POEMS, Upon several OCCASIONS, And, to several PERSONS. By the AUTHOR, of The CENSURE, of the ROTA.
LONDON: Printed by Andr. Clark for William Hensman, at the Kings-Arms in Westminster-Hall. MDCLXXV.
TO THE READER.
THE Weakness of some Writers, is their Priviledge, and they seem protected from Censure, because they are below it; as Dwarfs, are excused from Quarrels, by their want of Stature. The Generous forbear them in Pity, and the Proud, in Scorn. Upon these Hopes, the Author concludes he is safe from the mighty Critiques, who, he presumes, stoop not, but to shoot over his Head, while each of them damns [Page] his Author, and so starts up a Poet, as each Brave, that kills his Man in the Field, is dubb'd a Knight.
Occasional Addresses, He has not the Vanity to think longer-liv [...]d, then Monethly Flowers, which look gay, for a little Season, and please, but while they are fresh and keep their Scent. More he cannot wish, then that they should be smelt to, e're they are thrown away: And if you credit him not in this, He must for ever curse that Fate, which Poets, have in common with all other Lyers; not to be believed by others, when they speak Truth, though the Wretches believe themselves, when they Lie.
To His GRACE GILBERT, LORD ARCHBISHOP of CANTERBURY.
SUch the old Patriarchs were, with such a hand
Led they their Flocks, and rul'd the Holy Land.
Such gentle Crosiers wielded they, when first
Their tender Lambs and Proselytes they nurst;
Guarding the Churches Pale by their strict sway
From sacrilegious Thief and Beast of Prey:
(Their Fences and Inclosures kept with toil,
Secur'd their Diocess, or Fold, from spoil)
Such once were they, when in their Groves they slept,
And Company with none but Angels kept.
[Page 2]They their bright Visions had at such an Age,
And glorious things could from their Dreams presage.
From these your Virtues are deriv'd, and You
(The Churches Patriarch and Apostle too)
Sharing with them beside their antient Seat,
What Prim'tive is, Apostolick, or Great
Kind Providence thus wisely had decreed,
E'r yet she plac'd the Mitre on your Head,
When she install'd your Primate-Soul to heir
The High-Priests Throne and Patriarchal Chair.
To fit you for so Eminent a Scene,
Your Consecration she perform'd within.
Such deep Experience gave, as would surpass
The Compass of a Patriarch's long-liv'd Glass.
Their lasting Vigour too with this she join'd,
And unimpair'd Abilities of Mind.
The grave Authority of a Heathen Sage,
With the clear Wisdom of Prophetic Age.
With Courage, such as would a Martyr crown:
These Blessings all constellated in You,
Proclaim, your great Ascent was but your due,
No bribe of Fortune, or blind gift of Chance,
Your Virtues Right, and your Inheritance.
While th' Earth was wide, and Planters but a few,
And that the World's first People slowly grew.
The Lambs and Doves for Sacrifice increast,
And multiply'd much faster than the Priest.
The Cath'lique Church, that is, the Circumcis'd,
Was in a Family or two compris'd.
The Priestly Office and Paternal Care
Descended from the Father to the Heir;
He, th' holy Ephod wore, and did succeed
Head of that Church, in which he first was bred.
The Flock was little, and but small the Charge,
The Past'ral Iurisdiction then not large.
[Page 4]Your Lordship now is worthily possest
Of more than six High-Priests enjoy'd at least;
(Rais'd by degrees to such a Sacred Height,
As Titus in his hundred Mitred Creet.)
Your Charge is greater, but your Care no less,
Your Heart's enlarg'd, as well as Diocess.
Those fond Relations in the Church begun
With the dear Names of Father and of Son,
Live still; but since the Church increast her store,
A greater Fam'ly 'tis, than 'twas before.
Sure, when a Province at your Feet does fall,
Your Love shews nobler in adopting all.
So Abram's Church that with his Off-spring grew,
Kneel'd for the Priest's and Parent's Blessing too.
How great's that Love which in your soul takes place!
That can a Province with that ease embrace
As if it Lambeth were, and make it share
A Fathers Fondness and Domestique Care.
[Page 5]Though from your Center 'tis, that you dispence
Your nearer and directer Influence;
You pierce those places that remoter be,
And all parts heat, though not to that degree:
Thus when the Sun to all the World gives Day,
He warms all, yet not with an equal Ray.
He paints the Flowers with a purple Light,
And gilds the shining Mine with Looks more bright.
On simp'ring Pearl he half a Smile does shed,
And Rubies dyes with half a Blush of Red.
But darts a Beam far fairer than the rest,
To ripen Spices, and perfume the East.
Great Souls, and those for Publick Rule design'd
Seem furnisht out, and fram'd, to chear Mankind;
Extending still to fit their Sphere, they swell
Till they the measure of their Circle fill:
And pouring out what they can never lose;
Emptying themselves, but yet no want confess,
Cannot impair, nor cannot yet be less:
Free as the Air, and unconfin'd as Light,
Which all enjoy, and to which all have right;
For should they wast, or could they be inclos'd,
Our Breath were sequestred, our Sight depos'd:
To you, that cannot be seal'd up or spent,
We all lay claim, as to an Element.
All to your Love, or to your Care pretend;
Hope you their Patron, or wish you their Friend.
Or on your Bounty feed, and Favours live;
Or from your Int'rest their support derive.
Your Goodness chears, or Greatness all protects;
Lustre on these, or Warmth on those reflects.
Thus diff'rently illustrious you appear,
According to your different Character.
[Page 7]So equal both your Honours, none can say
Whether Bishop, or Baron does out-weigh.
Which does outshine, or more exalted show,
The Coronet, or Miter on your Brow.
Brave in both Shapes, and glorious in each Sphere,
The greatest Prelate, and the greatest Peer.
Nor is your Life less comely, or less clean,
In your Recess, than in the Publick Scene.
Those gay Adornments which enrich your Mind
Are not with Robes put off, nor yet confin'd
To the Show-day, and to no longer last
Than the Solemnity, or Pomp once past:
When all dismist, you lay aside your State,
Your Train of Virtues hold their constant wait.
The truly Gallant keep their Court within,
And are attended by a Train unseen.
Their greatest Triumphs are, when all alone.
What the best Prelates should be, that are You,
(Their Orders Chief, and Orders Glory too)
Your Practice all may into Precept draw,
Your Life is Rule, and your Example, Law:
A Pattern of that Doctrine others teach.
You act their Knowledge, and by living, preach.
So sacred is that Hand! which still assists
In crowning Kings, or consecrating Priests.
So large that Heart! of which no Measure lives,
Unless your Theatre its Model gives;
Both to succeed might claim (while we applaud)
IVXON the Confessor, and Martyr LAVD.
On the OXFORD Theater.
THose glorious Heights which Art of old did raise,
Liv'd uncommended in their own first Days.
While yet their Pinnacles did newly rise,
And they possest a new place in the Skies;
The gazing Eyes of all they on them drew,
Admiring slowly what as slowly grew.
Their Fame they spread by being longer known,
And growing older, doubled their Renown:
This goodly Pile, born in the present Age,
The Pens of after-Poets shall ingage,
Making their Verse immortal with its Praise,
The Argument their Crown, and Theme their Bayes.
The silent Muses, conscious of their shame,
Urge their Amazement to excuse the blame.
No more the glory of their Numbers boast.
For what above the height of Verse does rise,
And with best Poets Lines for lasting vies,
Requires no Muse to celebrate its Name
It self does best to all it self proclaim.
Its Eloquence their Silence does excuse,
Poet it self, and to it self a Muse.
A various Fate commuting each Extreme,
Theaters speak, while Poets Statues seem.
Greatness, as its due, this Respect may claim,
Due to the Fabrick's and the Founder's Fame;
That this Age should not hastily presume
To write, what Story is of all to come.
But when the Interval of Wonder's past,
And the Amusement does no longer last;
This Theater that makes our Age admire,
Succeeding ones shall in it's Praise inspire.
But had the beauteous Frame been rear'd of old,
What Divine Tales the Wits had of it told!
Then had we heard, how some Amphion plaid,
And toucht those Strings which the Foundations laid.
While dancing Stones which did in Measures close,
To various Sounds, in various Figures rose;
Advancing still in comely Ranks, till all
Did into Order and Proportion fall.
Their Fairy Seats they had from this deriv'd,
And all their Scenes of Bliss like this contriv'd.
This then had been, though with another name,
The Palace of the Sun and House of Fame.
Ovid had built, and shining Pillars plac't,
Where Virgil's Hand had rich plain Figures cast.
Th' Egyptian Kings that with Embalmings kept,
Long uncorrupted in their Marbles slept,
Their Royal Bodies in their Tombs inthron'd
With greater Pomp, than others have been Crown'd:
Had here, their crowned Heads more richly laid.
This had been number'd with the blest Abodes
Of Oracles, and Dwellings of the Gods.
This with their Shrines and Monuments had vy'd:
Gods here had liv'd, and Princes here had dy'd.
This to the Work. But what should all erect
In honour of so wise an Architect?
Who th' Image yet unborn did entertain,
And hous'd the Theater within his Brain.
There once it stood, so great, so strong, so fair,
And so adorn'd; as now it does appear.
Each Part its measure, use and place possest,
Without the least encroachment on the rest.
Distinct, as Platonists those Beauties feign'd,
Which in Idea's their First Mind contein'd.
The Intellectual Theater appear'd,
As in the Fancy by a Builder rear'd.
Than that, to which it Pattern did impart.
What is the Founder's due? whose brave Soul gives
As largely as the Artists hand contrives.
A Soul, like his Skill, vast, like his Work, great;
Capacious though that be, of more Receit.
If that for hugest Crowds does place provide,
This more receives, and opens yet more wide.
So full of Room, and of so free Access,
As neither Straitness knows, nor Emptiness.
Many such Theaters lodge in that Breast,
Where this at largest, a small space possest.
Such as of old their Courage did employ
To root out Monsters, or their Foes destroy;
Who sav'd their Countrey from the Lions Den,
Or from such Wolves, as Men were then to Men:
[Page 14]But Heroes were, and triumph'd in the Field.
They were their Gods, that taught them how to Build.
Who new Worlds discover'd, Fame less renowns,
Than who the old World vary'd with new Towns.
If Bacchus for one India found, had praise,
A Pair of Gods the Walls of Troy did raise.
Who Empires Bounds with Conquests did enlarge,
Or with Plantations farther off, orecharge,
Did add, to what already was too vast,
Who Built, adorn'd and beautify'd the Wast.
Thus Nature one World, Art another made,
Or else the Old World with a New inlaid.
Art with her People too, her World did grace,
With carv'd Colonies, and a Marble Race.
The num'rous Off-springs of a fertile Line
In long Successions did of Statues shine.
And to the younger Ages then were shown
Their dead Forefathers living shapes in Stone.
A Pillar or Coloss, preserv'd their Fame,
Their Images did half their Honours claim.
Nor did alas! Inscriptions always speak
The noble Roman, or the gallant Greek.
How many Stones, whose Titles now defac'd,
(Time carving new Marks to supply the rased.)
Attend this Fabrick, and at distance wait,
Expecting yet with it, a braver Fate?
Others but from their Monuments derive
That Name, which SHELDON to his Pile shall give.
Maintain'd by that, as by the Builders hand,
It long as Time, firm as Himself shall stand;
And Structures yet unborn as much out-last,
As it in Height transcends all Buildings past.
To Her Highness, the Princess SOPHIA, Duchess of Brunswick and Lunenburgh.
AS when the Hea [...]en gilded first, the Sun
Darts Beams successively, and one by one;
His pointed Glories spread so close, between
Their shining Trains, no naked Sky is seen.
While each strikes not the Eye apart, they seem
But one unbroken, and continu'd Beam:
Your Highness thus, when dazled Eyes survey,
Each Grace distinguish not, nor mark each Ray,
No more than in the Sun each bright Drop see,
Or ev'ry Star within the Galaxie.
One great collective Globe of Light we view,
All of one piece, and yet each Glory new.
Beauteous all without, all within Divine,
First, in your self, next, you to others shine.
So Heav'n, which fairest of it self does show,
Contributes too, to all things fair below.
Rich, in those Iewels which your Sex adorn,
More than in those, which in your Crown are worn.
Ensigns of Majesty, and Robes of State,
Are by your Pers'nal Ornaments made great:
Your Mind resplendent to the like excess
In Royal Ermins, or its private Dress.
The greatest Queen, that ever climb'd a Throne,
And greatest of your Sex, without a Crown.
Did Plato live, his Wish he might enjoy,
And see what he thought, like fair Spirits coy.
His Virtue now has Shape and Colours took,
Such Features wish't he for, and such a Look:
[Page 18]A Brow, so undisturb'd and so serene;
The moving Thoughts are all in Prospect seen.
A Heart, with tame and gentle Passions blest,
And quiet, as the brooding Halcyon's Nest.
All black and troubled Thoughts far thence remove
And all is white, as gall-less Breast of Dove.
Love, does its airy Transports there employ,
Without such Tumults, as calm Peace destroy.
Ioy there from all harsh Notes of Sorrow free,
With Musick keeps its lasting Iubilee.
And that Delight, which does good Acts attend,
Commences Revels, which shall never end.
What wide Extremes are Neighbours in your Mind?
Prince-like August, and yet like Woman kind!
Your Majesty with your soft Sex complies,
And with a double Beam shot from your Eyes;
Lofty at once, and gentle does appear,
Nor yet too tender seems, nor too severe.
[Page 19]Such gay Innocence from your Aspect springs,
As smiling Angels shew, or Infant Kings.
This Affabil'ty which with State does meet,
Makes Empire great, and Conversation sweet.
Pleasant, as Birds that all their life-time sing,
And chearful, as the Morning-Light, or Spring.
Though these coincident we rarely find,
An awful State with charming Sweetness joyn'd.
Yet while you reconcile a different Height,
And move at once our Wonder and Delight.
You all our fixed Eyes with change relieve,
And to the Prospect's Bounty largely give.
Greatness familiar made, seems to invite
The weakest Eye to fix on easie Height.
Ascent it is, but not in steepness high,
Nor inaccessible to Feet, or Eye.
But such whose top Sight travels up with ease,
Led up and down by Steps, and just Degrees.
Objects soon changing, and each object new;
This rising Hill the Sight first climbs, and then,
Comes gently down to that descending Plain.
Though Power owns no Peer, you oft descend
To be an Equal, and in that a Friend.
Your Throne this humble State has higher shown,
Making each Step below, an under-Throne.
Your smaller Royalties to Crowns pretend,
Best private Lady, Mother, Wife and Friend.
In lesser Shapes, and low Relations seen
A petty Sovereign, and a little Queen.
Not like Heav'n only, you descend to bless
Your lower World, with scatt'ring Influences.
But as in Visions most exalted Show,
The lofty Heavens humbly seem to bow.
While Earth and distant Clouds, like Neighbours bound,
And falling Skies afar off kiss the Ground:
[Page 21]So, when Humility your Height does hide
(Humility, the noblest Prospect's Pride.)
Like Heav'n, you seem let down to our weak Sight,
Yet then like Heav'n, you keep your shining Height.
But your large Heart beyond your Rule extends,
So vastly good, it knows no Shore, nor Ends.
So wide extended, and so full a Breast,
The World less habitable is at best.
Those little Spots which in the Globe we view,
Stand thicker there, and their dimensions true.
So many Kingdoms though your Thoughts embrace,
Great Britain holds the first and chiefest Place.
If that does situate farther off appear,
Your kindness to Great CHARLES beholds it near.
Your Bosom gently layes up his Affairs,
And half the precious Treasure with him shares.
As your Alliance a new Kindred were,
Cousens as in Love, so in Thought and Care.
Your own you govern with a Mother's hand,
And Strangers like Domestiques too command.
Both subject to as mild a Scepter's sway,
As what your Passions, and your Thoughts obey.
With softness you prevail, and gentle Charms,
More than ruder Conqu'rors, by force of Arms.
Your Scepter all subdues, or brighter Eyes,
All Subjects makes, or makes all your Allies.
On the Duke of NEWBURGH's Entertainment, and Musick.
SO large the Bounty of those Woods, which give
What these spread Boards as largely yet receive!
So fair the Ven'son in their Forrests bred,
Which on these Tables fairer show, now Dead!
That which to praise, those which such Presents make,
Or these, which th' huge Presents all intire take,
[Page 23]We are in doubt whether each Dish apart,
Or Plenty we should most commend, or Art?
All, we are sure, have equally exprest
A Royal Hunter Master of the Feast.
How many Parks and Chases call him Lord?
That pay so vast a Tribute to his Board.
Those various Bodies that thus thick are strow'd
Cov'ring his Tables like another Wood;
Which with their fertile Broods pil'd up so high,
Show, as when once they darkned all the Sky;
Both Flesh and Fowl, all that his Feasts adorn,
His Subjects are, and in his Forrests born.
The Natives of the Air, and of the Field,
All beneath his Trees live, or in them build.
The Birds that from long flights abroad are come,
Find in his Boughs, their yong and little Home.
Couch'd in his Shades, the Deer, their Youth there led,
Their Shelter seek, their Food, and grassy Bed.
[Page 24]All to their Sov'reign's Sports must fall, ev'n those
Whose Horns, or Tusks, did guard them from their Foes;
'Scape not his Toils, by their arm'd Heads, or might,
Nor from his Shafts are sav'd, by Heels, or Flight.
The noble Stag, who Subjects Darts disdain'd,
Pierc'd by his Prince, as with best Purple stain'd,
And brave in Wounds, gladly resigns his breath;
A prouder Name receiving from his death.
Deriding baser Toils, the haughty Boar
The Royal Spear dyes with his richest gore.
Both in their Walks, no Rival-Brute did know,
Nor of their Herd, nor Man's, a Tyrant-Foe.
No Horse, nor Hounds, till now their shock could stand,
Preferr'd to perish by their Master's hand:
To his victorious hunting-Arms they bow,
And his Lance, as his Scepter great allow.
From meaner Wounds preserv'd, and common Fate,
Both, on the Triumphs of his Pleasures wait.
To him they ow, that they thus nobly bled,
To him no less, that we commend them Dead.
Prepar'd they seem, and drest, in being chac't,
More of the Hunter, than themselves they tast.
Each Bit all Ven'son is, and each Bit such,
As proves diviner Ven'son from his Touch.
As where his Dart had struck, it did infuse
A rich, a fragrant, and delicious Iuice.
The Royal Hand that Seas'ning does impart,
Which far transcends all Relishes of Art.
So many Honours thus on these confer'd,
More than on the unhappier living Herd,
Thus from the rest distinguish'd; they appear
Rank'd with the other wild Provisions here.
Advanc'd by Favour to a prouder Place,
Than what they in the Park possest, or Chase.
Dogs, in the number of the Waiters set,
Their Prey attend, with their Companions met,
And hunt, though with less noise, yet still as true.
What they with sound of merry Horn did get,
And kill'd with Musick, is with Musick eat.
The Artists Sounds maintain so swift a Race,
As they resemble in their Flight, the Chase.
They touch their Instruments so quick and small,
We can but only hear them touch'd at all.
So quick their Notes, as Time does not advance
Divisions so short-liv'd in Minute-dance.
Small, as those Air with Whispers strook, does bear,
Notes, which are lost, long e're they reach the Ear.
Soft and swift, as the Spheres in Motion chime,
'Tis Angel's Musick, kept with Angel's Time.
So sung they, and so plaid, as they had prov'd
The self-same Passions, which in us they mov'd.
Our trembling Heart-strings, toucht with the same Hand
As that, which does their Instruments command.
From Souls of the like Harmony within.
Whether Man's Love or Rage, they made their Theme,
They wound our Spirits up, to each Extreme.
If Wars they boasted, or of Nymphs complain'd,
On our Affections both alike they gain'd.
Th' Italian Voices pleas'd, and mock'd us all,
Near us they rose, yet did at distance fall.
The Eunuch's, vying with the Trumpet's Throat,
Which farther stretch't, or higher rais'd their Note.
Both teaching us with pleasure to compare
The different Effects, of wanton Air;
When easie Nature does it free impart,
Or when constrain'd, and elevate with Art.
Voices so tender, and so sweetly shrill,
With Delight pierce the Sense, and Wonder fill.
Trumpets so soft, as gently stroak the Ear,
Not wounding us with Pleasure so severe
[...] [...]Such Blasts as these, would make them live again.
On a fair Lady, looking in the Glass.
THe Sun beholding so as he does pass,
His floating Face in Water's liquid Glass,
The glitt'ring Circle, with delight surveys;
And Heav'ns, on their own bright Reflexion gaze:
Seeming to view with an admiring Beam,
Another Sun, and Heav'ns, in the Stream.
As she with only looking on, pourtrayes
The glorious Image, darted from her Rayes;
Surpriz'd, to see what on a sudden there
Has started up, so yong, so fresh, so fair.
Her Shadow, with such curious Art does gild
The shining Mirror, with a new Light fill'd,
[Page 29]That well may she with just Amazement eye,
What only can pretend with her to vye.
Her other Self, like Her, surpriz'd does show,
Her Features mocks, and mocks her Wonder too.
The Am'rous Glance in striving to excell,
Does seem to court her ever here to dwell.
Proud of the transient Shape, it does present,
Could gladly wish it fixt, and permanent.
Fixt, as those Statues we in Gardens place,
Viewing in Fountains still their carved Face.
Could it alas, her Pourtrait but retain!
It would endure no other, Figures stain.
What her Stamp seals, as sacred to her Smile,
No soiling Look, prophanely would defile.
Or should there any Beauties be, that dare,
Their Spots, or Graces, by this Glass compare;
Her Eyes, before theirs, thus it would prefer,
In flatt'ring them, by truly shewing Her.
Nor would the sweet Impression stampt in Air,
So lovely have appear'd, or half so fair;
Did not the same Resemblance polish give,
And Lustre add, to what should it receive.
She dressing by her Glass, her Glass has drest,
And richly with her airy Shape possest.
But when too soon the fair unkind retires,
The short-liv'd Beauty that shin'd here, expires.
And as the beamy Glance does disappear,
And vanishes, we know not how, nor where,
Leaving no Print behind, no feeble Ray,
That might discover where it once did stay.
The brittle Sphere all darkned thus, will mourn
The frail Glory lost, it did return.
And of her radiant Likeness then complain,
That naked as it was, 'tis left again.
The Thought. To a Lady, enquiring after him in his Travels.
SInce in the Travels of your Thought,
One, chancing from the rest to stray,
Your Commendations to me brought,
And th' Errand done, would needs away.
Though I could longer entertain
The little Traveller with me,
And wisht for all its fellow-Train,
And all its pretty Company.
Yet since from me, it needs would part,
I wish'd it back again with you;
But then I wish'd too, that my Heart
Might as its Page, or Lackey go.
I wish'd for flying Coach as brave,
As artificial, and as fair,
As any Thoughts of Fashion have,
When they ride out, to take the Air.
Postilian too, and all things gay,
As any of the Noble rest,
The Thoughts of Quality, that stray
From out the Lodgings of your Breast.
My flying Hat and Pumps I'd try on,
Could I but swift as Post-Thought go;
So like the Post-Divine I'd fly on,
Both wing'd above, and wing'd below.
Petrilla, in Iewels.
THese Diamonds and noble Gems,
Which Nature of that price esteems,
As she such precious Goods conceals
Lock't up in Coffers of their Shells,
As there, her little Treasure hoarded lay,
Till Light, whom no Recess can blind,
Her Riches hidden thus does find;
And having with a gentle Beam
Smooth'd first the rough unpolish't Gem,
Brings forth its pretty Smiles to sight of Day.
These, to their Parents, Sun, and Earth,
Ow their bright Parentage and Birth;
From Earth, a Mothers Blessing have,
As Sun, their shining Portion gave:
[Page 34]But to their fair Possessor more they owe;
Their Mistress, for their Service had,
Does Beauty, and does Riches add,
That Dower, which their Parents sent,
As she improves, she does augment;
They Legacies, she Iointure does bestow.
Pearls, borrow still from her more white,
And Diamonds, a greater Light,
Till doubling both their dazling Ray,
Their pointed flames create a Day;
Day, springing from her Glories, and their own.
Ah! may not we to cruel Her
Their rocky Hardness too refer.
She Love receives with such a scorn,
As she amongst them had been born,
And were amidst the Gems obdurate grown.
All Eyes yield to the radiant Stone,
It self to no force yields alone.
She, fair like them, and hardly fierce,
Vnpierc't her self, does others pierce;
Though they, and she, pierce with a diff'rent Dart.
For if both boast a pow'rful flame,
Their Power yet is not the same;
And we acknowledge still, her fires
Superior are, and master theirs,
Their Lustres strike the Eye, but hers the Heart.
Greatness in Little.
IN spotted Globes, that have resembled all
Which we, or Beasts possess, to one great Ball;
Dimme little Specks for thronging Cities stand,
Lines wind for Rivers, Blots bound Sea and Land.
Yet Glasses these, like Shades of Mountains shew;
As what an even Brightness does retain,
A glorious Level seems, and shining Plain.
Those Crouds of Stars in the populous Sky,
Which Art beholds as twinkling Worlds on high,
Appear to naked, unassisted Sight,
No more than Sparks, or slender points of Light.
The Sun, a flaming Vniverse alone,
Bigger than that, about which his fires run;
Enlightning ours, his Globe but part does gild,
Part by his Lustre, or Earths Shades conceal'd;
His Glory dwindled so, as what we spy
Scarce fills the narrow Circle of the Eye.
What new America's of Light have been
Yet undiscover'd there, or yet unseen,
Art's near Approaches awfully forbid,
As in the Majesty of Nature hid.
Her Great Works does in Height and Distance hide,
And shuts up her Minuter Bodies all
In curiour frames, imperceptibly small.
Thus still incognito, she seeks Recess
In Greatness half-seen, or dimme Littleness.
Ah, happy Littleness! that art thus blest,
That greatest Glories aspire to seem least.
Even those install'd in a higher Sphere,
The higher they are rais'd, the less appear,
And in their Exaltation, emulate
Thy humble Grandeur, and thy modest State.
Nor is this all thy Praise, though not the least,
That Greatness, is thy Counterfeit at best.
Those swelling Honours, which in that we prize,
Thou dost contain in thy more thrifty Size;
[Page 38]And hast that Pomp, Magnificence does boast,
Though in thy Stature, and Dimensions lost.
Those rugged little Bodies, whose parts rise,
And fall, in various Inequalities;
Hills, in the Risings of their Surface show,
As Vallies, in their hollow Pits below.
Pompous these lesser things, but yet less rude
Then uncompact, and looser Magnitude.
What Skill is in the frame of Insects shown?
How fine the Threds, in their small Textures spun?
How close those Instruments and Engines knit,
Which Motion, and their slender Sense transmit?
Like living Watches, each of these conceals
A thousand Springs of Life, and moving Wheels.
Each Ligature a Lab'rynth seems, each part
All wonder is, all Workmanship and Art.
Rather let me this little Greatness know,
Then all the Mighty Acts of Great Ones do.
These Engines understand, rather than prove
An Archimedes, and the Earth remove.
These Atom-Worlds found out, I would despise
Columbus, and his vast Discoveries.
Beauty of Chance.
WHo Nature busie in her Shop have seen,
And with the Mistress too, her Hand-maid, Art;
At work on what her Mistress did begin,
And filling up, and finishing each part.
Have in their curious Search, yet nothing found,
For Workmanship, or Beauty, to compare
With what blind Fortune fashions under ground;
Nothing in Art so gay, or Nature fair.
The Tulip-buds rais'd by her gentle hand,
Prove Chance not blind, but we that call her so;
Who, neither how she forms them understand,
Nor how the Blind can Skill in Colours show.
If Nature to these Flowers lays a Claim,
Why do they not her steady Lawes obey?
Like Fortune's Subjects, they are ne're the Same,
And Chance, their Queen, less fickle is than they.
Roses, in their first Crimson dress appear,
Lillies, their antient Braveries display,
And Violets the same blue Mantles wear,
They wore, on their Creation's great Show-Day.
But Tulips each new Year, their Robes have new,
Fertile in Colours, with the fertile Spring;
All Shades pursuing still, save only Blue,
The Season's Changes, markt in theirs they bring.
These, that like freckled Beauties now appear,
Their freckles gone, boast clearer white and red;
Their Colours changing with the changing Year,
They, with new Smiles and Blushes dye their Bed.
Those which sprung from their Mothers painted Womb,
In naked Yellow, shew a tawny Skin;
In new Successions fairer yet will come,
And white, as in their naked Smocks be seen.
The Widow, in her Royal Purple vail'd,
That hangs her head, till her short Mourning's done;
When she her time of Widow-hood has wail'd,
Light Colours, and strip'd Indian Silks puts on.
Their sev'ral Streaks and Stains who thus would trace,
As vain a Project, and succesless tries;
As he, who Proteus paints with one fixt face,
Or limns the necks of Doves, with all their dies.
The chang'd leaves of each new Flow'r, change anew,
Nay, each Stripe, disagreeing dies does bear,
As on each leaf, new Tulips grafted grew,
And each apart, a Crop of Glory were.
Their Folds, all unlike their pied Neighbours blown,
Various, as Folds of Taffaties appear;
All paintings of the Garden show in one,
And all the diff'ring Motlies of the Year.
The particolour'd Buds thus num'rous bred,
The Children are of married Light and Shade;
From their Coition form'd ith' Tulip-Bed,
Brought forth, by Fortune's Midwif'ry and aid.
These more compounded, Fortune's Stroakings make,
Those mingled less, Marks of their Parents bear;
The Purple, their black Mothers Features take,
And their white Fathers lineaments, the Fair.
Could living fair ones, living Tulips so,
As they resemblances in Beauty hold,
Like resemblances in their Changes show;
Changing more lovely still, as they grow old.
Could Lover's Beauties, like the Florist's, bloom,
And ever blow afresh, they would not grieve,
That those impairing Years which are to come,
Take from their Loves, what they to Flowers give.
Magnificence under Ground.
IN that deep Gulf, where all past Times are thrown,
Where waning Moons, and setting Suns are gone.
There, Moneths, and Days, extinguishing their Light,
Are lost, and buried in eternal Night.
Our Fathers Ages, and our Youth there cast,
Our Yesterdaies, and their thousand Years past.
[Page 44]All hid in that thick Darkness, which invades
New-born Man's fair Paradise, and blest Shades.
Man's Heav'n on Earth, to us as much unknown,
As that Heav'n in Reversion Man's alone.
Our Parents Labours, vanish't with their Ground,
Both under Water once, ne're since were found.
Sunk in that Floud, when th' Earth lost in the Deep,
As in the Sea of Chaos, lay asleep.
Till rising Billows, into Hills did swell,
As their sunk Spaces, into Vallies fell.
That World, the Deluge whole at once drank down,
Time yet in parts, and by degrees, does drown.
Time, which stronger than a full Sea does run,
Wi [...]h a High-Tide comes ever flowing on,
And with a lawless, and impetuous sway,
Bears all that would controul its force, away.
Those Bounds set by Fame, having once o'reflown,
Their Shipwrackt Spires, are in low Water shown.
Were there a Globe, in which we all could see
The World reverst, in Fates Geography.
Could we the Antients Drown'd Lands all there view,
And with them, all their buried Treasure too.
The vast Plantations of all Ages Dead,
The fallen Tow'rs, and Towns in Ruines spread.
The Cities, and Inhabitants, there thrust,
Cities, now measuring new Bounds in Dust;
And with their Suburbs stretching by degrees,
Until, they border on th' Antipodes;
Their enlarg'd Limits downwards cast so far,
As they Confiners, on Earth's Center were.
Compar'd with this dark Globe of all below,
How small a Point, would this Globe of ours show?
Or what of th' Old World's standing, or the New,
With what the Graves of both, conceal from view.
All that remains yet high, or strong, or fair,
In vain we equal to those Reliques there.
What beneath each Pole, what from East to West;
That little left unburied of the Masse,
Does in Circumference, as far surpass
As both the Northern, and the Southern Dead
In Number, all the Living Race exceed.
In this low World's dark Countries under Ground,
Geographers, another Rome have found.
Those Amphitheaters that climb'd the Sky,
Climb downwards now, and are in Earth as high.
So great their Ruines, and so proud their Fall,
Their Height reverst, they are in Depth as tall.
Troy, Thebes, and Carthage, sunk long since, did go
Metropolis'es to the World below.
Their Empire, and their Height, translated there,
Leaving no Marks of their old Greatness here.
The Tyrian Princes dead, new Honours boast,
Themselves, more richly with their Purple lost.
Embalm'd, thought once immortal too, as that;
From rottenness of vulgar Graves though free,
They linger out a long Mortality,
Kept fresh some Hundred years of Death, those past,
Mixe with the Ashes of their Tombs at last.
Some place unknown, as th' Head of their own Nile,
Their Royal Dust depos'd, confounds with Vile.
Their Monuments, with them, themselves interre,
And in their Quarry fall, and Sepulcher;
Swallow'd in that vast Heap, where all things lie,
That are unborn, and all return, that die;
In that Abyss, all Springs of Beings sleep,
As Rivers, lost within their Mother-Deep.
The Intellectual Prospect.
IN Prospects op'ning wide to our large view
A Countrey far remov'd, yet near in shew.
Our Eye, quick as Heav'ns great-short Journies makes,
Measures the Bounds, and Distance over-takes.
The Vallies, humbly falling here, surveys,
Who, on themselves in Streams betwixt 'em, gaze.
Ascending there, with prouder Hills does rise,
Hills, seen far off above the falling Skies.
Strayes in the Woods uncut, and those cut down,
The Wood of Buildings, throng'd into a Town.
If, besides these, ought in the Prospect lives,
Which Life adds to the whole, and Motion gives;
Flying Fowl above, moving Men below,
With those Sight flies, with these, it does but goe.
The diff'ring Shapes and Species seen in Air,
Which fill'd, and furnish't out the Hemisphere;
[Page 49]In the same Order pass into the Eye,
And in that small Sphere, Plains and Mountains lie,
Their Greatness undiminish't, and their Height;
Invading yet no other Object's Right:
Each, filling by it self, its intire Place,
Distinguish't from the rest, by distant Space.
The Eye, with unknown Art, does all contain,
And with like Art, transmits 'em to the Brain.
The Landschape's vary'd Scene resembled there,
The same appears in Fancy's Hemisphere.
Hills, whose blue Height at distance fill'd the Eye,
Like Hills, in the High Countries of the Sky;
Seem in the Thought as full of lofty State,
High without raising, without swelling great:
Vales, without falling, low; and new Vales seen
Without Reflexion, in the Streams between.
The Woods, where Beasts, or herded Men abide,
As thick are planted there, and near their side
And Fowl, in larger Fields of Air above;
Swift, as the winged Thought, that feigns their flight,
Yet never soaring out of inward Sight;
Though with their fancied Wings, they higher flie,
And traverse all th' imaginary Sky.
Fancy, all these Resemblances does trace,
Each Figure frames, and for each Figure, place.
Moulds all the Shapes, shapeless it self, as Air,
Abounding yet, with all presented there.
Though void of Colour, as the naked Light,
Or what no less is unadorn'd, the Sight;
Does Clouds in Thoughts of sev'ral Colours show,
And all the gaudy Pride o'th' Heav'nly Bow:
Gilding these Clouds, a brighter Thought does run,
Shines without Beams, and seems to mock the Sun.
Yet blinding not the Intellectual View,
Though it breaks forth, as glorious as the true.
Copied from Art, or copied from the Sense.
Huge, as that S [...]n, which Notion does descry,
Or small as that, which strikes th' unlearned Eye;
When seeming there, to fix his wandring Light,
He fills the little shining Globe of Sight;
While the Heav'ns inclos'd in those small Spheres move,
Straitned no more, then in the Spheres above.
The little Heav'ns there abridg'd, the Mind
Far more enlarg'd presents, and unconfin'd.
What in Extent is vast, in Depth, or Height,
All that approaches near to Infinite;
Extremest Distances, and endless Space,
The Mind, without dilating does embrace,
Climbs Precipices, of unknown Access;
Sounds Gulfs, unfathomably Bottomless;
And in it self, th' Advantages presents
Of Prospects from great Deeps, or vast Ascents:
Shining below, as in some Pit's false Night;
Without descending into Darkness there,
Sees better, in its own enlightned Sphere.
Then, like as it were lifted up on high,
The Earth's low Globe, it does far off descry;
Small, as one of the Moon's Earth-spots in show,
Which seems a point of Land to those below.
The Mind extending thus its large survey
Beyond the Bounds of Darkness, and of Day,
All Objects sees, it Self alas! alone
Hid to it self, and [...]o it self unknown.
What Bright Things dazle not, nor Great confound,
Nor in the Multitude of many's drown'd;
Surmounting all, is with it Self o're-come,
Knows all Abroad, and Stranger is at Home.
The Revolutions of Fate.
AS none of all the Elements there be
So uncompounded, and from Mixture free,
As we can say, so far this pure extends,
Here that begins, or there the t'other ends.
For limits, or partitions they have none,
Or those they have at least, to us unknown.
So, in the Civil Elements of States,
Which seem thus varied by resembling fates;
Strangers and Natives both alike have place,
And variously compound a mingled Race.
What the first Planters, or first Kings engross't,
Is in wide Fields of long Successions lost.
Their antient Boundaries as much unknown,
As the Right Lines of all those Ages gone.
The same Sea, with new Waves does ebb and flow,
So while one Age does come, another go,
[Page 54]The Race inherits still the Common Name,
Though not one Individual is the Same.
Each Hundred Years, new Natives rise; the Change
In some few Centuries, is yet more strange.
For notwithstanding all that Time has won,
It has but won from Generations gone.
Though Commerce by degrees some Change may gain,
Yet Kingdoms, in the gross, the Same remain.
But Conquests, in an instant do translate
The Form of the depopulated State.
And like those lesser Tributary Seas,
Each of which, Homage to the Ocean paies;
The little Kingdom's Names no more are found,
In one great Empire swallow'd up, and drown'd.
The lesser Revolutions, and the great,
Which Wars, and Traffique, introduce in State;
Some Correspondence, and Resemblance bear
With those are wr [...]ught by Water, Earth, and Air;
Their layings out, by comings in defray'd;
Importing such new Riches to their Store,
As equal, what Exported was before.
Commuting thus in kind, till they receive
All that the Bounty of Exchange can give.
When they the Priv'ledges of each invade,
Their Lawes once broke, War puts a stop to Trade.
Th' Invader then new Liberties does gain,
And turns the Fields, into a liquid Plain.
While forreign Deluges, the Coasts o'recome,
Land-Flouds, in Civil Wars, wast all at home.
So many Changes, as the World has prov'd,
Which most of its old Land-marks have remov'd.
Earth-quakes o're-turning Hills, that long had stood
The Monuments of some forgotten Floud;
While the usurping Main, has Islands rent
In rude divorces, from the Continent:
[Page 56]So many wild Confusions, Fate has wrought
In Governments, to various Ruines brought.
A formidable Force prevailing here,
One Limb of Empire from the rest, does tear;
Leaving no Marks, that guide us where to find
It once was leagu'd, nor where it first disjoyn'd.
Those Heights of Power there, their fall begin
From Rebel-Motions of their own within;
Standing, like antient Hills, of Rise unknown,
Yet straight beneath the common Level thrown:
Like Earth op'ning it self in Graves, thus Pow'r
It self does all at once it self devour.
Or like the Deep, of Islands half-possest,
It drowns the Bounds, and sets afloat the rest.
Nor Islands yet more turns of fortune share,
(Though neither stable in their Earth, nor Air)
Nor prove more Fates, then Governments have run,
By many Arts first rais'd, by more undone.
What all, or each of these apart performs,
Confounding all the Lawes of Place and Site,
Vandals and Gothes have done, t' extinguish Right.
The World's first Owners from their lost Seats fled,
Their Arms long since have disinherited.
Th' usurping Families, and Leaders new,
The Seats of Empire all translated too:
We dig in Ruines deep, for what lies hid
With dark Oblivion of the Grave o're-spread,
And of old Lands and Planters so much know,
As Maps of old Names, yet obscurely show.
Their antiquated Titles only read,
They're spoke of, as the Countries of the Dead.
Such slight Remembrances of all survive;
We doubt, if yet our Fathers once did live.
Their antient Homes so chang'd, we hardly know
Whether they be the Same they were, or no.
Fills now the learned Chairs of all the East.
Egypt a Den, and Greece turn'd Wilderness,
Wild Beasts dwell there, where Sages did profess.
Their Sophies now, succeeding in the place
Of the lost Pict's, and painted Britain's Race.
Thus Learning has Seth's Pillars far out-gone,
And Pow'r, beyond th' Herculean Columns run.
Thus spreading Arms and Arts at once extend,
No Thule, nor Ganges know, nor utmost End;
Unbounded both, as Alexander's Heart,
Or what was larger, Archimedes Art:
Bold Archimedes, had his Boasts prov'd true,
Th' Old World had mov'd, had he found out the New.
Light.
DIvinest Excellence, that Mortals see!
Bright Cloud, and Shadow of the Deity!
Who, fairest Stroak of Heaven art in view,
An Angel in each Beam bear'st, and Heav'n too.
Thou, like those youthful smiling Beauties there,
Ever yong appear'st, ever smiling fair:
Yong, as on thine own, and the World's Birth-day,
When Light new-born, smil'd with an Infant-Ray.
Spirit in Glory, Spirit too in Race,
Thou Angel's Wings, joyn'st to thine Angel's Face.
A Venus, on the Wing of each Ray moves,
Venus, descending with her Silver Doves.
So swift, thou through the World dost Iournies make,
Night, as it steals, thou almost dost o're-take.
Though fast as the Blind run, she hasts away,
To hide her Nakedness, from peep of Day.
The little Birds thou wak'nest in the Groves,
To tell in Songs, the Stories of their Loves.
But first the Cock, thou raisest from his Dream,
With crowning to salute thy dawning Beam.
Thy Curtains then half-drawn, a glance dost throw,
To wake Day's slumb'ring Images below.
From out new-rising Clouds, new Colours peep,
Which once unborn, did in their Shadows sleep.
While Darkness over all had spread a Shade,
This World, which Beds for all the Living made,
Look't like the World of Graves below, where Dead
In low'r Rooms slept, as Living, over-head.
Thin Shadows, did for grosser Bodies walk,
And Ghosts of Objects, did for Objects stalk.
All Beings, lay unsorted in the dark,
Known by no Seal, nor diff'ring Stamp, nor Mark.
But when the Resurrection we behold,
And Chaos disappears, and what look't old.
Yong Nature in her Morning-Dress we view,
With rosie Cheeks, and Face new wash't in Dew.
Fresh, as the blooming Spring, she does appear,
Or what is Emblem, of the circling Year;
Which changing Youth, and Beauty does adorn,
As Time is still in new Successions born.
As thousand of thy subtle Darts, do pierce
The shaded Spaces, of the Vniverse.
The painted Scenes above, at once they show,
And gay Dominions of the Eye below.
All gaudy Royalties of Sight, that lie
Extended far, as the blue Sea and Sky;
What Heav'nly Gayety is, or Earthly Pride,
Light stained is, or Light diversify'd.
What paints the Woods, and what the Gardens bear,
Are all thy various Fashions, which they wear.
The Trees with Blossom fair, and big with Bud,
Are clad according to the Season's Mode.
Plums, with the Year's, their Fashion's changes shew,
In greener Youth, and in their Age's blue.
That mellow Purple, which does Peaches crown,
Bloudless Cheeks promis'd first, and early Down.
The Virgin-Rose, in Infant Colours shown,
A fuller Blush displays, when fully blown.
And Tulips, springing from their striped Bed,
Show fainter first, then deeper white and red.
Thus Nature's Pictures, fram'd of Light and Shade,
At diff'rent times, have diff'rent Colours laid;
And after many Variations past,
Their perfect Strokes, and Stains receive at last.
But no where yet thou dost vouchsafe to show
Such Bounty, or such Riches, as below.
When thou descend'st, to give a beauteous Birth,
To more refined Veins, of shining Earth.
To ripen Silver Mines, thou dost convey,
A Lustre, like the Moon's, a paler Ray.
But treasur'st up thy richest Beams in Gold;
Gold, by whose Beams, the Sun himself's controul'd.
Ev'n barren Rocks, that nothing would produce
Of real Value, or substantial Vse,
Thy precious Influence makes to teem with Worth,
When they all Diamond, and all Gem break forth.
By thee, within each Angle's prison shut,
Gems, fairer are, then by the Artist, cut:
They dancing Lustres dart, but Chrystals are
Thy constant, and transparent Thorow-fare.
Could we thus still thy Flight pursue, and trace
Thee in thy Travels, and thy pathless Waies,
Soaring above the Clouds, a pitch so high
As thy Bright Home, and Residence does lie;
Eagles, that dare the Sun, cannot behold
Those daz'ling Glories there, thou dost unfold:
Glories, that all unsullied still remain,
Which no Shades dead, nor Exhalations stain.
There, stamp't in Stars, thou dost for ever shine,
Or in such Shapes, as Visions paint Divine.
Those naked Souls, which Bodies left undress't,
With Bodies such as thine, themselves invest.
These, as thy Nature, Distance does obscure,
Or, our weak Eyes cannot such light endure.
Ah, why hast thou so many Beauties shown,
And Angels, and thy Self conceal'd alone!
Air.
SPirit and Soul of all, which art let in
To ev'ry Breast, and like a Soul, unseen,
Enter'st without disturbance, noise, or strife,
The smallest Passages of Sense, and Life;
Which, open to thy soft Access as free,
As the least Pores of Heaven, or Earth, or Sea:
Working, ith' World without, as ours within,
A State of Life, untroubled and serene.
Such equal Measures, as the Pulse does beat,
The Breath, in quick Returns of Air does meet.
What Motion, Nature, or resembling Art
Does give, by thy Conveyance they impart;
Whilst with an easie and a gentle Gale
Thou fill'st each spreading Wing, and flying Sail,
That soft and smooth like thee, they cut their way
Through the blue upper, and the lower Sea.
Through those white waving Clouds, that ebb and flow
Like the resembling Waves, that roul below,
Thou spreadst; extended where the Sight does fail,
As wide as Ships can fly, or Birds can sail.
These in thy Race, thou leavest far behind,
Though Wings, they seem to borrow from the Wind;
And both the navigable Skie, and Sea,
Yield of themselves, to make their passage free.
When Arrows, in their pointed flight do tear,
And Bullets, with their round Wounds gore the Air;
Before it opens, but to have them gone,
And closes soon behind, to push them on.
To strokes of Sounds, it does consent to yield,
As it were tickled, and with pleasure fill'd;
And loth to lose them, when their flight they take,
It keeps them long, and fled, recalls them back.
How is't, that they are lifted up on high?
Or being lifted up, how is't, they fly?
Which Wings are they, that Sounds transport? Which they,
That wandring Odours, from afar convey?
What Hand can steer them in their Course so right,
And wandring in so many paths, unite?
How can they at such Distance meet? and there,
At the same instant be, that they are here?
By what Art is it, that the same Sounds strike
The Ears of many Hearers, all alike,
And pierce the Sense so quick, when scatter'd wide
And far disperst, they many wayes divide?
What secret Pipes, and Cavities unknown,
Transmit them so distinctly, one by one?
Where are those lost, which start aside, and stray,
Since nought can intercept them in their way
How seems the Horn, to snatch the Air so short,
And so the News, of each Success report,
And all the Bus'ness, of the Chace declare,
As remote Hunters in the Pleasure share?
In what wild Notes, does War approach the Ear,
When Trumpets, bring a distant-Battel near,
And Sounds, seem so to skirmish in their flight,
As they in Air, began th' approaching Fight.
Some, perishing for want of stronger Breath,
In gentle Whispers lost, and silent Death.
Others, expiring in their last rebounds
Kill'd by the Thunder, of more potent sounds.
Some, vanishing into a softer Sigh,
As some, with the short Gasps of Eccho's die.
Th [...]se, in deep Groans, or piercing Shreeks are fled,
While those drop down, which stronger force does dead.
What various Changes, in one Trumpet meet?
As Sounds increasing, did new Sounds beget.
So thick they issue, and succeed so fast,
As each, did strive to overtake the last.
With double speed, each hasting to repair
The Breaches, which the former made in Air.
Each Breath, which does that single Throat inspire,
Swells pregnant, with the Consort of a Quire.
And as in Notes, so thus in Voices, none
Is found, or like another, or our own.
Whence is't, of many Speeches which we hear,
Each strikes a diff'ring Stroke, upon the Ear.
Or which way are these Changes wrought, that frame
Voices distinct, the Breath unvoic'd the same.
Since Air, which varies in so many Keyes,
Is of it self, nor Treble, Mean, nor Base.
Does not the Speech these several Stamps partake,
Passing through Organs, of a diff'ring make?
What Breath in Fifes, mocks the Winds whistling noise,
Pour'd in a Horn, turns to a hoarser Voice,
Is shrill in Trumpets, and what high they raise,
In Bag-pipes, dwindles to a feeble Base.
Nay, ev'n in the same Organ, some Pipes go,
As high at once, as some run flat and low.
If such Variety, we can pursue,
In Voice, and Sound, where ev'ry Breath is new.
What is there in the Motion of each Sphere,
Set to that Musick, which we cannot hear?
That heard, regardless we, should all neglect
The toils of Life, and listen with Respect.
All Noise, and Tumult here below, would cease,
And all return, to an harmonious Peace.
To a Lady, on her Picture.
FAirest, where were these Colours sought,
Which full of their own Heaven shine?
Such Shades below were never wrought,
And no Art here, is so Divine.
May we not think these Features, were
Th' unseen Art, of a Hand unseen?
None knows, in all that does appear,
Where these Lines end, or those begin.
Knitting of Parts together, seems
The finest Sight, to pose as much,
As the soft moulding of the Limbs,
Or the smooth Skin, the slendrest Touch.
Cheeks, yong and ruddy, as those fair
Yong rosie Beauties, have above;
Which old Age, shall no more impair,
Then Angels Beauty, or their Love.
Though no false Raies, encircle round
This Face, as those of heav'nly frame,
Yours, is with its own Glory crown'd,
And bright, without a borrow'd flame.
The Colours, seem wrought all in Light,
And your Face, so divinely fair;
That though you have no Wings, for flight,
We fear, you'l vanish into Air.
Such is the Artists happy fate,
Such your own, and your Pictures due;
That Judges say, one Angel sate,
For what, another Angel drew.
Dreaming of her.
WHo gaze upon the Sun, are brought
To paint it fairer, in their Thought.
The Glorie, which their Eyes does blind,
Let brighter thus into their Mind,
Does make a clearer Day, break out
Within, while all is Night without.
Her Shape, seen thus by inward Light,
While Sleep, drew Curtains o're my Sight;
Did but that Image, then restore,
Which waking Eyes, ador'd before,
And closing full of her, withdrew,
And kept the Object, still in view.
Though Faces seen but once, we find
Copied, in th' all-resembling Mind.
And some, the Mem'ry shows more plain,
Keeps fresh, and longer does retain▪
Some soon blots out, in a lost Thought,
'Cause first in fading Colours wrought.
Their Lines worn out, till a Review,
Does varnish o're their Stroaks anew.
No Mem'ry sure, like mine, e're prov'd
So constant, to the Face it lov'd.
She entertains my Sight all Day,
And does all Night, before me stray.
The fairest Light, I waking view,
And th' Angel, in my Visions too.
I have no Thought, but of my Love,
All others, she does far remove,
And makes them give place, and resign,
That she may thus be wholly mine.
But if the World at large is seen,
In the Minds Looking-Glass within.
How comes it then, that mine alone,
Of many Shapes, reflects but one?
Alas! it is but reason, she
Should be a single world, to me.
Since others, in their greater Store,
That World divided, but adore,
Which I in her contracted view,
Who, ev'ry day seems to me new.
While She, in one shape, does unite
All that is fair, divine, or bright.
Having seen her Like.
HEav'ns bless me, what was that? my Fair,
Or some enliv'ned piece of Air?
Or was't her Genius, in her Shape,
Or what of her, does Eyes escape?
Which having only chang'd its Shroud,
Did now shine through another Cloud.
What other thing beside, so Like,
Could or my Sight, or Fancy strike,
And thus have her Reflexion wrought,
Both in my Eye, and in my Thought.
Has Nature, learn't from duller Art,
One Stamp to fair ones, to impart,
And cast her Beauties, in a Mould,
That they may all Resemblance hold;
And giv'n us this her first Essay,
To show the Rule, she must obey?
[Page 77]No, no, 'twere pity that, though She,
Might Standard, for all Beauties be.
To make her Common, would abate
Her Value, and bring down her Rate.
Since things so Wondrous, and so Rare,
All, Phoenix-like, unfellow'd are.
On surer grounds, we may pretend,
That Angels, in her Shape descend.
And cause her borrow'd Soul of Light,
Was first perhaps, a Cherub's Right.
Some Spirit, or some Soul, drop't down,
Her Form, mistaking for its own,
Has snatch't, and in her Likeness dress't,
Has stole thus, from among the Blest,
And personating her, has worn,
Her glorious Body, in Return.
The Bounds of Sight.
WHen some vast Space, the Sight encloses round,
And does within its narrow Circle bound.
That Land, which Distance does so far remove,
As none beyond is seen, nor none above.
Which crown'd with an exalted Height does shew,
And that proud Height, crown'd with an heav'nly 'Blue;
Imposes so on the mistaken Eye,
It seems no rising Earth, but falling Sky.
As if the Mountain, did not there ascend,
But Heav'n descending softly, on it lean'd;
And seem'd to rest, upon that hanging Height,
Which half way rose, to meet the glorious Weight.
As parts, in Prospect situated lie,
They pass with diff'ring Shades, into the Eye:
[Page 79]Those nearer to the common Level seen,
Presented in a fresh, and youthful Green.
And what afar off does approach the Sky,
From that, its tincture borrows, and its dye.
Th' extremest Bounds of Land and Water, bear
The self same Colour, with the depths of Air.
A false Blue, claiming from their Place, and Site,
The Priviledge of Distance, and of Height.
The Sea, appearing like a greater Glass,
Through which both Heav'n, and Earth, reflected pass,
Does this above, in its blue Surface show,
And that presents, in its green Depths below.
The Eye let down, with a descending Light,
Finds in the hollow, of each Cave, a Night.
Such Darkness, shut up in each Depth, does dwell,
It seems to enter there, a little Hell.
The Sight, as it on diff'ring Poles does move,
Discovers Hell below, or Heav'n above.
[Page 80]With an erected Beam, ascending here,
Lets in the Day, to fill its op'ning Sphere,
There, falling on some Deep, it puts to flight
The greater Light above, and lets in Night.
The Vnion of Friendship.
TWo Sexes, Marriage does unite,
And makes both, one Hermaphrodite.
But Friendship, has the pow'r alone,
To make two, of the same Sex, one.
Friendship, where e're it does take place,
Marries the Linage, and the Race,
Adopts new Kindred, and new Blood,
Takes Strangers, into Brotherhood;
And by this new Choice, seeks to mend
What Miscarriages, on Birth attend.
Our Love invite not, but invade.
For what Affection can there be,
Where there is Diff'rence in Degree?
If it be lawful to compare
A lesser, with a greater Sphere,
Each House, a Kingdom is in short,
And govern'd, like the Turkish Court.
The Wife, no Office seems to have,
But of the Husband's prime she-Slave.
For she apart no Rights can claim,
Nor has no Title to her Name.
The Child's Condition nearest suits,
With the dumb Duty of the Mutes:
Nor Word, nor Bond, can he engage,
But lives a silent Pupillage.
When once the Sultan Father's dead,
The Eldest does of right succeed,
[Page 82]And thrusts the yonger Brothers down
From their Inheritance, and Throne,
Their Line's hereditary Place,
And private Palace of their Race.
In arbitrary Families,
Which seem Domestique Tyrannies,
Parents, with Turkish Rigour sway,
Friends, ruling th' Europaean way,
So equally their Power share,
As they, all elder Brothers were.
Who, Brothers in the same Womb lay,
Cannot more Brothers be, then they.
Two Members, are not pair'd, like Friends,
And when compar'd, are not more Twins.
Nor so to the same Flesh ally'd,
Nor closer knit, nor firmer ty'd.
Two Eyes, that brother-Raies unite,
And twist them in one Point of Sight.
[Page 83]Nor in their Balls so like appear,
Nor mingle not their Beams, so near.
Though both the sympathising Pair,
Agree, in what is foul, or fair.
Two Ears, that both the same Sound meet,
And are both by the same Nerves knit,
Are not so match't, though the same Sound,
Or both does stroak, or both does wound.
Two Feet, that evenly contend,
United in the Way, and End,
Less equally their Course direct,
And their conspiring Steps connect.
Nay, what is more then all, Two Friends,
In their resembling Souls, are Twins.
As equal Strings, with Love unknown,
Move both, when one is strook alone,
Their trembling Heart-strings set alike,
One Ioy does touch, one Grief does strike.
The Eccho.
WHere do these Voices stray,
Which lose in Woods their Way?
Erring each Step anew,
While they false Paths pursue.
Through many Windings led,
Some crookedly proceed,
Some to the Ear turn back,
Asking, which way to take.
Wandring without a Guide,
They holla from each side,
And call, and answer all
To one another's Call.
Whence may these Sounds proceed,
From Woods, or from the Dead?
[Page 85]Sure, Souls here once forlorn,
The Living make their Scorn,
And Shepherds, that liv'd here,
Now ceasing to appear,
Mock thus in sport the Fair,
That would not grant their Pray'r:
While Nymphs their Voices learn,
And mock them, in Return.
Or if at least, the Sound,
Does from the Woods rebound;
The Woods, of them complain,
Who Shepherds Vows disdain.
Woods, and Rocks, answer all
To the wrong'd Lover's Call.
How deaf soe're, and hard,
They their Complaints regard;
Which Nymphs with Scorn repay,
More deaf, more hard, then they.
The Whisper.
FAirest, what means this close Address,
As if you would a Hearing steal?
Since Words were giv'n Thoughts to express,
Why should soft Words your Thoughts conceal?
While thus your Mind to breath you teach
A Language secret, as your Thought;
You sin against the End of Speech,
Which when it hides, to lie is taught.
The whisp'ring Air, so soft does steal,
As conscious, whom it must obey,
Your Secret yielding to conceal,
Without the least Sound, slides away.
Unwilling to spread far the News,
As dreading, to displease the Fair;
It does through secret Pipes diffuse,
As loth, to mixe with Common Air.
Your Words, with silent Motions slide,
As gently, as from you they came;
From wayes of Noise, they far divide,
And leave the Road, of common Fame.
I'le hunt them out where 'ere they bear,
And breathing close, their Steps pursue;
And as I gather in the Air,
Each Breath, shall voice the Words anew.
The Inconstant.
CEase, Faithless, cease reproaching me,
With your own lov'd Inconstancy.
[Page 88]Unless, while you such Change pursue,
You think, ev'n Constancy is new,
And that your Heart, so us'd to roam,
A Stranger were become, at Home.
I left you not, but you, inclin'd to stray,
Call my removing that, which was my stay.
Thus they, that leave the Shore behind,
Call the removing Land unkind,
As if it did from them recede,
When they, in truth from it are fled.
And thus with Old Men it appears,
In the Travel of many Years.
With like Truth, they the World for changing blame,
Themselves still changing, and the World the same.
The Modest Fair.
AMong so many Voices as we hear,
Imprinting diff'rent Sounds, upon the Ear.
Our own, does so imperfectly return,
As we the Words, more than the Sound discern.
Among so many Faces, as the Eye
Distinctly copies, for the Memory,
In Lines as various, as they first were show'n;
We rarely see, or seen, forget our own.
What then remains, but that we should direct
Both Face, and Voice, to what will both reflect?
Hid to our selves, our Friend's impartial Praise,
The best Reflexion of our selves, does raise.
Why will not you, our Praises then admit,
Who, best our highest Elogies can fit?
Claiming Applause, the more Applause you shun,
At once above Flatt'ry, and Detraction:
It moves our Envy, and strikes Praises dumb.
The greatest Glories of this World, seem so
To gaze on meaner Beauties here below;
Exposing their fair Lights to common View,
But shine not to themselves, no more then You.
To a Lady, playing with a Squirrel.
IF Musick, wild Herds tameness taught,
And on rude Savages has wrought,
And from wild Throngs, to Cities brought.
What gentler Pow'r, and softer Flame,
May such commanding Beauty claim,
Whose silent Musick, Beasts can tame?
What force is in your naked Arm,
That does the little Satyr charm,
And of its savageness disarm?
The boldest of the Wood-Nymphs Race,
Could not this Savage thus embrace,
Or court it, with so rough a Grace.
To act his Sports, you him persuade,
To shew what crooked turns he plaid,
And doubles, he in Hunting made.
You teach him all his Pranks, and how
He leap't from Tree to Tree, and now
His dance cut short, from Bough to Bough.
As through High Woods rough waies he past,
His shady Tail behind him cast,
Nuts, browner than himself to tast.
Happy, in climbing you, to show,
How he the Top Branch climb'd, and so
Ran down the Boughs, in stairs, below.
A braver Height, he thus does soar,
Upon your lifty Shoulders bore,
Then his High Travels knew before.
As pleasant, and as frolick now,
While you his merry Tricks allow,
As dancing, on a bending Bough.
Though wild, he had his Liberty,
What Tree to perch on, and what Tree
His Nuts to gather from, as free.
Nor Nuts, nor Freedom were so sweet,
As what he in a Chain does meet,
Vnperch't, and prostrate at your Feet.
Bathing her self.
HAppy, this wandring Stream!
Which gently proud does seem,
As it had ne're before,
So rich a Burthen bore.
Swell'd with her Body now,
It does with Ioy o'reflow.
Th' exulting Waves forget
The Limits to them set;
With Ioy now swelling more,
Then e're with Rage before;
Her Breast yet lightly raise,
To measure its smooth waies;
While her soft Arms divide
The Current on each side.
Which in new Circles broke,
By ev'ry bending Stroke;
[Page 94]Thus troubled, does appear,
As strook with Sun-beams, clear.
From out of Water, n'ere
Did rise a Shape, so fair,
Nor could it e're to Sight,
Reflect a form, so bright.
Such sweetness, nor such grace,
Shin'd not in Venus Face,
When froth did it enclose,
As 'bove the Waves it rose,
And in white Circles crown'd
The whiter Goddess round.
Less pleasing she did shew,
Her naked Glories, new.
Though all the Deep then smil'd,
To see, the Sea-born Child.
No undisturbed Brook,
In which th' Heav'ns chuse to look,
Sees such a Beauty move,
As this reflects above;
No Deeps, such Treasures know,
As what this hides below.
Of some Pieces, of her Drawing.
FAir Hand, whose gentle Labour's such,
As dashes Beauties, with a Touch.
Whose Stroaks, are drawn so quick, and short,
They make our Wonder but your Sport.
What Art is this, such Shapes does shew,
And yet conceals it self, from view;
As not the smallest, subt'lest Eye,
Can all the curious Lines descry,
[Page 96]Or the fine Pencil's track pursue,
And keep its slender Steps, in view.
Colours, with Colours, so combine,
They grow together, more then join.
Extremes, with such Agreement knit,
As they, without Confusion meet.
The Creatures of your Pencil, you,
With Motion, and with Breath indue;
As they, the Lookers on persuade,
That they were rather born, then made.
Diviner Beings, which your Brain
Seems deliver'd of, without pain.
Soft, as their Makers hand, and fair,
As your Idea's of them, were.
Such in your Mind, they first were wrought,
Limn'd in the Images of Thought.
And what at large is copy'd here,
A small Original was there;
[Page 97]When Fancy, which such Skill provokes,
Drew in your Brain, their tender Stroaks.
Though none may wish that Art were less,
Which clothes your Thoughts in such a Dress,
We wish our Insight were more clear,
That what not seen is, might appear;
Which, in mysterious Lines express't,
To us seems hidden, as your Breast.
Seeing her in a Balcone.
THe Sun at his first Rising so
Gilding some Mountain-top, does show,
Illuminating all below.
As She, does from on high appear,
And with like Glory crowns her Sphere,
Enlightning her Horizon here.
Above those darkning Shadows plac't,
Which lower House-tops round us cast,
That usher Night, e're Day be past.
The proper Seat, and only Scene,
Off all things fair, and all serene,
Which nearest Heaven still are seen.
Our winged Thoughts, in their bold flight,
Out-fly not yet our raised Sight,
Nor ever soar a braver Height.
Vpwards, our Eyes can nought pursue,
Beyond what we now boast in view,
While we look up to Heav'n, and You.
Vouchsafe then (fair One) to allow
That we, whom Fate has plac'd below,
To our Divinity may bow.
And though beneath your feet, we bend,
Permit our Eyes but to ascend;
Further, our Hopes dare not pretend.
Fanning her self.
SEE how the charming fair
Does break, the yielding Air,
Which by her troubled so,
More pure, more smooth does flow.
Winds, without murmurs rise,
Complaining in sad Sighs,
Though they dare not repine,
How loth they 're to resign
Their Int'rest in the fair,
To new succeeding Air.
How silently they grieve,
Their snatch't Embrace to leave
[Page 100]To new Winds, who, their place
Supply, and their Embrace.
Courting their longer Bliss
At ev'ry parting Kiss.
While with a gentle Gale,
They swell her painted Sail.
Then trembling, they give way,
Fearing, to disobey.
Though fain they her would bear,
With ev'ry moving Air;
In vain, alas! they prove
Unkindness to remove,
In vain, to win the Field,
Air may, she cannot yield.
Her Hand, a thousand waies,
New Favourites, does raise,
Which to salute her, proud,
Do round about her croud,
[Page 101]And Rival-like, pursue
Th' old, thrust out by the new.
Well may they boast, they can
Move false Trees, in her Fanne,
And with their tremblings, make
Their Trunks, though rooted, shake,
With Oaks they may contend,
But She, can never bend.
She, should ev'n Storms engage
Her with their roughest Rage,
And all their utmost prove,
Too stubborn is, to move.
Looking through a Perspective.
SHe, fearing one Eye might
Let in too large a Light,
Or wandering, betray
The other's close Survey,
And with new Shows amuse;
One Eye consents to lose,
But does that loss requite
With th' other Eyes delight.
Which doubling thus its Raies,
Its borrow'd Beams repayes;
And spreading wide her view,
Doubles the Pleasure too.
The Glass, she does apply,
Becomes another Eye,
[Page 103]And a new Sense does add
To those before she had;
Which, a new Knowledge gives
Of what from far arrives,
And varies still her View,
As 'tis apply'd anew,
While it on each Remove,
The Prospect does improve,
Stretching her length'ned Sight,
Yet guiding it, aright.
Pleas'd, and Amaz'd, she is,
While she at Distance sees
Fields, Trees, and Houses, pass
Through th' hollow of the Glass;
Approaching her so near,
As they had entred there.
But if such Power lies
In her bewitching Eyes,
As they far off, attract,
How would they nearer, act!
They that draw Houses, then
Would near at hand, draw Men.
Gathering Peaches.
BEhold, wherever she does pass,
How all the am'rous Trees contend,
Whose loaded Arms should her embrace,
While with their fruit tow'rds her they bend;
As if the willing Branches meant,
To her, their Bounty to present.
The upper Boughs all bending low,
Her raised Arm seem to prevent;
While those, that level with her grow,
To meet her easie hand consent.
To court her thus, Lo, ev'ry Peach,
Submits it self, within her reach.
These she prefers, refusing those,
Unhappy, in their rip'ning last;
Persuaded by her Eye to choose,
As that, the colour'd fruit does tast;
Which her Desire does gently move
To what her Sense, did first approve.
Fair, as this golden Fruit here seems,
The Sun, with kind Salutes thus streaks,
And gilding them with am'rous Beams,
Prints purple Kisses, on their Cheeks:
Which their yong blushing Cheeks does crown.
Ah! could the fair, who this does see,
Be by this great Example won,
And learn but thus to smile on me;
As they smile on the kissing Sun.
Bright, as their Cheeks, with Kisses shine,
Hers, brighter should appear with mine.
Singing to her Guittar, in an Arbor.
SO, was that Stranger charm'd,
Who first did Musick hear,
With such a new Soul warm'd,
Which wandred, in his Ear;
Lost thus, in the Excess
Of his new Happiness.
So did that Captive look,
Whom soft Sounds then subdu'd,
With pleasing wonder strook,
So joy'd, and pain'd he shew'd:
Since some Death seems to be
In ev'ry Extasie.
Though th' Art, be common grown,
Such Excellence is new;
Long since, though that was known,
We wonder still, at you,
Who, with sweet force surprize,
And gently tyrannize.
New Pleasures influence
Each Pore, which they steal through,
And op'ning some new Sense,
Fill, and possess it too:
[Page 108]Pleasures, n'ere felt before,
Still enter some new Door.
Bare Musick, is but Noise,
And not so sweet, as fierce,
Something in your soft Voice,
Diviner is, then Verse;
Which Musick is alone,
E're it be set to Tune.
Why fly you thus the Throng?
Like Orpheus, in the Wood,
Repairing with your Song,
To honour Solitude;
Where no Ear can pursue
The Sound, nor no Eye, You.
Would you by this persuade,
That Miracles are wrought,
And still frequent the Shade,
Where, Musick first was taught?
That such deaf things, as Trees,
Must be your Witnesses.
Or that, your Voice Divine
These Walls seem loth to lose,
And willing to confine,
Permit not to diffuse;
But practising, still learn
In Eccho's, to return.
Her Window.
HEre, first the Day does break,
And for Access, does seek,
Repairing for Supplies,
To her new op'ned Eyes,
Then (with a gentle Light
Gilding the Shades, of Night)
Their Curtains drawn, does come,
To draw those of her Room;
Both open, a small Ray,
Does spread abroad the Day,
Which peeps into each Nest,
Where, neighb'ring Birds do rest;
Who spread upon their yong,
Begin their Morning-Song,
And from their little home,
Nearer her Window, come,
[Page 111]While from low Boughs they hop,
And perch, upon the Top;
And so from Bough to Bough,
Still singing as they goe,
In praise of Light, and Her,
Whom they to Light prefer;
By whose Protection blest,
So quietly, they nest,
Secure, as in the Wood,
In such a Neighbourhood.
While, undisturb'd they sit,
Fearing no Hauk, nor Net,
And here, the first News sing,
Of the approaching Spring.
The Spring, which ever here,
Does first of all appear;
Its fair Course, still begun
By Her, and by the Sun.
Sleeping on her Couch.
THus lovely, Sleep did first appear,
E're yet it was with Death ally'd;
When the first fair one, like her here,
Lay down, and for a little dy'd.
E're happy Souls knew how to dye,
And trod the rougher Paths to Bliss,
Transported in an Extasie,
They breath'd out such smooth waies, as this.
Her Hand bears gently up her Head,
And like a Pillow, rais'd does keep;
But softer then her Couch, is spread,
Though that be softer, then her Sleep.
Alas! that death-like Sleep, or Night,
Should power have to close those Eyes;
Which once vy'd with the fairest Light,
Or what gay Colours, thence did rise.
Ah! that lost Beams, thus long have shin'd,
To them, with Darkness over-spread,
Unseen, as Day breaks, to the Blind,
Or the Sun rises, to the Dead.
That Sun, in all his Eastern Pride,
Did never see a Shape so rare,
Nor Night, within its black Arms hide
A silent Beauty, half so fair.
Seeing Smoak rise.
THese Earth-born Fumes, which here arise,
And trouble with their Clouds, the Skies,
Show, how the basest things aspire
To reach, the noble Seat of Fire.
Though mounting Sparkles, and the Flame,
That Countrey seek, from whence they came;
Yet Steams so foul, as these are seen,
Must have a baser Origine.
However they in mounting shew,
They challenge Heaven, as their due;
Yet, such is the High flyers fate,
In Air, their Pride does terminate.
The Lot of all things, that rise high,
Which soaring, vanish still, and dye.
The Smoak of War, and Smoak of Trade,
Do both alike, the Skies invade;
The Clouds, in which they do ascend,
As undistinguish't, as their End.
What can vain Man, to both provoke?
When all his Hopes, end thus in Smoak.
What moves him to build high? as He,
Next Neighbour to the Sky, would be;
When from his proudest Heights, he sees,
What with high Thoughts, but ill agrees,
That Vapours light as these, out-flie
Both his Ambition, and his Eye.
Hearing of a Drum.
WHo now that hears this sounding Drum,
Thinks, such Noise can, from Nothing come?
And yet the Causes seem no less,
For what are Wind, and Emptiness?
A hollow Inside, and nought there,
But what, is shut in every where;
Air, which all empty things does fill,
It self, an empty Nothing still.
This almost Nothing, seems to be,
Ev'n fruitful, in Variety;
And while it does with Eccho's meet,
Many new Nothings, does beget.
Th' imprison'd Air within, once broke,
Thickens in sounds, with ev'ry Stroke,
And wounded thus it self, around,
Communicates each moving Sound,
Until the hollow Woods, become,
But each of them, a hollow Drum;
Who, in their swift Consent have show'n,
That Noise, like Silence, dwells alone.
Great Talkers, that with all their Dinne,
Nothing of solid, have within,
Who make a noise, and promise fair,
But yet examin'd, are but Air,
When to Performances they come,
Prove louder Nothings, like this Drum.
On a Picture of Snow, and Ice.
SO in those Climes, fruitful in nought but Cold,
Where Nature looks with hoary Winters, old;
High Rocks, dissembling their hid Horrour, smile,
Top't thus with Snow, which does their Crags beguile.
A like Hand here, the Earths white Bosome spreads,
And dip't in Snow, the Winter gently sheds.
As the resembling Level, seems to vie,
With Clouds, of unborn Flakes, within the Skie,
While Mountain-tops, and raised Heights, all show,
White, as the native High-Lands, of the Snow.
The Heaven, big, and teeming with white Show'rs,
Mock't by the Earth, into whose Lap it pow'rs.
But what does most of all this Art surprize,
One Hand, drops Snow so soft, and hardens Ice.
On the Picture of an Old Man, with Spectacles.
GOod Figures mock, so the Beholders View,
As while you look on them, they look on you;
The Artist, for this Piece, has done no less,
Th' old Mans Eyes fail, he lends him Spectacles.
On an Old Beldame, washing her Face.
TRoubling the Water thus, in vain,
With such a Skin, as Fonts would stain,
The Gipsie, seeks to wash away
Orig'nal Dirt, and Adam's Clay;
Would she a likelier Course pursue,
She must put off, th' old Woman too.
Against Fruition.
WHat is this thing call'd Pleasure? but false Gold,
Which does amuse the Sense, in Heaps untold,
Double the Summe, appearing in the great,
Counted, falls short, and wanting in the weight.
Beheld thus at large, and in gen'rals view'd,
It cheats the Eye, and does with Shows delude,
Cast up, is found defective in the tale,
And when examin'd, by the touch, or scale,
A lighter proves, but courser Coine, wash't o're,
A golden Out-side only, and no more.
That, which for th' Image-sake, we over-rate,
And from the Royal Stamp, mistake for Plate.
Such, is the Beauty of this lying Stone,
Which Clearness has, and Hardness wants alone;
Its colour, and its flames, for Orient pass,
Till th' undeceiving Hammer, proves it Glass.
Our distant Hopes, present our Pleasures fair,
And bigger shap'd, then our Enjoyments are;
But when the Landschape, we behold too nigh,
Which standing off, did seem to court the Eye,
The fineness of the Stroaks, does disappear,
What Painting shew'd far off, is Daubing near.
Our Wants, and Expectations, both thus kind,
These, shew Ioyes fair before, and those, behind.
Fame, seems to speak of them untried, and new,
With that Civility, to Strangers due;
And mentions them with that Respect, when fled;
We use to give the Absent, and the Dead.
Opinion, thus our Pleasures over-rates,
As idle Rumor, magnifies Estates;
Which swell, and rise, to many Thousand Pounds,
Coin'd only in pure Air, and empty Sounds:
So dear we purchase, when our Hopes bid high,
Yet dearer part with, what we dearly buy,
When once we come, our Losses to survey;
Too lib'ral Mistakes, we in counting make,
And frankly lose, more then was laid at Stake,
While gen'rous Grief, does to the Winner throw,
More then he did, to his good fortune owe.
The Scenes, and Images, of vain Delight,
Seen by false Beams, and a deluded Sight;
Among the Ioyes, of Misers Dreams, have place,
Who, Fairy Gold, with empty Arms embrace,
But when at last the golden Dream is o're,
With a rich Sigh, lament their waking poor.
So swift, our Ioyes are snatch't, that they but last,
For our sad Pleasure, to behold them past.
So yong, are all things fair, and all things gay,
Which can no more then Angels, with us stay.
The best of Good things thus like Spirits are,
They have their Wings, or vanish into Air:
[Page 123]When seen but once, and we their Stay invite,
The pretty winged Strangers, take their flight.
They, for our Tast, too heav'nly are, and pure,
Too delicate, and subtle to endure;
Our Senses too, as much too gross, and rude,
Which things too strong o'recome, too fine elude.
The Aether thus, too delicate for Breath,
Instead of Life, lets in a finer Death.
And thus the piercing, over-radiant Light,
Scatters, and blinds the weaker Raies, of Sight.
Things soft, and smooth, we cannot nicely tast,
Nor will the Air, or Water be embrac't;
The Down of Swans, the finest Touch deceives,
And Oyl, no certain Tast, behind it leaves.
What's Hard, or Rough, the Sense does best excite,
And what is Sharp, best moves the Appetite.
Rareness, and Labour, all good things commend,
Which once grown cheap, and easie, do offend.
Like Hunters, we the Pleasure do misplace,
And lose the dear Enjoyment, in the Chace.
The Game we prize, because we hunted hard,
And by the Toil, we measure the Reward.
Plenty, and Want, our Sense alike does blame,
While deep Draughts drown, and little Tasts inflame.
Perfumes, enjoy'd too free, delight us less,
And are impair'd, with nauseating Excess.
Tasted more rarely, they inflame us more,
Then their Excess, did surfeit us before.
Thus, some in Feavers, their sick Palates please,
And cure their Thirst, by feeding their Disease.
Against Fame.
WHat should fond Man, in all his Works persuade
To Noise, Solemnity, or vain Parade?
Since Nature, where she Bus'ness does intend,
Silence, and Secrecy, does most commend.
If we look up, the Heavens seem to flye
In rouling swift, the measures of the Eye.
They strike no Hours, nor in their Motions chime,
Though we with Noise, distinguish silent Time,
And boast, we hear the measur'd Howers run,
Told by no Larum, how whole Dayes are gone.
Nay, Years, are past our count, and notice fled,
As silently, as Night, does Day succeed.
If we look down, what Eye distinctly sees
The growing Shade, and rising Height, of Trees.
[Page 126]Or, by what crooked Steps, in winding slow,
Rivers, wash neighb'ring Meadows, as they goe.
Still while deep Waters are, the shallow Stream,
Does louder, in its prating Murmurs seem.
Hollow, and empty things, are only found,
To yield, and empty Air, to spread a Sound.
And none but such, as hollow Places, ring
With Sounds, which first from hollow Causes spring.
As void of Substance, is an airy Fame,
And vain as He, who does that Nothing claim,
Or as the hollow World, which still employs
Its empty Eccho's, to return the Noise.
Fame, grows from Opposition, and like Sound,
Seems only from Resistance, to rebound.
And as two solid Bodies, set at jar,
Produce a Bounce, in their unglorious War;
And which the Brave, from clashing Arms derive.
The Noise, which does from warlike Actions come,
Is but the empty Loudness, of a Drum.
The Brave, are led thus to maintain their Fame,
For which they fought, the same way, that it came.
Meer Sound, does them to greater Deeds excite,
Who were encourag'd with a Sound, to fight.
Vain, as alas! that dying Man would sport,
Who boasts his murd'ring Canon's loud Report;
So vain is He, who all his Art employes,
Living, or dying still, to make a Noise.
THE NEW-YEAR, To my LORDS GRACE, of CANTERBURY: Presented, Ianuary 1. 1674.
AS now the restless, and unwearied Sun,
In new Successions, his fair Course does run,
His Motion, shap'd like his resembling Sphere,
Which figures the round World, and Circling Year.
So you, to whom alike our Eyes we raise,
Born, on the Heavens, and on You to gaze.
Your endless Race of Glorie, still pursue,
And guide our Course, and shine above us too.
Repeating your unwearied Travels, till
You, your bright Circle of great Actions fill.
Grown with the Changes which he measures, old;
His Glories fresh, as when he first did rise,
And took his Station in the new-made Skies.
So you, to whom old Age unknown appears,
Seem yong, with the increase of many years.
As all th' Advances, which you make in Time,
Were Steps, whereby you to Perfection climb;
And those past Years, by which you count us old,
For us, you only numbred out, and told.
Thus Angels, fashion'd by a Hand Divine,
Still ever yong, as their own Heavens, shine;
Born old as all the Elements, yet n'ere
No more then they, with crooked Age impair.
What is above, not subject is to Time,
Eternal Youth, smiles in the Heav'nly Clime.
Like as some Hill, the antient Throne, and State,
Whereon the World's first humble Monarchs sate;
Beholds the black Clouds, in the Bottom seen,
Th' Imperial Height, still smiling, and serene.
So you, who by experienc't Travels climb,
To gain the Prospect, on the top of Time,
Serener seem, the higher still you go,
And see more of the changing World below.
Thus when we thought our Sky, was calm, and clear,
You saw our threatning Storms far off appear,
And those black Clouds, which after fell on all,
While you, from your calm Height, o're-look't our Fall.
Then stood you, like your Church upon a Hill,
Firm as a Rock, and as conspicuous still.
Then, when your Country was with Arms oppress't,
And Peace was no where found, but in your Breast.
That sacred Quiet, which on you did wait,
Slep't not unactive in your humble State,
[Page 131]But waking kept, and did not idly rest,
Like Nights dark Quiet, a dull Calm at best.
So high, the Confessor his Cross did bear,
As that, has higher rais'd the Primate's Chair.
Your Suff'rings, shed as great a Lustre then,
As now adorns your more Triumphant Scene.
May kinder Suns, their whiter Times restore,
In lieu of those, they snatch't from you before,
And many smiling Years to come, employ
The Sacred Quire's more New, and Solemn Ioy;
Still exercis'd in Angels Songs, that so,
Our Church may long Triumphant be, below.
The TABLE.
- TO his Grace, Gilbert, Lord Arch-bishop of Canterbury, Page 1
- On the Oxford Theater, Page 9
- To her Highness, the Princess Sophia, Dutchess of Brunswick and Lunenburgh, Page 16
- On the Duke of Newburgh's Entertainment and Musick, Page 22
- On a fair Lady, looking in the Glass, Page 28
- The Thought, To a Lady enquiring after him in his Travels, Page 31
- Petrilla, in Iewels, Page 33
- Greatness in Little, Page 35
- Beauty of Chance, Page 39
- Magnificence under Ground, Page 43
- The Intellectual Prospect, Page 47
- The Revolutions of Fate, Page 53
- Light, Page 59
- Air, Page 65
- To a Lady, on her Picture, Page 71
- Dreaming of her, Page 73
- Having seen her Like, Page 76
- The Bounds of Sight, Page 78
- The Union of Friendship, Page 80
- The Eccho, Page 84
- The Whisper, Page 86
- The Inconstant, Page 87
- The Modest Fair, Page 89
- To a Lady, playing with a Squirrel, Page 90
- Bathing her Self, Page 93
- Of some Pieces of her Drawing, Page 95
- Seeing her in a Balcone, Page 97
- Fanning her self, Page 99
- Looking through a Perspective, Page 102
- Gathering Peaches, Page 104
- Singing to her Guittar, in an Arbor, Page 106
- Her Window, Page 110
- Sleeping on her Couch, Page 112
- Seeing Smoak rise, Page 114
- Hearing of a Drum, Page 116
- On a Picture of Snow, and Ice, Page 118
- On the Picture of an Old Man, with Spectacles, Page 119
- On an Old Beldame, washing her Face, Page ibid.
- Against Fruition, Page 120
- Against Fame, Page 125
- The New-Year, to my Lords Grace of Canterbury, presented January 1. 1675. Page 128
FINIS.