My brother he is in Elizium, / Perchance he is not drown'd: What thinke you, ſaylors?.

This countrey ſwarmes with vile outragious men, That liue by rapine and by lawleſſe ſpoile, Fit ſouldiers for the wicked Tamburlaine.

The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marsh was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds.

Alehouses were more frequented, drunkenness more general, tale-mongery and sedition, the vices of sedentary idleness, prevailed, while a fanatical gloom was spreading over the country.