es into _Robin's_ Pockets,
_Dick_ brought out the two Ponies, and set me on one of them, and we had
a mad Scamper through the Meadows and down the Lanes; I leading. Just at
the Turne of _Holford's Close_, came shorte upon a Gentleman walking
under the Hedge, clad in a sober, genteel Suit, and of most beautifulle
Countenance, with Hair like a Woman's, of a lovely pale brown, long and
silky, falling over his Shoulders. I nearlie went over him, for
_Clover's_ hard Forehead knocked against his Chest; but he stoode it
like a Rock; and lookinge first at me and then at _Dick_, he smiled and
spoke to my Brother, who seemed to know him, and turned about and walked
by us, sometimes stroking _Clover's_ shaggy Mane. I felte a little
ashamed; for _Dick_ had sett me on the Poney just as I was, my Gown
somewhat too shorte for riding: however, I drewe up my Feet and let
_Clover_ nibble a little Grasse, and then got rounde to the neare Side,
our new Companion stille between us. He offered me some wild Flowers,
and askt me theire Names; and when I tolde them, he sayd I knew more
than he did, though he accounted himselfe a prettie fayre Botaniste: and
we went on thus, talking of the Herbs and Simples in the Hedges; and I
sayd how prettie some of theire Names were, and that, methought, though
Adam had named alle the Animals in Paradise, perhaps Eve had named all
the Flowers. He lookt earnestlie at me, on this and muttered "Prettie."
Then _Dick_ askt of him News from _London_, and he spoke, methought,
reservedlie; ever and anon turning his bright, thoughtfulle Eyes on me.
At length, we parted at the Turn of the Lane.

I askt _Dick_ who he was, and he told me he was one Mr. _John Milton_.

A SONNET
[Sidenote: _J.K. Stephen_]

Two voices are there: one is of the deep;
It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody,
Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,
Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:
And one is of an old half-witted sheep
Which bleats articulate monotony,
And indicates that two and one are three,
That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep:
And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times
Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,
The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst:
At other times--good Lord! I'd rather be
Quite unacquainted with the A.B.C.
Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

EPIGRAMS
[Sidenote: _Matthew Prior_]

To John I ow'd great obl