MISCELLANY POEMS AND Translations By OXFORD Hands.
— Si Quis tamen haec quoque, si Quis
Captus amore leget —
Virg Ec.
LONDON, Printed for Anthony Stephens, Bookseller near the Theatre in OXFORD, 1685.
THE PUBLISHER TO THE READER.
SInce Poetry has had the good fortune hitherto, to be much esteemed in the world, and to become the favourite of the Age: I hope it will not now fall short of its own end, and my design, which is to divert and please; and how far I have consulted this, may appear from the following work: where such variety of Subjects cannot but be grateful, and a Miscellany must needs yield more delight then one continued Poem; for the same reason I presume, as at an Entertainment, most People are pleas'd with variety of Courses, when a standing Dish would not at all gratify their Appetites. Now, as for the several Hands which have been so kind to obliege the world no doubt, as much as me, in contributing to this piece; I acknowledge it beyond my capacity to commend: And indeed could I do [Page]it, I presume it would be altogether needless; since their own Poems will speak their praise in a more ample manner. Yet I would not have you think I have commended these Poems so far upon my own Judgment; But that I have relyed wholy upon the Authority of able Criticks, to whom I left it wholy to approve, or disapprove of what they pleas'd: knowing it to be a prudent way for any one who understands not whether a Coin be counterfeit to refer himself to the Test of a Touchstone: Whereupon I admitted no Coppy but what had stood this Tryal, and came of with reputation. Now after all this care and diligence, there remains nothing; but that I should commit this piece to your Judgment, in whose Power it is to make it happy; wishing that it may carry worth enough in it to deserve your favour; and if so, assure your self the undertaking will be very satisfactory to him, who has made it his business
To serve You, ANTH. STEPHENS.
THE CONTENTS.
- OƲt of Catullus Epig. the 5th to Lesbia &c. By F. Willis Fellow of New Coll. Oxon. p. 1.
- The Third Elegy of the Third Book of Tibullus, to his Mistriss by F. Willis. 3.
- The 14th Elegy of the first Book of Propertius, To his Friend Tullus. By [...]. Willis. 6.
- LOVE VERSES, by the same Hand.
- To the God of Love p. 8.
- To Floriana. 10.
- The Wound. 11.
- His Death. 13.
- Falling in Love with a Lady for her Wit. 15.
- The Ʋnconstant. 17.
- The Parting. 19.
- The Pink to Floriana. 21.
- Ʋpon his being asked what Love was. 22.
- Her Retreat. 29.
- Farwell to Love. 25.
- Two Pindarick ODES by F. Willis.
- ODE I. TO the Right Honourable JAMES Earl of ABINGDON. p. 27.
- ODE II. Against sensual Pleasure. by F. Willis. 32.
- [Page]To his Chamberfellow Mr. Tho. Creech on his Translation of Lucretius: by H. Hody of Wad. Coll. 38.
- On Reason and Coyness: by another Hand. 47.
- Casimire Ode the 18th Book the 4th, To the Rose with which he vow'd to Crown the Virgin Mary with every June. 50.
- Out of Casimire Ode 34th, Book the fourth: To Quintus Tiberinus. 51.
- Casimire Ode the 25. Book the Fourth. A Dialogue between the Child JESUS and the Virgin Mother. 53.
- Song set by Dr. Blow. 58.
- Translated by the same hand. T. B.
- The Extravagant, written 1682. by Tho. Brown of Ch. Ch. 58.
- A Paraphrase upon the Twelfth Ode in Horace Lib. 4. Audivere Lyce &c. by T. Brown. 61.
- The Thirteenth Chap. of Isaiah Paraphrased. 64.
- Pindarick Ode: by another Hand.
- Ode the Fifteenth of the first Book of Casimire Imitated. 75.
- A Fragment, out of Catullus to Lesbia. 80.
- Casimire Ode 23. Book 4. To the Grass-hopper. 81.
- Out of Martial Book 33. Epig. 54. Imitated. 82. 83.
- Out of Catullus Epig 3. 85.
- A Fragment out of Petronius imitated. 86.
- On Womans Levity out of Petronius. 88.
- To his Mistriss out of Petronius. 89.
- Ouisquis habet nummos, out of Petronius Imitated. 91.
- [...]ve in a Trance. Song. 93.
- [...] Violet. 101.
- [Page]Resolved to obtain. p. 105.
- Several Elegies out of the first and third Book of Ovid's Amours Imitated and Paraphrased.
- Elegy the Ninth, Book the first. 108.
- To a Girl dehorting her from asking Money for her Love. 113.
- To the Waiting Maid, that she would convey his Letter to his Mistriss. 119.
- Elegy the sixth, to the Porter 122.
- Elegy the Third, Book the first, To Pacify his Mistriss, whom in his Passion he had beaten. 131.
- Book the first, Elegy the Thirteenth, to the Morning that she would not rise too soon. 137.
- Of his Mistriss that had perjur'd her self. 142.
- Book the Third, Elegy the Eleventh 145.
- Elegy the Ninth, Book the third, The Poet grieves that he is Rejected by his Mistriss 148.
- Ovid's Amour's Elegy the 15th, Book the first Imitated. 154.
- Prologue to Perseus Satyrs Imitated. 158.
- Martial Epig the third, Book 18. Imitated. 159.
- A Rural Complaint of the Approach of Winter. 161.
- Claudian Epigr. de Sphera Archimedis. Imitated. 164.
- Ʋpon the slighting of his Friends Love. by Mr. C. S. of Wad. Coll. 165.
- Ovid's Amours Elegy the third, Book the first: To his Mistriss: by J. G. 168.
- Ovid Book 3. Elegy the seventh by the same Hand. 170.
- The Golden Age by H W. 177.
- To Sylvia: by the same Hand. 180.
- [Page]Loves Religion: by F. W. of New Coll. 184.
- The Ʋnion. by the same Hand. 185.
- To his Honored Friend and Relation Mr. Francis Willis Merchant in Greenwich Ʋpon his discovery of a Weed in Virginia which is a present Remedy against the Venom of he Rattle Snakes there, by F. Willis Fellow of New Coll. Oxon. 187.
- Book 1. Ode 21. of Horace Paraphrased. by the same Hand. 189.
- Seneca's Hercules Furens. Act. 1. Chorus by F.W. 192.
- Seneca's Agamemnon. Act. 1. Chorus. by J. Glanvil. of Trin. Coll. 196.
- Song. by J. Glanvil. 199.
- The Bafled Swain. 200.
- To Sylvia. 203.
TRANSLATIONS Out of Catullus, Tibullus, and Propertius.
The Vth Epigr. of Catullus, Vivamus mea Lesbia, &c.
COme, Lesbia, let us live, and love,
And all those fleeting joyes improve,
Those soft delights, that fly so fast,
And like your lovely Beauty wast;
For grave men's talk what need we care,
Whom peevish age has made severe?
The Suns that set, again may rise,
And smile and wanton in the skies;
But when alass our life's short day,
On Time's soft wings has stoln away,
All joyes must cease, all our delight
Be buried in eternal Night.
Come then (that I may longer live)
A Thousand vital kisses give;
Come give me now an Hundred more,
Add t'other Thousand to the score,
A second Hundred will not doe,
Another Thousand must ensue;
Let us kiss on; till at the last
(When many Thousands have been past)
We Bankrupt grow, nor can account
To what vast summs our joyes amount:
Till no malicious spie shall know
How much (my Dear) I'me kiss'd by you.
The 111 Elegy of the 111 Book of Tibullus to his Mistress.
IN vain (Fair Nimph) oft to the gods I pray'd,
And Courting Odours on their Altars layd;
Not that I might my wanton wishes please,
And pride my self in Marble Pallaces,
Or for the wealth the largest Farm can yeild,
Stiling me Lord of some extended Field,
Whose fertile Glebe might bless me with a Crop,
Vast as the promise of licentious Hope:
All I intreat of Heav'n's with Thee to Live,
And drain all joyes Life's longest Treat can give;
That my Age too with you might melt away,
And in your Bosome pleasingly decay,
There drop its Silver Hairs, which ne're will vie
With Snow that on those Little Alps does ly:
Then I when Life is thus run out, must go
A naked shadow to the Realms below:
For why should I such no great blessings seek,
Or wish for all the trash a Lombard-street
Is loaded with? what pleasure can there be
In a Rich Manor's useless Luxury?
Were all Cheap-side and the Piazza's mine,
Nay should the courteous Heavn's with kind design,
Cast in the pomp of such a Grove beside,
St. James's Park might envy in its pride:
Might I enjoy in ev'ry glitt'ring room
The fraight, that an East-India Fleet brings home:
Nay all th' arrears of bliss mis-understood,
Which the false common Vogue has stamp'd for good,
'Twere trivial all: such is the play of fate,
The copious Theme for envy, and for hate;
No Care alass! is by such state controul'd,
Nor Quiet bought with Treasuries of Gold:
But ah! how pleasantly should I tho poor
(May Heav'n such humble blessings have in store)
Enjoy my Love; but if compell'd to loose
Your Company, a Kingdom I'de resuse;
Blest be the Day, and thrice auspicious light,
Which shall restore you to my longing sight:
But if my Vows for your return are vain,
And fondly I to the deaf Skies complain,
Whilst no complying God will lend an Ear,
To the soft Accents of a Lovers Prayer:
No promis'd Empire then, no wealth can please,
Or sooth the fury of my fond disease;
Let some unthinking Sots so vainly prize,
This goodly Stock of glorious Fooleries.
All I desire, is a Quiet Life,
A pleasant Cottage, and a Loving Wife;
May Juno, and the Paphian Queen combine
To grant me this, and favour my design:
Or if such blessings inconsistent be
With Fate's inevitable black decree;
May Death befriend me, and Eternal rest
Lull fast asleep the tumults of my Breast.
The XIVth. Elegy of the First Book of Propertius To his Friend Tullus.
THO you (my Friend) in some cool Arbour ly,
Where Tibur's Silver Streams glide softly by,
And quaff rich Goblets of your Lesbian Wines,
T' encourage mirth, and push on gay designs;
Or there perhaps sometimes have wondringstood,
To see the Lighters dance along the floud;
Sometimes (to please your sight) amidst the throng,
Observ'd tall Ships sail lazily along;
And tho your Groves make such a pompous show,
Sheltring from Storms the infant Shrubs below,
With Trees as vast as on tall Caucasus do grow:
Yet think not all this State can equal prove,
To one soft happy minute of my Love.
How mean is Greatness if compar'd to this,
And what are Riches to a Lovers bliss?
For whether my Dear She all over charms,
Kindly at night reposes in my Arms;
Or whether we consent to spend the day,
In easy pleasure, and in wanton play:
I fancy then Pactolus streams are rowl'd
Thro th' enrich'd house, methinks I swim in Gold;
Methinks I am as wealthy, and as blest,
As if the Indies were by me possest:
Sure proudest Monarchs would their Crowns resign,
And tiresome greatness, for delights like mine,
Which Heav'n preserve till death shall change the Scene:
For who can dote on wealth, or value Crowns,
When Love's unkind, and when a Mistress frowns;
Venus can ev'n Heroick minds enslave,
Soften the stout, and captivate the brave;
No Palaces, no Beds of Down can prove,
Strong countercharms to the great Queen of Love.
She can disturb at night a Lovers ease;
How then alass! can all our Riches please?
Who while she smiles on me, I will contemn
The trifling Glories of a Diadem;
I'll look on worlds of Wealth with gen'rous hate,
And pitty rich Alcinous's Fate.
Love-Verses by the same Hand.
To the God of Love.
I.
VVEll now (great Love) I plainly see,
Thy Conquests over Poetrie;
The very Laurel that's from Heaven secure,
Must thy more potent Thunder-bolts endure.
II.
Ah me! I feel thy pointed Smart,
(Sure Sense ne're Lodges in the Heart)
For yet the Knowledge of my Wound does stay,
Tho on thy Wings my Heart is fled away.
III.
'Tis gone, 'tis gone to that bright She,
Who now is all the world to me;
To Floriana, who does proudly sit,
Upon the Throne of Beauty, and of Wit.
IV.
But pardon (Nymph) nor wonder why
My flame of Love dares aim so high;
You know alass! all Fire does upwards go,
And soars to Heav'n, why should not mine do so?
To Floriana.
THrice happy day, when first I gaz'd on you,
And saw all Heav'n expos'd to mortal view.
Unjustly we of Phaethon complain,
Your Looks have set the world on fire again;
Looks so divine, so lovely bright, so pure,
Not uncompounded Essences are more;
Modest, as she that first salutes the Skie,
And blushes at th' approach of Phoebus eye;
Pleasant, as Eastern flow'rs, while they consume,
And breathe away their Lives in rich perfume:
So like your Mind, which thro the purest Skin
Displays it's Nunnery of Thoughts within.
With such a grace the precious Flies appear,
Enshrin'd in Chrystal, or an Amber tear;
But sure you have no Matter, sure your mind
Is cald in Substances of Souls refin'd.
Or we may guess Providence did delay,
Curious to find some nobler piece of Clay,
Whilst your impatient Form stole unarray'd away.
Or else Heavn sent you thus, to let us see
What at the Resurrection we shall be.
The Wound.
I.
NEver any Parthians Bow,
So many Painted Deaths did throw,
So many Darts; as you comprize
In the two Golden Quivers of your Eyes:
But ah! too like the cruel Parthians, you
No sooner gave the Fatal Wound but flew.
II.
Yet tho you fly, in my Mind
You've left your kinder Self behind;
My Heart would sigh, but does not dare,
For fear it foyle your pleasing Picture there;
So unseen Angells work in Fancy's Theme,
And glorious Nothings please us in a Dream.
III.
Ah how vain this Shadow is!
Can I content my self with this?
Or as the fam'd Pigmalion doe,
And make a Mistress of thy Likeness too?
No: I in this should quite as vain appear,
As He that was suppos'd to court the Air.
His Death.
I.
THE wretch that stole Celestial Fire,
Ne're animated Clay,
With so much life as you inspire,
And in a Kiss convey:
Sure the morose, and grave-men onely owe
Their Souls to Heav'n, all Lovers theirs to You.
II.
Why nam'd I Heav'n, 'tis onely She
Can true Elizium prove;
Where all departed Souls must flee
To endless joys of Love;
For as I in her kind Embraces lay,
My eager Soul stole in the bliss away.
III.
So Sweet a death befel the Bee,
Rifling a Virgin Rose;
Whilst in her Golden Bosom, She
Did all her Sweets disclose;
But fond embracing leaves his life betray'd,
And in that envy'd Tomb her Lover laid.
Falling in Love with a Lady for her Wit.
I.
THis Love is pure, which is design'd
To court the Beauty of your mind;
No Pimping dress, no fancy'd Air,
No Sex can bribe my judgement there:
But like the happy Spirits above,
I'm blest in raptures of Seraphick. Love.
II.
Such chast Amours may justly claim
Friendship, that noble, manly Name;
For without Lust I gaze on Thee,
And onely wonder, 'tis a She:
Onely our Minds are Courtiers grown,
Such Love endures when Youth, and Life are flown.
III.
Who on thy Looks has fix'd his Eye,
Adores the Cafe where Jewells lye;
I've heard such foolish Lovers say,
To you they gave their hearts away;
I willingly now part with mine,
To learn more Sense, and be inform'd by thine,
The Ʋnconstant.
I.
UNconstant! that word strikes me more,
Then the bright Lightning of your Eyes,
That made my melted Heart your prize;
Could ever do before.
II.
Ah! like a cruel Murth'rer, You
Fly from your Lover slain;
Some other Booty to pursue,
And proudly kill again.
III.
But why should I for this despair?
Or at Inconstancy repine!
Since onely Change can make you mine,
Now you Another's are:
IV.
What tho the Heavn's beauteous frame
Dayly delight to move;
It still returns again the same,
And was compos'd of Love.
V.
[...] pitty too methinks that She,
(By Beauty sure design'd
To cherish all Mankind)
Should be confin'd to Me.
VI.
For should the Sun all's smiling light,
To his lov'd Rhodes display;
All other parts must mourn in Night,
And ne're enjoy the Day.
The Parting.
I.
SO when the beauteous Soul prepares her way,
To the far Country of Eternal day.
With such swoln, wishful eyes, the Body courts its Itay;
As I did on my parting Life, my Mistress, Look;
When she her fatal Farewel took,
And left her Turtle here alone;
Whilst with her Presence she does grace,
Some Over-happy place,
Happier then that, to which blest Souls are [...]
II.
In vain Astrologers pretend to know,
What Accidents shall happen here below,
What Weather, what Eclipses from the Planets show;
Their Calculations for some other Country run,
Not made for Love's Meridian;
In vain, they say 'tis Summer here,
Now my bright Nymph is gone, 'tis She
My Kalendar must be;
'Tis She divides the Seasons of my Year.
III.
Now Storms of rainy Tears, and black Despair,
Have taken up their Winter Quarters here,
And Sighs, that chill my Heart with more then
Northern Air:
Greenland's a temp'rate clime, compar'd to frozen parts
Inhabited by Lovers hearts,
When absence does your Beams withold:
Ah! fure you'l guess this Chill to be
Beyond the Eighth Degree;
When he that's all on Fire complains of Cold.
IV.
To what a Nothing am I grown and now
Scarce know I live but by the thoughts of you:
So Flowers that to the Spring their painted glories owe.
When she on Zeph'rus gales has wing'd her fragrant way,
In drooping wither'd Looks their grief betray,
But at her bright return, no more
Their Melancholy heads they hide,
But with an early pride
Start from their Buds as glorious as before.
The Pink to Floriana.
I.
AH happy Flower! pride of all
That dress the gawdy May;
What Monarch would not humbly fall,
And throw his Crown away?
His Heart like you might be a Guest,
In the fair harbour of that breast.
II.
How red thy flaming Leaves do grow!
Warm'd by her neighb'ring Eyes:
I wish methinks they'de melt that Snow,
Which in her Bosome lies,
And keeps out love, as the cold Zone
Forbids th' approaches of the Sun.
Ʋpon his being ask'd what Love was.
I.
MYsterious Query! for 'tis strange that she
Should ign'rant be;
Who gave this knowledge first to me:
But so the less bright fire does warmth beget,
And what it wants it self, distributes Heat.
II.
Well then I am resolv'd, I'll boldly tell
What pains I feel,
And what I know of Love too well;
'Tis that of which none ignorant can be,
Who have but had the least dear glimpse of Thee.
III.
Love is the pretty Babe that proudly plays
In your bright face;
And wounds him who presumes to gaze;
And Painters say, Poets with them agree,
He in no dress but Nakedness should be.
IV.
The Darts he uses here, and glowing Arms,
Are onely Charms,
With which some meaner Beauty warms;
But when h' enflames the Gods, and burns the Skies,
He lights his Torch at Floriana's eyes.
V.
Wings are to him (I know not how) assign'd,
But now I find,
He uses them in Womankind;
But when he storm'd my heart he laid 'em by,
And never never from my Breast will fly.
Her Retreat.
I.
IN a flowry Myrtle Grove,
(The solitary Scene of Love)
On Beds of Vi'lets all the day,
The charming Floriana lay;
The little Cupids hover'd in the Air,
They peep'd, and smil'd, and thought their mother there.
II.
Phoebus delay'd his course a while,
Charm'd with the Spell of such a smile,
Whilst weary Plowmen curs'd the stay
Of the too Uxorious Day;
The little Cupids hover'd in the Air,
They peep'd, & smil'd, and thought their Mother there.
III.
But thus the Nymph began to chide;
That Eye you owe the world beside,
You fix on me: then with a frown
She sent her drooping Lover down;
With modest blushes strait away she fled,
Painting the evening with unusual Red.
Farewel to Love.
BEgone, begone thou wheedling cheat,
Thou Enemy to all that's great;
That onely were't by Heav'n design'd,
To be in pleasing torments kind;
Thou Lovely Paris didst destroy,
In a worse flame, then Graecians T'roy;
Well may'st thou still delight in strife,
That to a Tempest ow'dst thy Life;
Hence all the beauteous Sex we see
Have learnt Inconstancy from Thee;
Be damn'd for this, to some cold Isle
Where never yet the Sun did smile;
Where thy Lascivious Ovid went,
Into deserved Banishment;
And onely there exert thy pow'r,
Where craving Seas clasp round the Shore.
I'll burn my Songs, I'll break my Lyre,
Unless it nobler thoughts inspire;
And on the Theban Swan will fly,
To view melodious worlds on high.
PINDARICK ODES By the same HAND.
ODE I.
To the Right Honourable JAMES Earl of ABINGDON.
I.
GO, go, my Muse, the winged Horse prepare;
I purpose now to take the Air;
Take solid Judgement for the Bit,
And put on the rich Ornaments of Wit;
Where Sense does shine like Dawn of Morn,
(Not dazled by the thick,
And gawdy Flowers of Rhet'rick;)
Thro' Interspaces which the work adorn:
Lo! now I mount, and (Lo!) I take my flight,
And travel with immense delight,
Into the flowry Groves of never-fading light;
Lo I look down with scorn, not envy there,
On the Melancholy lands o'th' dull foggy Atmosphere.
II.
Heark! Heark! Sure this is Thunder's voice,
Or else Heav'ns Vaults eccho some Heroes praise;
Heark! BARTƲE is the welcome Noise;
BARTƲE, that big-swoln Name,
That is become the mighty toil of unperforming Fame:
Tell me, oh! tell me where,
Shall I stick up that word, and make another Star?
A Star, that will disdain, like petty Lamps of Night,
To shine with borrow'd light;
Let Honour gild o're meaner Souls, and Those,
Whose Actions want a gloss;
Honour and Riches Sun to him can add no more,
Whose beamy Virtue was all bright before.
III.
Now, now, I mount uphigher,
Where great Alcides Star detains my sight,
With almost such a source of Light,
As if it still were cloth'd with th' Oetaean fire;
That God like Child who in his Cradle lay;
And did with hissing Serpents play:
Twas He that squeez'd out num'rous Hydra's breath,
Whose many Lives but multiplied the death;
Thus Juno's rage conspir'd to make him great,
And kindly found out Dangers worthy his Defeat.
IV.
This well deserving place
Thy Golden Character shall grace;
Alcides Star as yet does dimly shine,
And wants the Neighbourhood of thine;
For none, but God-descended he,
Can almost boast of his Equality;
Yet should we look on things aright,
Examine 'em by Reason's light;
His big-fam'd Acts no Miracles express,
He that was born of Heav'n sure could perform no less.
V.
How much beyond our wonder's He
Deriv'd of Earthly Pedigree
That did from no less Monsters the wild Nation free
For when Ambition, the base Ferment of the Soul,
Threw into a Calenture the Senseless All;
Which by it's curst ill-brooding Heat,
Did in each muddy Brain a Python-plot beget:
'Twas He that bravely undertook to quell
That Legion-Ill;
And wheresoe're he came,
He planted there a Monarchs name;
And with bold Sallies of Advice,
No sooner storm'd, but took the Forts of Vice;
How did it grieve him then to see,
Unballast minds wreck'd in Sedition's Sea,
And the small Cargo of their wit dash'd by those waves away;
Whilst he in all this Hurricane
Outbrav'd the fury of the Ocean;
No thickning Clouds his Loyalty could hide,
That was the Pole-star still his course to guide;
What gaping dangers need that Pilot fear,
Who amidst threatning Storms by Heav'n his course can steer?
VI.
See, see, the Scene is chang'd of late,
And now (my Lord) whither by Fate,
Or You; we' enjoy a Calme of State:
For by your deeds we just suspicion find,
To think your generous mind,
Is not, like some trangressing Souls, confin'd,
And closely imprison'd in the narrow Span
Of Earthy man:
Till they with much of toil, and much of strife,
Have drudg'd thro the Probation-State of Life:
But left it's Vehicle of purer Air,
And condescended to inhabit here.
Resolved to become,
A Form assistent to this happy Throne;
Until Impatient Heav'n force your remove,
To the great Triple Monarchy above.
ODE II.
Against Sensual Pleasure.
I.
A Way, away, Thou Ape of solid bliss,
Fruition of Fools Paradice;
Mistaken Man! is this the fancy'd All?
The Tinsell'd Nothing? that we Pleasure call;
Oh Barbarisme! no figure can excuse
The gross abuse:
Pleasure is onely proper to the Soul,
That can our misled faculties controul;
Pleasure is that verdant Flow'r,
That ever blooms in Epicurus Bow'r;
Which neither all the nipping Frosts of fear,
Nor Sorrow's murm'ring Winds with rude embraces tear.
II.
Ah! could we but with searching knowledge come,
Into some quiet Soul's withdrawing Room;
Content hemm'd round with joys, we there might sind,
Content, the celebrated Sabbath of the Mind,
That builds her Halcyon Nest,
In the recesses of a calmy Breast;
There sits, and laughs at gay Appearances,
Which still the gul'd, unthinking vulgar please,
Wherever Vice has plac'd the painted Scene,
With the false Lights of Fortune set between:
III.
But stay (bold Fancy) stop thy flight, and stand
In prospect of this Fairy Land;
Where Ghosts of bliss wantonly stray,
Grandeur, Lust, Riches bear the Sov'reign sway;
Grandeur, the hopefull'st Child, that e're had been
Train'd up in the wild Nursery of Sin:
Grandeur, the first rate Vice.
Plac'd highest in the List of Vanities,
The Stalking Shadow we so dearly prize;
The Bristol Gem, that sets the world at strife,
And Silvers o're the Great mans Dream of Life;
But at the bright approach of Reasons day,
The Airy Phantome slighly steals away.
IV.
The first Grandee that e're usurp'd the name,
Against th' Almighty levy'd wars,
And led out Sp'rits, like gilded Hosts of Stars;
No Seas of Bliss could quench his thirst of fame;
Michael at last encamp'd upon the Azure plain,
Where big charg d Thunder lay,
Upon the Chrystal Battlements of Day;
Which quell'd the Foe, and render'd the great Project vain.
This done, he boasted of's Defeat, and proudly fell,
To reign an Emperour in Hell,
Vassal of Happiness was too low a thing
He thought it worth the loss, to be a King!
He thank'd this bold Exploit, that could procure,
And bind Damnation sure;
Lest God should disobliging mercy have,
And Heav'n might find out some pretence to save.
V.
Go in thy mournful Empire reign,
O're all thy palefac'd meagre-train;
Where fiery Deluges o'reflow,
All the sad glory Hell can show;
I'm vext that thy condition can't be worse,
And has forestall'd a further curse;
Methinks I hear thee groaning ly
Under the heavy Tax of milery;
Begging of Heav'n the Priviledge to dye,
And cut of the Entail of Immortality.
VI.
Not yet (my Muse) are all thy arrows spent,
Go let th [...] Bow again be bent,
Here thy sharp Invectives shoot,
At Riches the white glitt'ring Butt;
Riches, that onely pity can implore,
When we so many Cullies see,
Lab'ring in Fortunes Galley-Slavery,
Condemn'd to dig in Mines, and drudge for sordid Ore:
Midas was curst enough with all the advantages
Conspiring wishes could invent,
To lure him to his punishment;
To which the well-pleas'd God did willingly consent,
To carry on his colour'd cruelties:
Ah might he still enjoy his glorious Famine, and behold
By his rich touching Alchymy,
His very Meat converted into Gold,
Whilst such insipid Luxury
Can ne're afford enought relief,
To furnish Nature, and defray the small expence of Life.
So fond of Death is he,
Who of the Plague could be content to dye
So he might view the gawdy Spots, and Purple bravery.
VII.
Happy Diogenes! thrice happy He!
Blest in the humble sweets of Poverty;
Whose little Palace no rich Painting had,
No gilded Roofes but what the Sun-beams made;
Here he did out of Fortunes reach escape,
Where none, but Natures Landskapes, pleas'd his sight,
With all th' unexpensive, green delight,
She yearly pours into the Valley's flowry Lap:
Purple was here by ev'ry Vi'let worn,
And richer Scarlet cloath'd the blushing Thorn;
Thro Golden Fields a Silver Stream did play,
Pure as his thoughts, nor less serene then they:
Thus liv'd the Happiest of Mankind,
Whose uncontroul'd, and free-born mind,
Like th' aspiring Lark did upwards go,
Convers'd with Heav'n and left its viler Tenement below.
His potent Fancy made him Lord of All,
That in Opinion lay,
Opinion, the large Empire of unbounded joy;
The great Pellean youth could ne're so happy be,
Tho with the vast Expence of Victory
He purchas'd for himself the over-rated Ball.
F. W.
TO HIS CHAMBER-FELLOW Mr. THOMAS CREECH On His Translation of LUCRETIUS. Written immediately after the coming out of the Second Edition.
HAil sacred Friend! this comes to let thee know
That We can sing when Thou inspir'st us so.
The powerful rays of such a Rising Sun
Can influence Memnon, animate the Stone.
And to glad Peans tune its senseless Tongue:
Thy Memnon I, who never spake before,
Speak at thy Rising, and shall speak no more.
Five
Five years Chamber-fellows.
happy years I Pythag'rean was,A silent Hearer of thy Golden Muse:
A Five years silence was the sage Decree,
I now may speak, since 'tis in praise of Thee.
Whilst emulous Wits throng'd in to pay their Vows,
And with their Laurels crown thy sacred Brows,
In silence I and admiration lay,
I knew too much t'ave any thing to say.
Great things we praise, but infinite admire;
Lower Objects reach at, onely gaze at higher.
Besides you know I ne're could sing, for I
Had ne're presum'd to court, not cast an eye
On any Muse, tho Helicon was by:
I thought my self too poor, a Muse, I knew,
Scorns his address, whose Talents are but few.
But Ladies oft, who scorn addresses, grace
With their free visits e'en the homly'st place.
So lately me a Muse a visit gave,
Kind, condescending, as to Baucis Jove.
Surpriz'd I was; Ah lovely Maid, said I,
So great a Stranger, and yet dwell so nigh!
Come leave your Books, the smiling Muse reply'd,
And sing of Him, that's sung by all beside,
I'le give by Grace, what Nature has deny'd.
She said, and breath'd, and breathing did inspire
And warm my Breast with an unusual fire.
The Muse inspir'd, but by experience found
Tho she breath'd well, the Pipe would rough the sound,
Not smooth'd by use, not yet by custome tun'd.
Like thy Lucrece's World my Rhymes advance,
No artful Structure, but the work of Chance:
The little Atomes of the Alphabet
Flew up and down, and long confus'dly met;
I know not how! at last there rose a Frame,
A Building sacred to thy glorious Name.
These my first Numbers, Sir, accept from me,
First Fruits we offer to some Deity.
These first and last I Sacrifice to Thee.
Whilst great rich Poets throw in their Offering
Of their abundance, I my Nothing bring,
The onely Mite that in my Treasure lay,
They much, I little, yet I more then they.
But can my gift increase thy mighty store?
Can I augment thy Praise? 'Tis strange, yet sure,
A Cypher added makes the Figure more.
Could I deserv'dly praise, my Muse I'de prove
With Flames as strong as those wherewith We love,
I'de sing of Thee with great Lucrece's Fires,
Or such as Wallers greater Muse inspires:
That great Panegyrist, whose rapturous Lays
Speak more the Authors, then the others praise.
What he of thee, or thou of him wouldst say;
Such thou deserv'st, such onely I would pay.
Thou, who art prais'd by all, but who repine
And angry grow 'cause now they cannot shine;
Meer Touch-wood-Wits, that shine but in the dark,
And strait take fire at a rising spark.
We doubt (my Friend) to whom the most we ow,
To your divine Lucretius, or to You;
'Twas he that form'd the Gem, thou mad'st it bright;
He made the World, but Thou creat'dsh the Light.
Thou reach'st his Sense, and deepest Thoughts dost see,
As if his Soul were thine, and thou wast He;
Lucretius scarce did know Lucretius so,
His own great Genius knew him less then Thou.
If I thy Language praise, then I must tell,
Lucrece his Muse could never sing so well.
Thy English Style outshines his Latine strain,
He lisp'd at Rome, but speaks in Oxford plain:
Void of hard Terms, the Jargon of the Schools,
Vain to the Wise, and onely wise to Fools;
Smooth, easy, flowing, faithful, chast, refin'd,
Clear as thy Judgement, pure as is thy Mind.
When e're thy Poets Muse throws of her dress,
And wantonly doth shew her Nakedness,
Thou clap'st thy Fig-leaves on, and hid'st her shame,
Writ'st not with hers, but with a Vestal flame.
Thou loath'st a bawdy Muse without a Veil,
That Glow-worm-like shines onely at the Tail;
That fashionable Muse, whose Syren tongue
Kills all, yet all are pleas'd with what is sung,
So many Flies leave honey, feed on dung.
I praise thee (Friend) 'cause Subjects thou hast chose,
Which honour thee as thou dost honour those:
Thou scorn'st the Stage, where Poets now-a-days
Write their own Characters in bawdy Plays;
Plays, that increase prophaness, lust inflame,
The Writers scandal, and the Hearers shame.
'Tis this thou hat'st; and next the amorous Toys,
The scorn of Men, and the delight of Boys.
Phyllis my Goddess—Can such Ballads please?
Can manly persons sing such Psalms as these?
Thou scorn'st to sing with such unmanly flame,
The young Ascanius runs at nobler Game.
Exalted Subjects, deep Philosophy,
Things above others, court thy Muse and Thee.
Then other Poets thou excel'st in this,
They Trade, thou onely Interlop'st in Verse.
Thou lov'st thy Muse, but (Womans nature's such)
Thou mak'st her kind by loving not too much.
It is the Curse of Poets, they should know
But little else but what to Wine they ow,
The Laurel's green where nothing else doth grow.
They crown their ign'rance with the Poets praise;
So Caesar hid his Baldness with his Bays.
Who e're does now Parnassus Hills surround,
Can nothing see but rocks and barren ground;
No fruit or green and th' Muses Seats do ly,
(So Travellers tell) nay Helicon is dry.
But thou art more then Poet, thou art seen
In Arts, for which the Wise have famous been,
As Caesar Consuls, thou art learned Men.
Thou with the Sun mak'st one continu'd day
In circling studies shining all the way,
With an unweary'd eye dost all things see,
As great a Student, and as learn'd as
The Sun was Apollo the God of Learning.
He.Strange Metamorphosis in Nature seen!
August in thee and youthful May combine,
Autumnal Fruits with Vernal Flowers shine.
So learn'd and young, as if, like Adam, thou
Didst know the more for being born but now.
So learn'd and young you are (my Friend) that you.
Seem to have prov'd Medea's Art was true,
That you were old, and did your age renew.
Witness ye holy Lars, ye sacred Pow'rs,
That with such favour bless his fruitful hours,
Witness how often charm'd with learned talk,
And ty'd to him with Ogmian Chains I walk.
When e're the Sun withdraws his ev'ning ray
From me untaught by him, you hear me say
With Titus, grieving, I have lost a day.
Pardon, ye Pow'rs above, if I repine
'Cause all is dark unless that Sun does shine.
You gave me being first, first crown'd my Brow,
But the younger, Jacob, first was bless'd by you;
He greater far was born then I am now.
Ah partial Heav'n! 'tis strange one Room should be
So bless'd by him, and so unbless'd by me:
True Emblem of the Lake of Mexico,
On that side fresh and fruitful Waters flow,
In this, that's salter, nothing good doth grow.
Thirsty I languish by the Muses Well,
Like Fishes I fresh in the Ocean dwell.
Whilst all the Room is moist, and Dew doth ly
On all the Floor, my Fleece alone is dry.
Ah mighty God! forgive when I implore,
Give me but this, and I will ask no more:
Since pray I can't new Miracles may shew
The Place all dry, Me onely bless'd with dew,
Ah! cease thy Wonders, give me moisture too.
HƲMP. HODY, Coll. Wadh.
REASON.
I.
REASON thou vain impertinence,
Deluding Hippocrite begone,
And go and plague your men of Sense,
But let my Love, and me alone.
II.
In small concerns of life we'el own
Thy so much boasted Sovreingty,
But sacred Love, just like Religion,
Scorns, and throws off thy Tyranny.
III.
Illnatur'd, churlish, illbred, thing,
Who me amidst my Rapturous Joys,
Dost with thy Cnecks of Conscience sting,
Whose bitter all my sweet destroys.
IV.
In vain some dreaming, thinking Fool,
Wou'd make thee o're our Senses reign,
And all our noble Passions rule,
And constitute this Creature Man.
V.
In vain some Dotard may pretend,
Thou art our Torch to Happiness,
To Happiness, which poor mankind
As little know, as Paradice.
VI.
At best, thou'rt but a glimmering Light,
Which serves not to direct our way,
But like the Moon confounds our sight,
And only shews it is not day.
VII.
The Fool's the happiest of mankind
Whom Tyrant thou dost ne're controul,
No care disturbs his thoughtless Mind,
Like night there's rest and darkness in his Soul.
VIII.
Nay even Brutes are far more blest
Then wretched humane kind:
For they those Joys may freely tast,
From which by Reason we're confin'd.
COYNESS.
I.
NAY, I confess I shou'd despise,
A too too easy gotten prize,
Be coy, be cruel yet a while,
Nor grant one gracious look, or smile,
Then ev'ry little grace from thee,
Will seem a Heaven on Earth to me.
II.
If thou wou'd'st have me still love on
With all the Flames I first begun,
Then you must still as scornful be,
For if you once but burn like me,
My Flames will languish and be gone,
Like Fire shined on by the Sun.
III.
All things that are obtain'd with ease,
As soon as gotten we despise,
Scarceness does much the value raise,
For this we far fought Jewels prize,
(For which o're Seas the Merchant runs,)
As worthless else as Pibble-stones.
IV.
Be Prudent then, and have a care,
Lest I surprize thee unaware,
Let Pride and Scorn thy Guardians be,
And a dissembled Modesty,
That Curse by which poor womankind
Are allways forced to hide their mind.
V.
Nor lay these arts too soon aside,
In hopes your Lover fast is tied;
For I have oft an Angler seen,
With over hast loose all again,
When if the Fool had longer staid,
The harmless Fish had been betray'd.
VI.
Things to perfection quickly grown,
Do still decay and die as soon,
My Love as yet imperfect is,
And Born just like an Embryo dyes.
Thus early Flowers we often see,
Just blossome forth then fade and dye.
ODES out of CASIMIRE.
ODE the 18th BOOK the 4th of CASIMIRE Paraphrastically Translated.
To the ROSE with which he vow'd to Crown the Virgin MARY with every June.
I.
FAir Rose, whom joyful Heaven does beget
With seminal showr's, and Bridegroom heat:
Whose shining leaves so flaming are.
Thou seem'st thy self a very Star;
Spring from Earth's Womb, thy lovely head display,
And blush from thy bright East a Purple day.
II.
To welcome thee ev'n Nature now does gild
With glittering Pride, each Bush and Field.
Soft Gales from Heav'n black Clouds do chase,
And Golden Smiles sit on it's face.
The Winter's rage grows calm, and flies away;
The West-winds sport, and clap their wings for Joy.
III.
Spring gentle Flow'r; and ask not whose bright Hair
Shall thy gay, comely Hoeours wear:
For thou whose blush speaks thee to be
The Child of Virgin Modesty,
Ought'st not alass! thy Beauties to bestow,
On any common, or unhallow'd Brow.
IV.
Then Crown no more the prophane Vulgar's Head,
Thou'rt fit to be on Altars laid.
See how the sacred Virgins Hair
Flows loosely thro the flowing Air;
She sues by thy rich Purple to be Crown'd,
By thee she longs to have her Temples bound.
Out of CASIMIRE.
To QUINTUS TIBERINUS ODE the 34th BOOK the 4th.
I.
NO—never think him truly rich, or great,
Whose fertile soil and large Estate
Far more luxurious Crops, and Har vests yields
Then the most fruitful Eastern Fields;
Tho Fortune with rich Tides his Land o'reflows,
And Golden Seeds for Grain in his bright Furrow sows.
II.
Nor him whose Birth, whose Arms, and Father's Name,
Have made the Heir to wealth, and same:
Whom Glory in her Chariot glittering bright
With Golden rays, and gemmy light,
Has born in Pomp, and a Triumphant shew,
Thro wond'ring cities, & all earth's vast kingdoms too.
III.
He's poor that wants himself, who proud to weigh
Himself against his Vanity,
He with his Titles, ponderous Baggs and all
His massy Gold can't turn the Scale;
And tho he adds his Lands, and whole Estate
In his own lighter Scale, he can't make up the weight.
IV.
He scarcely knows himself, and he seems great
Only in his own vain conceit;
Who, being pufft up with the false esteem
The Giddy crow'd bestow on him,
Wonders to see his Size so monstrous made,
In the Gygantick bulk of his own stalking shade,
V.
Let no false glittering treasure cheat thy sight,
With it's deluding foolish light;
Scorn swelling Titles without solid praise,
Which nothing but Ambition raise.
Like Boys thin Bubles for a while they fly,
They shine, look big, then burst and dye:
Get thou true Wealth from Vertues of thy own,
And learn thou to be Happy from thy self alone.
CASIMIRE ODE the 25th BOOK the fourth.
A Dialogue between the Child JESUS and the Virgin-Mother, taken partly out of the First, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Chapters of the Canticles.
I.
Child. OVirgin-Mother! fairer to behold
Then Stars Heav'ns glittering Diamonds are,
More glorious then refulgent rays of Gold,
More bright more clear then Chrystal far,
More pleasing then rich Scarlet to the sight,
More fair then Lillies clod in Virgin white.
II.
Virgin. Dear Child, then Purple Hesperus more clear,
More shining then the Midnight Moon,
Lovelier then Meadows that Springs Livery wear,
More radiant then the Sun at noon:
A Sea of Milk does all thy Limbs o'reflow,
And thou'rt more pure then Beds of Winter Snow.
III.
Child. Your sparkling eyes two Silver streams surpass,
That near to Essebon do stray,
Which when they long have bubl'd o're the grass,
And sported long in wanton play,
Wonder to find their wand'ring Streams supprest,
To bounds confin'd, and husht in calms of rest.
IV.
Vorgin. Your shining Eyes as clear, and spotless look
As two white Doves in Milk washt o're,
Which sit upon the Bank of some fair Brook,
Or some transparent Rivers shore:
Yet from those Balls of Snow bright flashes fly,
More swift then Lightning darted from the Sky.
V.
Child. Your comely Locks with circling glories deck
The shaded Beauties of your Face,
They add new whiteness to your snowy Neck,
And with loose pride your Shoulders grace
Like Gileads new-washt Fleeces they appear,
But they with Sun-beams gilt are not so fair.
VI.
Virgin. As some green Palm about whose flourishing head,
It's verdant leaves for hair does grow,
So round your Cheeks your golden Tresses spread,
And down in Waves of Curles they flow;
Like Ravens wings they shine which glissen bright,
And cast a lustre from their very night.
VII.
Child. As from the Comb the Honey drops distil,
So from your Lips words gently fall,
With golden sweets the ravisht Ear they fill,
And show'r down blessings upon all;
Or like Brid's long vail loos't from her hair,
They dance and revel in the sportive air.
VIII.
Virgin. Within your mouth soft Accents gently glide,
And in swoln tides of Nectar swim,
Like generous Wine in a charg'd Bowls full tide,
Which sparkling bright o'relooks the brim:
Your words are like fair Lillies when made wet,
And all with liquid gems of Dew beset.
IX.
Child. Your two white Breasts may with twin-Roes compare,
That in sweet beds of Flowers stray;
And feeding on the Lillies, wanton there
'Till night shuts in declining day;
Which now grown old, weary and panting lies,
And all it's vital flames extinguisht, dies.
X.
Virgin. Your Breasts more bright then purple Cluster show,
Clusters that fruitful Cyprus bears,
Or those that in Engaddus Vineyards grow,
When crown'd with Grapes its head appears:
Those bunches of soft gems that load the Vine,
Are not so beauteous as those Breasts of thine.
XI.
Child. Who looks upon your ruddy Cheeks may see,
Such various lively Colours spread
As blushing Apples shew upon the tree,
All painted gay with streakes of red:
But in your Breast there heav'nly Beauties lye,
Too glorious to be seen by Mortal Eye.
XII.
Virgin. Who sees your face with wonder there shall view
Borders of Flowers in order stand;
Here Roses blow and palefac'd Lillies too,
All set by artful Nature's hand:
And he that choicest Flow'rs, or Spices seeks,
May have them in the Flourets of your Cheeks.
XIII.
Child. Who loves not thee his monstrous Breast is fill'd
With more unhumane cruelty
Then the most salvage woods and desarts yield,
Where Beasts on blood and slaughter prey:
Fierce Tygers, Serpents, Bears and Panthers seem,
All mild and gentle things compar'd to him.
XIV.
Virgin. Who loves not thee is more unconstant known
Then fickle Gales of veering wind;
He's more relentless then the Marble Stone,
Deafer then Seas, and more unkind:
The craggy Mountains raging fire and Sea
Are not so rough, so mercyless as he.
SONG Set by Dr. Blow.
GO perjur'd man, and if thou e're return
To view the small Remainders of my Ʋrn,
When thou shallt laugh at my religious dust,
And ask, where's now the Colour, Form and Trust
Of Womens Beauty, and perhaps with rude
Hands riffle th' Flowers, which the Virgins strew'd:
Know I have prayed to pitty, that the Wind
May blow my Ashes up, and strike thee blind.
Translated by the same HAND.
I To exccrandis perside passibus,
Vagumque retro si tuleris pedem,
Visurus extremas pudendae
Relliquias inimicus Ʋrnae:
Si quando risu turbidus improbo
Rectè monentem temnere pulverem
Proclivis, Ornamenta quaeres
Faemineae fugitiva formae;
Fortè &, piarum munera virginum
Flores, profanâ disiiccies manu,
Huic sexui, Eheu! quam fugacis
Imperii monumentum, & Omen:
Ʋtar protervi vindiciis Noti,
Vocabo & Euros, tu cineris brevì
Ultoris insurgente nube,
Perpetuam patiere noctem.
T. B.
The Extravagant. Written 1682.
ODE.
I.
HOW quickly are Love's Pleasure's gone!
How soon are all its mighty Triumphs done!
In vain, Alass! do we the Banquet tast
Whose Sweets as swift as Thought are past.
In vain do we renew the Fight,
Whom ev'n the first Alarms do basely put to flight.
II.
Happy great Jove! who in Alcmena's Arms
For three full Nights enjoy'd Loves Charms,
Nature turn'd Bawd her Monarch to obey,
And pimping Darkness shut out Day;
Whilst in vast joys the half-spent God did Sweat,
Joys as his Lightning fierce, and as his God-head great.
III.
Bravely begun! Oh had it mounted higher
Fed still with vig'rous thought, and fresh desire,
Were I but Jove my boundless reign should prove
But one continu'd Scene of Love:
In Extasies wou'd I dissolving Iye,
As long as all the mighty round of vast Eternity.
T. B.
A PARAPHRASE upon the XIIIth ODE in Horace Lib. 4. Audivere Lyce &c:
I.
LOng have my Pray'rs slow Heav'n assail'd,
But thanks to all the Powers above
That still revenge the cause of injur'd love,
Lyce at last they have prevail'd:
Now full amends by Heav'n is made,
For who can Providence upbraid
That sees thy former pride with hastned age repaid?
II.
Thou'rt old, and yet by awkard ways dost strive
Th' unwilling passion to revive,
Dost dance, and drink, and teach thy Lyre,
And all, to set some puny heart on fire:
Alass! in Chloe's Cheeks Love basking lyes,
Chloe great Beauties, fairest prize,
Chloe that charms our Ears, and ravishes our Eyes.
III.
The vig'rous Boy flies o're the barren Plains
Where sapless Oaks their wither'd Trunks extend.
(For Love like other Gods disdains
To grace the shrine that age has once profan'd.)
He too laughs at thee now
Scorns thy gray Hairs, and wrinkled Brow,
How should his youthful fires agree with hoary ages snow?
IV.
In vain with wondrous art, and mighty care
You strive your ruin'd Beauty to repair,
No far-fetcht Silks one Minute can restore
That time has added to the endless Score,
And precious Stones, tho ne're so bright
They shine with their own native light.
Will but disgrace thee now, and but inhance thy night.
V.
Ah! me where's now that meen! that face!
That shape! that air! that ev'ry grace!
That colour! whose enchanting red
Me to Love's Tents a Captive led:
Strange turn of Fate, that she
Who from my self so oft has stoln poor me,
Now through the just revenge of time stoln from her self should be,
VI.
Time was, when Lyce's pow'rful face
To Phillis onely gave the place,
Perfect in all those little Tricks of Love,
That charm the sense, and the quick fancy move.
But Fate to Phillis a long Reign deny'd,
She fell in all her blooming Beauty's pride,
She conquer'd whilst she liv'd, and triumph'd as she dy'd.
VII.
Thou (like some old Commander in disgrace.)
Surviving the past Conquests of thy face,
Now the great business of thy life is done,
Review'st with grief what Trophies thou hast won:
Damm'd to be parch'd with Lust in frozen age,
And tho past acti'n damn'd to keep the Stage.
That all might laugh to see that glaring light
Which lately shone so sierce, and bright,
End with a Stink at last, and vanish into night.
By T. B. of Ch. Ch.
ODES Paraphras'd and Imitated.
The XIIIth Chap. of Isaiah Paraphras'd.
Pindarick ODE.
I.
BEhold, proud Babylon, with trembling fear
Thy miseries and ruin's drawing near:
Thy Sins have rouz'd the great Almighty one;
And see the Harvest of his Fury's coming on.
Behold his bare Arm terribly stretch't out;
His pond'rous Sword is drawn, whose mighty weight
Can crush the World, and make it yield to Fate;
With fierce Revenge 'tis edg'd too for the fight,
And from it comes a dismal light;
Ruin and Destruction sit
In Triumph on the paint of it.
Lo! now his bloody Banner is display'd;
What num'rous Armies fly now to his aid?
See how they leap for joy, and heark how terribly they shout.
II.
The Armies on the Mountains stand;
And beckon to each other with the hand:
And heark, methinks, I hear them say,
Hoe! noble Chiefs, let's march away,
Let us (Heaven's Emp'ror's Host) sit down
Before the boasted Walls of Babylon;
Before their Nobles Gates; and there
Let us consult to carry on the sacred War.
Hither the Medes and Persians all
Come at their Kings great call:
By his unutterable Name they swear;
That they no Age, no Sex, nor no Degree will spare.
III.
As some brave war-horse, when the Trumpets sound,
Eager to be amongst his Foes, does bound,
And with his Hoof paws up the ground,
Then neighs about for joy to hear
The clashing noise of Armes so near:
So they're impatient to engage,
To be the Scourges of Heaven's rage.
Not all those Worthies, whose great deeds, and name
Are Register'd, that they may be
A Pattern for Posterity,
And wrote down in the Golden Rowls of Fame;
Not Saul, and David, who did come
From Helah's Plains in Triumph home;
Could ever boast of more success,
Or greater Battles to be won then these;
Armies shall be o'recome by them, and they
Shall all their Thousands, and ten Thousands slay.
IV.
Those many Plagues Heav'n did on Aegypt bring
To punish a Proud stubborn King,
Those Plauges shall be.
Pour'd down on thee.
Huge Troops of Locusts o're their land did pass,
Which eat up all their Corn and Grass;
But these (O Babylon) shall yet do more,
They shall thy Fruit, thy Corn, and thee and all devour.
Thick darkness to be felt was there,
And no less darkness shall be here.
Th' Aegyptian Host was drown'd too in the Flood;
And all thy Princes, all thy Pomp, and State,
With them in this shall share an equal Fate;
For they too shall be drown'd in a Red-Sea of Blood.
V.
What dismal shouts th' affrighted Air do fill,
And from the Mountains they grow louder still,
Like those when routed Armies fly,
And all with one united voice proclaim their Victory.
Lo! the Worlds Gen'ral comes, and from afar
He brings with him his mighty men, and instruments of War;
Drawn by the winds now down he flies,
More swift then his own lightning from the skies.
And in a Chariot of thick Clouds does ride,
By Angels guarded on each side;
A rapid Tempest drives along before,
A rowling Sea of Thunder, whose loud Billows roar;
All to proclaim his coming, and triumphant pow'r.
VI.
Thus arm'd with th' Weapons of his wrath,
And indignation he's come forth.
All to the Gen'ral Muster now repair;
The Lord of Hosts commands them to be there;
And first he views their order well, and then
Draws in Batalia up his men,
Sets ev'ry Troop and File aright,
And thus prepares them for the Fight:
Before him all his Chiefs their valour try,
Their skill in Armes, and arts of Chivalry:
And what may not such Armies do,
Commanded thus by God, and by him thus instructed too?
VII.
When troubled Nature hears this dreadful noise,
And roaring Thunder of th' Allmighty's voice;
With terror struck, she then shall stand agast:
The reeling Earth for fear shall quake,
And its dear Center then forsake:
The loosned Center too it self shall shake:
Earth on all the wings of fear shall fly as fast,
[...] swift Roe, when by the Hounds he's chac't,
[...]d she shall think those Pangs she feels, her last.
[...]e Heavens startled at this dreadful shew,
Shall shrink for fear and tremble too:
And strange confusions shall be hurl'd
Thro Earth, Thro Heav'n, and all the world.
Blind Night shall now mistake her way,
And meet the Rising Sun half way;
And all his Purple Majesty of Morning light
Shall shrouded be in solid, and substantial night.
The Moon for want of borrow'd Rays shall be out,
A blotted Orb of dark obscurity.
Those Lamps, that guild the night, shall be blown
In darkness loose their way, in darkness wander all about.
VIII.
This day of Terror now shall quickly come.
Prepare, curst City, to receive thy Doom;
With fierce wrath burning see the Lord
Brandishes o're thy head his Sword;
See how he now lifts up his hand
To ruine and destroy the guilty Land:
Each stroke of his vast slaughters shall bestow,
And swift destruction shall attend the blow.
In vain shall all thy Armies fight:
In vain shal't thou attempt thy flight,
In vain thy Stratagems shal't use,
When Vengeance, and an angry God pursues.
IX.
Thy great Gygantick Sons of pride,
Who have both Heav'n and Earth defy'd,
Who on Ambition's towring Wings
Did soar above the height of all Earth's vassal Kings;
To whose commanding Scepters sway
The tributary World did Homage pay,
Like lesser Rivers to the boundless Sea;
Thy terrible, and men of might,
Whose names but mention'd, distant Lands cou'd fright;
Who on the Necks of their slain Enemies,
And slaughter'd Monarchs to the thrones did rise,
Shall be from all their glories tumbled down,
And on the Earth regardlesly be thrown;
But in their fall they shall be mangled so,
No one thy Kings from common Slaves shall know,
Their Royal Blood mixt with base Slaves shall undistinguisht flow.
X.
Thy' Inhabitants in ev'ry dismal Street
Triumphant Grief in sullen Pomp shall meet;
Vast Floods of Sorrow shall encompass them about,
And they in vain shall struggle to get out;
Their Souls shall melt away in fear,
And Child-bed Pangs their lab'ring Breasts shall tear,
Their strength shall languish and decay,
And they shall swoon and faint away.
The rest fixt with amaze,
Shall on each other wildly gaze;
Their faces then shall seem to burn with shame,
And with hot glowing blushes kindle to a flame.
At these Al'arms thy Strangers all shall run
From thy curst Walls the threatning Plagues to shun,
And the black gath'ring Tempests rowling on.
And those, that there behind remain,
Shall serve but to augment the number of the slain.
XI.
In vain shall neighb'ring Kings with them combine,
And their auxiliary Forces joyn,
For all by the impartial Sword shall fall,
And all the land be made one grave, and they one funeral.
The Medes to thy barr'd Gates shall go;
A numerous, pow'rful, and resentless Foe,
And thy strong Forts, thy Walls, and Bulwarks over throw.
Not those rich births the Sun did e're beget,
Hatch't by his active genial heat,
Not Ophir Gold with its bewitching charmes
Shall bribe them to lay down their Armes,
Or have the pow'r to save
The meanest Vassal's Blood, or vilest slave:
They ev'ry Spring of life shall drein,
Shall suck up the last drop, and drink up ev'ry vein
Thy glitt'ring wealth shall not delight their eyes;
They shall confound both that, and thee, and both alike despise.
XII.
Then Fate with Carcasses shall pave thy ways,
And Mountains of pil'd deaths, high as thy Tow'rs, shall raise.
To none thy cruel Foes shall Quarter give,
Their crime deserves death now who dare to live.
Ev'n new-born Infants shall no pity find,
Their deaf inexorable Ear
Shall not their tender cries, or Mothers Prayers hear:
If they give quick dispatch, they'll think they're kind.
Their helpless Mothers shall stand by,
And see their Children on the Pavement thrown,
Batter'd, and mangled on the flinty Stone;
Where they drown'd in their blood shall sprawling lye.
XIII.
Nor shall thy very houses be secure,
They shall their wild revengeful rage endure.
Of thy choice Riches they shall havock make,
And all thy Wealth, as their free Plunder, take:
Thus those vast summs, for which thou long didst toil,
Shall be the Souldiers cheap and easy spoil.
And after all when they rich Cates and Wines
Have with hot lust enflam'd their swelling Veins.
Then to augment thy grief and fresh disgrace
Thy wives shall ravisht be before their husbands face.
Yet when they've quencht their lustful fire,
Their fury still shall flame the higher;
For then they shall rip up their teeming Womb,
And cruelly paint o're
The Embryo with his Mothers gore,
And expiate thus with blood, what they defil'd before.
The place that should give life shall give a Tomb,
And they shall kill succeeding ages yet to come.
XIV.
Thus the proud City in which Kingdoms boast,
And Chaldee Monarchs glory most;
Which more refulgent now appear,
To lesser Towns and Cities round,
Then Cynthia 'mongst the vanquisht Stars,
When that bright Empress of the night
Dazles in her full Orb, and rich majestick robes of light,
And with the Golden Sun-beams set with Gems of Stars she's crown'd.
Ev'n she and all her Pallaces which rise so high,
They seem to touch the neighb'ring Sky,
Shall levell'd with the Earth in their own ruins bury'd ly,
Like Sodom, or Gomorah's lustful Town,
When Heav'n rain'd show'rs of Fire to burn it down;
An empty desolation shall embrace
The uninhabited and desert place:
An emptiness as great as that
On which old Primitive nothing brooding sate,
And all things from its fruitful Womb begat.
XV.
No gentle Shepherd here shall keep
His tender Flocks, or feed his Sheep;
No wandering Arabians here
Their numerous Streets of Tents shall rear,
Upon the unfrequented Plain;
And to a City so restor't again.
Nothing here shall ever stay
But obscene Birds and Beasts of prey.
The Lyon, their stern Morarch shall possess,
And Reign in thy gilt Pallaces,
O're all his salvage Subjects of the wilderness.
The Satyrs here shall dance for joy to see
The Reliques of thy misery.
Fierce Dragons and Night-ravens here shall dwell;
But no ones death by dismal croaks fortel:
With hid eous scrietches the foreboding Owl
Shall fill each house, and Wolves in ev'ry street shall howl.
ODE the 15th of the First BOOK of CASIMIRE imitated, encouraging the Polish Knights after their last Conquests to proceed in their Victory.
I.
BElieve, ye after ages yet to come,
Believe the mighty Conquest won.
Jo! the mighty Conquest's won, and we
Have purchas'd a triumphant Victory.
The Turks they fly now basely all,
Their scatter'd Troops ignobly fall;
Gasping they beg your fatal Arms to cease,
And with their Blood they bargain for a Peace.
II.
What trembling fear did through their Army spread;
And wing'd with fear how swift they sled,
When our great King in Honours noble race
Before him did their flying Heroes chase
Like Jove he then his Thunder threw,
And kill'd whole Myriads as they flew.
Terribly bright his Sword, like Lightning, kills;
And num'rous deaths increase the neighb'ring Hills.
III.
What great amazements now the Tartars seize;
One faints for fear, another dyes.
The cruel Tartars, which no pitty knew,
On bended knees did now for pitty sue;
When they beheld the Danube's Flood
Rowl down in Tides of their own Blood;
And how the Bospher to the Ocean fled,
In blushing streams to hide his Captive head.
IV.
When they saw all their Chiefs, their men of War,
And Janizaries fly for fear;
Whilst they beneath their shelt'ring Armes did bow,
And strove now only to defend the blow;
They cou'd not now their Spears command,
They drop't from their weak trembling hand.
So meaner Beasts of Prey to Lyons yield,
And leave the Spoil and Trophies of the Field.
V.
When Buda, Gran, and ev'ry Fortress near
Of their inglorious flight did hear,
The noise of Armes, and groans of dying Men;
Their fresh disgrace they eccho'd back agen.
When the sad news Byzantium knew,
The great Byzantium trembled too;
Its lofty Tow'rs now seem'd to rock with fear,
As if our King play'd all his Thunder there.
VI.
Shall we thus crown'd with Lawrels and success.
Lie all dissolv'd in sloth and ease?
Have we in vain with our Blood Honours bought?
In vain for future ages glories sought?
Shall our example sloth create,
And make our Sons degenerate?
Our sprightly youth useless in War become,
And sleep in peace and slavery at home.
VII.
Alass 'twill be a most upbraiding shame
(A hated truth I'de blush to name)
To see that sprightly fire and gen'rous heat
(Which did our great Fore fathers animate)
In us to languish and decay,
In us to dye and faint away:
And all their Warlike rage in us to wast,
And ev'ry age grow worse still then the last.
VIII.
Or let us (who in all the Glories share,
Our Ancestors e're got in War)
Pull down the Trophies in our Temples hung;
(For which we lately To Paean! sung)
Th' Imperial Flag (which our great King
Late from the Turkish Camp did bring)
The Armes, the Swords, the Helmets and rich spoil,
The just rewards of our great Leaders toil.
IX.
Let us pull down all those bright Armes, that be
Our Monuments of Victory,
And sacred Statues, which the likeness give
Of our great Fathers, in which still they live;
And let us all their Honours raze,
And burn the Records of their praise;
Least ev'n their Images shou'd blush to know
A Race so much unlike themselves, as you.
X.
Or if we hope our Glories to encrease,
And wou'd not live in lazy Peace;
With sacred Oaths let's in a League combine;
With brave Lorrain and Staremburg let's joyn;
And let us once again act o're,
Those Triumphs we obtain'd before;
Whilst the curst Infidels to make it good,
Shall Seal and shall Cement it with their Blood.
XI.
O mighty Prince of everlasting Fame,
Whom Kings and Emp'rors joy to name,
Whom Glory on fwift Wings to Heaven bears,
And fixes thy bright Praise amongst the Stars:
Thou Bulwark of the German Throne,
Thou Pride and Glory of thy own:
Stop thou not here, but as thou hast begun,
To greater Conquests lead thine Armies on.
XII.
March thro thick Groves of Spears with thy drawn Sword,
And to quick Victory give the word,
And let thy Glutton Blade (which twice before,
Has been made drunk with Turkish Heroe's gore)
Be nobly the third time embru'd
In a vast Sea of Turkish Blood;
And with thy Troops pull the proud Sultan down,
Tho Mahumet shou'd stand to guard his Throne.
A Fragment out of Catullus to Lesbia.
HAppy the man! thrice happy he
And equal to a Deity,
He, if it sounds not too too odd,
Is greater far then any God;
Who sits and hears, and sees you, while
You sweetly speak, and sweetly smile.
As soon as I my Lesbia see
My Senses all depart from me.
Nothing about me is secure,
From Love's and Lesbia's mighty pow'r.
My faultring Tongue now cannot speak;
My Heart swells up as it would break,
Each Vein is with her love possest,
And gentle Flames glide thro my Breast,
My Ears ring with a fancied noise,
My Soul faints with excessive joy,
My swimming Eyes grown dull of sight,
Are clouded with a double Night.
Thy Sloth ha's done this injury,
Catullus it has ruin'd thee.
Too much you wanton in soft ease,
And that, alass! too much does please.
'Twas Sloth rich Cities first o'rethrew
Destroy'd both Kings and Empires too.
CASIMIRE Ode the 23d Book the 4th. To the Grasshopper.
I.
BLest Epicure of Race Divine,
Who, drunk with Heavens dewy Wine,
On some cool shady Tree dost sit,
And sing upon the top of it;
Whilst with the chearful Musick of thy voice
Thou mak'st thy self, and silent Woods rejoyce.
II.
Now since the tedious Winter's past,
And welcome Summer's come at last
(Which with swift Wheels still hurries on,
And still is eager to be gone)
Chide the Sun's hast, with mirth the day prolong,
Make Phaebus stop his course to hear thy Song.
III.
As the most happy glorious day
Just brings it self, and shews us joy,
So bliss but smiles on us, and then
Snatches its self away ag'en:
Our empty joys too fleeting still appear,
But solid griefs too long and tedious are.
EPIGRAMS Imitated.
Out of MARTIAL Book the 3d Epig. 33d imitated.
FOR God's sake tell me what bold confidence
Does draw you up to Town, Dear Friend; from hence?
Let not vain hopes your better sense deceive;
If you'll go, tell me how you hope to live.
O Sir, you cry, I in the Laws will trade,
And eloquent as W— Causes plead;
Nor shall the notedst Gown with me compare
At Doctors Commons, or at Westminster,
The Courts of Chanc'ry, or the King's Bench-bar.
F—and T— both did Causes plead,
Yet they, you know, could scarcely get their Bread;
Now they, like common Rogues, are forc't to ply
In Temple Walks and trade in Perjury.
Well Sir you say, if this thing does not hit,
I'll Poetize and be a man of Wit;
The lofty Verses which from me you hear
With wonder you'll applaud your self, and swear
That they as good as L—s or D—s are.
Heav'ns Sir you rave, you talk so madly now:
Those tatter'd things which out at Elbows go;
Which wait for Scraps and Coach-room at White-hall,
Are Spencers, Cowleys, L—s and D—ns all.
Pray then advise, how I my course may Steer,
For I am now resolv'd to settle there.
Why, Sir, if you're that strange unheard of thing,
True to your Countries cause, your God, and King;
You by some Miracle perchance may thrive;
And by strange luck may make a shift to live.
An Epig. out of MARTIAL imitated Book the 3d, Epig. 54.
SIR Fopling, you're a man of Fashion grown;
The most accomplisht Blade in all the Town:
'Tis all the Ladies talk; but tell me this;
What a fine man of Mode and Fashion is.
'Tis he thats all the morning at the Glass,
To put each Curle in it's most proper place,
And in affected forms to set his Face.
That smells of Essence, and the best perfume,
Which does from India or Arabia come.
That when one speaks (as if he did not hear)
Hums o're some wanton Song, or modish Air.
That Legs and Arms in various postures throws;
And seems to dance at ev'ry step he goes.
That sits among the women in the Pit,
And that he may be thought a man of Wit;
He whispers to the next as to a Friend,
Then in loud laughter does his whisp'ring end.
That reads and writes Love-letters to and fro,
And does each Gallants Wench and Mistress know.
Who, tho unbidden, is a constant guest,
At ev'ry Mask, at ev'ry Treat, and Feast,
But sits in pain for fear the next should stir,
And so displace his dress or Garniture.
Who knows New Market breed so well, that he
Can tell you Jack-a-Dandy's Pedigree;
And down from long descent pretends to trace
The samous Swallows or fleet Dragon's Race.
How Sir? what's this you say? is this Buffoon
Admir'd so for a Spark throughout the Town?
Believe me Sir, on Earth there cannot be
A more ridiculous trifling thing then he.
CATƲLLƲS EPIG. 3d.
YE Graces weep, weep all that's fair,
Ye Loves and Cupids shed a tear,
Weep ev'ry beauteous Youth and Maid;
My Lesbia's pretty Sparrow's dead,
Her joy, delight, which she did prize,
And love more dear then her own Eyes;
For 'twas a lov'ly wretch, and sweet,
As ever Woman fancy'd yet.
Not better knew my charming Dear
Her mother, then this Sparrow her.
Always in Lesbia's Lap it laid,
And there it hop't about and play'd;
Still to my Love it chirp't alone,
But now alass, alass, 'tis gone;
And takes its everlasting flight
To the black shades of endless Night;
Whence nothing, when by death 'tis slain,
Can ever make return again.
Ye cursed shades; may no weak Ray
Chear you with dawning hopes of day.
Which devour first and prey upon
All thats lovely, fair, and young:
O cruel Fates! what have you done!
Alass poor Sparrow thou art gone;
And Lesbia's swoln Eyes look red
With weeping for thee now thou'rt dead.
FRAGMENTS Imitated out of PETRONIƲS.
A Fragment out of PETRONIUS Imitated, beginning Thus—Non est, falleris &c.
YOu'r mightily deceiv'd, I swear,
And mightily (Dear Friend) you err;
Wretched's that State, in which you guess
Alone consists life's happiness.
'Tis not your proud hands to behold
Glitt'ring with Diamonds set in Gold,
Nor, like an Emp'ror's Miss, to wear
A Nations value in your Ear,
Nor all those trifles to receive,
That the Exchange or Mint can give;
With all the shining toys, and cost,
That wealthy Lombard-street can boast;
Nor is't, like Popes, our selves to please
With Holy Luxury, and ease,
Nor stretch't in sloth to lye upon,
And sink into soft Beds of Down.
Nor, in great Pomp, to sit at Meat
In an Embroyder'd Chair of State,
And quaff rich Wines from Golden Plate.
Nor is't to have our Tables groan
Beneath the costly load thereon
Of Foul, Ragousts, and Fricasees,
And all those French varieties,
Or Kickshaws of the noblest Feast,
By Locket, or by Lumly drest.
Nor to possess all the rich store
That our East-India Fleet brings o're.
But 'tis to have a Conscience
Guarded with spotless Innocence;
And with bold courage to advance
Against the Shock of adverse chance;
And not, as M—did, to go
Amongst the dirty croud, and bow
On both sides popularly low.
And not to be with fear possest,
Tho a Sword's drawn against your Breast.
The happy man that thus can be,
In spite of Fate, from danger free,
From fear, and meer Hypocrisie,
He may despise, and laugh in sport
At the Intregues of State, and Court;
He at command may Fortune have,
And make her serve him as his slave.
On Womans Levity. A Fragment out of PETRONIUS.
TRust thou thy Ship to Sea, and Wind,
But not thy self to Woman-kind;
For the unconstant Wind, and Sea,
Are Faithfuller by far then they.
All Maids are treacherous in their love,
And if by chance one constant prove,
I know not how she e're could be
Made constant from Inconstancy.
A Fragment out of PETRONIUS imitated, beginning Candida sidereis &c.
TO his Mistress.
YOU, fair Cosmelia, have two burning Eyes,
From which as from two Stars bright slames arise;
Your Neck with od'rous sweets of Roses flows;
Your shining Hair more wealth then Gold bestow's,
Your sweet delicious Lips are overspread,
Like young Aurora's, with a Purple red;
In various wantonness each branching vein
Do's your white Breasts with blew Meanders stain;
Beauty it self, youth, smiles, and ev'ry Grace
Do all pay Tribute to your heav'nly Face;
A dazling Goddesses bright form you shew,
The Queen of Beauty yeilds her self to you;
Your Hand as made with Silver, does appear;
Your graceful Fingers long, and slender are;
Your pretty Foot do's ever tread upon
A shining Floor of polisht Marble Stone;
Nor shou'd ignoble Stones, or common Street
Hurt, or profane Cosmelia's sacred Feet;
When you among the Beds of Lillies stray,
Their leaves drop down as proud to strew your way;
Whilst, like Camilla, over them you pass
Leaving no print upon the Flow'rs, or Grass:
Let others with rich Gemms, and Pendents deck
And Neck-laces of Pearl their head, and neck;
You only, Dearest, can attract mine Eyes
When rifled of those shining vanities.
All who view your Perfections, grant you be
As much above their Praise, as Flattery.
The Muses, and the Syrens cease their Song
At the soft Musick of your charming Tongue;
From which encreasing sweets do ever flow;
And my poor panting Soul you ravish so,
That to your wretched slave you cruel prove,
And dart at him a Thousand shafts of Love.
A rageing flame feeds on my wounded heart,
And 'tis incurable by Surgeon's art:
But one kiss from your Lips, on mine imprest,
Can banish these fierce tortures from my Breast;
This healing Med'cine can my griefs controul,
And cure the sad distempers of my Soul.
Let not your Face such killing fierceness wear;
Ah! do not thus my Nerves in pieces tear;
Nor let my Tomb, when I am dead, complain,
That I was by my Dear's unkindness slain.
But if you think this Boon too great to grant
To me your slave, and humble suppliant,
Yet grant me this, that when I breathless lye,
Kill'd with the murdering Lightning of your Eye,
You would in your white Arms embrace me then;
And so restore me to my life agen.
A Fragment out of PETRONIUS imitated, beginning Thus—Quisquis habet nummos &c.
THE wealthy Lord thro Storms at Court may sail
Into Preferment with a prosperous gale.
On Honours gilded Pinacles may stand,
And have the world, and Fortune at command;
He by his tempting Golds all mighty charms
Can bring a Queen, or Princess to his Arms;
And bribe her Father, tho a King, like Jove
With a bright show'r of Gold to grant his love.
He can be Lord-Chief Justice, Counsellor,
Can grace the Pulpit, and adorn the Bar,
And foil the greatest Rook at Westminster.
He with nice art the choicest Verse can write,
Can baffle D—and the men of Wit:
The Matchless C—ly, and Great W—er seem
Rude, and unpolisht, when compar'd to him.
If you have Wealth you may do what you please,
The Judge, or Priest your awful Nod obeys,
All strait your skill, and mighty learning own
And you're a St—t, or Pemberton.
All things obey your Gold, and you may have
What e're your wanton thoughts, or wishes crave.
You of all pow'r, and Grandeur are possest,
Have Heav'n, and Jove himself too in your Chest.
VERSES on several Occasions.
Love in a Trance.
SONG.
I.
BEneath a dark and lonely shade,
In a remote, and silent Grove,
(A secret place by Nature made
For Novices to practice Love:)
Young Corydon brought Cloris here
To walk with him, and take the Air.
Chorus. The God of Love stood by, and saw,
And smiling laught out Ha-Ha-Ha.
II.
But as they walk't the Shepherd said
Shall I request one thing of you,
Tell me (dear Cloris! charming Maid)
Ah! tell me if you love me now;
If you say no, then know that I
Your faithful Corydon will dye.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
III.
Quick blushes on her Cheeks did rise,
Tumultuous joys heav'd up her Breast,
Her flaming Soul flash't thro her Eyes,
And she in smiles her love confest;
Says she so may you still prove true,
As I love you, and only you.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
IV.
The Youth thus rap't in hopes of bliss,
Did gently squeeze her hand, and then
He gave the willing Maid a Kiss,
Which kindly she restor'd agen;
Then hand in hand they walk't along,
And sung with mutual strife this Song.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
V.
Corydon.
O my dear Cloris, far more fair,
Then Virgin Lillies newly blown,
More sweet then flowry Meadows are,
And softer then young Swans first Down;
More bright, more smooth then any Glass,
Thou do'st all Woman-kind surpass.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
VI.
Cloris.
Strong as you' Mountain thou art found,
As high, and lofty is thy head,
And like the Wood, with which 'tis crown'd,
Thy Hair do's round about it spread:
Yet soft, and gentle is thy Mind,
And thou surpassest all Mankind.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
VII.
Corydon.
My Cloris is the joy of Swains,
Her Sexes Envy, and its pride,
The prize, and contest of the Plains,
And wonder of the Towns beside:
Was fair O Enone here again,
And lov'd me now, she'd love in vain.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
VIII.
Cloris.
Young Corydon is sleek, and gay,
Yet makes the sturdiest She pherds quake,
Corydon's Lord of ev'ry May,
And wins the Garland ev'ry Wake;
Nor would I leave my charming Boy
For Shepherd Paris, and his Troy.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
IX.
Corydon.
I, my fair Cloris, have for you
A pretty Lamb-kin in my Fold,
Ripe Apples, Plums, and Chestnuts too,
And Grapes, with Purple streakt, and Gold,
With Curds, and New-milk from the Cow;
And I have kept it all for you.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
X.
Cloris.
I have a Pipe that's neatly made,
Which out of Six more was my choice,
On which sweet Lays Menalcas play'd,
But not so sweet as is your voice;
This, and a Crook, the Swain gave me
But I've preserv'd them both for thee.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
XI.
Scarce this the Shepherdess had said,
But the Swain clasp't her round the Wast;
Kisses sweet interruptions made,
Whilst they in eager arms embrac't,
And their Lips to each others fixt
Ten Thousand, Thousand Kisses mixt,
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
XII.
Then down they sate upon the Grass,
Where Boughs did meet so thick above,
The Sun's Rays could not thro them pass,
Nor with one gleam molest their love;
And here they toy'd, whilst Cloris made
A Chaplet for her Lovers head.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
XIII.
Thus, like the two first Lovers they,
(Yet free from guilt or an offence)
On od'rous Bankes of Flowers lay
In their first state of Innocence,
But Love the subtile Serpent play'd,
And both their Innocence betray'd.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
XIV.
Their Lips still joyn'd, like billing Doves,
With ardent breathings of desire,
They secretly enflam'd their love,
And set each others heart on fire.
Their passion's such, that you would swear
Like Doves too they'd engender there.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
XV.
Shepherd (says she) what would you do?
Ah! what a cruel kindness this is,
O Cory-Corydon I vow
You'll stifle me anon with Kisses;
O fy let go, O fy (says she)
By Pan I think you'll murther me.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
XVI.
Cease or I'll scratch, and tear your hair,
You've bit my Lip you naughty Swain,
One balmy Kiss (says he) my Dear
Will heal't, and make it well again;
With that he prest her Lips once more,
And cur'd the wound he made before.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
XVII.
Cupid at this well pleas'd, crept nigher,
And whisp'ring in his Ear, he said,
'With equal flames I'll both inspire,
'Be valiant, and attack the Maid,
And as they talk't of future joy,
He grew more bold, and she less coy.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
XVIII.
But struggling long the Nymph by chance,
Or else by mighty love o'repow'r'd,
Upon the place fell in a Trance,
Where greedy he his Prey devour'd;
And now his wanton hand does rove
Thro hidden Labyrinths of Love.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
XIX.
At last, he Lov's soft Altar seiz'd,
The Mine where endless treasures grow,
'Where Rage is tam'd, and Anger pleas'd,
Whence Tides of living Pleasures flow;
And whilst by Love entranc't she lies
The youth performs the Sacrifice.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
XX.
When Sense return'd again (says she)
In what a Heav'n of bliss I've been,
What raptures did attend on me!
What Visionary joys I've seen!
Heav'n cannot with those joys compare,
For methoughts Corydon was there.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
XXI.
They had not ceas'd from Duty long,
But they with fiercer flames did burn;
Their rising passion grew more strong,
And violent Fits of Love return;
And as their heaving Breasts they swell,
Into a Trance again she fell.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
XXII.
Thus rap't in joys, and Extasy,
Thrice did they raise each others Charms,
Thrice did they languish, thrice did dy,
Circled in one anothers Arms:
And thrice more was the Nymph inclin'd
Had he been stout as she was kind.
Cho. The God of Love, &c.
XXIII.
But as back to their Flock they went,
A Purple Blush her Cheeks did die,
Yet both were pleas'd, she innocent,
For tho she blusht, she knew not why,
Then at Love's Shrine they vow'd to pay
Such joyful Off'rings ev'ry day.
Chorus. The God of Love stood by, and Jaw,
And smiling laught out Ha-Ha-Ha.
The VIOLET.
I.
HAil! infant Flow'r! Heav'ns cheifest care,
Darling of all the Groves, and Woods,
More Beautiful, more sweet, more fair
Then all their gawdy Flow'rs, and Buds.
Thou spring's soft joy, mankinds delight,
Cloath'd in gay Purple Robes of light.
On whom (as Phoebus does his Progress take,
And all the Earth one painted Landscape make,
His Pencil does nice strokes impart
Of double care, and double art;
And on thee nobler Colours does bestow,
Then those with which he paints his heav'nly Bow.
II.
Hail thou the Springs first Purple Morn,
Thou Bright Aurora of its East,
That do'st the rising year adorn,
In thy rich Princely Honours drest;
And when thy teeming Mother Earth,
Gives thee her little Infant Birth,
She feels no Pangs tho labouring all the while,
But at the sight of thee begins to smile:
She smiles, and all the Trees around,
And Earth with Buds, and Grass are crown'd,
Brooks murmur out their joy, the Birds they sing
To welcome thee, the Goddess of the Spring.
III.
Now Western Gales begin to sport,
And am'rously about thee move,
And thee with tender voice they Court,
And in soft sighs they whisper love,
Then, as they Kiss in wanton play,
Increasing Sweets they bring away;
Which thence upon their downy Wings they bear,
And all along perfume the circling Air.
And when with their sweet prize they come
On joyful Wings, in Triumph, home,
Young, new-fledg'd Winds, lur'd with those sweets, fly out,
And with them, to embrace thee, roam about.
IV.
Whence! Nature's Praegnant wonder whence!
Had'st thou these various Treasures! tell;
That thus thou should'st delight each sence,
The tast, the touch, the sight, and smell.
What would not Monarchs give to be
Chang'd to the Happy shape of thee?
When thee each Grace, and every Nypmh does wear
In Chaplets bound about their Fragrant Hair.
Fair Maids (and sure there's nought so gay
Besides thy Beauteous self, as they)
Treasure thee in their Breasts, and think they are
Never so charming, as when thou art there.
V.
Nor is it wonder this kind Flow'r
Should to the fair propitious prove,
That it should have a Sovreign pow'r
O're Womans Beauty, and our love:
For when kind Venus strove to shield
Her Son Aeneas in the Field,
She from a Graecian Spear receiv'd a wound;
And as the Purple show'r dropt on the ground,
Immediately the pretious Juice
This pretty Infant did produce;
And ever since upon this Flow'r remains,
The Noble Die she gave it from her Veins.
VI.
And as all Beauty, and each Grace;
In all their Strength, and Charms are seen
In Cytheraea's lovely Face,
And justly stile her Beauty's Queen;
So in this Flow'r alone does meet
All that's lovely, fair, or sweet.
When Jess'mine, and the Woodbine near thee grows,
They all their Sweets, and all their Beauties loose:
That they to thee may Homage pay,
They breath their Fragant Souls away.
All Flow'rs to thee, all Sweets, and Perfumes yield,
The little Purple Monarch of the Field.
Resolv'd to Obtain.
DEar, I have suffer'd much, 'tis true,
Yet I will suffer more for you;
For what would not a Lover bear,
For one so good, so young, so fair.
Jacob serv'd Sev'n Years Slavery
For one less Beautiful then thee;
And after all his Bondage past,
Leah was his Reward at last:
I twice Sev'n Years will be a Slave,
May I with him my Rachel have,
Oft have I born (my Soul) you know
The Thunder of your angry Brow;
And ah! how oft you've made me dye,
With the fierce Lightning of your Eye.
'Which like a Porcupine do's dart
'A Thousand Shafts from ev'ry part.
You often, to augment my pain,
Have lookt on me with cold disdain,
Nor would you my Addresses hear.
But bad me languish in dispair,
But then you strait unlock't your Charms,
And took my Rival to your Arms,
And this too well you knew would be
Ten Thousand Thousand deaths to me.
If all the wracks which I have born,
If all your disrespect, and scorn,
If all I've felt be not enough,
To make me yet deserve your love;
Dear Madam, if you can invent
Some greater witty'r punishment;
Command me what you please to do,
All wracks and plagues to undergo,
And I will suffer all for you.
Love above Sence or Reason flies,
Knows no Impossibilities.
Perhaps some dull Fools there may be,
Who could call this meer Tyranny,
Who Natures Salique Law maintain,
And speak against a Womans Reign,
And ask me how I can endure
To fry thus in Loves Calenture.
Ignorant Fools! they little guess
This is the way to Happiness.
Thus suffring Saints to Heaven come
Thro Tortures, Flames and Martyrdome.
And thus that Indian Prince is known
Best to deserve the dear bought Crown,
Who at his Tort'rings flinches least,
And bears his cruel suffrings best:
Thus I at length, in spite of Fate,
And all my Rivals will be great,
And the triumphant Monarch prove
Of the rich Empire of your Love.
Several ELEGIES out of the First and Third Book of Ovid's AMOUR'S Imitated, and Paraphrased.
ELEGY the 9th, BOOK the 1st.
To ATTICƲS: that a Lover and a Souldier ought not be Idle.
BElieve me Friend, all Lovers Souldiers are,
For Cupid has his Tents, and Lovers War.
The self same age is fit for War, and Love,
Youth do's the Warriour, and Gallant approve.
The Souldier with the fumbling Lover grows,
When age comes on, alike ridiculous,
The vigorous youth, the strength, and sprightly fire
In a stout Souldier Captains would require,
A Lady do's in her Gallant desire:
An equal place of rest to both is found,
Their cold uneasy Bed is on the ground;
Both rise up early, and both sit up late,
Both stand as Sentinels by equal Fate,
This at his Captain's Tent, that at his Ladies Gate.
The Souldier, if his Leader but commands,
With toil do's march to the remotest Lands:
And when a Mistress from her Lover's gone,
He'll take his journey for her with the Sun;
Sad and unwearied still he'll roam about,
Till he has found his dearest Treasure out.
A Lover, like Hannibal, will cut his way
Thro Mountains, Alps of Snow, and deepest Sea,
Tho storms of Rain, and Wind swell up the Waves,
And all the Billows seem so many Graves;
When he a Voyage makes to see his Dear,
He do's no Wind, nor Sea, nor Planet fear,
Dauntless he fights thro all, tho Billows rage,
Tho Heav'n, Sea, Wind against him all engage.
Lovers and Souldiers only with delight
Can bear the Tyranny of piercing night,
And carelesly with pleasure undergo
Fierce storms of Hail, of Thunder, Rain and Snow.
The Souldier slily scouts about to spy
The Wiles, and Projects of the Enemy;
With quick-ey'd jealousy the Lover too
Does still his Rival, as a Foe, pursue:
This lays a Siege before a strong fenc'd Town,
That arm'd with Flames, Love's Fire-works, lies down
Before the Threshold of his cruel Fair,
And shoots out wishes, sighs and tears at her.
This makes 'gainst City Gates his Canon roar;
With
An Engine.
Bettys that assaults his Ladies door.When a deep Sleep an Army do's surprize,
Disarms their Hands, and closes up their Eyes;
'Tis thought a Stratagem to stop their breath,
And change its image Sleep, to real Death.
Thus did Ʋlysses Rhesu's Troops destroy,
He took their Fatal Steeds, and Lives away,
And by this means alone he conquer'd Troy.
Thus to their sleeping Foes bold Lovers come,
They kill the Cuckold, and supply his room.
The wretched Lover, and the Souldier goes,
Where thickest Troops of dangers do oppose,
Thro midnight Watches, strongest Guards they pass,
Thro barracado'd Gates, and Walls of Brass.
Venus, and Mars alike uncertain are,
And the Intrigues of Love with those of War;
As conquer'd Slaves the Victory oft regain,
And Conqu'rors fall 'midst all their Pomp and Train;
So the brisk Spark that do's at once subdue
His Ladies heart, and injur'd Rival too;
May be cashier'd of all his hopes of Love,
And the disbanded Slave the Fav'rite prove,
Thus he may rise again in her esteem,
And, in his turn, may triumph over him.
Now he that calls a Lover idle, lies;
He is a man laborious, bold, and wise;
And he that for the War, or Love is fit,
Must be a man of courage, sence, and wit:
Fierce flames of Love scorch't great Achilles Breast,
When of his Mistress he was dispossest;
He and his courage did to Beauty yeild,
It made him leave his Armes, and quit the Field.
Now Trojans to the Spoil, and Plunder fall,
For Love has foil'd Greece in their General.
Hector from his Wives soft Embrace arose,
From thence he went to Combate with his Foes;
Early he left the Pleasures of her Bed,
And her hand plac'd the Helmet on his head.
Cassandra to Atrides seem'd so fair;
Tho in disorder'd looks, and flowing hair;
That, at her form amaz'd, he did adore
The wretched Captive he subdu'd before.
Mars did with Venus melting joys repeat;
When Vulcan clos'd 'em in his curious Net;
All Heav'n saw them in am'rous Folds embrace,
And ev'ry God, and Goddess wish't their place.
Nature did by my make seem to express,
That I was born to sloth, and idleness;
Cool shades, and Beds of Down could only please,
I liv'd debaucht in luxury and ease;
Till body, courage, strength, and all began,
To soften, and degenerate from man;
A beauteous Girl spur'd up my lazy mind,
And loves brisk flame my drossy Soul refin'd.
Love gave command, forthwith I did obey;
The sweet of bliss, and pleasure were the pay,
Which made me fight in Loves Tents night, and day.
Hence I was taught to watch, and labour too,
Love made me bravely fight, and boldly woo.
At Loves command thro midnight broils I strove.
The man that wants employment, let him love.
Book the First, ELEGY Tenth.
To a Girl dehorting her from asking Money for her Love.
ONce I confess I doated on that face,
And thought you fair as ever Helen was,
Whom Paris in his Trojan Navy brought
With the rich prize of all her Beauties fraught,
Whose sparkling Eyes did rival flames inspire,
Made Nations War, and set all Troy on fire:
Or Leda fair; to whom the Thund'rer came,
And in a Swan's soft Feathers hid his flame,
Whom he did cozen in a borrow'd shape,
And in feign'd innocence did steal a Rape.
Strong jealous fears did then torment my Breast,
And my suspicions with my love encreast.
Then ev'ry Bull, and Eagle I did see,
I fondly thought 'twas sent from Heav'n for thee;
And all those shapes I fear'd, that am'rous Jove
Was ever Metamorphos'd to by love.
But now those fears are vanish't all away,
And all my former flames of Love decay;
Nor can that Face, which once did charm me so,
Delight my wondering eyes with pleasure now.
If you ask, why I'm chang'd, 'tis quickly known,
It is because you're Mercenary grown;
And this sole cause do's raise my hatred more,
Then all thy charms could do my love before.
While thy unbiast mind was simply true,
I lov'd thy very Soul, and Body too:
But since thy Soul's debaucht, methinks I find
Thy Body grow deformed like thy Mind.
Cupid's a naked Boy, and scorns the vice
Of sordid Gain, and griping Avarice,
An old mans dear beloved Paradice.
He wears no garment, intimating by't
Love should be open, and without deceit.
Why do you thus the God of Love prophane?
And make him turn a Prostitute for Gain?
What should he do with Gold? he's all undrest,
And cannot treasure't in his naked.
The Common-Whore for Gain do's beat the Streets,
And strikes a Bargain with the next she meets;
She wearies Nature, rambles up and down,
For the poor recompence of Half-a-Crown:
Yet she too curses the imperious Bawd,
Who Avarice still makes her ply the Trade;
And what the Bawds command compels her to,
You of your own accord ignobly do.
Let Beast themselves your great example be,
Learn from unthinking Brutes Civility;
'Twill be a base, a shameful thing to find
The Beasts more gen'rous than Woman-kind.
The Mare from the brave Horse no gift receives,
But all the Charms of Love she frankly gives;
The Heifer asks no Present, but do's court
The Bull with am'rous Lowings to the sport;
Nor does the Ram the gentle Ewe decoy
With rich alluring Presents to the joy:
Base Woman triumphs in the spoils alone,
And Trophies of the Men she has undone;
'Tis she, and she alone do's Gold require,
That sells Delight, and sets her self to hire;
She vends those pleasures which both joyntly crave,
Those melting joys that either long to have;
And as she do's the am'rous Fight renew,
She has the pleasure, and the profit too.
Since the bliss does to both 'like charming prove;
And flows to both in equal Tides of Love,
Tell me (curst Gilt) the reason? Tell me why,
One should the pleasure sell, another buy?
Why should the luscious Sweets of Venus be
To you a profit, and a loss to me?
For if you in fierce bounds give up the joy,
I push my love on and meet yours half way.
How impious is that Mercenary 'Squire.
That trades in Perjury and swears for hire?
Or the corrupted Judge, whose slavish mind
Is to the itch of Bribery inclin'd;
How base that Counsellor, whose purchast breath
Rescues a Traytor, or a Thief from death?
Who from the Custome of the Judgment Seat,
Rises from nothing to a vast Estate,
And prostitutes his Conscience to be great.
Your crime's as great, who, by meer int'rest led,
Encrease your Portion from the Gilting trade,
And the Revenues of an Harlots Bed,
Who sell each look (by pow'rful Guine'a swaid)
While your own beauties Bawds t' your lusts are made.
Out of meer Gratitude our thanks are due
For Favours freely we receive from you;
But when by hire, or sale you're made my own,
Pray tell me where's the Obligation?
Who hires his Wench pays down his Cash, and he
Ev'n from the least return of thanks is free
For her damn'd kindness, and Civility.
For shame leave of ye charming, beauteous train,
To bargain for Nights Joys for cursed Gain;
No good Event such Riches can attend,
They make ye but more wretched in the end.
Great were the Sabins Bribes, yet not so great
Tarpy for them should purchase her own Fate,
Or that she from their weighty Arms should have
At once her certain Murder, and her Grave.
Alcmaeon ript up his own Mother's Womb,
Those Bowels from which he himself did come;
Because that she her Husband did betray,
And for a Necklace gave his Life away.
Yet Gold from rich Gallants you may require;
His Gold can purchase what you can desire.
From Vineyards gather Grapes, where on each Vine
Thick clust'ring Bunches hang, swol'n big with Wine;
Alcinou's Orchards Apples can bestow,
Where tempting Fruit hangs on each lab'ring Bough.
A poor man pay attendance, service, faith,
Each Lover gives his Mistress all he hath.
My Talent is gloriously to rehearse
The kind deserving Ladies in my Verse;
Whom e're I please, by my great Art shall be
Sung like my Verse to all Eternity.
Those Rings, this dress, those gems that shine so gay,
Will crumble into Dust and fade away;
But that ne're dying Fame, the Muses give,
Shall be immortal, and for ever live.
Nor do I grudge to give; but I abhor
A Wench that asks me like a Common-Whore.
Cease but those impudent demands, and I
Will give you, what I did before deny.
ELEGY the 11th Book the First.
To the Waiting-Maid, that she would convey his Letter to his Mistress.
KInd Jinny, who art exquisitely read
In the soft arts to dress thy Lady's head;
Too good, and too obliging, and too fair
The servile name of Waiting-Maid to bear,
Obsequious, known to all my gay delight,
And useful to the stolen joys of Night;
Who oft by signs dost wittily impart
The wanton wishes of your Ladies heart:
Thou who dost often kind advice bestow,
And tempts Corinna to me when she's slow;
Who still to me dost true, and faithful prove,
When my Breast travels with fierce pangs of Love:
Here, here, take this, fly swift as thought away,
And to my Mistress these soft Lines convey,
With care prevent the dangers of delay.
In your kind Breast no Flint, nor Iron grows,
That gentle Land with Milk and Honey flows;
More simple truth, and faith is found in thee,
Then anyone of your mean quality,
I've reason to believe your tender heart
Ha's felt the wound of Love's tyrannick Dart:
For you defend Love's Standard; which I bear,
Those Royal Ensigns, under which you war.
If she ask, how I do, this answer give,
'Say, I in hopes of one Nights Blessing live:
Tell her but this, my Letter speaks the rest,
My flame is there in dying words exprest.
But whilst I speak, deceiving time posts on,
Go bear this to my Mistress, fly, be gone:
Time well your message, give it her, when she
Is from disturbing thoughts of business free.
But see she read it strait, that she may know,
What tortures I in absence undergo:
But as she reads, I charge you, all the while,
Observe each am'rous glance, each frown and smile;
From bright, or lowring Aspects you may guess
My future ills, or future happiness:
Desire her, when she has read it o're, to send
A speedy answer to her dying Friend:
Let it be throng'd with words, I hate to see
A Letter nought but space, and vacancy:
Let it detain my Eyes with pleasure still,
Where crouded Lines the utmost Margin fill.
Yet 'tis superfluous, what need is there,
With toils of writing much to weary her;
Let but in all the Letters spatious room
Be only written this kind answer: COME.
Forthwith I will, when the glad Conquest's won,
Deck it with a triumphant Lawrel Crown:
And then I'll place this Relique, so divine,
In mighty Venus's most sacred Shrine;
And for its service done, besides the wreath,
It shall contain this Motto underneath.
Naso this Letter to his Flame so true,
Kind Venus, humbly dedicates to You.
What tho it lately from the Dunghill came,
Thus honour'd now, it may Devotion claim.
ELEGY the 6th, BOOK the First.
To the Porter.
KInd Porter, who unworthily do'st bear
Those servile Chains that meanest Vassals wear,
Open this Gate, and kindly thus remove
All difficulties that oppose my love.
If you grant what I ask, I'm, ever blest,
And mine's a small and reasonable request:
Let but the Gate so small an entrance give,
As may my body side-ways just receive:
Long cares have gnaw'd me quite to Skin and Bone,
My Love has made me a meer Skeleton;
For such intregues my Limbs are made so thin.
I almost like a Sp'rit can enter in.
Love is my guard and conduct thro' the Street,
He picks my way and safely guides my feet;
Experienc't Love instruct's me too, how I
May thro' the Midnight Watch my self convey:
But Whimsies formerly did me affright,
I wonder'd men could ramble in the Night:
For Fabu'lous Ghosts I fear'd, that foolish train
Of Phantomes, riseing from mans sickly brain.
When Love knew this, he smil'd, and gently said,
No more shall cow'rdly fears thy breast invade,
Thy valour with thy love shall be encreast,
And thou shalt be with dauntless courage blest:
Love enter'd strait, and put base fear to flight,
No more I dread pale Ghosts that fly by night;
Nor the assaults of a lew'd murd'ring Lord,
Nor cow'rdly stabs of blustring Bully's Sword:
'Tis you I fear, who too too slow do prove,
Ah! too, too slow for my impatient love:
To thee alone I stoop, I sue to thee,
Thou hast the Thunder, that can murder me!
Open for Pity's sake this cruel Gate,
And see how with my tears 'tis all made wet.
When you, for your offence, the other day
Naked before the lash, and trembling lay,
I to your Lady earnestly did sue,
And did prevail with her to pardon you;
But all those gentle words, which not long since
Did plead so strongly out in your defence,
Alass! woe's me! are useless now and vain,
For me they cannot the least favour gain:
My kindness with a kindness then repay,
Your wish is to be grateful, and you may;
Unlock the Gate, my love brooks no delay;
Unlock the Gate, night swiftly posts away:
So may'st thou from those Chains be ever free,
Drink Wine and tast the Sweets of Liberty.
Hard-hearted cruel slave, thou dost not hear,
All my soft Pray'rs rebound from thy deaf Ear;
Thy Gates too with vast Oaks supported are,
And strongly barr'd, as tho' you dreaded War.
When Citys are besieg'd with Arms and men,
Strong Barracado's Gates are useful then;
In calmes of Peace why do'st thou vainly fear
Fierce storms of War, and clashing Armies near?
How would'st thou treat an Enemy, when thou
Shut'st out thy Friend, and Lady's Lover too?
Unlock the Gate, my love brooks no delay;
Unlock the Gate, night swiftly posts away:
I come not with arm'd Troops of Foot and Horse
To storm these Walls, and make you yield by force.
If from my Breast these raging Flames were gone,
Was Love not with me, I should be alone;
And if I would, from Love I cannot part,
For that is fix'd, and grows up with my heart:
Tho' you this Body Limb from Limb should tear,
And stab this Heart, yet Love would still be there;
Then Love's with me, and Wine, that upward flies
With moderate fumes, which still new love supplies;
And a neat Garland with fresh Roses made,
Which lately fell from mine anointed head:
What man is there, would be a fraid to meet
These lovely Arms, so innocent and sweet.
Unlock the Gate, my love brooks no delay;
Unlock the Gate, night swiftly posts away.
Art thou thus slow, is it unkind delay,
That takes my hopes of love and life away?
Or do's Sleep beat my words back from thine Ear,
And make 'em vanish in the fleeting Air?
Once I remember, when in shades of Night
I strove to hide me from thy hated sight,
Then (with a Pox) you watch't with pimping Eyes,
Till Midnight Stars did spangle o're the Skies.
But yet perhaps you may be faultless too,
Perhaps your Mistress is in Bed with you,
And you glut on Love's Sweets; if so alass!
How far does your blest fortune mine surpass.
I'll be a Porter, Skullion, Groom, or Slave,
And wear thy Chains, let me thy Blessings have:
Unlock the Gate, my love brooks no delay,
Unlock the Gate, Night swiftly posts away.
Hark; — I'm deceiv'd, or else I heard the sound
Of the Gates Hinges softly turning round;
With a hoarse noise the Gate sure gave the sign
For me and welcome Love to enter in:
Curse on my Fate; — I am deceiv'd I find,
'Twas only shaken by strong blasts of Wind;
Woe's me! that Wind does all my hopes betray,
And ah! how far 't has born those hopes away?
The City's hush't, dead silence seizes all,
And Pearls of Dew in gentle moistures fall:
The Watchmen sleep, and no one now can see
The desperate attempts design'd by me.
Unlock the Gate, my love brooks no delay,
Unlock the Gate, Night swiftly posts away.
Unlock it, or by Heav'ns I'll make you know,
What a chaf't injur'd Lover dares to do;
I now more dreadful, and more pow'rful grown
Then fire and Sword will burn these proud walls down;
I in the house will make this Flambeux fly,
By Jove the House shall burn as well as I.
Love and brisk Wine, encourag'd by the Night,
To all Extravagancies now invite;
For as those banish fear, so night does shame,
By Jove I'll enter now with Sword and Flame:
Ah! Threats and Pray'rs alike successless prove,
In thee they can nor fear nor pity move;
For thou still cruel and relentless art,
Thy Gate is less obdurate then thy heart:
Thou art unworthy of the noble Fate,
To stand before a beauteous Ladies Gate:
Surely a slave, so base, and so unkind,
Was for the Turn-Key of some Goal design'd.
See, now bright Lucifer adorns the Skies,
The Cocks they crow, and bid poor Mortals rise,
And call, them to their dayly drudgeries.
Then thou gay Crown, pull'd from my pensive head,
Be thou all night on my Dears Threshold laid;
When in the morning she shall see thee thrown
Before her Gate, and all thy Beauties gone.
To her thou will't a silent witness prove
Of time ill spent, in vain persuit of Love.
Now, Porter, Fare-thee-well, such as thou art,
Yet hear the love I bear thee e're I part;
Tho' thou admitt'st me not, I love thee still,
Base as thou art, I must bid thee Farewel;
And Farewel Gate, thou Author of my woe,
Ah! Farewel cruel Gate, and Porter too.
ELEGY the 3d, BOOK the First.
To his Mistress.
YE Pow'rs, my Pray'r both just and equal is,
And cruel Love can ne're deny me this.
Grant that my Mistress, whose bright conquering Eye
Late brought my Soul into Captivity,
May ever love me, or that I my tast
Joys that may make my love for ever last.
Ah me! too much I've ask't by praying thus,
My wisht-for Blessing's turn'd into a Curse,
Love cruelly at last my Prayers has heard,
And plagu'd me with a happiness I fear'd:
For she requites my passion with disdain,
I love and love, but am not lov'd again,
Accept me, Madam, Vassalage I crave,
I beg the liberty to be your Slave;
Accept your faithful Slave, whose constant flame
Shall ever last, and ever be the same,
One that will ever serve you, one whose Breast
Is all with love and generous faith possess't.
If my Birth, which I from a Knight derive,
Or Blood which from his Veins I did receive,
Or Ancestors (who I confess ne're were
Ally'd to Duke, Prince, King or Emperour;
If neither my endowments, or Estate
(Which is sufficient tho' it be not great)
Or if my vertuous Parents frugal care,
And temp'rance (which provide for me their Heir.
If all these cannot so inviting prove,
As to make me seem worthy of thy love;
Yet Wit and Wine (the Gods that I adore)
The Muses, and a Thousand causes more,
Almighty love, which keeps me still your Slave,
The Vertue, Honour, and the Faith I have,
My God-like Manners, and my naked Truth,
My Modesty, and inoffensive Youth;
All these conspire, and joyntly all agree
To make me dare to say I'me worthy thee.
You (Madam) you shall be my care alone,
I never change, I never love but one.
I will (if there be Faith in Man) prove true
And I will ever love, and only you.
May I for those few years the Fates shall give
With thee (my Dearest) tho' in torments live,
And may those cares kill me that make thee greive.
Let but my Muse your wond'rous Praise rehearse,
And you shall shine more glorious in my Verse;
Inspir'd by your great Name, I shall produce
Wit worthy you and worthy such a Muse.
By my Verse Io is immortal made,
Her everlasting Fame can never fade;
Nor can the fair Europa mortal prove,
She's Canhoniz'd by Poetry and Love;
Nor shall our Names thus celebrated dye,
But on Fame's Wings they shall for ever fly,
The World our Praises shall together joyn
And yours shall spread abroad as far as mine.
ELEGY the 7th, BOOK the 1st.
To Pacify his Mistress whom in his Passion he had beaten.
WHat have I done? if any Friend be nigh,
Let him be kind, and shew his cruelty:
Bind, bind these hands (they have deserv'd the Chain,)
Before the Fit of Madness come again.
With headlong Fury drunk, these Arms I mov'd
Against the only Mistress that I lov'd.
Wounded by me, my Dearest grieves, and sighs,
And weeps with Tears as fair as others Eyes.
But when they did in a Fanatick rage
My Royal Mistress cowardly engage;
They then would have rip't their Mother's Womb,
Cut their own Father's Throat, and rob'd his Tomb;
Or wrested Thunder from Jove's vanquish't hand,
And Gods themselves with impious blows prophan'd.
But did not Ajax, Lord o'fh' Seven-fold shield,
With a distractive rage, and madness fill'd,
Chase trembling Flocks, for Trojans, o're the Plain,
Groaning beneath the burden of the slain?
And did not mad Orestes do yet more,
Staining his hands in his own Mothers gore?
Did he not murther her that gave him breath,
Barb'rously to revenge his Fathers death?
Did he not challenge Hell, and boldly call
For Arms to sight the Furies, Dev'l, and all?
I follow'd where these damn'd Examples went,
Ruffi'us and Mad-men were my president.
For my bright Mistress braided Locks I tore,
Yet still she look'd as lovely as before.
The beauteous Atalanta look't like you
When she in Maenalus did Beasts persue,
And caught the droves of men that came to view.
Aria'dnes Hair was all dishevel'd so,
When she beheld her perjur'd Theseus go;
She wep't and call'd aloud to make him stay,
"The Wind bore him and her soft words away.
Like you the fair Cassandra did appear,
But that a sacred Fillet bound her hair;
Yet such strong charms from her sweet face did rove,
As struck the surley Ajax mad with love;
He in the Temple seiz'd her as his prize,
And offer'd there a wanton Sacrifice.
Who has not call'd me Turk, Barbarian, Jew?
For these I did in cruelty out-do.
Yet she did no opprobious word express,
Fear fetter'd up her Tongue, and made it cease;
But yet her looks her angry Soul betray'd,
There I a Thousand Murderers might read;
And all those silent show'rs of Tears she spilt,
Spoke loudly my rough cruelty and guilt.
Would God these Arms had dropt off, e're they'd bin
Guilty of such a base, unmanly Sin.
With less concern I any Limb could spare,
And would I had e're I had wrong'd my Dear.
Why is my cursed Strength a plague to me?
Dearest, I wound my self in wounding thee.
Ye bloody Executioners, be gone;
I've no more barb'rous Murders to be done.
Go Sacrilegious Hands in Chains, 'tis just
The Irons gauld, and eat you off with rust.
Curst Arms! they dare not strike the meanest Slave;
Shall they more priv'ledge o're my Mistress have?
The cruel, damn'd Tydides left behind
The worst Examples of an hellish mind;
He smote a Goddess, and I wounded you
A fairer Goddess, and a greater too:
But he is much more innocent then I
I far surpass him in impiety;
For he against a Foe did cruel prove,
But I to whom I vow'd eternal love.
Go, mighty Conqueror, in Triumph go,
Prepare the Royal Pomp, and Solemn Show,
Put on your Lawrel Crown, and let it spread
In branching Honour round your sacred head,
Let Clouds of Incense from your Altars rise,
Pay Jove, for your success, his Sacrifice,
Let shoals of people round your Chariot croud,
All roaring out your mighty Triumph loud,
Let it with boasting shouts of joy be said,
Lo this brave Hero did subdue a Maid.
First let your Captive go in flowing hair,
But for her batter'd Cheeks, all over fair,
'Twas fitter sure, and 't had bin kinder far,
Had I in am'rous conflicts wounded her,
Or bruis'd her balmy Lips in height of bliss,
With the impression of a furious Kiss,
Or had my Teeth such kind impressions made
Upon her Neck, I there my love my read,
But yet, tho' raging Tempests shook my Breast,
Hurrying me on like Streams by Floods encreast,
And tho' blind Passion did my reason sway,
And made my Soul, and all its pow'rs its prey;
Sure 'twas enough to chide my trembling Dear,
To thunder out my Oaths, and threats at her,
And thus ingloriously to tear her Gown,
And all those sacred Robes that she had on.
All this I did, all this— and ten times more,
Her pretious Hair, those threads of Gold, I tore,
And with my Nails plow'd up her beauteous Face,
My Fingers have prophan'd that sacred place.
Yet she stood fix't, pale as a Marble Stone,
Or some sad Statue Carvers make to moan,
Which o're a Tomb stands weeping for the dead,
Speaking its Grief in Tears it seems to shed.
Her Blood flew from her Face to guard her Heart,
Short death, and tremblings ran o're ev'ry part;
So a soft gentle Western Wind does make
With num'rous motions, Aspin Leaves to quake;
So shake the Reeds, fan'd by a breeze of Air,
The Reeds that seem to shake for very fear;
So tremble Rivers, on whose curling brow
With gentle gales the South-Winds softly blow.
Her Tears long doubting, where to fall or no,
At last did down her Cheeks so gently flow,
You'd swear 'twas water drop't from melting Snow,
Then first my conscience check't me for my sin,
Sighs issuing out told sorrow was within.
The Floods of Tears, that o're her visage stream'd,
Drops of my Blood, or something dearer seem'd.
Thrice did I offer at her Feet to lye,
And there become her humble Votary,
Thrice held I up my folded hands to pray,
And thrice she put those dreadful hands away.
Dearest come on arm'd with revengeful rage,
That will your suffrings and your grief asswage,
Come harrow with your Nails this Face, and tear
Each hated Limb of mine, and ev'ry hair;
Make ev'ry Member your just Sacrifice,
Tear out each Eye; for if it might suffice
"I'd weep my blood for tears, from wounds, for eyes.
Let Passion raise your courage, Passion can
Give you, tho weak, the vig'rous strength of man.
But least these tokens of my Crimes remain,
For Heavens sake go dress your Head again.
BOOK the First, ELEGY 13th.
To the Morning that she would not rise to soon.
AƲrora now, with Rosy blushes red,
Lifting above the Eastern waves her head,
'Rose from the beauteous Morning's Purple Bed.
Stay gentle Morn, said I, your hasty flight,
You'd be more beautiful were you less bright;
Stay, gentle Morning, stay, so may you see
On ev'ry year that winged Progeny,
Which Phoenix-like from Memnon's ashes came,
Taking new life from his last Fun'ral flame,
With solemn Rites of blood and slaughter come,
And pay their Sacrifices at his Tomb.
Stay, gentle Morn, if you would have me blest;
See now my Mistress huggs me to her Breast,
Strugling with joys that cannot be exprest.
And if Corinna ever did bestow.
A Blessing on me, certainly 'tis now.
See, lazy Sleep sits heavy on our Eyes,
The Air is cold and we are loath to rise;
The little Birds a pretty warbling keep,
And court us with soft harmony to sleep.
Curb in the winged hours, with all your might,
Nor plague the world with your officious light.
When you with your unwelcome rays appear,
Youths blush with shame, & Maids grow chast for fear.
Why do you hurry thus your Chariot on?
Ah, gentle Morning, for Love's sake be gone.
Before you dawn the Marriner can stand,
And by the Pole-star better far command,
His certain Voyage to the wish't-for Land,
By this he steers his steady course, tho' he
Floats in the midst of all the boundless Sea.
When you with light embroyder o're the Skies,
The weary Traveller begins to rise,
Tho' ev'ry limb and bone be sore,
With the long journey of the day besore.
The Country Hind now flys his dear repast,
Yokes his slow Oxen, and to the Plow does hast.
And School Boys scarce awake yet rise to feel
The cruel lash of Busby or of Gill.
The spark just drawn i'th' Matrimonial noose,
Who to his loss for his Wives Portion sues,
Rises up early from her sweet Embrace,
To fee his Counsellor to know his case,
Or that he may untangle some damn'd flaw,
Some Quibble, Querk, or some nice point of Law,
By break of day, when you peep from the East,
The Counsellor is knock't up from his rest.
The Lawyer too, to Westminster must trudge,
To bawl out some new Cause before the Judge.
Thus you to both are more disturbing far,
Then all their restless tides of Clients are.
The watchful Huswife rises up with you,
And she, with thine, her labours does renew;
She sings to pass the time away, the while,
She draws a thread as endless as her toil;
Yet all these pains, and ten times greater too,
I could with ease and pleasure undergo.
But Gods! to rise thus from my dearest Dear,
What Stoick, what dull man, on earth can bear!
None sure but he, whom Heav'n ne're did bless
With such a Paradice of Happiness
Oft have I wisht (but now I see 'twas vain)
Cynthia might over you a Conquest gain.
That she, with all her gawdy Troops of Light,
Might chase thee to the Negro Womb of night;
Or some great Tempest, might your Chariot shake,
And all its Golden Wheels in pieces break,
Or stuck in some deep Bog your Steeds might stay,
Or in some misty Cloud might loose their way.
Curst Morning stay, nor with thy envious Face
Frighten me from my Mistress's soft Embrace.
I guess from thy Son's Aethiopian Skin,
Thy poison'd Heart is blacker far within.
There envy big with mischiefs brooding lies,
And num'rous plagues to all the world conveys,
Had no adult'rous flames scorcht up your breast,
When by your Cephalus it was possest;
Yet your wise Goddess-ship can never hide
Your Thousand amorous Intregues beside.
I would to Heav'n, for my revenge that I
Might to old Tython, all your faults descry:
No Punk that gain'd Heav'n by debauchery,
No Whetstone Whore in Sweating-Tub should be
So base, so vile, so loath'd a thing as thee.
Thou fly'st his dry Trunk, sapless grown with age,
Unfit in am'rous conflicts to engage;
And, as thou envy'dst us our blest design,
Dost early in malicious glory shine;
Should you enjoy your Gallants melting charms,
Whilst he lay panting in your wanton Arms,
Then would you cry, kind Stars, glide gently on,
And then you'd wish that night might ne're be done.
Why should I suffer plagues and punishment,
Because your Fumbler is grown impotent?
Did I procurer turn, or did I spread
Baites to decoy you, to his loathsome Bed?
See, how the Queen of Night do's kindly steep
Her lov'd Endymion's Eyes in dewy sleep;
Glorious as you, she shines in her bright Sphere,
When dazling in full Orb of Beauty there;
Ev'n Jove himself Father of Gods above,
When he would take a full swinge of his love,
Commanded two Nights into one to joyn,
'Cause he so often would not see thee shine
With that damn'd painted Harlot's Face of thine.
My railing done, I soon perceiv'd she heard,
For glowing blushes on her Cheeks appear'd,
Yet still she posted with swift hast away,
And at her usual time call'd forth the day.
BOOK the 3d. ELEGY the 3d.
Of his Mistress that had perjur'd her self.
ARE there then Gods? Gods! I'll believ't no more,
She's perjur'd, yet as beauteous as before.
Her shining locks are still as long, and fair,
Since she has shamm'd the Gods, as e're they were.
On her white Cheeks, were blushing colours spread,
Like Lillies dy'd with Rosy streakes of Red;
And all those colours, which her Cheeks did grace,
Still shine in their old lustre in her face:
Her little Foot was neat, and cleanly made,
It has exactly the same shape it had;
Her slender Wast was comely to the view,
'Tis still as slender, and as comely too.
She had sparkling Eyes, whose ev'ry glance could kill,
Like two bright Stars; her fair Eyes glitter still,
By which the perjur'd, false perfidious she,
Has often sworn Ten Thousand lyes to me.
Beauty commands the Gods, and Heav'n allows
Women to lye, swear false, and break their vows.
Lately she swore by her bright Eyes, and mine,
And mine were tortur'd strait with shooting pain.
Say, unjust Gods, was't not enough that she,
Has call'd your Pow'rs, to vouch her Perjury,
And yet unpunish't has escap't, and free?
But ye must make me too (tho' innocent)
For her black crimes to suffer punishment?
Is't not suffic'ent that she drew you in
To be but bare Spectators of her sin,
And by no Lightning blasted, laughs to see
How she has bubled both the Gods and me?
But injur'd I her guilt must undergo,
And suffer by her crime, and for it too?
Tell me, ye Gods, when she has done the wrong,
How can the punishment to me belong?
Or Gods meer empty Names and Fantoms are,
Whom abject dastard Spirits vainly fear;
Who the gross vulgar easily do move
With rash belief of unseen Pow'rs above;
Or if a God there be, his God-head sure
Doats on fair Nymphs, and giv's them too much pow'r:
Men are expos'd to all the Bolts of War,
To Mars his Fatal Sword, and Pallas Spear,
'Gainst us Apollo's threatning Bow is bent,
On us the Thunder from Jove's hand is sent.
But the Gods dread fair Females, they ne're durst
Displease that Sex, altho' they'r injur'd first;
With awful fear they worship, tho' they,
Dauntlesly both the Gods and Heav'n defy.
At woods and groves Jove's Thunderbolts are thrown,
They batter mighty Tow'rs, and Castles down;
But Perjur'd Women, who Heav'ns rage provoke,
Still live secure and feel no Thunders stroke.
When many Womens faults did justly call
For Vengeance, Semele alone did fall,
And burnt a wretched Sacrifice for all.
And cruelty was the best thanks that Jove
Return'd for all her kindness, and her love.
But why thus against Heav'n do I complain?
Reproach the Gods? and impiously prophane?
The Gods have sense of love, they too have hearts
That have been pierc't by Love's impartial Darts.
Were I my self a God I'de freely give
Fair Ladies pow'r my God-head to deceive,
Let them swear what they pleas'd I would believe,
And I would swear whate're they swore was true,
And to clear them I would be perjur'd too.
Thus I, of all the Gods in Heav'n, would be
The kindest, most obliging deity.
Yet, happy Maid, fair favourite of Heav'n,
More gently use that pow'r the Gods have giv'n,
Nor swear more by mine Eyes ah! be more kind,
Least when you swear again you strike me blind.
Book the 3d, ELEGY the 11th.
The Poet grieves that his Mistress grew so noted by his Verses, that he procur'd himself many Rivals.
WHat day of all my life, what hour was there,
In which some wing'd ill Omens of the Air
Did not with hideous croaks, and chatt'rings prove,
The sad events of my successless love?
Against what adverse Gods shall I complain,
Against what Planets inauspicious reign?
Corinna, who but now was all mine own,
Whom I at first did love, and I alone,
Will be the common Mistress of the Town.
Was she not by my Verse thus famous made?
By me encourag'd she sets up the trade:
And rightly serv'd—for I the Hawker was,
That cry'd about the Beauties of her Face:
I was her Pandar, gave her Sparks a view;
Open'd her doors, and introduc'd 'em too.
By me she first was to the world disclos'd,
And by my folly was to Sale expos'd.
What good I've reap't from Verse I cannot tell,
But that 't has injur'd me I know too well.
My Rivals it procur'd, and to my cost
By Verse my property in her I lost.
When Troy's, when Theban Wars, and Caesars fame,
The just assistance of my Pen did claim,
Corinna's Praise, her Name alone did shine
Like a bright Gem in ev'ry Page of mine.
Would God! Apollo, when those Lines I made,
And ev'ry Muse had then deny'd their aid!
Would my dull resty Muse had jaded been,
And left unfinish't what she did begin.
The world to Poets ne're did credit give,
There's no one our mad Fictions will believe;
And I could wish my Rivals might be brought
To disbelieve those hated truths I wrote.
Of Cerberus, and his three Heads we tell,
And make him Porter to the Gates of Hell,
And all his Body o're, instead of hair,
A monst'rous Coat of curling Serpents wear;
A Thousand Arms we give Enceladon,
And make an Army up of him alone,
Against all Heav'n we boldly make him dare,
And Hosts of thund'ring Gods maintain a War;
Of Niobe we sing, who, whilst she mourn'd,
By grief was to a Marble Statute turn'd,
Which sweating still with tears seems to relent,
And thus we make her her own Monument;
Of Bulls we write, from whose sierce Nostrils came
Torrents of sire, and rapid streams of flame;
Of Orpheus too, why by his Mystick Song
Made Woods to follow and Stones dance along.
These, and whole Millions of Romantick Lies,
Of Monsters, and Impossibilities,
Of Metamorphos'd forms, and prodigies,
The fruitful Licence of a Poets wit,
Dayly brings forth, and still do's new beget.
No man's oblig'd to credit us at all,
His Faith needs not be here Historical:
Nor should you think her Praises more to be
Then wild fantastick tales devis'd by me,
I'me ruin'd now by your credulity.
ELEGY the 7th, BOOK the 3d.
The Poet greives that he is rejected by his Mistress.
WILL any Fop yet wed the lib'ral arts,
Or vainly set up for an Ass of Parts?
Or think a gifted excellence, to be
In the smooth strokes of ravishing Poetry?
Wit above Gold was valu'd heretofore,
But now he's ignorant alone, that's poor:
When she reads o're my Poems with delight,
Kindly applauds each line, each word I write;
Tho' my more happy Verses please her so,
Where they'r embrac't, the Author dares not go:
Thus I whom she applauded so before,
Am shut out from her, or kickt out of door;
And tho' confest a Wit, to her disgrace,
With love distracted rave from place to place.
A wealthy up-start Ruffian, who of late,
By cutting Throats, has purchast an Estate,
Is thought my better; 'cause'ith Field he stood,
And Knight-hood gain'd by sucking guiltless Blood:
Then can you (foolish Woman) without fear,
Embrace this Honourable Murtherer?
Can you to him yield up your melting Charms,
Or wanton all Night in his dreadful Arms?
I'de have you know that once this Head of mine,
Did gayly with a crested Helmet shine;
And this Thigh (which in Love's wars serves you now)
Was armed with a Fatal Weapon too;
His left hand (which a
Worn by Romat Knights.
Ring did late adorn,And ill becomes him now, a Shield has born;
His right too, has been cruelly smear'd o're
With impious stains of dead men's clotted gore.
And can you touch that hand, so oft imbru'd
In gaping wounds, and murther'd wretches blood.
Where's now the softness on your Soul imprest,
The tenderness that reigns in Womans Breast?
View, in his mangl'd Face, dishonest Scars,
The servile Monuments of former Wars;
A Plundering Souldier he of Fortune was,
And gain'd by hacks and wounds whate're he has:
Perhaps himself will boast of those he has kill'd,
How oft he has stab'd, & how much blood he has spill'd.
And can you touch those hands in hopes of Pelf,
Without the fear of being stab'd your self?
Ev'n I, the Muses and Apollo's Priest,
With sacred Wit, and Innocency blest,
In vain Love-Verses sing before your Gate,
Since, cruel Mistress, you'r as deaf as that.
Young men if you are wise be rul'd by me,
Learn not our fruitless Arts of Poetry:
But to the skill in Arms and Wars attain,
Go Reformado's in the next Campaign,
Instead of rhimeing well, get to be made
Captains, or Collonels, and fierce Armies lead:
With gawdy Plumes, and Scarfs before 'em stand,
Thus you may Troops of Ladies too command.
Jove advertiz'd us, and by Heav'n we're told,
Nothing can be more powerful then Gold;
Himself turn'd to a bribe, the guards disarms,
And Danaë yields now to his potent Charms:
E're he descended in this pretious show'r,
She was immur'd within a Brazen Tow'r;
Her Father did inexorable prove,
And she her self withstood the Siege of Love:
But when wise Jove, taught by Love's chymick art,
Into bright Gold his God-head did convert,
She kindly in her Bosome did receive
The welcome Present, and consent did give:
She could not this Almighty show'r withstand,
But by her Fathers, Heav'ns, and Golds command,
She yields the virgin-fort up to the conquerors hand.
But when old Saturn did Heav'ns Scepter sway,
Deep in Earths darksome Womb all Metals lay;
Then Silver, Iron, bewitching Gold, and Brass,
And ev'ry Mine in Hell's rich Kingdoms was:
No Bullion yet was found, 'till Man did sell
His Peace for Gold, and fetcht it ev'n from Hell:
On ev'ry Oak distilling sweets were found,
And ev'ry Leaf drop't Honey on the ground;
The Trees unprun'd then better Fruits did bear,
And earth brought forth without the Plow-man's care,
No Spot of ground as yet was hedg'd about,
Nor mens Estates by peice meal parcell'd out;
No Ditch was cut no Land-mark Stones were laid,
But all the world was one vast Common made.
No Oar yet clave the Sea, no Ship did sweep
The yielding Waters of the troubled deep.
On shore (his utmost Voyage) man did stand,
And was contented to be safe at Land.
Thy subtle Nature (wretched man) has still
Been too ingenious to contrive thine ill.
Why dost thou time and riches lavish out,
To fence thy Towns with Walls, and Tow'rs about?
What need'st thou Broils create, or Wars encrease,
When thou may'st live in safety and in peace?
Or new-sought dangers on the Sea explore?
Thou ought'st to be contented with the shore.
Why dost thou not of Jove his Heav'n require,
To fill the boundless gulph of thy desire!
Should thy Ambition urge thee to obtain
These Heav'nly Kingdoms too, 'twould be in vain;
For Caesar, Bacchus, and great Hercules
Those sacred Quires in Triumph now possess.
We dig deep Mines, and vex Earth's Womb for store;
Instead of Fruits we seek for cursed Ore.
The Souldier now long-sought-for Riches gains
With the dear Blood that issues from his Veins:
For he that's poor can no admittance get
At Guild-hall, or at, Counsel-board to set:
The wealthy fools are in all places thrust
Of credit, honour, profit, and of trust;
Hence a dull Alderman that cannot write
Is chosen Burgess, and is dub'd a Knight:
Vile Canters of the Law are Judges made.
In reverent Folly, and in Ermin clad.
The Laws and Souldiery their pow'r confess,
The worlds their Slave, and they all things possess,
They are the Engines both of War, and Peace.
Heav'n grant that they may not so greedy prove
As to engross the profit of my love
Let them permission give to one that's poor
T' enjoy his Mistress, and I ask no more.
But now tho' she untractable appear,
And difficult as Sabine Matrons were;
Yet a rich Lover shall admittance have,
And rule her like his Captive, or a Slave.
Her Keeper thwarts my Love, she too does fear
Her Husband will surprize us when I'm there.
If I bring Cash those Bugbear tricks are done,
The necessary Rascals both are gone,
My way is clear, the house is all mine own.
If any God neglected Lovers hears,
That dares revenge their wrong, & grant their pray'rs;
O may he her ill-gotten wealth destroy,
And may she ne're one Guinea's use enjoy;
May it, like Gold enchanted, just appear,
But vanish at the touch away from her.
ELEGY the Fifteenth, BOOK the First Imitated.
To detracting Censurers, that the Fame of Poets is Eternal.
ILL-natur'd Censurer desist for shame
With thy malicious Tongue to stab my Fame
How durst thou think I live dissolv'd in ease
Or call brave Verse the effects of Idleness?
Or why dost thou object with feeble hate,
I from my Ancestours degenerate?
That I, (unlike them arm'd with warlike rage)
Whilst in full strength and flower of my age,
Do not in blood and dust my foes engage?
Or that I plead not at the wrangling Bar,
And out-bawl W—ton at Westminster?
And to gain Gold, damnation, and renown,
Turn a meer Prostitute to all the Town;
With Mercenary breath cant out the Laws,
And take mens Money to betray their Cause?
But all these servile things must with us dye,
The Fame, I seek, shall know Eternity:
My Wit a lasting Monument shall raise,
And all the world shall loudly sing my Praise.
Chaucer shall live, whilst this our Brittish Land,
Or the vast Cornwall-Mount in it shall stand:
Or whilst (almost a Sea it self) the Thames
To th'Ocean rowls his tributary Streams.
Sidneys great Name shall last, whilst there are Swains,
That feed their Flocks on the Arcadian Plains;
Each Nymph shall tune his Praises on her Reed,
Whilst Beasts, to hear their Songs, for get to feed:
Ecchoing Groves aloud their joys shall tell,
And praise that Swain that sung their Praise so well.
The Majesty of mighty Cowley's name,
Shall travel thro' the farthest Coasts of Fame;
His noble works for ever shall impart,
The height of judgement, Nature, Wit, and Art.
Dryden, great King of Verse, shall ever live,
Judicious Dryden shall himself survive:
Whilst in this Town there's a procuring Bawd,
Or a smooth flatt'ring Whore, that plyes the trade,
A wily Servant, cruel Father known,
The Lawrel shall the matchless Johnson Crown.
Shake'spear, tho rude, yet his immortal Wit
Shall never to the stroke of time submit,
And the loud thund'ring flights of lofty Lee;
Shall strike the Ears of all Posterity.
Creeches Sublimest Verse in God-like State,
Shall soar above the reach of humble Fate;
Nor shall he dye 'till the World's mighty Ball
Shall be dissolv'd, and to a Chaos fall.
Spencer's Heroick Lines no death shall fear,
His Fairy Queen, and Shepherd's Kalendar,
Shall be admired, whilst to our new
London.
RoomThe Vassal Isle to pay their Tribute come.
As long as Flames last, Torches, Bows, and Darts,
(Love's great Artillery to conquer Hearts)
Shall witty Strephon's wanton Verse be read
By many a melting Youth, and yielding Maid.
From East to West Sucklings soft Muse shall run,
Swift as the Light, and glorious as the Sun;
Each Pole shall eccho his Eternal Fame,
And the bright Mistress, he vouchsafes to name.
When solid Ir'n shall be eat up with rust,
And Marble Statues crumbl'd into dust,
To Deathless Verse times spight shall do no wrong,
For that must ever last, be ever young.
Kings, and their Triumphs, all the Pomp the boast,
In dark Oblivion would be quickly lost,
Did no blest Poet the vast loss repair,
Making them Deathless, as his Numbers are.
Tagus to Verse must yield altho' it roll'd
In Floods of Treasure, and a Tide of Gold.
Let the ignoble Rout vile things admire,
Let Love and Poetry my Breast inspire,
Let me Apollo, and the Muses quaff,
In full-charg'd Bowls, Castalian Rivers off:
The sacred Heliconian Streams shall be
A Tagus, and a Ganges both to me;
Our life feeds all the envy we shall have,
With us it sleeps in quiet in the Grave:
When dead, the Honours we from Verse receive
Shall guard us, and that Fame our Merits give.
So that when Nature shall dissolve this Frame,
And turn me to that Dust, from whence I came;
Ev'n then o're Death I shall a Triumph gain,
And the best part of me shall still remain.
PROLOGUE to PERSEU'S SATYRS Imitated.
I don't pretend (as some of late I've seen)
To've ev'r been drunk with th' Muses Hypocrene;
Nor on Parnassus Top to've laid me down,
And there dreamt Lawrels should my Temples crown
And waking find my self a Poet grown.
I'me none of those; I leave the Muses Seats,
And silent Groves, those shady blest Retreats,
To th' happier Laureats of the Age, whose Fame
Obscures the Glory of my meaner Name.
Yet tho' a rude, unpolish'd Muse I have,
A place among the rest I humbly crave.
What is't that makes the chattering Parrot learn
His Masters name, and when he calls discern?
Want makes Mute Birds an humane Accent get;
And Poets write in spite of Sence and Wit.
From Want the best supplies of Fancy grow,
To her the invention of most Arts we owe.
Should Birds but once the use of Money find,
(Money the adored hope of frail mankind!)
Then Crows and Pies would learn to course a Muse
They'd learn to dedicate and to abuse,
And all the Tricks that flattering Poets use.
MARTIAL. Epigr. 3d. of 8th. Book Imitated.
LEave off for shame; thy scribling itch give o're
The world hath seen enough of thine before,
Nev'r think to vent the gawdy Trifles more.
Nor think by writing more to raise thy Name,
Already all the world hath heard thy Fame!
Nay ev'n when those vast Marbles shall decay,
On which fond men a vain Foundation lay
For future fame; when these rich Piles shall be
Crumbled to common dust and slighted lye;
Yet then shall happy I remain alone
Admir'd, belov'd, and read by ev'ry one
I said.— Genius
"When strait my Rhriming thus reply'd.
Can'st thou (ungrateful) leave that pleasing fire
That doth with such sweet Lays thy Breast inspire?
Tell me, what's sweeter then, when happy Ease
From business, gives the wearied Soul release,
To recreate the mind, and to compose
And in sweet Verse serener thoughts disclose?
Or doth the loftier Epic Strain more please?
To write the Toils of War then Calms of Peace?
Or th' Acts of fighting Heroes to display
In Verse as turbulent and rough as they?
That swelling Paedagogue with croking noise
Shou'd bawl thee out to gaping wond'ring Boys?
Or that the Tragick Story thou hast writ,
Should force some puling Damsel into th' Fit?
Let poring, grave, dull Sots write so, whose Sence,
Hatcht by Night Study's doth at length commence
A pompous Nonsence, far less pure, and bright
Then th' gloomy, smoking flame by which they write.
Do thou with gentile poignant Satyr write,
Such as may please, and heal, as well as bite;
And yet so Keen, that he that reads may know
His Vices touch't, and blush, and mend them too.
Thus, though thy Measures soft and humble be,
Yet ev'n Heroick Verse shall stoop to thee,
A Rural complaint of the Approach of VVinter.
Written in the Country. Oct. 28th. 1684.
A Lass he's gone!—farewel beloved Light!
Adieu blest Sun! nothing (alass) but Night,
Nought but corroding Cold, and gloomy Shade
Succeeds the mournful Exit thou hast made!
All Natures frame exhausts its self in sighs,
And cloth'd in Sable mourns thy Obsequies
Careless our gay attire away we throw,
And silent sorrow rests on ev'ry Brow,
Now no fair Nymphsith' Verdant Meadows play,
And by their presence make a brighter day;
No active Shepherds bath their pliant Limbs,
No Boats of pleasure grace the smiling Streams,
There's not one seen upon the very Thames.
Nor is it Men alone their sorrows vent;
Beasts groan their griefs, and as they can lament.
But Plants, (tho' the Learned Sence deny,)
Yet they the greatest greif do testify,
They do not barely Mourn, but also Dye.
This they most do; but if by chance there's one
Whose Stock of moisture don't decay so soon,
Who above the common Fate erects his head,
And's bravely green when th' weaker Plants are dead,
Some cold North Wind blasts his aspiring Top,
Cr in a Grave of Snow he's swallow'd up;
So forc'd to shrink into his warmer Urn,
There lies expecting thy long wish'd return.
But then as soon as thy refreshing Rays,
Warm our cold Climate and renew our days;
With joyful leaps it rends the parting ground,
And then more verdant then before is found.
But e're that happy time approach agen
Winter will shew a long and tedious Scene;
Winter the years old age, old age's death,
That chills all pleasure with its freezing breath!
But fond complaints, and fruitless sighs are vain,
In spite of all, the Plague must still remain;
And to bewail what can't a voided be
Is to encrease, not ease the Malady;
Then to dull Age lets pining care bequeath,
And sorrow to the fancy'd Ghosts beneath;
Let all but Mirth be banish't quite from us,
We'll swim in pleasures, and with joys carouse,
Each day shall sprightly Wine our brains inspire,
That shall supply the want of Phoebus fire,
That raise the fancy, kindle brisk desire;
Then ev'ry night we'l tast the Fruits of Love,
Thro' all its secret ravishing Labyrinths rove;
And melting in the Arms of some kind she,
We'l lye quite buried in Felicity.
Where eager Kisses, and a close Embrace
Shall Winters curst Idea quite deface.
CLAƲDIAN. EPIGR. de Sphaerâ Archimedis. Imitated.
ONce as Jove travers'd o're his usual rounds,
To view the world's vast face and utmost bounds;
By chance he spy'd, where Archimedes stood
With thought full Brain to make his Project good;
He saw his peircing, curious Eye observe
Lest any motion from his course shou'd swerve;
But all was right; this Jove admir'd, and strait
Return'd to Heav'n, there mounts his lofty Seat,
And smiling thus the encircling Gods doth treat.
To what vast heights is humane Art now grown?
They scorn to coppy Earthly things alone,
But with bold Wing far above these they'r flown,
And ev'n at my hard task they bravely aim,
And cast in Glass the great Creations Frame.
For in a small, and brittle Globe we see
(That which before none ever knew but We;)
The several Motions of the Stars and Spheres,
And all the Laws of Fate to humane Eyes appear.
The hidden Spring doth a sure motion give
To all the Orbs who move, and seem to live.
Here, the bright Sun his dazling Beams displays
And guilds a feigned Zodiack with his Rays:
Whilst the pale Mistress of the guilty Night
Seems to receive from him her borrow'd Light.
Nay here so lively all the Motions are
You'd think the Worlds Epitome it were.
The affrightn'd World shall now no more admire
Salmoneus feigned Thunder, or his Fire.
So small an attempts beneath his nobler Soul,
His Fancy knows no limits but the Whole.
Ʋpon the slighting of his Friends Love.
LOve guides my hand, and shews me what to write,
That (thou) mayst know 'tis she that doth Indite.
When Love's concern'd to make her language known,
She doth by Numbers soft, and sweet, bemoan
(Thy silence) enough to make her sigh, and groan.
She fears that thy sweet Natur's wing'd away,
Because not touch'd, by its enlivening Ray:
She doubts some Veil has overspread its Light,
Which threatens more than an Aegyptian Night;
Wherein nought but sad mournful Clouds appear,
Enough to strike thee into endless fear.
When she on every side doth cast an Eye,
To see (perhaps) if once she might descry
Her pleasing, look'd for Object passing by.
There's nought appears, her Vigilance in vain;
Her careful Eye is recompenc'd with pain.
Then down she sinks, bereav'd of her sweet breath
The only sign, that now she's seiz'd with Death.
Weep now ye Heavens; and let each pearly tear
Accompany mounting grief, and trembling fear.
For since Love's dead, the Beauty of our Isle,
Its more than madness to attempt a smile;
This rather would become some pompous, nuptial train,
Than him, whose Heart feels griefs insulting pain.
When once a Jewel's lost, how careful is each Eye,
In prying out this Author of our misery?
No less is he depriv'd of courting rest
When Love has left a drooping, panting Breast.
Curs'd be that Person, who has chas'd thee hence,
Heaven, with this black crime, can ne're dispence!
Curs'd be that time, that e're she fix'd on thee,
The Mother of such unheard of Cruelty.
Curs'd be that place, in which she did impart.
Her amorous smiles, her most alluring Art.
In fine, a Curse all Curses else above
On her, that dar'd to stab our darling Love!
May never once Loves Charms attend thee more,
Till thou attones for what is done before.
What have I said! this, this, can never be
Done by the hands of basest Treachery.
No, no: we must the Gods above implore,
Who only can the dead, to life restore.
Be propitious then, ye ruling Pow'rs above,
And send us back our hence departed Love.
That we may see her raise a towring frame,
Adorn'd with lustre from her radiant flame
Too great to be exprest by empty name.
Bless us but in this, and then shall we
In reverence bow, a lowly, thankful Knee,
Before the Throne of your own sacred Deity.
Our words, like well tun'd Instruments shall be,
Breathing forth nought but grateful Harmony.
Our Actions, they shall pay you Tribute too,
For all is yours, when once we are blest by you.
Some ELEGIES out of OVID's AMOURS Imitated.
BOOK the 1st. ELEGY the 3d.
To his Mistress.
THou Charming kindler of my new born fires
(Just are my Prayers and modest my desires)
I do not ask precisely you would love
Give onely cause that I may ne're remove.
Is this to much? but bear to be ador'd;
This sure the greatest Goddess might afford.
Receive a Slave devoted still to you
That will be constant and that can be true;
Not usher'd in by Titles or Estate
The bold Encouragers of th' sawcy Great
My Fate in both at best's but moderate.
But yet in Wits abundantly supply'd
What in those gawdy Trifles is deny'd;
My Manners too for my fond passion move,
Modest Sincerity doth my Pleader prove,
And sure 'tis something also that I love,
I'm not of that Fantastick rambling race,
Whom each a while, and no one long can please,
Debauch't from truth by every fresher Face;
You shall all my Amorous thoughts employ,
Be still my onely care, my onely joy,
With you I'de always live, with you l'de gladly dye:
Vouchsafe your self a subject for my Pen,
I'le make my Verse as Glorious as my Theme;
And Verse to Beauty lasting Fame can give,
By Verse fair Io doth her self survive,
By Verse Europa yet, and Leda live.
Thus also we will share the like renown,
Through all the world both equally be known,
My Muse shall make your name as lasting as my own.
OVID Book the 3d, ELEGY the 7th.
WOuld any still neglected Arts adore?
Or fondly think that Verse has any power?
True; Wit was priz'd as sacred heretofore,
And held more pretious than the shining Oar,
But now 'tis down-right Nonsence to be poor:
Without success my Books my fair one please,
Whilst I the freedom want, she grants to these,
She praises, yet excludes th' applauded man,
Poor witty I rove up and down in vain.
A wealthy upstart she to me prefers,
Rais'd by his wounds, and thus enricht with Scars:
Fool! can'st with him in fond Embraces joyn,
Receive his Dalliance or afford him thine?
The Head thou dandlest hath a Helmet bore,
The side that serves thee wore a Sword before,
That Hand whose Rings now such a prospect yeild,
'Stead of this Gold wore once the baser Shield;
And touch but t'other that has been embru'd
In some poor slaughter'd Enemies reeking Blood:
Can'st thou then suffer such a hand as this?
Ah where's thy former wonter Tenderness?
Behold his Scars those marks of Battles fought,
What e're he has he with his Body bought;
Perhaps he'l brag himself what Foes he has slain
Can he tell this? and can he then obtain?
Can you be such a Slave to sordid Gain?
Whilst I the Vot'ry of deserving Wit
(Why should Wits Sons to those of Wars submit?)
With fruitless Numbers, unavailing Powers
Sing slighted Verses at obdurate doors.
Learn who are wise, some thriving art of Gain,
Not that which Idle we admire in vain
But that of Fights, of War, and a Campaign.
Instead of scribling Verses lead a Troop,
This, Homer might, this shou'd have been thy Scope.
Jove well advis'd of Golds Almightiness,
Transform'd himself to what he knew would please,
Turn'd Bribe, and so subdu'd his greedy Miss.
Till then the Father bore a jealous Eye,
Each door was barr'd, and ev'n the Nymph was coy
But when the Golden Lover wisely came,
Less nice, she kindly entertain'd his flame.
Not so in peacesul Saturn's Government,
When close each Metal in Earths Prison pent,
Heav'n gave no Wealth, but better Blessings sent;
Corn freely springing from the teeming ground,
Fruits and i'th sturdy Oak sweet Honey found.
None strove with pains to make the soil more kind,
No fence particular Estates confin'd.
The quiet Ocean knew no cleaving Oars
Whilst all were bounded by their utmost Shores.
Subt' [...]y vain man did 'gainst himself devise,
To his own hurt too witty and too wise.
What did it prosit Cities to enclose,
Weapons to frame, and thus decide by blows?
How foolish was that curiosity,
That egg'd us first to try the pathless Sea!
Land had suffic'd a modest just desire,
But we proud things must stretch our knowledge higher,
'Tis strange we don't to Heav'n it self aspire.
We do as far, as in our power lies;
Thence grew the numerous pack of Deities,
Heroes made Gods and Seated in the Skies.
From Earths dark Womb we massy Treasures tear,
Which found the daring, plundring Souldiers share.
No place falls to the poor; 'tis an Estate
Preferment gets; the rich prove only Great.
Let 'em be so, thus may they still encrease,
Transact th' Affairs of War, th' Employs of Peace;
But let 'em not invade Love's property;
Let ev'n the poor enjoy his Mistress free.
But now howe're in Vertue she excel,
She's taken Captive at the rich mans will.
For me she dreads her Husbands jealousy,
For me suspects a Guardians prying Eye,
Let me but give, and both shall humbly fly.
Revenge, ye Gods, for sure Revenge is just;
Consume this Wealth with everlasting rust,
And turn so ill us'd Treasure to its native Dust.
BOOK the 3d. ELEGY the 10th.
To his false Mistress, from whose Love he cannot get free.
MUch I've endur'd, my patience long opprest,
Tir'd with ill usage is o'recome at last;
Begone fond Love, and leave my wearied Breast.
Freed from my Chain, I blush to think I bore,
What without shame I underwent before.
Conqu'rour I proudly spurn poor vanquisht Love,
Tho' long first, I at last such power prove.
Go on, persist, you'l ne're the pains repent;
The bitt'rest Physick's oft convenient.
And have I then so oft repuls'd, refus'd,
The cold hard Ground for my sad Pillow us'd?
Have I, whilst you some Rival blest within,
Without a waiting, slavish Servant been!
Have I seen more the happy man pass by,
Feeble with Love, and overtoyl'd with joy?
What's worse, has he seen me too in that place?
Gods, may my worst of Foes prove such disgrace.
Han't I obsequiously through all the Town,
Gallanted, treated, Coach't you up and down?
Lov'd for my sake, whilst in my company,
Others you pleas'd because ador'd b [...]ver [...]
What should I add your perjur'd Treacheries,
Mock Vows, sham Promises, and jilting Lyes?
Yours and your Lovers silent stoln commerce,
By purpos'd nods, known signs, and amorous tweers,
When my loath'd prefence barr'd a free discourse?
'Twas said, she's sick; with eager hast I flew,
And found she was not to my Rival so.
This and much else thus long l've tamely bore;
Get some new Fool; for I'le drudge on no more.
My Ship at last has gain'd the happy Port,
And hears now safe the roaring Waves with sport.
Cease your vain wheedles, they'l no longer pass;
l'm not the fond, believing Fool I was.
Yet, ah! two thwarting passions strongly move
My doubtful Breast; hate one way, t'other Love;
And Love, I fear, at last will Victor prove.
I'le hate you if I can, if not, at least
I'le love unwillingly; The Captive Beast
Likes not his Yoke, and yet is with it prest.
Fly I your Crimes? your stronger Charms restrain;
Those I do hate, but those I would in vain.
Thus can I nor without, nor with thee live,
And scarce I know, what I my self would have.
Oh, that you were less false, or else less fair!
Such faults, su [...] [...]eauty too, too different are.
Your Guilt claims [...]te, your Face does Love intreat,
Ah me! This still more prevalent is then that.
Spare, then by all the ties of former joy,
By all those Gods so oft y' are perjur'd by;
And by my Deity, that face of thine,
By those bright Eyes, with Love have made me blind'
Whate're you are, you shall be ever mine.
Consider only which y' had rather have,
A willing Servant, or a murm'ring Slave.
No, let me wisely improve Necessity,
Add Sails, and with the pow'rful Winds comply,
Since they'l drive me to Love, in spight of me.
The Golden Age.
FAir Golden Age, not because Rivers purl'd
With Streams of Milk to feed the new-born world,
And Virgin Honey dropt from every Tree,
Natures own Hive for the industrious Bee;
When the Earth untill'd her Plenty freely gave,
And all the labour was to wish and have;
When stingless Snakes for love not fear did stray
And in the Woods securely lost there way:
Nor did above one hovering Cloud appear,
But undivided Heav'n and Earth were near,
And if the Gods make Heav'n, then Heav'n was here:
Twas always Spring, and always like to hold,
And younger grew as Time, and years grew old,
No Storm had rais'd those Seas that lay beneath,
The Infant Winds as yet could hardly breath,
Too weak to sill a Sail, or conduct home
Or war or wealth, which more than War has over come,
Fair Golden Age but not alone for these
From something greater grew thy happiness!
Happy alone because that empty name
That airy Nothing, built on lighter Fame,
That Title without substance, sensless thing
The Worlds great Idol, and the Courtiers King
Falsly call d Honour (our worst Enemy)
Had not imbitter'd Love with Cruelty.
Nor bounded with harsh Laws those Amorous fires
Which dye and languish in consin'd desires.
When Laws were Golden as the Age, and free
As Natures self, Love where best pleases thee.
Twas then that to the bubling of a spring
Love first compos'd his voice and learn't to sing,
Love that was so all o're, and did not know
Himself, the use either of Torch or Bow.
Swains of themselves, and Nymphs untought did love,
And in a Thousand ways their passion prove,
Mixing with every word a softer smile,
And whispers longer Kisses did beguile.
Virgins blusht not to show their new-blown Rose,
And all their Beauties did unask't disclose,
The unripe Apples of their breast, which now
Are hid with leaves, and ripe but for one grow.
Passionate Lovers by the fountains playd,
Quenching those flames there which their glances made.
Thou Honour first of all didst hide that Spring
Increast's the fire, yet didst no Water bring,
None to asswage the Thirst which inward turns
And on itself for want of fuel burns;
Thou first gavest Laws toth' motion of the Eye
Toughtst it to frown, disdain, and Cruelty,
Didst in a hood imprison that bright hair
Which was before so courted by the Ayre,
And hast such Reins on all our Passions laid
That Words nay Looks are of thy Laws afraid;
From thee it is, O Honour, that we prove
Thieves to procure, what was the gift of Love,
[...]nd all that we by thy Atchievements gain
Is that we may with greater sense complain.
But say great Power who every where dost sway
Whom Love, and Nature, as we them obey,
Ruler of Kings, why waits thy greatness here
Where Pride and Luxury dare not appear?
Alass these Hutts thy Lustre cannot hold
There's Love, no honour in the Shepherds fold;
Go rather and disturb some Gallants breast
Go break the Souldiers or the Courtiers rest,
And leave us to our selves, who chuse to be
As little minded by as we mind thee.
A poor neglected rout, who would retrieve
The Golden Age, and by their Pattern live!
Let's love, for Life and Years have no long truce,
Since one hour Thousand changes can produce!
Let's love: the Sun that every evening dyes
And all night buried in the Oce [...]n lies,
Revives next Morn. with an Illustrious Ray
And first, renews his Age and then the Day:
But when our cloudy day of Life is done
Eternal Sleep and Night succeeds our Sun.
H. W
To SYLVIA.
J Know not whether all these miseries
Which Lovers prove, their fears, their jealousies,
Their constant Love, their Services and Prayrs,
Their Sighs, their Tears, their Hopes and their Dispairs
Can ever fully recompensed be
Should they obtain their wish't felicity;
Or that a Woman when she loves at best,
Cures half the Wounds she made i'th Lovers breast.
But tho't be true, that the best comes at last
And that sweets, with some bitter, sweter tast,
That happiness by waiting does improve,
And frowns and sightings make us dearer love;
Yet give not me this greater Happiness
O Love I'll be contented with a less;
That on some more deserving soul bestow,
Who would its worth by former mis'ries know.
Rather let me my Love obtain
With little service and less pain,
There need no sighs, there need no tears,
Nor to increase our Love rude fears,
Let it alone such seas'ning have
As help the gust but not deprave:
A sweet Repulse or two for tryal,
A little Coyness, no Denial,
An am'rous War that may produce
In Hearts agre'd or peace or truce.
H. W.
To LOVE.
O Love, in what schole are thy Precepts taught,
Who has thy Art into a Method brought?
Or could hmself so great a Master prove
To give sure rules for so uncertain Love?
Or trace the mind, when with thy wings it flies,
And hides its soaring head above the skies?
This learned Athens never could declare,
Nor Aristotle's Schole when he taught there:
Apollo in Parnassus reads not love,
Like one that has't by instinct from above;
He speaks but coldly, has no voice of fire,
As those whom Love himself deigns to inspire,
Nor can his elevated Fancy rise
Equal to th' height of thy grand mysteries.
'Tis Thou, O Love, Thine only Master art,
Thou only thy own Precepts canst impart,
Teaching unletter'd souls in a fair eye
To read what thou wrot'st there, their Destiny.
Tis thou unty'st their tongues, and mak'st them break
Not silence only, but in Numbers speak;
And, what's more strange, (O hidden Eloquence
Of Love, and its more powerful influence!)
Makst an half and unspoken word do more
Than softest strains of Rhetorick could before,
And with a sigh canst greater passion move
Than a set speech from one that knows not love.
For silence has its voice, and can beseech
Coming from Love: Silence it self's a Speech.
Then let who's will turn o're Philosophy,
And search for love where love did never lie,
I'le learn by rote in some fair Ladies eye:
And tho my Rural Muse cannot reherse
Like them who clothe the Loves in lofty verse,
Yet the most losty verse shall to my strains
Stand up like barren hills to fruitful plains;
For though they're only carv'd on some rough-tree,
Yet growing like my love my Verse shall be.
H. W.
LOVE'S Religion.
I.
WHat fools are all we Lovers, thus to own
Thy strange unnatural Religion?
That makes us all a Sacrifice
(For 'twould be Heresie not to die,)
To some fair Idol She:
Nay we are Martyrs too for this,
And must endure the fire,
Yet to our Heav'n, alass, are ne're the nigher!
II.
For lo! my She dislikes what'ere I say,
And chides me so, as if't were sin to pray:
Go then some milder tenents teach
Thy lovely Priesthood Womankind;
Ah, gently change their mind!
Ah! do but Repentance preach,
And thou shalt quickly see
The wiser world turn Proselytes for Thee.
III.
Me thinks thy Saint should be compassionate,
To pity wrongs, and to prevent our fate:
Yet such are beauteous Women grown,
Whom all their Lovers canonize,
Or stile their Deities.
But when I make my Mistress one.
With them I disagree,
And only say, that She is very She.
F. W.
The UNION.
I.
LEt dull Philosophers the ign'rant tell
That Souls are indivisible;
We find their rules do not prove always true
Tis but one Soul informs us two;
So by one Loadstone touch'd, as We by Love,
Two distant Needles to the same point move.
II.
Go now, and ask thy jealous kindred, why
They thee to love thy self deny.
For tis just so, our Love's a Phaenix grown,
And we are eminently one;
Such Miracles our Sympathy can do,
That I no longer am my self, but you.
III.
Then let's not talk, But Kindred disagree;
Prithee what's That to Thee and Me?
Our Love's the worme, they've try'd so oft to kill
By separating us, yet still
Mistaken fools! we mock your subtile art,
This, tho divided, lives in every part.
F. W.
TO HIS much Honoured Friend and Relation Mr. FRANCIS WILLIS Merchant at GREENWICH, Upon his discovery of a Weed in Virginia, which is a present Remedy against the venom of the RATTLE-SNAKES there.
AS, when Apollo with his artfull hand
The Python slew, and clear'd th' infected Land;
The joyful Muses crowded round their King,
And every Poet did the mighty Triumph sing:
So, as her duty, SIR, my grateful Muse
Does such a Subject, such a Conquest choose
To celebrate: For (till you sail'd away,
And to those coasts your Learning did convey,
Where Salvage Nature long unquestion'd lay,
Proud of those ills, which at her dire command
Infectious Serpents scatter'd through the Land.)
Ten thousand Deaths in armour did appear,
As if the Fates quarter'd their Legions there
To kill, and tyrannize; whilst none could be
Secure from the bold glittering Enemy.
But soon at your approach these Ills did cease,
And health regain'd an universal peace.
For you well-vers'd in arts had quickly spy'd
What Med'cines in this little Plant lay hid;
What Sovereign virtues in this Weed did dwell,
Like Princes forster'd in a Shepherds Cell:
Which on the Snakes impos'd a rigid Law,
Constrain'd their rage, and kept the Fates in awe.
So that if after this they venom threw,
'Twas out of pride to be ore-power'd by You.
For this (Great SIR) such praises you may claim
As none can pay, nor shall your sacred Name
Be next to Rawleigh's in the book of Fame;
Rawleigh, who only Honour here pursu'd,
And the wild people, not their foes, subdu'd
By force of Arms; but to save lives is more,
Than 'twas to conquer the whole Land before.
By FRAN. WILLIS, Fellow of NEW-COLL.
HORACE, Book the First,
ODE the 21. Paraphrased.
I.
BEgin, begin Diana's praise,
Ye lovely Nymphs in soft Harmonious Lays,
Soft as your Sex, and charming as your eyes;
And all ye blooming Youths combine
To make the beauteous Quire:
Tune, tune the speaking Lyre,
And young Apollo with Diana joyn:
Next let your Hymns, that kindle Gods above,
Latona's fame declare,
Latona's, Heaven's peculiar care,
The joy, and darling of Almighty JOVE.
II.
Diana sing, ye Nymphs, Diana loves
The Chrystal streams, and shady groves;
She loves the pleasant woods that grow,
And hang o're Algidum's cool brow;
She in green Cragus doth delight,
Or where thick Forrests spread
Around dark Erymanthus head,
That yields us safe retreats from day, and pleasant scenes of Night.
III.
Ye Noble youths with equal strife reherse,
How on green Tempe, Phoebus flowry seat,
Eternal Springs do wait:
Or in immortal verse
Fair Delos Isle applaud,
Delos the cradle of the God,
Whose shoulder's all divine,
Grac'd with a golden Harp, and golden Quiver shine.
IV.
He, He mov'd by your charming prayers,
(For what God can regardless lie,
When Youth and Beauty courts, or can their suit deny?)
Will banish far from Caesar's peaceful seat
The dismal noise of Wars;
Will make the famine, and the plague retreat,
The haughty Persians to oppose,
To tyrannize and triumph o're our foes,
And do the work of Caesar's sword, the mighty work of Fate.
F. W.
SENECA's Hercules Furens. Act. 1. Chorus.
FEw are the Lights we now in Heaven can view,
And ev'n those few are faint and dying too.
The Night o'recome calls in each wandring star,
And lagging Lucifer brings up the rear.
The Constellation, that ne're knew the Sea,
Turns but its Chariot, and calls up the Day.
The Sun just rising o're the mountains, guilds
With scatter'd rays of light the joyful fields,
And for a while the Moon departing yields.
Loath'd Labour wakes, and rouses drowsie cares,
Unlocks each breast, and every house unbars.
The Sheep unfolded from their hurdles pass,
And on the dewy mountains stragling graze.
The soft young Heifer plays upon the Plain,
And emptied Dams recruit their Tets again.
The wanton Kid runs o're the pleasant Meads,
And wildly wandring sports by turns, and feeds.
The chirping Birds on boughs their joy express,
And in each Note the welcome Day confess.
The daring Seaman boldly hoists up Sayl,
And trusts a promising Sky, a gentle Gale;
Uncertain yet what after may befall.
The greedy Fisher lies upon the Cheat,
Oft baulkt he still pursues the false deceit,
And still renews the unsuccessful bait.
Lucky sometimes he gazes at his prey,
Wondring at th' fortune of the happy day,
Whilst trembling Lines the nibling Fish betray.
These are th' Employments of the harmless life,
Blest in sost ease, and undisturb'd with strife;
Where a small house with a few fruitful fields,
The sweet'st content to its glad Owner yields.
Not so in Cities; the tumultuous Cares,
Uncertain Hopes, jealous, tormenting Fears,
Still whisk, like whirlwinds, every where about,
And find each private, secret corner out,
Here one with some Petition to his Grace
Submissive waits two hours for access,
And ten to one his aim at last may miss.
There a rich Miser's striving to attain
To greater wealth, and knows no end of Gain;
Never contented, he still aims at more,
Is ever heaping, and is ever poor.
Here a fond Ass swells bloated up with Praise,
Which the vain, empty, fickle people raise;
Values himself upon't, and strait grows proud
To be the ageant of th' unthinking Crowd.
And there each Term for hire great pleading Boys
Let out their Tongues to jangling, strife, and noise.
But few, ah! few are They, who care or strive
To gain true quiet, and to happy live;
Who from a sence of Time's great preciousness,
Catch at the fleeting minutes as they pass,
And wisely to themselves secure that Now,
Which ne're returns, if idly once let go.
Haste then and live, no pleasing Joys delay,
But timely seize on pleasures whilst you may.
Life hurries o're its short, soon finish'd race,
And hasty years whirl on with eager pace.
The diligent Fates still our life's thread spin on,
They ne're undo what they have once begun,
Nor idely e're the fatal work prolong,
Yet heedless we still search new dangers out,
Seek ways to bring an early Death about,
And our unfinish'd Thread by our own rashness cut.
Headlong half way our Destiny we meet,
Forestall our ruine, and prevent our Fate.
Too much the Heroe to his end does haste,
Which of it self approaches but too fast.
The regular Fate [...] at their due seasons come,
Each in his order must receive his doom.
None e're, when call'd, behind may lagging stay,
None may prolong his set, appointed day;
When once we're summon'd, we must all obey.
Let others then endeavour after Fame,
And strive to purchase an eternal Name;
Let others in triumphant Chariots ride,
With gawdy Honours, and with empty Pride;
Humbly may I, free from all being Great,
Enjoy a safe, and an obscure retreat
So I grey hairs and old age may attain,
Things which the busie, restless, seldom gain,
Unless before their times they come with cares and pain.
Thus still, tho homely, the low Fortune's sure,
Whilst splendid Greatness never is secure.
SENECA's Agamemnon. Act. 1. Chorus.
FOrtune, thou Grand Impostor, what a cheat
Is [...] that good, thou seem'st to give the Great,
[...]cious shew for real substance caught!
How steep's the Hight, how false on which they stand,
And yet how few the pleasures they command!
Soft, easie, quiet, sits not on a Throne,
Nor can a Monarch call one day his Own,
Care after care still harrasses his mind;
One storm blown o're, another's still behind.
Not the wild Waters of the wanding Tide
Are half such various, such unsteady Things,
As are th' uneven Fates of restless Kings.
They Dread at once, and to be Fear'd,
Ev'n most, with what they most desire, scar'd.
The Night it self gives them no safe Retreat,
Business and Danger still attend the Great.
Ev'n Sleep, the general refuge of all cares,
Calms not their Troubles, nor dispells their Fears.
Besides, What States have been so pow'rful known,
That have not been by cruel Wars o'rethown,
And by ambitious Monarchs strifes undone?
Faith, Justice, Shame, Truth, Honor, Chastity,
And ev'n the least regard of any Tye,
Avoid all Courts, from ev'ry Palace flie.
Pride, Jars, and Factions in their stead appear,
And Fury, Envy, in each Brest dwells there.
These still remain, still threaten ruine nigh,
And surely still, where e're they are, destroy.
Yet should both Wars and private Treason cease,
This wo'nt secure poor Monarchs happiness.
Each Great thing's ev'n opprest by its own weight;
The mighty Load's too vast for feeble Fate.
Thus when full Sails swell with a prosp'rous wind,
We fear the Gale because it is too kind.
The Tow'r, that proudly does to Heav'n aspire,
Finds but thereby the rainy Tempests nigher.
And in those Groves, where thickest shades are cast,
Lightning the tallest Oaks does soonest blast.
The loftiest Mountains feel he Thunder most,
And those Gross bodies, that most bulk do boast,
Are ev'n by that, to Sickness more expos'd.
The largest Oxen we for slaughter chuse,
Whilst the small Herd we let to pasture loose.
What Fate exalts, it will again undo,
And lifts but up that it may overthrow.
Whilst things are low, more mean, and moderate,
Enjoy a lasting and enduring Date.
Happy then He, who pleas'd with his own chance,
Seeks not too far his Fortune to advance,
Trusts not his Vessel to the faithless Deep,
But nigh the shore does more securely keep.
SONG.
I.
I Cannot sigh and wish alone,
Tho to speak may be in vain;
I ne're can be afraid to own
A Passion, I must entertain.
If then this Address accuse,
Blame the faulty Charms, not Me;
'Tis but just they should excuse,
Since they caus'd this Liberty.
II.
A mod'rate Passion unreveal'd
Smother'd in my Brest had been,
As dying Embers may conceal'd
Burn a while, and not be seen,
But when Wit and Beauty joyn,
Such a fire as mine to raise,
Who can its fierce rage confine?
It must needs burst forth, and blaze.
The Baffled SWAIN.
THE Muses Darling, Pride of all the Plains,
Daphnis the soft the sweetest of the Swains
Long reign'd in Love, for every Nymph he view'd
He caught, he only lookt and he subdu'd:
But now the melancholly Youth retires
Thro shady Groves and wanders thro the Briars
Sad and alone: at last beneath a Shade
Of spreading Elm and Beech supinely laid
He sigh'd, he shook his head, and thus he said:
When I so long, so faithfully did woe
And did what Constancy and Truth could do,
Why is my Suit refus'd, my Prayers in vain.
And warm Endeavors damp't by cold disdain?
Must Slights the lean rewards of Vertue prove!
Unhappy Daphnis fatal in thy Love!
Long drought the flowers and storms the labouring Bee,
And unsuccessful Love hath ruin'd Thee.
This Heaven (had I observ'd the Omen well)
As conscious of my Fate did oft foretel;
It show'd my flattering hope should disappear,
And wast like Vapors tost in flitting Air;
Last night when careful of my Flocks I went
To see my Lambs were fed, and Folds were pent,
A Flame shone round my head, but soon the Light
Decay'd, and all around stood deepest Night.
But is Ʋrania so averse to Love!
Could none of all the Rival Shepherds move?
Ah Aegon how I envy thy success!
Thy Fortune greater, though thy Charms were less:
Without a long Fatigue, and tedious Suit
The Door was opened, and you reach't the Fruit:
Oh how I pine at thy surprizing joys!
Dye Daphnis, she is partial in her choice.
Yet once I hop'd (what cannot Love perswade?)
More kind returns from the obligeing Maid:
Her Looks were soft, smiles on her Cheeks did lye,
No cloudy frowns obscur'd the pleasing Sky:
Nor could I think that e're the time would come
When constant Love should prove the Lovers doom
The Flowers I pluckt, the Garlands which I wove
She took and wore as Badges of my Love:
She heard my Songs, nor did m [...] Art contemn,
And sometimes she would stoop to be my Theme:
Damaetas envy'd, Colin tun'd my Lays,
Whilst she sate by, and gladly heard her praise:
Sooner shall Dolphins o're the Mountains swim,
Does graze on Floods, and Bees forget their thime,
Than I that day when with a smile she led
The joyful Aegon to her promis'd Bed,
With what a high disdain he marcht along,
And proudly lookt on the despairing throng!
Yet he ne're fed the Flocks, ne're pent the Fold,
Nor bore the Summer's heat, nor Winter's cold;
But he had Wealth, and that alone betray'd
The heedless mind of the unthinking Maid,
Curst be the wretch that first did Gold dispense,
And rob'd the happy Plains of Innocence!
Am I refus'd because my Suit was plain,
The artless Courtship of an humble Swain?
You know me not, nor yet the pains I took
Whilst Aegon slept to feed the weary Flock,
How often have the Nymphs beheld me sweat
Beneath the fury of the Summer's heat,
How often seen the Frost bind up my hair,
And cry'd, ah Daphnis worn with too much care!
But what avails my care, what boots my pain,
But only yeilds a larger Subject to complain.
To SYLVIA.
NAY prithee Sylvia be not coy,
My Dear, my Life, my greatest Joy;
A Thousand Kisses dearest Heart,
Unto thy Votary impart:
But yet not such as Infants give,
When they begin to love, and live:
Not like a Sisters sapless Kiss,
Which has no tast of future bliss:
But such, my Dearest, such alone
As in the Marriage-bed are known;
Oh! may they have as great a gust
As e're th' Almighty pow'r of Lust
Can give. At least such may they be
As those the young fair wanton She
Gives her belov'd, when first a flame
(For which as yet she wants a Name)
She feels thro ev'ry joynt to run,
And inwardly does melt and burn;
Like Veins of Metals, Earth, and Stone,
With Subterran'ous fires unseen, unknown.
How sweet, how close do Virgins kiss,
At th' dawning of some greater bliss!
Come now begin.— Nay don't delay,
In kissing let us spend the Day;
And when the tell-tale Day-light's in
Afresh we will our Joys begin.
The Pimping Night alone shall know
What you, and I, my Dear, then do.
Some silly Fools I know there are
Who only love the Girl that's fair,
Are pleas'd with Pictures sensless Toys,
As ignorant as they of joys;
And have they one dry Kiss obtain'd
They think they have all the world gain'd:
I love an Airy, lively Lass:
'Tis Life, and Action gives a Grace,
Be [...]ond the brightness of an Angels face.
'Tis such a Lass alone can move
My Passion, she only make me love,
Who Kiss for Kiss, will love for love return,
And with a flame as pure as mine will burn;
Who when into my Arms she's come.
Makes wanton Sallies with her Tongue;
Her Passion thus, like harmless Doves,
In pleasing sighs and murmers proves;
And when moist Kisses make my flame
Wax dim, make me look pale and wan;
Her dying sighs will Life inspire,
And fan th' almost extinguish'd Fire
Increase its heat and raise it high'r.
If thus, my Sylvia, thus you'l prove,
Make such requitals of my Love;
And let me gently squeeze your Breast,
Now sport, now on those Hillocks rest:
And if by chance I lose my way
You will be kind and let me stray
Thro' those by Paths which Love shall show,
Unto the happy Land below.
No greater Blessings will I crave,
(Nor can I greater, would I greater have;)
Less than a King I can not be,
With such a boundless Liberty.
Kings and their Gold I will despise,
And all their gawdy Vanities,
And only Thee dear Sylvia will I prize.
FINIS.
A Catalogue of Books Printed for, and Sold by Anthony Stephens Bookseller in Oxford.
- Books in Octavo.
- LƲcretius in six Books, done into English by Mr. Creech Fellow of All-Souls Coll. in Oxford, the Third Edition.
- The Idylliums of Theocritus done out of Greek into English by Mr. Creech
- Odes, Satyrs, and Epistles of Horace, done into English by Mr. Creech.
- Mr. Oldhams Works Comp.
- The Anatomy of Human Bodies Epitomised, the Second Edition.
- An Account of the Divine Right, or Original of Government.
- Wit against Wisdom, or a Panegyrick upon Folly.
- Anacreon done out of Greek into English, by Mr. VVillis Fellow of New Coll.
- Contra Historiam Aristeae de LXX. Interpretibus, per H. Hody A. M. Coll. Wadhami Oxon.
- Dr. Tullii Enchiridion.
- Cor. Nepos. done into English by several Hands in the University of Oxford.
- The Elements of Euclid Explained in a plain but most easy method, Together with the use of every Proposition throughout the Mathematicks.
- In Quarto.
- A Brief Introduction to Geography.
- Cluverius Geog. cum fig. Amst.
- Stierii Philosophiae.
- In Duodecimo.
- Anthologia sex Selecta quaedam Poemata Italorum qui Latine Scripserunt.
- H. Grotius de veritate Relig. Christ. Am.