Carmina Vestalia.

BEING THREE EPISTLES TO HARMONIA, CORINNA, AND SOPHRONIA, &c.

By a Person of Quality.

Ab Jove Principium Musae, Jovis omnia plena;
Ille colet Terras, ille mea carmina curae.
P. Verg. Palaemon.

To which are added several POEMS by another Hand.

The CONTENTS.
  • 1. To Harmonia, Mrs. P—son.
  • 2. To Corinna, Mrs. B—ny.
  • 3. To Sophronia, Mrs. S—mes.
  • 4. On the young Duke of Holstein, which I saw at the Acadamy in Holland, in the Year, 1692.
  • 5. To a young Gentleman who re­commended Sir Philip Sidney's Pembrooks Arcadia to my reading.
  • 6. Thirsis and Corydon.
  • 7. To a young Lady who desired me to send her Pastor Fido.
  • 8. Ʋpon a young Lady playing on the Espinette.
  • 9. Ʋpon a young Lady leaving England.
  • 10. Ʋpon the Death of Mrs. Anne P—ch.
  • 11. The VISIT.
  • 12. Philomela.
  • 13. To make a Married Life happy.
  • 14. A Dream.
  • 15. The Miseries attending Man­kind.
  • 16. To Himself.
  • 17. On a Lady Stabbing her self.

LONDON: Printed and Sold by J. Nutt, near Stationers-Hall, 1700.

To Cesaria and her Sister,

THE Design of these insuing Epistles was, at once to show the Misfortune of the Poet, and (by three Illustrious Virgins) the supreme Excellency of the Female Sex, in the glorious and elevated Rank of which, both Myrtilla and your self claim the highest respect, Homage and Adoration, that possibly can be paid to the Transcendent, and ingageing Charmes of Beauty, Innocence, or Goodness. Man in his first State in the delightful and exuberant Garden of Eden, where (as Milton expresses it) He was on every side surrounded with enor­mous Bliss; yet notwithstanding all those paridisaical Pleasures he injoy'd, there was something still wanting to add too, and compleat his Happiness: Wherefore upon the mature and deli­berate Thought of Heaven, what should this remaining part of his Felicity be, but the privation or absence of his afterwards? So admired Eue, and verily the best and greatest of Men in all Ages of the World, since the Times of the original Pair, have ever acknowledg'd as justly due the greatest difference to Your most beautious Sex. For indeed, let the smaller Poets discant ne­ver so much on the Praise of Mau, or let the Orators by the Elo­quence of the Chair, magnifie him to the highest Degree and pitch they are able, yet I will be bold to Affirm, Woman in Beauty does as far surmount and exceed Man, as the more pure and bright Regions above surpass these the more thick and gross here below. Kings have laid their Crowns, Princes their Scep­ters, and Generals their Wreaths at the Feet of the fair Cleopa­tra: Numa, (who instituted the Holy Fire) had his Mountain Nymph, and if I may be allow'd to say as much, it being my aim only (I assure you by Apollo and his silver Bow) to manifest the extream force and power of Beauty, Henry the Second of England had his admir'd Rosamond, and from whose very Room out of which she went to Woodstock Bower and was there Poisoned by Queen Elinor, I am now writing to you this Epistle, yet Cleopatra the delight of Emperors and joy of Kings was inferiour to; and had not envious Time (the mortal Enemy to all Beauty's) by placing these two lively Images of the Deity [Page]at so great a distance the one from the other put it out of the reach and height of compare, Cleopatra surely might have borrow'd Charmes from the more beautiful Cesaria, and Rosamond have supply'd with the clear shining Light and Fire of Myrtilla's Eyes, those of the yet infinitely more feeble and languid Flames of her own; nay, even the Grecian Hellen, were it possible for her to behold in these sweet Arcadian Groves, the noble and ex­quisite Form of the incomparable Cesaria, with the no less won­derful Myrtilla, would easily confess, and readily grant, that the united Charmes of the whole fair Sex together, was immensly visible (in these two Virgin Sisters) nay, almost wholly consisted in Cesaria's and Myrtilla's Eyes: Wherefore fair Nymphs, may it please you to accept of, and Patronise these few Poems, and by the condescending to which request, you will greatly oblige him who is, with all imaginable Zeal, Sincerity and Respect, O immaculate Nymphs and fairest of all Women,

Your most Humble, most Obedient, and intirely Devoted Servant and Vassel,

Carmina Vestalia. Being Three Epistles, &c.

To Harmonia, Mrs. P—son.

O SACRED Image of divinest Love,
Emblem of those all-glorious Saints above,
Which i'th bright, the purest Tracts of Heaven move.
As thine less melting were
Title of Ve­nus.
Cyllenias Charms,
When Cupid slept within her tender Arms:
Playing about the Hive, a Queen-Bee stung,
His Finger, who complaining of the wrong.
She kist the Wound, and prest him to her Breast,
Where the God gently lean'd his Head to rest.
Around her balmy Neck his Hands were laid,
Pure as the Thought of an unspotted Maid.
On whose soft Bosom lull'd in sweet delight,
He sooth'd his pain, and vanquish'd all his fright.
Once
Another of Venus her Ti­les.
Cytherea Queen of Beauty reign'd,
Tho' now Harmonia's Eyes the prize have gain'd.
Ador'd through all the wide Arcadian Plain,
Joy of the Nymphs, delight of ev'ry Swain.
So exquisite her Form and Beauty is,
That she in poppy Groves dispences bliss.
Rejoyces all those Meads, where e're she treads,
Makes Junk [...]les smile, and Lupines bend their Heads.
Toying with Nymphs, upon the flowry Green,
When we Harmonia view, observe her Mein;
Her words all Honey, and her Face serene.
The more we look, the more we all admire,
So dangerous it is t'approach the Fire.
Of sweet Harmonia's Eyes, more soft and bright,
Than all the glitt'ring Stars that shine by Night.
Directing Lovers in the pathless Grove,
Where they fulfil the Misteries of Love.
To you bless'd Nymph, form'd with the utmost care,
Of the same make, that brightest Angels are.
Whose Sacred Breast, was never seen to move,
And tho' all Harmony untouch'd to love.
I who through Seas and Desart Lands must go,
Where none the pow'r of Love, or Beauty know.
Unto rude Storms expos'd, and Winds which be,
No less unconstant, faithless as the Sea.
Thalia about whom there is a mighty puther and stir, is e­steem'd by He­fiod as one of the Graces, but by Homer as one of the Mu­ses.
Thalia, a Nymph of the inspir'd Train,
And Chief of them which on Parnassus reign;
Begs your Assistance o're the wat'ry Main.
That you the Queen of Heav'n wou'd move by Prayer,
To take this Nymyh into her sacred Care.

To Corinna, Mrs. B—ny.

O Thou Celestial Nymph, within all bright,
Without thy form all-beautious to the sight.
Than your snowy Breasts, not April Flow'rs are,
More lovely to the Eye, or half so fair;
When they in all their glitt'ring Pomp appear.
Put on a May-days dress, serenely smile,
As when
A Countrey Nymph.
Aletta did the Swain beguile.
Make glad those Banks those Shades where Lovers meet,
And words are melting as the Looks repeat.
The Pink the
Honey-suckle.
Wood-bind, and the blushing Rose,
Which at the Spring, their beautious Charms disclose
Richly arraid, both pleasant seem and Gay,
While Morning Larks salute the rising Day.
The Nymphs and Swains in flow'ry Groves delight,
With Mirth the Day, in Dreams they lose the Night.
The purple Vilets from innamell'd Beds,
Breath forth sweet Odours and adorn the Meads.
Yet you bright Nymph! at Autumn or at Spring,
As Heavenly look, and as Divinely sing.
With equal Lustre to your Eyes appear,
And with your breath perfume the ambient Air.
No adverse Storms o're cloud Corinnas Mind,
From all Impurities of Sense refin'd.
Chast as the Nymphs of the Aemomian Grove,
And tho' by Nature promoted unto Love,
Yet all her Thoughts are govern'd from above.
Never did sinful Passion yet molest,
Or seize the calm and quiet of her Breast.
The silver Girdle which surrounds her waste,
Sweet as Hymettian Honey to the taste,
Or Lovers kisses when they part in haste.
Since Heav'n to you has thus Indulgent been,
Than whom a brighter Nymph no Eye hath seen;
Humble with all the Graces of a Queen.
Clio a Nymph of the Paeotian Spring,
Where sacred
The eight Muses her Sisters.
Virgins unto Phoebus sing.
Constrain'd to leave these sweet imbroider'd Groves,
No more in Bow'rs to rest or play with Doves.
The modest Nymph to you, herself applies
For Beauty, Goodness, triumphs in your Eyes.
Secure from raging Storms, and Winds at Sea,
If you to Heav'n her Advocate will be.

To Sophronia, Mrs. S—mes.

O Lovely Nymph! Of fair Jesmenia born,
That with your sparkling looks these Vales adorn
(Which lately did the blest Diana Mourn,)
Where Shepherds string their Lutes, and tune their Lays,
To sing your Beauty and resound your Praise.
Not Eve when she in Paradise did walk,
Her Lord diverting with her pretty talk;
(Of vernant Greens, and sundry pleasing Flow'rs,
Of manling Times and sweet ambrosial Bow'rs.)
That Bliss ineffable injoy'd are Sin,
Her Features spoil'd and sulli'd o're her skin.
As chast Sophronia brighter Charmes displaid.
A tender Virgin, and a Vastal Maid.
The pride of all the beauteous Female Race,
Woman in Form, but seraph in her Face,
As if by Jove Sophronia were design'd,
To be the gen'ral wonder of Mankind;
In Body bright, tho' brighter far in Mind.
Scarce Heav'n did e're a sweeter Nymph create,
In Look, and Mien, so perfectly compleat,
So vastly good, and so immensly great,
Free in Discourse, and easie of Access,
Courteous to all, and pleasing in Address.
As Lillies white, pure as the
The sacred Springs of the Pierides or Mu­ses.
Springs her Breast,
Still as approaching Day, or Haycyons Nest;
But when she turns her lovely Head aside,
Extatick bliss! Is by the Swain discry'd;
The which before her golden Tresses hide.
Pardon me then (oh Nymph) that I your silent Hours,
Disturb, molest in still Arcadias Bow'rs,
As mild your Looks, as tender as those Flow'rs.
(On whose delicious Banks in soft repose,
You of't to Pinks your Virgin Charms disclose.)
That I from Contemplation, rapture do,
Your Mind divert to listen to my woe,
The fate Erato now, must undergo.
Ovid to Pontus was by Caesar sent,
That distance might, the Poets love prevent,
Yet Lycidas for certain words that are,
Seldom o'th wise Thought worthy of their care.
And at a time when from a rural Feast,
The Swain came whittled with a Glass o'th best.
Because the Curds did ill upon his stomach set,
That else conceiv'd no harm, and made him fret.
A prey is sent, the only Cause assign'd,
Why he this riggid Penance is enjoyn'd.
Wherefore to you Erato humbly sues,
Darling of Phoebus, and a spotless Muse.
The Nymph afraid to venture on the Main,
Where blust'ring Neptune with the Sea-Gods Reign.
Sophronia begs in her behalf to move,
The bright Queen of Hea'vn, and the Queen of Love.

These Three Epistles were occasionally written by the Author when he thought to have made a Voyage to the Indies, but was prevented by Providence.

On the young Duke of Holstein, which I saw at the Acadamy in Holland, in the Year 1692.

‘O' formose puer nimium ne crede Colori.’
THink not O charming Youth. Because you are,
As Phoebe bright, and as Minerva fair,
That Age the glory of your looks will spare.
Like springing blosoms which in Meadows grow,
When no rude Winds, but gentle Zephyrs blow.
A thousand Charms your Princely Eyes display,
Where Cupid wantons, and the Graces play.
All radiant are those sweet, those Heav'nly Cheeks,
Which ev'ry tender Virgins heart bespeaks.
When you for Loves Embraces shall be fit,
A Torch to Venus, or to Hymen light.
Not the bright
Ganymede.
Darling of the Gods above,
Rival of Juno, and delight of Jove.
Nor Hylas, whom the Nymphs would hug and kiss,
No harm conceiving in such tender Bliss.
Nay nor Adonis the delight o'th Groves,
His Iv'ry Neck more white than Venus Doves.
As you such melting blushes e're reveal'd,
Pure as the Rose, or Lilly of the Field.
Yet oh! Think not your Beauty always will,
The breasts of Nymphs with soft desire fill.
Vilets that flourish in the Month of May,
Ere June is past, upon their Banks decay.
Beware then Royal Youth just Heav'ns pure Eye,
Will all the Secrets of your heart espy.
In ev'ry Act, O Prince, observe the end;
And shun what ere may modesty offend.
A Jewel you of mighty worth possess,
Improve its Lustre but ne'er make it less.
Urg'd by some God if you attend on Fame.
May Nassau's glorious Deeds your Soul inflame.
Or if some Goddess from Heav'ns Battlements,
Love's secret Fire within your Breast foments.
O! May some glorious Nymph, of stamp Divine,
Around your Neck; her snowy Fingers twine.
And from your Loyns bright Goddesses be born,
To bless Germania, and her Groves adorn.
Whilst you at length on wide extended Wing,
To Heaven May mount, and with Eliza sing.

To a Gentleman who recommended Sir Philip Sidney's Pembrooks Arcadia to my reading.

THE Noble Sidney Great Appollo's Son,
(Who oft had bath'd it'h Streams of Helcion.)
The Author of that Book you so commend,
Justly deserves the Praises which you send.
The sacred Bard and Genius of his time,
Ancient some Words, his Thought and Stile sublime.
But as with Fashions so with Words it is,
If new they please, if old we them dispise.
Much of your Choice (kind Sir) I here apprvoe,
For none like him Discourses, Treats of Love.
The Reader in that Wit at once may find,
Joy to the Soul, and Rapture to the Mind.

Thirsis and Corydon.

Th.
COuld Thirsis tell the pain which I endure,
Those many sighs that I have heav'd for her,
Could Thirsis tell the anguish of my Pain,
Surely the Nymph would not my love disdain.
Co.
Bright Innocence does in her Looks appear,
And all the Graces seem to triumph there.
Th.
Then how alass is't possible that she,
Whose Soul of so Divine a Mould must be.
Can let a Lover spend his Days in Grief,
And still refuse to grant him some relief.
Co.
But prithy what Ear can she unto you give,
If that in silent Shades and Groves you live.
Is it not for the Nymphs to say they love,
Or yet to Court that Swain which they would have.
Abandon Grief, and to the Nymph disclose
Your Pain, your Thoughts perhaps she may compose.
Th.
Thanks to Corydon, to these Shades all Hail,
Oft as you pipe, may you o're Nymphs prevail.
I to the glorious Thisbe will repair,
Than Lilly's and the blooming Rose more fair.
But some bright Nymphs knowing their strength is great,
Are yet more riggid than the Laws of Fate,
For where they most are loved, they most will hate.

To a young Lady who desired me to send her Pastor-Fido.

HERE what each Nymph so tenderly has said,
Worthy the view of ev'ry spotless Maid.
I in conformity to your commands,
Have by
A Page.
Antonio sent unto your Hands.
Flowry Meads, shady Groves, and purling Streams,
The which invite the Sun's luxuriant Beams.
And make him privy to those Acts of Love,
Which by his bounteous warmth he doth improve.
Is what the Poet here discants upon,
Sincere his Love, and innocent his Song.
Yet lovely charming Fair, take this from me,
Of all these Nymphs there's not a Nymph like thee.

Ʋpon a young Lady playing on the Espinette.

A Fairer Creature Heav'n did ne'er create,
Lo! Shining Angels all around her wait.
When e're the Goddess shakes the tuneful string,
As pleased each Seraph claps his splendid Wing.
Araid in light they hover all around,
So sweet her looks, so moving is the sound.
If we such Glory in Belinda see,
O how pure! How bright must Heav'ns shril Choir be.
Divine in Mein, and negligent in Dress,
Her lovely Finger on the Key does press.
The willing Notes she strikes both true and clear,
At once she Charmes and glads the Ear.

Ʋpon a young Lady leaving of England.

HOW fading are the empty Joys on Earth,
Ev'n sweetest Pleasures vanish in their Birth.
The sparkling Sun, the Moon and Stars go round,
Nothing thro' the wide Globe is constant found.
This lovely Nymph, a Venus in her Charmes,
Soft as her Eyes, and tender as her Arms.
No longer now in Britains Isle will stay,
But to remotest Regions flies away.
So once when Angels visited below,
They unto Man their radiant Lustre shew.
Yet least with Saints, he should familiar grow.
They strait to Heav'n their glorious Forms withdraw.

Ʋpon the Death of Mrs. Anne P—ch.

HOW large Mysterious is the Pow'r of Fate,
Destroying still, oft as the Gods create.
This Heav'nly Nymph pure as the Morning Star,
Or bright Aurora in her glitt'ring Char.
High Empress o'th Day, whose smiles command,
More than the Scepter in a Monarch's Hand.
Each od'rous Flow'r, the Vilet, Pink and Rose,
To her the treasure of their Sweets disclose.
Whilst gentle Swains lye slumb'ring in the Mead,
And e're the peaceful Flocks arise to feed.
Yet O! the Nymph that once appear'd so bright,
Set on her Charmes in everlasting Night.
No more will the Arcadian Groves rejoyce,
Or bless the Meads with her harmonious Voice.
On the cold Earth that tender Bosomes laid,
Which to the Youth a Heav'n of bliss display'd,
When they at Leu, Basset, or Omber plaid.
All frosen are those Limbs, and Arms which must,
With her soft Fingers crumble into Dust.
Let therefore now this short Inscription be,
Grav'd on her Tomb for ev'ry Nymph to see.
Dum juga montis aper, fluvios dum piscis amabit,
Dumque Thymo passentur apes, dum rore cicadae,
Semper honos nomenque tuum laudesque in anebimt.
Virg. Ecl. v.

The VISIT.

ON a blest Eue when the mild Daphnis went,
And with Aurelia some gentle Hours spent.
That to the youthful Swain was ever kind,
Till fate Usurp'd the Empire of her Mind.
Noble Floralia with bright sparkling Eyes,
Rich in her Cloaths, and of a beautious sise,
Came smiling in, the Gamesters to surprise.
The Cards put up, each Chair was caus'd to move,
On which were wrought a thousand Tales of Love.
By chast Arcadian Nymphs which all excell,
That on this solid Globe as Pilgrims dwell,
Their and our Doom are since old Adam fell.
Her Tippet from her Neck Floralia drew,
And to the Swain her naked bosome shew.
A Scene of bliss reveal'd more white than Snow,
Exceeding all our groveling Thoughts below.
A deal of pleasant Chat amongst them past,
How fair was Caelia and how small her waste?
What handsom Swain a Virgins Heart possest,
Who finely Danc'd, and who most nicely drest?
Yet oh! On Earth the greatest Bliss we find,
Is but two Minutes or few Days confin'd.
The Night advanc'd, nor cou'd Floralia stay,
She rose she took her Fan and went away,
When I and chast Aurelia, fell to play.

PHILOMELA.

WHen glorious Sol had quit the crimson East,
And gently drove his Chariot to the West.
Fair Philomel within a shady Bow'r,
Sat making Nosegays of the Jes'min Flow'r.
Pleased with her soft retreat, the lovely Maid,
Upon the Bank her Gloves and Tippet laid.
Where sparking Jacinths with the Lillies twine,
Bright as those Gems which o're Mount Aetna shine.
Oft as the Queen of Night ascends her Throne,
Visits the Groves and casts her Influence down.
The Nymph fearing no harm divinely Sung,
Hymns chast Atonena to her Th'orbo strung,
Whilst all her Hair and Garments loosely hung.
Each wanton Zephyr with the muslin plaid,
Which on her smooth and snowy Bosome laid.
Yet oh! when chearful Birds begun to sing,
Hopping from Bough to Bough, and Spring to Spring.
When the wide Plain, each parly Mead was still,
And Turtles with their Mates would Coo and Bill.
A Youth well drest, but of a haughty Mein,
That oft at Seiges, and at Fights had been.
Fearing no Colours, where the Prize was Love,
Boldly he stept into the Cyprian Grove.
The Nymphs to gather Primroses were gone,
That Day, and left fair Philomel alone.
The charming Nymph surprised— to see a Man,
Ne'er staid to take her Tippet, Gloves, or Fan,
But hastily from out the Arbour ran.
(Nosegays and Flow'rs there in abundance fell,
From of her fragrant Lap) that cou'd not tell;
Which way to go, incompas'd all around,
With Dangers thick, as Vilets on the Ground.
A thousand ways the Nymph essay'd! at last,
She took her heels, but ran so mighty fast.
That quickly she was out of breath, and fain
To loose her Stays, or she had dy'd with pain.
Bright Juno then, of her Compassion took,
Grieving to see how Philomela shook
With fear, sent down a bless'd Celestial Maid,
That from the Grecian Youth the Nymph convey'd.

To make a Married Life happy.

A Brisk young Wife, who did a Fortune bring,
Proves to her Husband a vexatious Thing;
Yet those advantages to him she gives,
By her, in his Posterity, he lives.
She takes of him, when sick, a prudent Care
In his misfortunes bears an equal share;
To her, for ease, he does his Griefs impart,
Her pleasant Converse often chears his heart;
And when (if she survive) he ends his Life,
She does the Office of a pious Wife;
Set these against her Ills, and you will find,
Reasons to quiet your uneasie Mind.
But if you'll strive her temper to reclaim,
Slight these good Things, the bad expose to shame,
And no Compliance to her humour lend,
To your vexations ne'er shall be an end.

A DREAM.

ONE Night, with sleep my Senses being opprest,
Fixt on that Thought, which still o'er rul'd my Breast.
In Mourning dress, with silence did appear,
She of her Sex was to my Soul most dear.
Cinthia, methought, I said, and gaz'd a while,
Where's thy accustom'd Look, and chearful Smile;
What sad occasion thus disturbs thee now,
And hangs that gloomy sadness on thy Brow.
She only sigh'd, and off'ring to depart,
I snatch'd her Hand, and laid it to my Heart;
And whilst I in this trembling Rapture stand,
She took, and held me by my other Hand.
I thought my Heart 'twixt Joy and Grief would break,
Adding with Tears, my Dear, I prithee speak,
And grasp'd her fast, she strugling to be gone,
Till wak'd; but then I found my self alone.

The Miseries attending Mankind.

OH Misery of Mankind! For at the Bar
Are Strifes and Quarrels; at our Houses Care,
In Fields hard Labour, Dangers on the Sea;
Who Travels rich, can ne'er from Fears be free.
Grievous is want; Marriage eternal Strife:
A single, is a solitary Life.
Children bring Care and Trouble, to have none,
The Happiness of Wedlock is not known.
Our Youth, is Folly e'er we can grow wise,
We're Old, and loaded with Infirmities.
So we may wish, who have the Experience try'd;
That we had ne'er been born; Or, soon as born had dy'd.

To HIMSELF.

WHEN fumes of Wine ascend into my Brain;
Care sleeps, and I the bustling World disdain,
Nor all the Wealth of Cressus I esteem,
I sing of Mirth, for Jollity's my Theme.
With Garlands, I my ruby Temples Crown,
Keeping rebellious Thoughts of business down,
In Broyls, and Wars, while others take delight,
I with choice Friends indulge my Appitite.
Then fetch more Bottles, boy, and Charge us round,
We'll fall to Bacchus, Victims on the ground;
Nor value what dull Moralists have sed,
I'm sure 'tis better to be Drunk, than Dead.

On a Lady Stabbing her self.

A Lady Inflam'd with Anger, Grief and Shame;
Despising Life, yet careful of her Fame,
Wounds her fair Breast, tho' arm'd with Innocence,
Could suffer Death, but could not the Offence.
Her Steel was sharp, her End with Glory Crown'd,
She sought Revenge, and valu'd not the Wound,
This so appeas'd her Rage, that being Dead,
She look'd like one reveng'd not Injured.
'Twas Beauty sinn'd, (said she,) then let it dye,
That forc'd me to this last Extremity;
Were't not for Beauty I had guiltless been,
For it was That made lustful Tarquin Sin.
So I to Violence a Prey was made,
No Tears avail'd when Vertue was betray'd.
Haughty he was, my Beauty proud as he,
They made me Slave, but thus my self I free.
FINIS.

Note, There will shortly be Publish'd by the same Author a Panegyrick in Verse, together with some other Poems.

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