and pray let him know it either by your writing to him, or sending him this of mine. THE Reader will find in this Book, what the Title declares, A Pastoral History, in smooth and easie Verse; and will in it find many Hopes and Fears finely painted, and feelingly express'd. And he will find the first so often disappointed, when fullest of desire and expectation; and the later, so often, so strangely, and so unexpectedly reliev'd, by an unforeseen Providence, as may beget in him wonder and amazement. And the Reader will here also meet with Passions heighted by easie and fit descriptions of Joy and Sorrow; and find also such various events and rewards of innocent Truth and undissembled Honesty, as is like to leave in him (if he be a good natur'd Reader) more sympathizing and virtuous Impressions, than ten times so much time spent in impertinent, critical, and needless Disputes about Religion and I heartily wish it may do so. And, I have also this truth to say of the Author, that he was in his time a man generally known, and as well belov'd; for he was humble, and obliging in his behaviour, a Gentleman, a Scholar, very innocent and prudent: and indeed his whole life was useful, quiet, and virtuous. God send the Story may meet with, or make all Readers like him. May 7, 1678. I. W. "Thealma and Clearchus" ends abruptly with this fragmentary line: "Thealma lives ❞— on which Walton makes the characteristic note: And here the Author dy'd, and I hope the Reader will be sorry. Cotton's Verses to Walton (1672) Old and Most Worthy Friend, Mr. Izaak Walton, on When to a nation's loss, the virtuous die, Which, though it be the poorest, cheapest way, And these are monuments of so short date, And though to verse great reverence is due, Something more sacred then, or more entire, Than what may with their funeral torch expire: This History can give; to which alone The privilege to mate oblivion Is granted, when denied to brass and stone. Wherein, my friend, you have a hand so sure, Your pen, disdaining to be brib'd or prest, A virtue with which few good pens are blest. How happy was my father, then, to see Wotton and Donne, to whom his soul was knit: Where one has fortunately found a place, A monument, that, as it has, shall last, And even, in their flowery characters, My father's grave, part of your friendship shares; For you have honour'd his in strewing theirs. Thus, by an office, though particular, And by this act the world is taught to know, But your's is friendship of so pure a kind, For whereas most men's friendships here beneath, Do perish with their friend's expiring breath, Yours proves a friendship living after death; By which the generous Wotton, reverend Donne, Soft Herbert, and the Church's champion, Hooker, are rescued from oblivion. For though they each of them his time so spent, With which ambition might rest well content; Yet their great works, though they can never die, Are no just scale to take their virtues by; Because they show not how the Almighty's grace, But what their humble modesty would hide, Wotton-a nobler soul was never bred!— Through his degrees of honour, and of arts, Through all the employments of his wit and spirit, Nay, through disgrace, which oft the worthiest have, Through all state tempests, through each wind and wave, And laid him in an honourable grave. And yours, and the whole world's beloved Donne, When he a long and wild career had run To the meridian of his glorious sun; And being then an object of much ruth, By the same clue, after his youthful swing, And though by God's most powerful grace alone And know, that having crucified vanities, The meek and learned Hooker too, almost And Herbert;-he whose education, And fitted for a court, made that his aim; Where, with a soul composed of harmonies, All this you tell us, with so good success, And now, when many worthier would be proud Where, to commend what you have choicely writ, |