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Is mentioned by Winstanley as having been bred a student

at Christ-church, and having practised physic. According to Wood (Fasti, II. 103) he took the degree of M.D. in 1653. His poem called “Men-Miracles," was published, with a few smaller pieces, in 1646, 12mo. again in 1656, and reprinted in 1661, under the title of “ Lluellin's Marrow “ of the Muses." The work is a good satire on travellers, written in what is now called Hudibrastic verse.


Celia in Love.

I felt my heart, and found a flame
That for relief and shelter came;
I entertain’d the treacherous guest,
And gave it welcome in my breast.
Poor Celia ! whither wilt thou go ?
To cool in streams, or freeze in snow
Or gentle Zephyrus intreat
To chill thy flames, and fan thy heat ?
Perhaps a taper's fading beams
May die in air, or quench in streams :

But love is a mysterious fire,
Nor can in air or ice expire :
Nor will this Phænix be supprest
But with the ruin of his nest.


Was born in 1631: died in 1701. From the works of this

admirable poet the following specimen is selected, because it seems to have escaped the notice of former collectors, though written with all the characteristic fire and spirit of its author. .

[The Invocation of the Ghost of Laius by Tiresias.]

[From the Tragedy of “Edipus.")

Tir. Choose the darkest part o'th' grove ;

Such as ghosts at noon-day love.
Dig a trench, and dig it nigh
Where the bones of Laius lie:
Altars rais’d of turf or stone
Will th’infernal powers have none.

Answer me, if this be done.
Chor. 'Tis done.

Tir. Is the sacrifice made fit?

Draw her backward to the pit;
Draw the bar ren heifer back :
Barren let her be, and black.

Cut the curled hair that grows
Full betwixt her horns and brows :
And turn your faces from the sun.-

Answer me, if this be done.
Chor. 'Tis done.

Tir. Pour in blood, and blood-like wine,

To mother Earth and Proserpine ;
Mingle milk into the stream ;
Feast the ghosts that love the steam :
Snatch a brand from funeral pile;
Toss it in to make them boil :
And turn your faces from the sun.-

Answer me, if all be done.
Chor. All is done.

SONG. 1. Hear, ye sullen powers, below!

Hear, ye taskers of the dead ! 2. You that boiling cauldrons blow!

You that scum the molten lead ! 3. You that pinch with red-hot tongs ! 1. You that drive the trembling hosts

Of poor poor ghosts With your sharpen'd prongs ! 2. You that thrust them off the brim !

You that plunge them when they swim ! 1. Till they drown;

Till they go

On a row Down, down, down, Ten thousand, thousand, thousand fathoms low. Chor. "Till they drown, &c.

1. Music for a while
Shall your cares beguile:

Wondering how your pains were eas'd !
2. And disdaining to be pleas'd!
3. Till Alecto free the dead

From their eternal bands ;
Till the snakes drop from her head,
And whip from out her hands.

Come away,

Do not stay,
· But obey . .

While we play, For hell's broke up, and ghosts have holy-day. Chor. Come away, &c. 1. Laius! 2. Laius! 3. Laius ! 1. Hear! 2. Hear! 3. Hear! Tir. Hear and appear!

By the Fates that spun thy thread!
Chor. Which are threem
Tır. By the Furies fierce and dread!

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