftrance vain ;
He ceafes now the feeble help to crave
Of man, and mutely haftens to the grave.
§ 128. Defcription of a Country Clergyman
vifiting the Sick.
BUT ere his death fome pious doubts arife,
Some fimple fears which "bold bad" men
Fain would he afk the parish priest to prove
His title certain to the joys above;
For this he fends the murmuring nurfe, who calls
The holy ftranger to thefe difmal walls;
And doth not he, the pious man, appear,
He, "paffing rich with forty pounds a year?"
Ah no a fhepherd of a different stock,
And far unlike him, feeds this little flock;
A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's talk
As much as God or man can fairly afk;
The rest he gives to loves and labours light,
To fields the morning, and to feafts the night;
None better skill'd the noify pack to guide,
To urge their chace, to cheer them, or to chide;
Sure in his hot, his game he feldom mifs'd,
And feldom fail'd to win his game at whift;
Then, while fuch honours bloom around his head,
Shall he fit fadly by the fick man's bed,
To raife the hope he feels not, or with zeal
To combat fears that ev'n the pious feel?
The Reafon for describing the Vices
the Village. CRABBE.
YET why, you afk, thefe humble crimes relate,
Why make the poor as guilty as the great
To fhew the great, those mightier fons of pride,
How near in vice the loweft are allied;
Such are their natures, and their paffions fuch,
But thefe difguife too little, those too much:
So thall the man of pow'r and pleasure fee
In his own flave as vile a wretch as he;
In his luxuriant lord the fervant find
His own low pleasures and degenerate mind:
And each in all the kindred vices trace
Of a poor, blind, bewilder'd, erring race;
Who, a fhort time in varied fortune pait,
Die, and are equal in the duft at last.
And you, ye poor, who ftill lament your fate,
Forbear to envy thofe you reckon great;
And know, amid those bleffings they poffefs,
They are, like you, the victims of diftrefs,
While Sloth with many a pang torments her flave,
Fear waits on guilt, and Danger shakes the brave.
§ 130. Apology for Vagrants. ANON. FOR him, who, loft to ev'ry hope of life,
Has long with fortune held unequal strife,
Known to no human love, no human care,
The friendlefs, homeless object of defpair;
For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains,
Nor from fd freedom fend to fadder chains.
Alike, if folly or misfortune brought
Thofe laft of woes his evil days have wrought;
Relieve with focial mercy, and, with me,
Folly's misfortune in the first degree.
Perhaps on fome inhofpitable thore
The houfeleis wretch a widow'd parent hore;
Who, then no more by golden profpects led,
Of the poor Indian begg'd a leafy bed.
Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain,
Perhaps that parent mourn'd her foldier flain;
Bent o'er her babe, her eye diffolv'd in dew,
The big drops mingling with the milk he drew,
Gave the fad prefage of his future years,
The child of mifery baptiz'd in tears!
$131. Epifile to a young Gentleman, on bis
leaving Eton School. By Dr. ROBERIS.
SINCE now a nobler fcene awakes thy care,
Since manhood dawning, to fair Granta's tow'rs,
Where once in life's gay fpring I lov'd to roam,
Invites thy willing fteps; accept, dear youth,
This parting ftrain; accept the fervent pray'r
Of him who loves thee with a paffion pure
As ever friendship dropp'd in human heart;
The prayer, That he who guides the hand of youth
Thro' all the puzzled and perplexed round
Of life's meand'ring path, upon thy head
May fhower down every blefling, every joy,
Which health, which virtue, and which fame can
Yet think not I will deign to flatter thee:
Shall he, the guardian of thy faith and truth,
The guide, the pilot of thy tender years,
Teach thy young heart to feel a fpurious glow
At undeferved praife? Perifh the flave
Whofe venal breath in youth's unpractis'd ear
Pours poifon'd flattery, and corrupts the foul
With vain conceit; whose base ungenerous art
Fawns on the vice, which fome with honcft hand
Have torn for ever from the bleeding breast!
Say, gentle youth, remember'st thou the day
When o'er thy tender fhoulders first I hung
The golden lyre, and taught thy trembling hand
Totouch th'accordant ftrings? From that bleft hour
I've feen thee panting up the hill of fame;
Thy little heart beat high with honeft praife,
Thy cheek was fluth'd, and oft thy sparkling eye
Shot flames of young ambition. Never quench
That generous ardour in thy virtuous breast.
Sweet is the concord of harinonious founds,
When the foft lute or pealing organ ftrikes
The well-attemper'd ear; sweet is the breath
Of honeft love, when nymph and gentle fiain
Waft fighs alternate to each other's heart:
But not the concord of harmonious founds,
When the foft lute or pealing organ ftrikes
The well-attemper'd ear; nor the fweet breath
Of honeft love, when nymph and gentle swain
Waft fighs alternate to cach other's heart,
So charm with ravishment the raptur'd fenfe,
As does the voice of well-deferv'd report
Strike with fweet melody the confcious foul.
On ev'ry object thro' the giddy world
Which fafhion to the dazzled eye prefents,
Fresh is the glofs of newnefs; look, dear youth,
O look, but not admire: O let not these
Rafe from thy noble heart the fair records
Which youth and education planted there:
Let not affection's full impetuous tide,
Which riots in thy generous breast, be check'd
By felfish carcs; nor let the idle jeers
Of laughing fools make thee forget thy felf.
When didit thou hear a tender tale of wee,
And feel thy heart at reft? Have I not feen
In thy fwoln eye the tear of fympathy,
The milk of human kindness When didft thou
With envy rankling hear a rival prais'd?
When didst thou flight the wretched? when de-
The modeft humble fuit of poverty?
Thefe virtues fill be thine; nor ever learn
To look with cold eye on the charities
Of brother, or of parents; think on thofe
Whofe anxious care thro' childhood's flippery path
Suftain'd thy feeble fteps; whofe every with
Is wafted ftill to thee; remember thofe
Even in thy heart while memory holds her feat.
And oft as to thy mind thou thalt recall
The fweet companions of thy earliest years,
Mates of thy fport, and rivals in the firife
Of every generous art, remember me.
§ 132. Great Cuties, and London in particular,
allowed their due Praife. CowPER. BUT the true worth and virtue in the mild And genial foil of cultivated life
Thrive moft, and may perhaps thrive only there,
Yet not in cities oft; in proud, and gay,
And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow,
As to a common and moft noifome fewer,
The dregs and feculence of ev'ry land.
In cities, foul example on moft minds
Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds
In grofs and pamper'd cities floth and luft,
And wantonnefs, and gluttonous excels.
In cities, vice is hidden with most ease,
Or feen with leaft reproach; and virtue, taught
By frequent lapfe, can hope no triumph there
Beyond th' achievement of fuccefsful flight.
I do confefs them nurs'ries of the arts,
A lucid mirror, in which Nature fees
All her reflected features. Bacon there
Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.
Nor does the chifel occupy alone
The pow'rs of fculpture, but the ftyle as much;
Each province of her art her equal care.
With nice incifion of her guided steel
She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a foil
So fterile with what charms foe'er the will,
The richeft fcenery, and the lovelieft forms.
Where finds Philofophy her cagle eye,
With which the gazes at yon burning dik
Undazzled, and detects and counts his fpets?
In London. Where her implements exact,
With which he calculates, computes, and feans,
All distance, motion, magnitude; and new
Measures an atom, and now girds a world?
In London. Where has commerce fuch a man,
So rich, fo throng'd, fo drain'd, and so supplied
As London, opulent, enlarg'd, and still
Increafing London? Babylon of old
Not more the glory of the earth, than the
A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now.
She has her praife. Now mark a fpot or two
That fo much beauty would do well to purge;
And fhew this queen of cities, that fo fair
May yet be foul, fo witty yet not wife.
It is not feemly, nor of good report,
| That fhe is flack in difcipline; more prompt
T'avenge than to prevent the breach of law.
That the is rigid in denouncing death
On petty robbers, and indulges life
And liberty, and oft-times honour too,
To peculators of the public gold.
That thieves at home must hang; but he that purs
Into his overgorg'd and bloated purfe
The wealth of Indian provinces, cicapes.
Nor is it well, nor can it come to good,
That, through profane and infidel contempt
Of holy writ, fhie has prefum'd t'annul
And abrogate, as roundly as the may,
The total ordinance and will of God;
Advancing fathion to the post of truth,
And cent'ring all authority in modes
And cuftoms of her own, till Sabbath rites
Have dwindled into unrefpected forms,
And knees and haffocks are well-nigh divorc'd.
God made the country, and man made the town.
What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts
That can alone make fweet the bitter draught
That life holds out to all, fhould most abound,
And leaft be threaten'd, in the fields and groves!
Poffefs ye therefore, ye who, borne about
In chariots and fedans, know no fatigue
But that of idlenefs, and tafte no fcenes
But fuch as art contrives, poffefs ye ftill
Your element; there only ye can fhine,
There only minds like yours can do no harm.
Our groves were planted to confole at ucon
In which they flourish moft; where, in the beams
Of warm encouragement, and in the eve
Of public note, they reach their perfect fize.
Such London is, by tafte and wealth proclaim'd│The penfive wand'rer in their fhades. At eve
The fairest capital of all the world,
By riot and incontinence the worft.
The moon-beam, fliding foftly in between The fleeping leaves, is all the light they wish;
There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes Birds warbling, all the music. We can fpare
IN colleges and halls, in ancient days,
When learning, virtue, piety, and truth,
Were precious, and inculcated with care,
There dwelt a fage call'd Difcipline.
Not yet by time completely filver'd o'er,
Bespoke him paft the bounds of freakish youth,
But ftrong for fervice ftill, and unimpair'd.
His eye was meek and gentle, and a fimile
Play'd on his lips, and in his fpeech was heard
Paternal fweetnefs, dignity, and love.
The occupation dearest to his heart
Was to encourage goodnefs. He would ftroke
The head of modeft and ingenuous worth
That blush'd at its own praife, and prefs the youth
Close to his fide that pleas'd him. Learning grew,
Beneath his care, a thriving vigorous plant;
The mind was well inform'd, the pallions held
Subordinate, and diligence was choice.
If e'er it chanc'd, as fometimes chance it must,
That one among fo many overleap'd
The limits of controul, his gentle eye
Grew ftern, and darted a fevere rebuke;
His frown was full of terror, and his voice
Shook the delinquent with fuch fits of awe,
As left him not till penitence had won
Loft favour back again, and clos'd the breach.
But Difcipline, a faithful fervant long,
Declin'd at length into the vale of
A palfy ftruck his arm; his fparkling eye
Was quench'd in rheums of age; his voice un-
Grew tremulous, and mov'd derifion more
Than rev'rence in perverfe rebellious youth.
So colleges and halls neglected much
Their good old friend; and Difcipline at length,
O'erlook'd and unemploy'd, fell fick and died.
Then Study languifh'd, Emulation flept,
And Virtue fled. The fchools became a fcene
Of folemn farce, where Ignorance in ftilts,
His cap well lin'd with logic not his own,
With parrot tongue perform'd the fcholar's part,
Proceeding foon a graduated Dunce.
Then Compromife had place, and Scrutiny
Became ftone-blind, Precedence went in truck,
And he was competent whofe purse was so.
A diffolution of all bonds enfued:
The curbs invented for the mulish mouth
Of headstrong youth were broken; bars and bolts
Grew rufty by difufe; and maffy gates
Forgot their office, op'ning with a touch;
Till gowns at length are found mere mafquerade;
The taffel'd cap and the fpruce band a jeit,
A mock'ry of the world. What need of these
For gamefters, jockies, brothellers impure,
Spendthrifts, and booted fportfinen, oft'ner feen
With belted waift, and pointers at their heels,
Than in the bounds f duty? What was learn'd,
If aught was learn'd in childhood, is forgot;
And fuch expence as pinches parents blue,
And mortifies the lib'ral hand of love,
Is fquander'd in purfuit of idle fports
And vicious pleafures; buys the boy a name,
That fits a ftigma on his father's houfe,
And cleaves through life infeparably clofe
To him that wears it. What can after-games
Of riper joys, and commerce with the world,
The lewd vain world that must receive him foon,
Add to fuch erudition thus acquir'd,
Where fcience and where virtue are profess'd?
They may confirm his habits, rivet faft
His folly; but to spoil him is a task
That bids defiance to th' united pow'rs
Of fashion, diffipation, taverns, stews.
Now, blame we moft the nurflings or the nurfe?
The children crook'd, and twisted, and deform'd,
Through want of care, or her whofe winking eye
And flumb`ring ofcitancy mars the brood?
The nurfe no doubt. Regardless of her charge,
She needs herself correction; needs to learn,
That it is dang'rous fporting with the world,
With things fo facred as a nation's trust,
The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge.
134. Happy the Freedom of the Man whom Grace makes free-His Relifb of the Works of God Addrefs to the Creator. CoWPER.
HE is the freeman whom the truth makes free,
And all are flaves befide. There's not a chain
That hellish foes confed'rate for his harm
Can wind around him, but he cafts it off
With as much ease as Samfon his green withes.
He looks abroad into the varied field
Of Nature; and tho' poor, perhaps, compar'd
With thofe whofe manfions glitter in his fight,
Calls the delightful feen'ry all his own.
His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And the refplendent rivers; his t' enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel,
But who, with filial confidence infpir'd,
Can lift to Heaven an unprefumptuous eye,
And fmiling fay-My Father made them all:
Are they not his by a peculiar right?
And by an emphasis of int'reft his,
Whofe eye they fill with tears of holy joy,
Whole heart with praife, and whofe exalted mind
With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love
That plann'd, and built, and ftill upholds a world,
So cloth'd with beauty, for rebellious man?
Yes-ye may fill your garners, ye that reap
The loaded foil, and ye may waste much good
In fenfelefs riot; but
will not find
In feast or in the chace, in fong or dance,
A liberty like his, who, unimpeach'd