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PAUL CLIFFORD.
CHAPTER IX.
Dream.—Let me but see her, dear Leontius.
Hempskirke—It was the fellow, sure,
Wolfort—What are you, Sirrah?
Humorous Lieutenant.
Wolfort—What are you, Sirrah?
Beggar's Bush.
O thou divine Spirit, that through England burnest in every breast, inciting each with the sublime desire to be fine! that stirrest up the great to become little in order to seem greater, and that makest a Duchess woo insult for a voucher! Thou that delightest in so many shapes, multivarious, yet the same; Spirit that makest the high despicable, and the Lord meaner than his valet! equally great whether thou cheatest a friend, or cuttest a father! lackering all thou touchest with a bright vulgarity, that thy votaries imagine to be gold!—thou that sendest the few
