perfections are such that I cannot but account it as great a glory
to obey you, as it would make me sensible of shame to refuse any thing
you should command, though it were to sacrifice my life and honour,
which are the only jewels I ever prized in my prosperity, and which is
all that Fortune hath left to my disposal in my adversity." Then he
tells his story, which we had better not listen to, for it begins: "Know
you then that in the city of Corinth, there dwelt a gentleman called
Eleutherius ...," and we know full well what such beginnings threaten.
The romance goes on describing bloody feuds and matchless beauties. Here
is in characteristic style a portrait of a matchless beauty:

"The pillow blest with a kiss from her cheeks, as pregnant with delight,
swelled on either side.... A lock that had stollen from its sweet
prison, folded in cloudy curls, lay dallying with her breath, sometimes
striving to get a kiss, and then repulsed flew back, sometimes obtaining
its desired bliss, and then as rapt with joy, retreated in wanton
caperings.... Her breasts at liberty displayed were of so pure a
whiteness as if one's eye through the transparent skin, had viewed the
milky treasures they inclosed."

Oh! for a Boileau, shall we exclaim, to cut off the flowers of such
paper gardens! for a Defoe to show how prose fiction should be written!
But Boileau is abroad and Defoe's time is yet to come. Wait, besides,
for this is nothing and we have better in store; that was love, here is
war:

"The signal for the battail being given, there began such a terrible
conflict, as that within a short time thousands lay dead in the place,
both sides maintaining their assaults with such impetuous rage as if the
Gyants had been come to heap mountains of carcasses to assail heaven and
besiege the gods; nothing but fury reigned in every breast, some that
were thrust through with lances would yet run themselves farther on to
reach their enemies and requite that mortal wound ... the earth grew of
a sanguine complexion, being covered with blood, as if every soldier had
been Death's herald, and had come to emblazon Mars's arms with a sword
Argent on a field Gules.... In one place, lay heads deposed from their
sovereignties, yawning and staring as if they looked for their
bodies."[347] One refreshing thought is the remembrance of the pure,
deep pleasure Crowne must have found in fastening together such an
unparalleled series of conceits. "Peste," is he