satyrically written
against several persons engaged in the Dutch war, in 1661. At the end of
them was a piece entitled Clarendon's Housewarming; and after that his
Epitaph, both containing bitter reflexions against that earl. Sir John
Denham's name is to these pieces, but they were generally thought to
be written by Andrew Marvel, Esq; a Merry Droll in Charles the IId's
Parliaments, but so very honest, that when a minister once called at
his lodgings, to tamper with him about his vote, he found him in mean
apartments up two pair of stairs, and though he was obliged to send out
that very morning to borrow a guinea, yet he was not to be corrupted by
the minister, but denied him his vote. The printer of these poems being
discovered, he was sentenced to stand in the pillory for the same.

We have met with no authors who have given any account of the moral
character of Sir John Denham, and as none have mentioned his virtues, so
we find no vice imputed to him but that of gaming; to which it appears
he was immoderately addicted. If we may judge from his works, he was
a good-natur'd man, an easy companion, and in the day of danger and
tumult, of unshaken loyalty to the suffering interest of his sovereign.
His character as a poet is well known, he has the fairest testimonies
in his favour, the voice of the world, and the sanction of the critics;
Dryden and Pope praise him, and when these are mentioned, other
authorities are superfluous.

We shall select as a specimen of Sir John Denham's Poetry, his Elegy on
his much loved and admired friend Mr. Abraham Cowley.

Old mother Wit and nature gave
Shakespear, and Fletcher all they have;
In Spencer and in Johnson art,
Of slower nature, got the start.
But both in him so equal are,
None knows which bears the happiest share.
To him no author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own:
He melted not the ancient gold,
Nor, with Ben Johnson, did make bold.
To plunder all the Roman stores
Of poets and of orators.
Horace's wit, and Virgil's state,
He did not steal, but emulate;
And he would like to them appear,
Their garb, but not their cloaths did wear.
He not from Rome alone but Greece,
Like Johnson, brought the golden fleece.
And a stiff gale, (as Flaccus sings)
The Theban swan extends his wings,
When thro' th' aethereal clouds he flies,
To the same pitch our swan doth rise:
Old Pindar's flights by him new-reach'd,
When on t