eath of his
dear friend, and constant companion, Mr. Charles Mervent, as appears
by his ode upon that occasion. In a short time after he became usher
to the free-school at Croyden in Surry. Here it was, he had the honour
of receiving a visit from the earl of Rochester, the earl of Dorset,
Sir Charles Sedley, and other persons of distinction, meerly upon the
reputation of some verses which they had seen in manuscript. The
master of the school was not a little surprized, at such a visit, and
would fain have taken the honour of it to himself, but was soon
convinced that he had neither wit nor learning enough to make a party
in such company. This adventure was no doubt very happy for Mr.
Oldham, as it encreased his reputation and gained him the countenance
of the Great, for after about three years continuance at Croyden
school, he was recommended by his good friend Harman Atwood, Esq; to
Sir Edward Thurland, a judge, near Rygate in the same county, who
appointed him tutor to his two grandsons. He continued in this family
till 1680. After this he was sometime tutor to a son of Sir William
Hicks, a gentleman living within three or four miles of London, who
was intimately acquainted with a celebrated Physician, Dr. Richard
Lower, by whose peculiar friendship and encouragement, Mr. Oldham at
his leisure hours studied physic for about a year, and made some
progress in it, but the bent of his poetical genius was too strong to
become a proficient in any school but that of the muses. He freely
acknowledges this in a letter to a friend, written in July 1678.

While silly I, all thriving arts refuse, }
And all my hopes, and all my vigour lose, }
In service of the worst of jilts a muse. }
* * * * *
Oft I remember, did wise friends dissuade,
And bid me quit the trifling barren trade.
Oft have I tryed (heaven knows) to mortify
This vile and wicked bent of poetry;
But still unconquered it remains within,
Fixed as a habit, or some darling sin.
In vain I better studies there would sow;
Oft have I tried, but none will thrive or grow.
All my best thoughts, when I'd most serious be,
Are never from its foul infection free:
Nay God forgive me when I say my prayers,
I scarce can help polluting them with verse.
The fab'lous wretch of old revers'd I seem,
Who turn whatever I touch to dross of rhime.

Our author had not been long in London, before he was found o