or Clevelandism, wresting and torturing a word into another meaning?  In fine, if be not one of those whom the French would call un mauvais buffon; one that is so much a well willer to the Satire, that he spares no man:  and though he cannot strike a blow to hurt any, yet ought to be punished for the malice of the action; as our witches are justly hanged, because they think themselves so, and suffer deservedly for believing they did mischief, because they meant it.”

“You have described him,” said CRITES, “so exactly, that I am afraid to come after you, with my other Extremity of Poetry.  He [i.e., FRANCIS QUARLES] is one of those, who, having had some advantage of education and converse [i.e., conversation, in the sense of Culture through mixture with society], knows better than the other, what a Poet should be; but puts it into practice more unluckily than any man.  His style and matter are everywhere alike.  He is the most calm, peaceable writer you ever read.  He never disquiets your passions with the least concernment; but still leaves you in as even a temper as he found you.  He is a very Leveller in poetry; he creeps along, with ten little words in every line, and helps out his numbers with For to, and Unto, and all the pretty expletives he can find, till he drags them to the end of another line:  while the Sense is left, tired, halfway behind it.  He doubly starves all his verses; first, for want of Thought, and then, of Expression, His poetry neither has wit in it, nor seems to have it; like him, in MARTIAL,

    “Pauper videri CINNA vult, et est pauper.

“He affects plainness, to cover his Want of Imagination.  When he writes in the serious way; the highest flight of his Fancy is some miserable antithesis or seeming contradiction:  and in the comic; he is still reaching at some thin conceit, the ghost of a jest, and that too flies before him, never to be caught.  These swallows, which we see before us on the Thames, are the just resemblance of his Wit.  You may observe how near the water they stoop! how many proffers they make to dip, and yet how seldom they touch it! and when they do, ’tis but the surface! they skim over it, but to catch a gnat, and then mount in the air and leave it!”

“Well, gentlemen!” said EUGENICS, “you may speak your pleasure of these authors; but though.  I and some few more about the Town, may give you a peaceable hearing:  yet, assure yourselves! there are multitudes who would think you malicious, and them injured; especially him whom you first described, he is the very Withers of the City.  They have bought more Editions of his works, than would serve to lay under all their pies at the Lord Mayor’s Christmas.  When his famous poem [i.e., Speculum Speculativium; Or, A Considering Glass, Being an Inspection into the present and late sad condition of these Nations....  London.  Written June xiii.  XDCLX, and there