POEMS, &c.
On His Royal Highness's Deliverance from Shipwrack in the Gloucester, the Sixth of May, 1682.
‘Jamque Dies (ni fallor) adest quem semper deerbum, Semper honoratum, sic Dir voluistis, habebo.’
NO Art, no Change of Pencills can display
The various Fate of this important Day:
Nor knows the Muse what Numbers to employ
Sufficient for its Grief and for its Joy.
Consulting Heav'n determin'd to restore
Our Royal Heroe to the longing Shore;
Which fixt Decree no Chance cou'd countermand,
Nor Wind, nor Wave, nor more destructive Sand;
Nor all the crying Guilt and impious Rage
Of a most Factious and ingrateful Age;
Which yet in part the Blessing did destroy;
Nor could our Crimes admit the perfect Joy:
For in our Triumphs at his wish'd Return,
His Followers most dismal Wreck we mourn.
In vain the Muse would labour to express
That fatal Hour's unspeakable Distress:
Besides, if any Words such Grief could fit,
At best 'twere impious Art and cruel Wit:
'Twere Sin to bring the mournful Scene in view,
And wound our pious! Heroes Heart anew.
Too much the Pangs that then did rend his Breast,
By his most Savage Foes must be confest.
Such Agony that Minute seiz'd his Mind,
He thought the Care that sav'd his Life, unkind.
Ye mighty Spirits, You that then expir'd
With Hearts for any brave Adventure fir'd,
Let not your Ghosts repine that you did yield
To such tame Fate without a Foe in Field;
Without a Price for such Heroick Breath,
And Standards seiz'd to signalize your Death;
Without the Trophies of the Souldiers Toil,
Whole Groves of Ensigns gain'd, and Hills of Spoll,
Let no such Thought your rising Joys suppress,
Or make the happy Fields delight you less:
Such Honours were to former Worthies known,
And ev'ry Age has Spoils and Trophies shown;
But this new silent Method of your Fate,
Renown yet un-recorded does create:
While you from thence unequall'd Glory claim,
And stand unrivall'd in the Roll of Fame.
Then let Applause, so vast, so just as This,
Reach to your World of Joy, and raise your Bliss.
Rest pleas'd, that e'er you perisht, you could see
Your Royal Master from the Danger free;
That you his Safety hail'd with latest Breath,
And had his Tears to consecrate your Death.
Next, for the scatter'd Remnant, scarce secur'd
From that sad Lot their noble Mates endur'd,
While lab'ring Heav'n no Miracles did spare,
To second their indulgent Master's Care.
Let Angels sing the Goodness he exprest,
Condol'd their Susserings, and their Wants redrest,
While such Supplies his Bounty did convey,
As almost heal'd the Ruines of the day.
Such Vertue did Aeneas Breast employ,
Once more preserving the Remains of Troy;
His scatter'd Troop collecting on the Shore,
Sav'd now from Floods as from the Flames before.
O for a Maro of this Age, to raise
With equal Verse, our equal Hero's Praise!
Nor shall succeeding Times the Work disclaim,
That speak Great James his Suff'rings and his Fames.
How do I curse the Muse my Youth withdrew,
From gainful Science to the chiming Crew;
Yet when on his lov'd Name she lends her Aid,
I bless my Lot, and think my Grief's repaid.
Soon as you please, ye Pow'rs, my Frame consound,
Blend me with Brother Insects in the Ground;
Dissolve a Wretch, the Times and Fortune's Slave,
O'represt with Wrongs, and stretching for the Grave:
For ever shroud me in the peaceful Clay,
No more the Scorn of Fools, and Villains Prey.
Forgetting and forgotten by Mankind,
Giv'n all to Fate, no Atom left behind.
But Oh! whatever Songs of mine are grac't
With James his Deeds, let their Remembrance last:
To them, kind Heav'n, immortal Ages give,
Let me be lost; but let those Numbers live.
Indisposed.
I.
WHat tho' the restless Sun
Already has his Race begun?
Already summon'd to their pleasant Toyl,
The peaceful Tillers of the Soil;
What Comfort in his Lustre can I find,
If yet no chearful Glimpse begin
A glorious Morn within,
But Mists and Darkness still oppress my Mind?
II.
What Entertainment can it be,
To hear the tuneful Birds from ev'ry Tree,
With grateful Songs the rising day salute,
Unless my Fancy with the Musick suit?
If in my Thoughts I find no Harmony,
I shall (Alass!) as soon rejoyce,
To hear the Raven's doleful Volce;
Or be diverted with the Bell,
That Rings my dearest Friends untimely Knell.
III.
Whilst in my Breast the Weather's Fair,
I ne're enquire the Temper of the Air:
So Reason o're my Appetites bear sway,
I'm unconcern'd what Planet Rules the Day.
If husht and silent all my Passions lye,
The loudest Storms that rend the Sky,
Invite Repose, and make my Sleep more sound:
The Tempest in my Brest
Alone can break my Rest;
From Hurricanes abroad less harm is found
Than from the smallest Winds lodg'd Ʋnder-ground.
On a Diseased Old Man, who Wept at thought of leaving the World.
I.
SHame on thy Beard! That thou canst Bug-bears dread!
Fear Death whom thou so oft I ast seen,
So oft his Guest at Funerals hast been;
Thy self, I mean thy Better Half, already Dead!
The Tears were just, which at thy Birth did flow,
For then Alass! thou cam'st t'engage
The Miseries of Life, but now,
Thou art allow'd to quit the Tragick Stage;
Now to be careful to prolong the Scene,
And act thy Troubles o'er agen,
Is Folly, not to be forgiv'n, ev'n in thy doating Age.
II.
Full Fourscore Years (bless us! a dreadful space)
The World has us'd thee ill,
Abus'd thee to thy Face;
And Doatard, canst thou still
Solicite her Embrace?
In vain thou covet'st to enjoy
The haughty Dame, when Age and Pains
Have shrunk thy Nerves, and chill'd thy Veins,
Who to thy flourishing Years, was so reserv'd and coy.
III.
Can Cramps, Catarrhs, and Palsies be
Such charming Company?
What Pleasures can the Grave deprive
Thy Senses of? What Inconvenience give?
From which thou art exempted while alive?
At worst thou canst but have
Cold Lodging in the Grave;
Nor ly'st thou warmer now, tho' cover'd o'er
In Furr, till thy faint Limbs can bear no more:
Thou sleep'st each Night in so much Sear-Cloth bound,
Thou'dst need no more to lodge thee under-gruond.
IV.
Go, lay thy senseless Hopes of Health aside;
No longer Potions take,
No more Incisions make:
Let thy dull Flesh no more be scarify'd:
Resign, resign thy tainted Breath;
Consult with no Physician more, but Death:
When all thy Surgeons Instruments prove vain,
His never-failing Dart
Will bleed thee gently at thy Heart,
And let out Life, the Sourse of all thy Pain!
Let then thy Funeral Pile be made,
With Rosemary and Cypress grac't,
Aloft on it thy Carcass plac't;
Beside thee too thy Crutches laid:
Those Ʋtensils will thus oblige thee more,
Fomenting the kind Flame, then when they bore
Thy crazy and decrepit Limbs before!
TO Mr. FLATMAN, On his Excellent POEMS.
STrange Magick of thy Wit and Stile,
Which to their Griefs Mankind can reconcile!
While thy Philander's tuneful Voice we hear,
Condoling our disastrous State,
Toucht with a sense of our hard Fate,
We sigh perhaps, or drop a Tear;
But he the mournful Song so sweetly sings,
That more of Pleasure than Regret it brings,
With such becoming Grief
So sweetly sad, the Trojan Chief
Troy's Conslagration did relate,
That ev'n the Suff'rers in the Fire drew near,
And with a greedy Ear
Devour'd the story of their own subverted state.
II.
Kind Heav'n (as to her Darling Son) to thee
A double Portion did impart,
A Gift of Painting, and of Po [...]sie:
Nor second to the Best in either Art.
Thy happy Pencills more than Pictures give;
Thy Drafts are more than Representative:
For, if we'll credit our own Eyes, they Live!
Ah! worthy Friend, could'st thou maintain the State
Of what with so much Ease thou do'st create,
We might reflect on Death with Scorn!
But Pictures like th'Originals decay!
Of Colours those conflst, and these of Clay;
Alike compos'd of Dust, to Dust alike return!
III.
Yet 'tis our Happiness to see
Oblivion, Death, and adverse Destiny,
Encounter'd, vanquish'd, and disarm'd by thee.
For if thy Pencils fail,
Change thy Artillery,
And thou art then secure of Victory;
Employ thy Quill, and thou shalt still prevail.
The grand Destroyer Time it self will spare,
The meanest things that bear
Th' Impression of thy Pen:
Tho' ne'er so course and Cheap the Mettal were,
Stampt with thy Verse, he knows they're sacred then.
He knows them by that Character to be
Predestinate, and set apart for Immortality.
IV.
If Native Lustre in thy Theams appear,
Improv'd by thee, it shines more clear:
Or if thy Subject's void of native Light,
Thy Fancy need but dart a Beam
To guild the darkest Theam,
And make the rude Mass beautiful and bright.
Thou vary'st oft thy Strains, but still
Success attends each Strain:
Thy Verse is always lofty as the Hill,
Or pleasant as the Plain.
How well thy Muse the Pastoral improves!
Whose Nymphs and Swains are in their Loves,
As innocent, and yet as kind as Doves.
But most, she moves our wonder and delight,
When she performs her loose Pindarick Flight;
Oft to their utmost reach she will extend
Her tow'ring Wings to soar on high,
Then by at just degrees descend,
And oft with wanton Play hangs hov'ring in the Sky.
V.
Whilst Sense of Duty to my artless Muse,
Th' ambition wou'd infuse
To mingle with those Nymphs that Homage pay,
And wait on thine in her triumphant way:
Defect of Merit checks her forward Pride,
And makes her dread t'approach thy Chariot side;
She knows what rude indecency
It were, at best, if not profane,
T'appear at this Solemnity
Unwreath'd, among the Lawrell'd Train.
But this She will presume to do,
At distance to attend the Shew,
The scatter'd Bays to gather, and with those
A Vulgar Coronet compose;
A needful Ornament to hide
Her Nakedness, and not for Pride:
Such was the artless, hasty Dress
The first offending Pair did frame
Of platted Leaves, not to express
Their Pride, but merely to conceal their Shame.
ON THE Present Corrupted State OF POETRY.
I.
WRite thy own Elegy, Apostate Art,
Thou Angel once of Light;
But, since thy Fall, a Fiend of Night,
Mankind (alas too prone.) contriving to pervert.
At first, to th' Altar's Service thou wert bound,
With Innocence instead of Lawrel Crown'd;
Anthems and Hallelujahs did'st resound:
But now forgetful of thy bright Descent,
Thy prostituted Pains soment,
And feed the Vices of the Age,
Flatt'ring in Court, and Rev'lling on the Stage.
That Poesie, that did at first inspire
Devotion and Seraphick Fire,
For Hell her Talent now employs,
The very Bawd to sensual Joys,
Sustaining with forc'd Heat Love's languishing desire.
II.
The wisest and most Potent Kings of Old
Embrac'd the Faculty; nor did disdain
To leave their Royal Names enroll'd
Among th' inspired Train:
They thought Success in Arms of less Renown,
And priz'd the Poet's Wreath above th' Imperial Crown.
But then the celebrated Nine,
Pious as Sybills, chaste as Vestals were,
The Graces were not more divine;
But now deform'd, and bloated they appear:
Nyctimene sustain'd no Change so foul,
A beauteous Nymph transform'd into a glaring Owl.
III.
In happy Ages past, when Justice reign'd
The Muses too their Dignity maintain'd,
Then Poetry embalm'd some worthy Name,
And gave Deservers only Fame.
But now she's grown a mercenary Trade,
Heav'ns Sacred Gift the Price of Gold is made;
For Lucre, with Encomiums she'll pursue
The worst of Men, and praise their very Vices too,
While Lust, Extortion, Sacrilege go free,
She arms her Satyr, Vertue, against thee,
And turns on Heav'n its own Artillery.
IV.
Who has the largest Share in her Applause,
But some aspiring Prince that drowns the Field
With humane Blood, who boasts of Thousands kill'd,
And ne'er consults the Justice of his Cause?
If to destroy can challenge Fame,
Famines and Plagues the largest Trophies claim;
But these the Muses smallest Errors are,
And cannot with their blacker Crimes compare:
Long since they were immodest grown, and vain;
But are (Oh! Heay'n) at last become profane!
Atheism and Blasphemy have dar'd to preach,
Religion of Imposture to impeach;
Those Sacred Truths which they themselves to the rude World did teach.
Nor has Heav'ns just Revenge regardless view'd
But with a signal Rage their Crimes pursu'd.
A constant Curse of Poverty attends
The wretched Man, whom any Muse befriends.
All who in this deluding Art engage,
Set out with Pleasure, weary reach their Stage;
Frollick in Youth, dissatisfy'd in Age!
Thus (neer learn'd Cam's fair Current Pensive (laid)
Th' Ill-treated Cowley did his Muse upbraid:
Ah! who'd credit that Surveys
The Love and Dalliance of their youthful Days,
That e're this peaceful Bard, and gentle Muse,
Cou'd quarrel thus, and mutually accuse?
So, whilst some seeming Happy Pair
(Who Hymens Fetters wear)
In Publick fond as Turtles are,
Th' Ʋnwed with Envy their Caresses view;
But Ah! What wou'd they do,
If (as they see their open Loves) their private Strife
They knew?
The Search.
I.
COnfess ingenuously, O Man,
The Upshot of thy Toyl and Pain,
The Product of thy Brain;
Since first thy busie Race began,
Canst thou produce one Evidence,
To prove thy boasted Reason, Thought or Sense?
Yes—Gradually each Age has been Resin'd,
By never-ceasing Labours of man-kind;
The Labours of their Hand, and of their Mind;
Ev'n wilye Nature, with her vary'd Shapes,
But rarely from their Search escapes;
Long she resists, but strictly prest,
Resigns at last the Secrets of her Breast.
Bold Mortals rob with Ease
Her richest Coffers, be they laid
In deep Recesses of profoundest Seas,
Or to the Caverns of the Earth convey'd;
Rather than live contemn'd and Poor,
They'l plunge and dive for Gems that sleep
On Beds of Rock beneath the Deep,
And Travel Ʋnder-ground for Golden-Oar.
II.
Enough! — if we'll lay claim,
From these Performances, to Fame,
Where will the Volume of our Praises end?
For, thousand Instances beside
Will vindicate our Pride,
And still the Triumphs of our Wit extend.
Such are the Conquests which we daily gain
On Learnings Ʋndiscover'd Parts:
Our active Fancies still create new Arts;
Create new Arts, and what is more,
Ev'n from the Dead restore
Arts, that in Ages past have bury'd lain.
I grant all this, yet justly still suspect
Our Glorie's Weight will fail,
And Vanity be found the heavier Scale:
Impartially if we reflect,
We shall perceive there's wanting yet
The Richest Crown our Triumphs to compleat;
In vain we boast Discoveries,
Whilst we return without the noblest Prize;
The Art of Happiness still undiscover'd lies.
III.
Oh Happiness! (if Happiness be ought
Beside a wild Chimaera in the Thought)
To what close Nook art thou consin'd?
What distant Continent, or Isle,
That thou canst still beguile
The restless Search of all Mankind!
Ev'n in this Vale of Misery,
Some Rivulets of Bliss we taste;
But Rivulets half dry,
And tainted with the Soil through which they past.
Ah! that some friendly Seraph wou'd convey,
Or point me out the way
To those glad Lands, where Happiness flows pure;
Where I might drink secure
At Pleasure's Fountain-Head;
No Surfeit wou'd I dread;
But quaff the Cordial Flood,
Till mingling with my Blood,
And circ'ling through each Part,
It should like Balsom ease my Smart;
Like Nectar, cherish my dejected Heart!
IV.
In various ways deluded Mortals toil,
All busi'd i'th' Discovery of Content;
Content the Game we all-pursue;
But hunt it still on a cold Scent;
The wary Prey ne'er comes in view,
But sculks aloof and leaves us at a Foil:
Yet where's the disappointed Man will say,
He now despairs of being blest?
For tho' at present unpossest
Of his dear Hope, he's yet in a fair way;
That now his Project wants but carrying on
As 'tis begun,
And then the mighty Task is done:
Done, say'st thou, credulous Man?
Yes! So the Babel Builders heretofore,
Raising to Heav'n their proud Tow'r, lackt no more
Than carrying on the Work as they began.
But, grant thy Years of Drudgery were past,
'Tis odds thou art impos'd upon at last:
Thou, like the Syrian Husband-man of Old,
Believ'st thy self to hold
The beauteous Rachel fast in thy Embrace;
And tho' the pleasing Error last a Night,
Be sure the next returning Light
Shall fright thee with an unexpected Face,
And shew thee Blear-ey'd Leah in thy Rachell's place.
The Prospect.
FRom a tall Praecipice on the Sea-side,
A Rev'rend Hermite view'd the spreading Tide:
The Flood tho curl'd with a becoming Wave,
No Sign of any rising Tempest gave.
A goodly Ship was coasting by the Place,
Like a proud Courser foaming in her Pace:
With flatt'ring Courtship the lascivious Gails
Her Streamers furle, and wanton in her Sails.
The Waves divide to give the Pageant way;
Then closing, with rais'd Heads the Pomp survey.
Whilst the grave Man this Spectacle intends,
Pleas'd with the Scene a suddain Storm descends,
That in one Instant rifles all the Boat,
Whose scatter'd Streamers on the Billows float.
Reflects at large on this disastrous Sight,
Then, to his Cell return'd, the Anchorite
Of earthly Greatness weighs th' uncertain State,
Which, in its fairest Bloom, and proudest Height,
Stands most expos'd to Storms of suddain Fate.
The Request.
SO may you Spring, and so Heav'ns choicest Dew,
In Nightly-Show'rs distill, fair Plants, on you;
As You on Me your rankest Venom shed,
Whil'st at Your Feet I make my grassie Bed.
And Thou, O Goddess, (whose obliging Womb
Affords the Living Food, the Dead a Tomb)
Permit me, e'er I die, to dig my Grave;
'Tis all my starv'd Ambition has to crave.
I rob Thee not; for, tho' my delving Spade
Dislodge thy Mould, there's yet no Trespass made:
For I the petty Damage shall repay,
Filling the vacant Ground with my own Clay.
The Installment.
I.
LOng have I languisht in the Fire
Of an unquenchable Desire;
And will it not suffice Thee, Love,
That I thy silent Martyr am,
Unless thy Worship I improve,
Converting others to thy Flame?
If I the Practise not neglect,
Thou canst no more from Me expect;
Not gifted for a Teacher in the Sect.
II.
My Gifts of Nature are too small;
I own it, and pretend no Call:
Beside, I've found at last the Cheat;
The Flame that does thy Priests inspire,
(Pretended for Seraphick Heat)
Is meer Enthusiastick Fire.
When Heav'n inspires, the Mind no Trouble knows;
But Love's wild Extasies (like those
Of Pagan Priests) torment and discompose.
III.
And 'tis no more than their Desert,
That these Impostors thus should smart;
By whose false Wiles we are betray'd
To Love's curst Tyranny and Rage:
For they, when once his Captives made,
Streight fall to singing in their Cage:
Mean while from far the wond'ring Flock repairs,
And list'ning to their Charming Airs,
Insensibly are caught in equal Snares.
The Penance.
NYmph Fanaret the Gentlest Maid
That ever happy Swain obey'd,
(For what Offence I cannot say)
A Day and Night, and half a Day,
Banisht her Shepherd from her Sight:
His Fault for certain was not slight;
Or sure this tender Judge had ne'er
Impos'd a Penance so severe.
And lest she should anon revoke
What in her warmer Rage she spoke,
She bound the Sentence with an Oath,
Protested by her Faith and Troth,
Nought shou'd compound for his Offence,
But the full Time of Abstinence.
Yet when his Penance Glass were run,
His Hours of Castigation done,
Shou'd he defer one Minutes space
To come, and be restor'd to Grace,
With sparkling threatning Eyes she swore,
That Failing wou'd incense her more
Than all his Trespasses before.
Laura's Walk.
I.
THE Sun far sunk in his Descent,
Laid now his Tyrant Rays aside,
When Laura to the Garden went,
To triumph over Natures Pride.
II.
The Rose-Buds blusht with deeper Dye,
Envying Lillies paler grew;
The Violets droopt with Fear to spie
On Laura's Veins a richer Blew.
III.
She stoopt and gather'd as she went,
But whilst she slaughter'd sweetly Smil'd;
As Angells tho' for Ruine sent,
Appear with Looks serene and mild.
IV.
But now grown weary with her Toyl,
A Garland for her Brow she frames:
Thus with proud Trophies made o'th' spoil,
Her Conquest o'er the Spring proclaims.
The Ʋsurpers.
I.
USurping Passions held a long Contest
For the supream Dominion of my Breast;
But whilst in mutual Broyls the Tyrants rag'd
Whoever by the Battel gain'd,
I still the certain loss sustain'd;
For they ne'er fail'd as oft as they engag'd,
To waste the Province where the War was wag'd.
II.
Whilst such wild Havock in my Breast was made,
Reason first came to tender me his Aid;
And sure with that most potent Prince ally'd,
Had I but play'd the Man i'th' Fight,
My Passions had been put to flight.
But I not only to assist deny'd;
But treacherously fell to th' Enemy's side.
III.
Then from the Powers of Love redress I crav'd;
But was by that Allyance worse enslav'd:
For tho Loves Forces quickly did degrade
These proud Usurpers of my Breast,
Yet was I not hereby redrest,
For Love himself prov'd false, when Victor made,
And seiz'd the Province which he came to aid.
IV.
But heavier now the Bondage I sustain,
Then during my tumultuous Passions Reign.
'Twere now no small Presumption to implore
Indulgent Fates to set me free,
As in my Native Liberty.
Those Hopes are vanisht, let them but restore
My former Tyrants, I demand no more.
The Amusement.
Strephon.
WHy weeps my Sylvia, prethee why?
Sylvia.
To think my Strephon once must die;
To think withall poor Sylvia may
When He's remov'd be doom'd to stay.
Streph.
Nymph, You'r too lavish of your Tears,
To waste them on Fantastick Fears.
Sylv.
No, for when I this Life resign,
(If Fate prolong the Date of thine)
The Tears you'l give my Funeral,
Will pay me Interest, Stock and all.
Streph.
Mot so, for shou'd this setting Light
Ne'er rise again in Sylvia's sight,
Without a Tear in mine I'd view
Her Dying Eyes.
Sylv.
'Tis false.
Streph.
'Tis true.
Sylv.
Not weep, false Shepherd? Swear.
Streph.
I Swear
I wou'd not give thy Hearse a Tear.
Sylv.
Break swelling Heart! perfidious Man!
Can you be serious? Swear agen,
Yes, Swear by Ceres and by Pan.
Streph.
Let then great Pan and Ceres hear,
And punish if I falsely swear.
Sylv.
Gods! Can ye hear this and forgive?
You may; for I have heard and live!
Streph.
Rage not, rash Nymph, for I've decreed
When Sylvia Dies—
Sylv.
Speak, what?
Streph.
To bleed.
[Page 37]I'll drain the Life-blood from my Heart;
But no cheap Tear shall dare to start.
Sylv.
Kind Shepheard, cou'd you Life despise,
And bleed at Sylvia's Obsequies?
Streph.
To Ceres I appeal, for she
Knows this has long been my Decree.
Sylv.
Since then you cou'd your Vow fulfill,
Swear, Swear once more you never will.
The Amorist.
SEe where enamour'd Thirsis lies,
And cannot cease to gaze
On his Larissa's sparkling Eyes;
But takes delight to see those Comets blaze,
Whose Lustre still is fatal to the Swain,
O'er whom they Reign,
For by their Influence the poor Shepheard Dies,
Or (more to be lamented) lives in Pain.
The Surprizal.
IN the straight Passage of a Grove,
Whom shou'd I chance to meet but Love?
I seiz'd the Elf, and said, at last,
I've caught thee, and I'll hold thee fast:
Now by thy Mothers Doves and Sparrows,
I'll rob thee of thy Bow and Arrows:
I'll chain thee up, and chp thy Wings,
Or strangle thee in thine own Strings,
Unless thou instantly relate
The Reason of my Celia's Hate.
Then thus the Boy reply'd,—Fond Swain
Vex not your self and me in vain;
That Celia answers not your Flame,
Neither of us are to blame.
Returns of Love can only be
From Beauty of a less Degree;
But Celia, so divinely grac'd,
To be ador'd, and not embrac'd.
The Ʋnconfin'd. SONG.
BElieve me, Nymph, you strive in vain
My Passion to confine:
'Tis Noble, and must needs repine,
To wear the servile Chain.
Your Beauty's Pow'r, if you would see,
Bid Mountains to remove;
Your Charms may there successful be,
But never fix my Love.
DIALOGUE, Alexis and Laura.
Laura.
Alexis—
Alex.
Dearest.
Laura.
Take a Kiss.
Alex.
What means this unexpected Bliss?
A Bliss which I so oft in vain
Have crav'd, and now unaskt obtain!
Laur.
When to my Swain reserv'd I seem'd,
I lov'd him, kist him, less esteem'd!
Alex.
Dear Nymph, your female Arts forbear,
With one already in the Snare.
'Tis, Laura, an unjust Design
To treat so plain a Soul as mine
With Oracles; such mystick Sense
Religion fitly may dispense;
But these dark Riddles marr Love's Joy,
As Clouds Gems in their worth destroy.
Laur.
Then take it on your Peril, Swain,
(Since you compell me to be plain)
The Kiss I gave you was in lieu
Of all Love-debts from Laura due.
Alex.
What Crimes can I have wrought to force
This suddain, and severe Divorce?
Laur.
Recall, false Shepheard, what to day
I heard you to Dorinda say.
[Page 42]You said she did Noons Light out-shine,
That Beauty's Queen was less Divine;
You vow'd respect to her Commands,
And (Heav'n forgive you) kist her Hands.
Alex.
You wrong me, Nymph, by Pan you do;
That Courtship was Respect to you.
Dorinda's Beauties well are known
To bear such Likeness to your own,
That when I made my late Address,
'Twas in that gentle Shepherdess
The sweetness of those Charms to taste,
Which so divinely Laura grac't.
Laur.
Weak Nymphs with Men contend in vain,
Who Thus their Errors can maintain.
Chorus.
Wise Nature's Care is here exprest,
That neither Sex should be opprest;
[Page 43]Who, when to Nymphs she did commit
Commanding Charms, gave Shepherds Wit,
With Arts and Cunning to allay,
And temper Beauty's powerful Sway.
The Restitution.
HEr keen Disdain pierc'd deep my Breast,
And with a suddain Breach dismist
The dearest Drops my Heart contain'd:
I ventur'd to her, and complain'd,
To ease my Smart and still my Fears;
She wept, and bath'd my wound with Tears.
Blood will have Blood (they say) and be
Repaid in Kind: 'Tis false in me.
For Sylvia wound me yet more deep,
If after you vouchsafe to weep;
'Twill more than recompence my Wrongs, and▪,
Bleeding to Death, shall Sylvia's Debtor die.
The Escape.
ON a Streams Bank I saw her stand,
A plyant Angle in her Hand.
I markt how she disguis'd the Hook,
And cast her Bait into the Brook.
The Sport succeeded to her Wish;
For straight she hung a master-Fish;
But Ah! too eager on her Prey,
Refus'd to give the Captive Play,
Till tir'd, himself he would resign;
Who checkt too rashly, broke the Line.
Away he shoots; but while he thus regains
His Liberty, the bearded Steel remains,
And galls his tender Gills with restless Pains.
II.
Like this poor Fish with me it far'd;
When first by her bright Charms ensnar'd:
For so I gorg'd the Bait she cast,
While with the same impatient haste,
She fiercely came to seize her Prey,
That with hard struggling broke away.
But to what purpose am I free,
Living in painful Liberty?
In vain I boast that I survive the Dart,
Whose Venom'd Pile lies festring in my Heart,
And (tho it kill not) galls with restless smart.
The Politicians.
HOw grosly do the Learn'd and Wise
Mistake in Love's State-Policies!
Who seeing Me and Celia jarr,
Expect forthwith an open War:
So little does their Wisdom guess,
What makes a Lover's Happiness,
That Anger fanns the Fire, and Strife,
The Blessing of the Lovers Life.
So Turtles, to encrease the Bliss,
Coo and murmur while they kiss.
Love like Lightning shines more fair
In Storms than in serener Air.
Let, Celia, None our Judges be;
But such as love to our Degree;
Whose wedded Passion holds the same,
As when we burnt in Virgin Flame.
Sometimes like parting Streams we stray,
And seem to take a sundry way;
But meet ere long, and so united move,
Till we are lost in a full Sea of love.
The Vow-Breaker.
CLose by a Mossie Fountains Side,
A spacious Marble Bason stands;
Passing that way, Ardelia there I spy'd;
Oft-times and oft she washt and dry'd her Hands.
Bless me! I could not chuse but smile
At her fantastick Toil;
For from her Arms the Waters purer fell,
Than when she took them from the Well!
So Vapours rais'd from Earth, renew,
And take in Air a fairer hue;
The Ev'ning Mist descends in Morning Dew.
II.
Ah! I'm undone; the Fear was just
That checkt me when I gave my Heart
To this fair Nymph, who storm'd at my distrust,
And swore from the dear Pledge she'd never part.
A while she lodg'd it in her Breast,
Where, like a Turtle in its Nest,
It slept, till she (wou'd you believe she cou'd)
Imbru'd her Hands in its warm Blood?
Then washing here, design'd to stain
The harmless Fount; but strove in vain;
Her Hands the Conscious Dye retain.
III.
Henceforth let none your Beauty prize,
But such as can be false as you;
You who admit no Hearts your Votaries,
Save what you make (like mine) your Victims too;
'Tis evident what you design,
You'd be in earnest thought divine.
Then, Goddess, know your Rites amiss proceed,
Your Victims burn before they bleed;
But you these Impositions lay,
To try how tamely we'll obey,
E'er you erect your Arbitrary Sway.
The Tear.
HOld, Julia, save that precious Tear,
That ev'n adorns thine Eye;
The Meteor sparkles in that Sphere;
But fall'n to Earth 't will die;
Yet in its Orb it cannot stay;
For see the Sun-beams come in swarms to prey,
And sip the rich delicious Juice away.
II.
Into this Viol let it fall—
See Julia, how it sparkles through!
Well may those Eyes prevail on all,
Whose Tears have killing Glances too.
If solid as a Gem it were,
No Gem could vie with this transparent Tear;
The Eye that wept it only cou'd compare.
III.
It shall be so, I will convert
This Tear to a Gem, 'tis possible:
For laid near Julia's frozen Heart,
'Twill to a Diamond congeal.
These Tears of Julia's can fore-bode no Ill,;
The Frost is breaking when such drops distill.
The Discovery.
WHen first Love's Vot'rie I became,
(Charm'd with the Lustre of his Flame)
My Youth his God-like Form admir'd,
And fondly thought his Priests inspir'd.
'Mongst them I proudly sought a Place,
And was by Chance allow'd the Grace;
But once admitted to his Shrine,
That Love whom I esteem'd Divine,
More terrible than Moloch stood,
His Altars stain'd with Humane Blood.
The wounded Lover lives in Pain,
Lies neither curable nor slain,
Till his keen Sword sheath'd in his Heart,
Compleat the Slaughter of the Dart.
Others to quench their Calenture,
Have tane a speedy Course and sure;
Whilst from some Precipice's Brow,
They plung'd into the Floods below.
To Desarts others have retir'd,
And pensive there in Caves expir'd:
What Place, or Age, or Sex is free
From this Usurper's Tyranny?
The populous City he frequents,
And pitches in the Camp his Tents.
In Courts and Palaces he Reigns,
And proudest Monarchs wear his Chains.
Yet he that thus the Scepter awes,
Disdains not to impose his Laws
On Cottages, and there destroys
The Nymphs and Shepherds native Joys.
Their purer Air methinks shou'd be,
From Love's severe Contagion free;
But all their Meads and Gardens bear
No Herb t' asswage this Feaver there!
Far from his Flock Alexis weeps,
Neglects to feed, and rarely sleeps;
His once sure Charm for ev'ry Grief,
The Pipe affords him no Relief;
Gasping at Sylvia's Feet he lies,
Whilst she for scornful Strephon dies.
How wretched is the Lover's State,
Prest on all sides with some hard Fate?
His Hopes alike it will destroy,
Not to succeed, or to enjoy.
For if he lawlesly embrace,
He's then unhappy, as he's base;
And he that honourably loves,
Less wretched, but not happy proves!
To him that waits his Nuptial Day,
The Hours pass lazily away;
False Dreams of Bliss his Thoughts employ,
Impatient therefore to enjoy,
Rashly he bargains for a Wife,
And with her weds the Cares of Life;
But wrought to Expectations Height,
His fancy'd Blisses vanish strait:
For leapt into the Marriage-bed,
With Briars and Thorns he finds it spread,
Repents too late, and envies the unwed.
The Parting.
HEre do I fix my Foot, and farewel Love!
I will no further move.
When first in Error's misty Night
I lost my self, and rov'd about;
This Ignis-fatuus found me out;
Before me roll'd with wanton Play,
And seem'd to bring me on my Way.
Rashly I follow'd the seducing Fire
Through briny Floods of Tears,
'Mongst thorny Jealousies and Fears,
O'er Precipices of Despair,
And where no Passage did appear,
Oft have I forc'd a Path; but now I tire.
What Glimpse was that which struck my Eye
From that far-kindling Sky?
Welcome bright Harbinger of Day;
By thee I know the Sun is on his way.
What Desart's this?—Alass! I fear I'm stray'd,
And after all my Toil and Fright
In this tempestuous Night,
By my officious Guide betray'd.
Oh! when shall I arrive at the Abode
Of happy Souls (since they that soonest strive
To reach that Stage are late e'er they arrive)
I, who am cumbred with so vast a Load
Of vain Desires, and have Alass!
So many weary Steps to pass
E'er I retrieve my Strays, and get into the Road.
On an Old Miser that Hoarded His Treasure in a Steel Chest, and bury'd it.
CAnst thou in Dungeon smother up that Pelf
That's dearer to thee than thy self?
Th' ill-treated Pris'ner is debarr'd the Sight
Of its own cheerful Parent light.
In such strict Ward thy Gold thou dost retain,
As Pagans did their Idols chain;
Lest some audacious Foe by Force should seize,
Or charm away their Deities.
In vain from others Reach thou dost consine
What is no less reserv'd form Thine!
So Merchants, rather than resign their Goods
To Pyrats, sink them in the Floods.
Dull Miser, know, no part of all thy Gains
Falls to thy share, beside the Pains.
Dull wretched Ass, to starve beneath a Pack
Of Provender that breaks thy back.
Think not thou dost lik Nature to Interr
Thy Gold, cause 'twas Interr'd by Her;
The Cell which Nature gave it was a Womb,
To breed the Oar; but thine it's Tomb.
The Vision.
Written in a dangerous Fit of Sickness.
DIssolv'd in Slumber by complaining Streams,
My Fancy labour'd with important Dreams:
Methought I was with Fury born away
Through dismal Vaults, whose Caverns did convey
To Death's sad Courts; the Brazen Gates I past,
Which on my Entrance were again made fast.
The dreadful Cell with Horror I survey'd,
For deadmens Bones in Heaps were round me laid,
And Skulls of largest size the Pavement made.
The Sun to this dark Mansion darts the Ray,
But glim'ring Lamps make all the feeble Day.
By their faint Light I search't the Cave around,
And in each Nook amazing Objects found.
Small Tablets hung by Threads on either Hand,
By each a Glass that measur'd Time with Sand:
In bloody Letters they the Name explain'd
The Number of whose Years the Glass contain'd.
Grim Fate stood by to watch the latest Grain,
And cut the slender Thread of Life in twain.
Then down the Tablet dropt to Streams below,
That with swift Passage into Lethe flow.
While thus through secret Destiny I pry'd,
My own Name on the suddain I descry'd:
But Oh! the Pangs and Agonies that rent
My panting Breast to find my Glass near spent!
The Tragick Scene begins (Forgive me Fate,
That I reveal the Secrets of thy State.)
Strait was I summon'd to receive my Doom;
For Death with horrid Grace approacht the Room,
Array'd Majestick in a mourning Robe,
A Dart his Scepter, and a Skull his Globe.
He sate, th' Attendants on his Person stood,
All arm'd for Slaughter, and distain'd with Blood.
Diseases next were plac't, a numerous Train,
Producing each a Volumne of his slain.
No sooner were my scatter'd Thoughts restor'd,
But I with mental Pray'rs Heav'ns Aid implor'd;
Then thus with hollow Voice the Tyrant spoke—
In vain, fond Youth, Heav'n Succour you invoke;
Stand to the Bar, and hear th' Indictment read:
For e'er thou dy'st, thou art allow'd to plead:
Thy Charge is deep; but for thy self reply.
Oh, I am guilty, and deserve to Dye!
My Years in Vanity's Pursuit I spent,
Too oft transgrest, too rarely did repent:
Some Vices (Heav'n assisting) I supprest,
And lasting War proclaim'd with all the rest;
But in the Combat oft drew back and fled,
By Passions oft surpriz'd, and Captive led.
But are this Courts Proceedings so severe,
That Youth can challenge no Indulgence here?
For if my Life to riper Years had mov'd,
Perhaps my Skill and Courage had improv'd.
Mortal thy Doom already is decreed,
(The Judge reply'd) and Sentence must proceed.
This Court's Records with Instances abound
Of younger Brows than thine with Conquest crown'd;
Approach, ye Ministers of Fate, and bear
Th' Offender hence to Regious of Despair;
In Liquid Flames of Sulphur let him roul,
In sharpest Torments of a Hell-wreckt Soul.
Thus let him howl Eternity away,
Ever in Flames, yet never more see Day.
Confusion now my tortur'd Bosom fill'd;
Cold Sweat from all my lifeless Joynts distill'd.
A Guard of Daemons at the Tyrant's Call,
With hideous Yellings rusht into the Hall,
Monstrous of Shape, of Size prodigious tall.
In this Distress behold a Heav'nly Ray,
Around me did his chearful Light display.
The Lamps grew pale, and shrunk into their Case,
The frighted Daemons vanisht from the Place;
The haughty Tyrant's Self confus'd appear'd;
A ratling Noise amongst the Bones was heard,
As summon'd to the Universal Doom,
They justled with each other in their Tomb.
Not daring yet to hope Relief, I spy'd
My Guardian Angel smiling by my Side:
A silent Joy through all my Vitals ran;
Whilst thus in charming Language he began,
Rejoyce my Charge, for from Heav'ns Court I come
With gracious Orders to revoke thy Doom.
Thy Sun is set, thy Life-glass almost run,
Thy Vertue's Race imperfectly begun.
Yet in Compassion to thy sickly pace,
My Wing shall bear thee to the distant Place.
To Heav'n and him my humblest Thanks I paid,
And beg'd to be to those glad Seats convey'd;
But first admit the Lot of all Mankind,
And leave (said he) that Load of Earth behind;
Pris'ner's absolv'd, less gladly quit their Chain
Than I this Flesh that did my Soul detain.
But when her self unmantled, she survey'd
Leprous and foul by Sin's Contagion made;
She blusht, and sought to cover her Disgrace,
Retreating back to her forsaken Case.
The Guardian Spirit her fond Attempt withstood,
And straight with Hyssop dipt in Sacred Blood,
Baptiz'd her; and behold, whilst I enquir'd,
The Ceremonie's Drift, I grew inspir'd
With mental Joys, and now descry'd no more
Those Blemishes that stain'd my Soul before:
Thought of New Worlds my mind had so ingrost,
That all Reflection on the Old it lost:
That Body too (which once I fondly thought
Cou'd never be from my Remembrance wrought)
Had now quite 'scapt my Mem'ry, till I spy'd
The pale and lifeless Engine by my Side,
Bless me (said I) what ghastly thing lies there?
Was this the Mansion where so many a Year
I lingred 'twixt successive Hope and Fear?
Was this the thing I took such Care t' improve,
Taught it to cringe, and in just measures move?
The thing that lately did in Business sweat,
That talkt so much of being Rich and Great!
That sought with Verse to make its Love renown'd,
And hop'd e'er long to see its Passion Crown'd;
Behold where the designing Engine lies,
Prey to those Insects it did once despise.
Suppose that Body now lay cover'd o'er
In Perfumes brought from Ormus Spicie Shore;
What courteous Female wou'd vouchsafe the Grace
To curl those Locks, or kiss that ghastly Face?
Why is the Corps so long detain'd from Ground;
'Tis more than Time those Hands and Feet were bound.
Haste, let the Fun'ral Peal be rung aloud,
In Winding-Sheets th' offensive Carkass shrowd
And in some Nook the useless Lumber crowd.
Insulting thus I spake, and more had said;
But was by my Assistant-Angel stay'd;
My Charge, said he, (these gloomy shades withdrawn)
Behold of Everlasting Day the Dawn:
At Entrance to th' Elysian Land (a Grace
Conferr'd on Souls when they arrive the Place)
The happy Throng are met to welcome thee
To their fair World of Immortality.
He said, and straight his threatning Wandup-heav'd,
The Neighb'ring Walls obey'd the Stroke, and cleav'd;
With such a Pow' [...]ful Blow the Hebrew Guide
Prevail'd, and forc't his Passage through the Tide;
The Waters there congeal'd, and stood in Walls,
The Building here like breaking Water falls:
But now the parting Seene brought Heav'n in view,
When (Fatal Chance!) my charming Dream withdrew.
The grateful Slumber from my Temples fell;
I view'd the Grove around, and thought it Hell;
Aloud I call'd my Guide, obligingly
The Ecchoing Rocks a while kept up the Cry;
But the false Vision fled without Reply.
ODE.
To my Ingenious Friend, Mr. Flatman.
AS when the fam'd Artisicer of Grece,
With wondrous Art, but ill Success
Contriv'd his own, and captiv'd Son's Escape,
By Wings which he by inspir'd Craft did shape:
He taught the Youth how safely he might glide,
And keep a Mean betwixt the Sun and Tide:
So you (Learn'd Friend) with equal Art
To me the Wings of Poesie impart;
Before me through the spacious Sphere
A steady wondrous Course you steer,
Shun all Extreams, while I unfortunate,
Like Icarus die, but with less glorious Fate!
He soaring fell, I flag below,
Where with damp Wings disabled to pursue,
I yield my self for lost, and plunging down
In deep Oblivion drown.
The Banquet.
DIspatch, and to the Myrtle-Grove convey
What e're with Nature's Pallat suits,
The Dayrie's store with Sallads, Roots and Fruits;
I mean to play the Epicure to day!
Let nought be wanting to compleat
Our Bloodless Treat;
But bloodless let it be; for 'tis decreed
The Grape alone for this Repast shall bleed.
But Love be first expell'd the Company,
With unmixt Wine our Mirth as pure and free,
From Thoughts of any scornful little She.
Come Sirs, a whetting Glass, and do not spare,
By Jove delicious Fare!
Speak Friends, was ever Monarch's Table stor'd
Like this our Rural Board,
Where, with the Blessings of the Field, is sent
The Diet of the Gods, Content.
The Match.
BY what wild Frenzy was I led,
That with a Muse I must needs wed?
Whose Dow'r consists of empty Fame,
The short Possession of a Name!
Yet with that Trouble and Debate
The owner holds this poor Estate;
Where after long Expence and Toil
He starves on the ungrateful Soil.
The Fields and Groves which Poets feign
The curious Fancy entertain,
But yields no timely Grain or Fruit,
The craving Stomach to recruit.
With thirsty Tongue the Rhymer sings
Of Nectar and Celestial Springs.
And such I fear the Faiery Ground
Of our Elysium will be found.
A meer Fools Paradise, and fit
For such as will be Men of Wit.
The Disconsolate.
MY lab'ring Soul no longer can sustain;
But sinks beneath th' encreasing Pain:
I wish, contrive, attempt and rage in vain!
Down by these falling Springs I'll lay
My weary Limbs, and sigh my troubled Soul away!
To these lone Fields my Griefs I will impart,
Oh my distracted Head! Oh my afflicted Heart!
But stay, why shou'd I mournfully recite
My Grievances, to fright
The feather'd Poets of these Streams?
To interrupt their Mirth and Peace,
Whilst Philomel her long-lov'd Song shall cease,
And from my Sorrows learn more Tragick Theams!
No! No! I will conceal my weighty Ills,
Seal up my Lips, nor loose them ev'n to pray;
But all my Plaints in Mental Pray'rs convey,
That shall to Heav'n as silent rise, as Dew from thence distills.
II.
Dream I? Or is't a real Prodigy?
Behold a Breach in that unclouded Skie:
The Azure Curtains are drawn wide,
And to my wondring Eyes disclose
Elysian Lands, where happy Souls reside:
See where the Spring of Pleasure flows,
On whose fair Banks the Blest take soft Repose:
Free from Thought of Misery
They sing, and smile, and rove,
And feast on Joys in ev'ry Grove;
Their Paradise has no Forbidden Tree.
Sliding on Skates in a hard Frost.
HOw well these frozen Floods now represent
Those Chrystal Waters of the Firmament!
Tho' Hurricanes shou'd rage, they cou'd not now
So much as curle the solid Water's Brow;
Proud Fleets, whose stubborn Cables scarce withstood
The Fury of the late tempestuous Flood,
In watry Ligaments are now restrain'd,
More fast than when in binding Ooze detain'd.
But tho their Service does at present fail,
Our selves without the aid of Tide or Gale,
On Keels of polisht Steel securely sail:
From ev'ry Creek to ev'ry Point we rove,
And in our lawless Passage swifter move
Than Fish beneath us, or than Fowl above.
Strephon's Complaint on quitting his Retirement.
I.
BƲsiness!—Oh stay till I recover Breath,
The dreadful Word puts all my Sense to slight;
Business to me sounds terrible as Death;
As Death to Lovers on their Bridal Night.
Free as Air, but more Serene
The Course of my past Life has been;
But I, uncustom'd to the Yoak, must now
In stubborn Harness Toil at the dull Plow.
II.
Then farewell Happiness, sweet Peace, farewell!
You come not where poor Strephon must reside,
For you, like Haleyons on calm Waters dwell;
But Business is a rough and troubled Tide:
Few Suns have past since I was blest,
Of God-like Liberty possest;
But now Employment's Slave without Repose,
And Ghost-like hurry'd where my Daemon goes.
III.
But Business to Preferment will direct,
And 'tis ev'n necessary to be Great.
Ah! have I then no more than this t' expect?
My stinted Hopes will starve on such thin Meat.
Impertinents! Content I crave,
And wildly you of Greatness rave!
If Life's at best a tedious rugged Road,
What must it be with State's encumbring Load?
IV.
Condemn'd to Town, Noise and Impertinence,
Where Mode and Ceremony I must view!
Yet were the Sight all, Strepkon cou'd dispense;
But he must there be Ceremonious too.
I fear my Rural Soul's too plain,
To learn the Town's dissembling Strain;
For whilst I practice the sly Courtier's Art,
I shall forget my self, and speak my Heart.
V.
When first the dismal Tidings I receiv'd,
That I must bid my peaceful Shades adieu;
Scarce was I by my Fellow-Swains believ'd,
Till streaming Tears prov'd my sad Story true.
Then pensive they my Doom resent,
As 'twere to Death or Banishment;
But Oh my Panalthaea's tender moan
Surpast her Sexes Kindness, and her own.
VI.
Thus spake she, with a fore't Frown on her Brow,
Will you be gone? False Strephon, will you go?
Then go thy way; go, for I hate thee now!
But tell me, are you serious, Swain, or no?
This is some jealous Trick, to prove
The Truth of my too tender Love:
But whilst of mine this feign'd Suspect is shown,
You wou'd suggest that you've renounc'd your own.
VII.
Thy Love, chaste Nymph, deep in my Breast I laid,
When first the precious Pledge I did receive;
Nor have I thence the sacred Store convey'd;
Here! break the Cabinet, and you'l believe!
You'l see with what a bleeding Heart,
From these dear Shades, and thee I part;
But cruel Fate— then on her Virgin Breast
I lean'd my drooping Head, and wept the rest.
VIII.
Oh Floods and Groves, beneath whose sacred Shade
I sat as happy as first Mortals were;
For when Distractions did my Breast invade,
Some skillful Shepherd's Song redrest my Care.
But 'bove the Flights of other Swains,
I priz'd my Astragon's soft Strains:
For (Turtle-like) my pensive Astragon
Is sweetly sad, and charming in his Moan.
The Gold-hater.
WEll, I perceive the Antipathy
Is mutual now 'twixt Gold and Me;
For that flies me as fast as I
The false pernicious Metal fly.
So wild a Prey why shou'd I trace,
That yields no Pleasure in the Chase?
A Prey that must with Toil be sought,
And which I prize not when 'tis caught.
Gold I contemn when rude in Oar;
But in a Crown despise it more.
No Crown can any Temples fit
So well, but 'twill uneasie sit.
By an Eternal Law of Fate,
Vexations still attend on State;
Insep'rable by Humane Art,
A Crown'd Head, and an aking Heart.
The Mistake.
DUll Mortals with the same prepost'rous Breath
We bless Love's Darts, and curse the Shafts of Death.
The Author of out Ills, a God we stile;
But the Redresser of those Wrongs revile.
Yet gentle Death, (tho rudely treated) still
Persists in generous Charity to kill,
And cure th' ingrateful ev'n against their Will!
Ah, should be once in just Resentment give
Our Wishes, and permit us ever live;
What shou'd we do when Soul and Body jar,
And loath each other like an ill-wed Pair?
But friendly Death absolves us from this Curse,
And when the Parties clash, makes a Divorce.
Disappointed.
I.
FRom Clime to Clime with restless Toyl we Roam,
But sadly still our old Griefs we retain,
And with us bear beyond the spacious Main
The same unquiet selves we brought from Home!
Can Nature's plenteous Board
Spread wide from Pole to Pole,
Sufficient Treats afford,
To satisfie our craving Soul?
Produce what Wealth the Sea contains,
Or sleeps in Indian Veins,
Th' insatiate Mind will gorge the Store,
And call for more.
II.
The Food of Angels of immortal kind,
Can only feast the Hunger of the Mind.
To those bright Seats let me aspire,
Where solid Joys remain,
So firm they can sustain,
And stand the full Career of chast Desire.
Th'Enjoyments we pursue
So hotly here below,
Are charming Daphnes in the Chase,
And (Daphne-like) transforming, fool us in th' Embrace!
Lib. 1. Epigr. CX.
De Issa Catellâ Publii.
Issa much to be preferr'd
To Catullus amorous Bird;
Chaster thou than Stella's Dove,
Yet fond as Girls when first they love.
Issa worth both Indies Treasure,
Issa Publius's Life and Pleasure.
Issa mourns if he complain,
Issa shares his Health and Pain.
All Night on his warm Neck she lies,
Not stirs till He's dispos'd to rise:
Unless constrain'd by Natures call,
And then the cleanly Animal;
Still wakes him with her gentle Moan,
Entreating to be handed down.
But passing other Vertues by,
Such is Issa's Modesty,
She ne'er cou'd love, tho' daily woo'd
By Shocks of Quality and Blood.
But mindful of her Mortal State
(Form nor Vertue's free from Fate)
To countermand the rigid Law,
Publius did her Picture draw,
Where Art with Nature so does strive,
You'd swear they're Pictures both, or both alive.
The Confinement.
OFt have I for m'd Idea's of Content;
But by Experience knew not what it meant.
At length I strove to Counter-plot my Stars,
And free my Soul by some kind Charm from Cares.
Beneath a Jessimine Shade my Lute I strung,
Where with diverting Airs I play'd and sung;
The grateful sounds compos'd my Cares to sleep,
And o'er me now they seem'd no Watch to keep.
Thrice blest (said I) this long expected Hour,
That frees me from my cruel Goaler's Pow'r.
I fled, but soon was by the waking Guard
Pursu'd, o'er-tane, and laid again in Ward.
Since which Escape more hardly I am us'd,
A Pris'ner's common Courtesies refus'd;
Prest with more Chains, with stricter Guard detain'd,
From Sleep, the vilest Slave's Relief, restrain'd.
On Snow fall'n in Autumn, and dissolv'd by the Sun.
I.
NAture now stript of all her Summer Dress,
And modestly supposing 't were unfit
For each rude Eye to view her Nakedness,
Around her bare Limbs wraps this snowy Sheet.
II.
The wanton Sun the slender Shroud removes,
T'embrace the naked Dame, whose fertile Womb
Admits the lusty Paramour's warm Loves,
And is made big with the fair Spring to come.
Melancholy.
I.
MAlignant Honour, Poyson to my Blood!
Bane of these Spirits that were wont to glide
And sport within the Circling Tide;
As Fish expire in an infected Flood.
When all th' Horizon of my Soul is clear,
And I suspect no Change of Weather near,
Streight like a suddain Storm I find
Thy black Fumes gath'ring in my Mind,
Transforming all to Egyptian Darkness there;
Darkness where nothing comes in sight
But Flashes more amazing than the Night,
And siery Spectres through the troubled Air.
II.
Sleep that in other Maladies brings Ease,
Feeds and enrages this Disease;
For when my weary Lidds I close,
And slumber, 'tis without Repose.
This Fury still into my Dreams will creep,
To hagg my tim'rous Fancy while I sleep;
Through Charnel Houses then I'm led,
Those gloomy Mansions of the dead,
Where pensive Ghosts by their lov'd Reliques stay,
And curse the Breaking Day.
Sometimes by cruel Foes pursu'd and tane;
Oft Ship-wreckt on the Main,
Beneath the Floods I seem to dive;
In Sarra's Desart oft engage
Some Savage Monster's Rage.
Or (Typhon-like) beneath a Mountain's Weight I strive!
III.
Might I the Book of Fate peruse,
To read the Lot for me design'd,
I should perhaps auspicious find
Those Planets I accuse;
But whilst for Information I
Consult the false Astrology
Of Melancholly Fear,
Dark and o'er-cast my future Days appear:
All possible Misfortunes while I dread,
I draw all possible Misfortunes on my Head;
Who seeks for Happiness with nicest Care
Must watch its Seasons, and frequent its Haunt.
Delight is a rich tender Plant
That springs not in all Soils, and all the Year:
'Tis like the Manna that in plenty lay,
If early sought, around
Each Hebrews Tent; but if till Heat of Day
Their Search they did delay,
Th' Ambrosial Food was no where to be found.
On a Grave Sir, retiring to Write in Order to undeceive the World.
SUrely of all well-meaning Fools thy Fate
Is most deplorably unfortunate.
Hadst thou Domitian-like in catching Flies
Employ'd thy Privacy, thou hadst been wise;
For what shou'd hinder thee, but thou mayst catch
As fast as he, and be the Emp'rour's Match?
But whilst thy solitary Hours are spent
In scribling tedious Systems, to prevent
The Worlds Mistakes, its Follies to reform,
Thou may'st as well pretend to lay a Storm.
Go, cut the Caspian Lake a Road to th' Ocean;
Contrive an Engine with perpetual Motion:
Make Politicians of the Wappin-Rout,
Jilts constant, Brokers honest, Bawds devout;
But prethee never fondly thus devise
To make this Hair-brain'd World grow staid and wise.
In Youth, or Prime, when likeliest to improve,
No Precepts this besotted World cou'd move;
And wilt thou at these Years begin to School
(Dull Moralist!) the crazy doating Fool?
Go, dreaming Stoick, once again retire;
And since the Name of Wise thou dost aspire,
To shew thy Judgment, set thy Works on Fire.
On a deform'd Old Bawd, designing to have her Picture drawn.
I.
THy Picture drawn, foul Beldame, Thine!
What Frenzy haunts thy mind,
And drives Thee on this vile Design,
T' affront all Woman-kind?
II.
For whilst thy swarthy Cankard Face
Posterity shall view,
They'll loath the fairest of the Race,
For sharing Sex with you.
III.
To some forlorn Church-yard repair,
And Haggard thou shalt see
The siercest Goblin will not dare
To stand the Sight of thee.
IV.
Those Ghosts that strike with Pannick-Fear
The Breasts of stoutest Braves,
At thy Approach will disappear,
And Burrough in their Graves.
V.
Fix thy Essigies on the Shield
Of some bold Knight in Arms,
Twill aid him more to win the Field,
Than all his Lady's Charms.
Advice to a Friend, publishing his Poems.
FOrbear, my Friend, this rash Design t' engage
An ignorant ill-natur'd Age;
In vain your labour'd Numbers shall excell,
Where Clinch and Dogril serve as well:
For were the Poets Business but to please,
There were no Task of greater Ease.
Where Midas is the Judge, let none admire
Pans's Pipe preferr'd to Plaebus Lyre.
The gawdy Painting takes the vulgar Sight,
Whilst artful Pieces less delight.
In vain is Nature represented well,
Where, not the Workmanship, but Colours sell.
Ev'n so, if popular you mean to be,
'Faith spare your Pains, and write extempore.
The Ignorant.
AN Ignorant I am,
And Glory in the Name.
I know not what of yore
The hot-brain'd wrangling Heroes did,
Nor what the dreaming Sages said:
I cannot run a List of Old Rome's Triumphs o'er.
'Twas Knowledge first to Ruine led us on;
For with this mortal Itch possest
The happy Pair transgrest.
Needs must they know; they knew, and were undone!
Then plodding Mortal cease
To boast your dear bought Faculties:
For since with Knowledge Sorrow must encrease,
Let such as on those Terms can Science prize,
Improve in Science; but for me,
So I may ignorant and happy be,
I'll ne'er repine, or look with envious Eyes,
On the unhappy learn'd, and miserable wise.
The Beldam's Song.
APpear, my Kib welkin, dear Spirit appear
In the Shape
Of an Ape,
A Fire-spitting Dragon, or Clump footed Bear.
Madge has whoopt me twice from her Ivy-bound Oak,
And twice have I heard the dull Night-raven croak.
Let me stride thee, my Welkin, and post it away
E'er the Moon
Reach her Noon:
For the Night is the Way-ward Sisters Day.
Through the Air let us take our fantastical Round,
And sip of the Dew
While 'tis new,
E'er the Honey-drops fall to the Ground.
But when we are mounted, and in our Career,
Make neither Hault nor Stay;
And to none give the way,
Tho Hecat her self should be rounding the Air.
For once I'll encounter,
And try to dismount her,
Pitch her Heels over Head,
To some Quag-mire below, and reign Queen in her stead.
Bustle, bustle, my Kib, and be sure e'er we part,
Thou shalt suck at the Dugg that is next to my Heart.
The Inconstant.
A Paraphrase on the XV. Epod of Horace.
PRecisely I remember all, 'twas Night,
Calm Sky, and the Full Moon shone bright,
When first you swore that bleating Flocks shou'd feed
With Wolves, no other Keepers need;
That boystrous Winds husht in Eternal Sleep,
Shou'd cease to revel on the Deep;
You vow'd, that these, and Prodigies more strange
Shou'd falle'er your sixt Heart cou'd change.
Yet (Woman-like) to your new Fav'rite now,
Unswear as oft as you did vow!
Ah! if I cou'd (and sure if half a Man,
Or somewhat less than half, I can)
Cou'd I in just Resentment quit your Chain,
And with more Caution chuse again;
Nymph, you'd repent my Wrongs, when flying Fame
Shou'd publish to your Grief and Shame,
How your wrong'd Swain had found a Nymph more true
And equal in her Charms to you.
But treach'rous Rival, you that reap my Toils,
And pride your self in my stol'n Spoils,
The Time shall come (and to encrease your Fear,
Know, Wretch, that fatal Time is near)
When you shall perish by th' Inconstancy,
Of her that first learn'd perjur'd Faith from thee;
Whilst from the safe Shore your sad Wreek I see.
Of the Ape and the Fox.
A Paraphrase on one of the Centum Fabulae.
TO his four footed Subjects through the Nation,
The King of Bruits thus issues Proclamation,
Being well informed we have incurr'd Disgrace
By harb'ring in our Realm a scandalous Race,
A Sect that have no Tails; these Presents are
Te'njoyn such Miscreants, All and singular,
Strait to depart our Land, or on demurr,
The Penalties of Treason to incurr.
Sly Reynard strait sifts out this State-Design,
Turns Goods and Chattels, All to ready Coyn.
The unprojecting Neighbour-hood Admire,
And Flock, th' Occasion of his March t'Enquire.
Where 'mongst the Rest the ceremoneous Ape
Accosts him with Grimmace and formal Scrape.
Bon jour Monsieur! You pass for a prime Witt;
But in this Project give small Proof of it.
We of the Curtail'd-Tribe by strict Command
Of our great Cham prepare to quit the Land;
But why Sir shou'd you Budge, Whose Posterns bear
A Swashing Train well furrd to guard your Rear?
Had Nature lent me but an Inch of Dock,
A Tuft to shade, or Scutt to grace my Nock,
I shou'd Presume I had no Obligation,
From the late Act to take this Peregrination.
Then thus the Fox—You've spoke an Oracle,!
Doubtless your Gravity reads Machiavill.
I must Confess I've no pretence to rail,
Or Curse my stars for stinting me in Tail;
But grant my Train might with a Commet's measure,
Suppose withal that 'twere his Highness Pleasure
To say I've None? which if he once Assert,
Nere doubt but he has Sycophants will swear't;
Thus charg'd, shou'd I attempt my own Defence,
(To give his Lawless Tyranny Pretence)
'Tis Odds but I am Dockt upon the Spott,
And then for want of Tail poor Reynard goes to Pot.
The Round.
HOw Vain a thing is Man whom Toyes Delight,
And shadows Fright!
Variety of Impertinence
Might give our Dotage some Pretence;
But to a Circle bound,
We Toil in a dull Round:
We sit, move, Eat and Drink,
We Dress, Undress, Discourse and Think,
By the same Passions hurri'd on,
Imposing or Impos'd upon:
We pass the time in Sport or Toil,
We Plow the Seas or Safer Soil:
Thus all that we Project and Do,
We did it many a year agoe.
We Travel still a beaten way,
And yet how eager rise we to pursue
Th'affairs of each returning day,
As if its Entertainments were all new.
The Male-Content.
MOngst winding Rocks (his swelling griefs to lay)
The disappointed Thirsts took his way.
In whose Wild Clifts a nat'ral Uaut he found
With Moss and Ivy Cheaply deckt around.
He rusht into the Solitary Nook,
Where into these Pathetick Sounds he broke.
Oh when will Nature take the life she gave.
And Lodge me free from Troubles in the Grave!
Sleep there alone deserves the Name of Rest,
No frightful Dreams the sleep of Death molest.
Whilst shrouded in this marble Cell I Lye,
What can be more Commodious than to Dye?
Each Object Here wears such a mournful Face,
That Dying seems the Business of the Place!
Here from the wrangling World I will Retire,
And as I Liv'd Unknown, Unknown Expire.
Then let that hanging Rock that shades my Head
Sink down, and shut this Vaut when I am Dead:
Rude as it is, this Marble Cell wou'd save
Th' expensive Rites that formal Burials crave,
It self my Coffin, Monument and Grave.
The Dream.
BEneath the Syc'more Shade,
Amintas ply'd his Tuneful Reed,
(His Amaril beside him laid)
The listning Ewes forgat to Feed.
The sporting Lambs gave ore their Play,
And to their Masters Song attentive lay:
The Song as soft, and Innocent as They.
Mean while soft Slumbers did surprize,
The Nymph's more gentle Eyes.
'Till with a Sigh and suddain start
She woke and Cry'd—Heav'n save my Swain!
Are you not hurt—I will provide a Dart,
And if the Bruit approach again,
I'le drench it in the Savage Monster's Heart.
What means (Amintas smiling said) This Rage?
I dreamt (said she) a ruthful Bear
Had broke into our Fold, and slaughter'd there;
And while you ran t' Engage
(Ah! why were you so Rash?) th' unequal Foe,
The Rav'nous Monster Seiz'd on you!
At which my self between I threw,
And scarcely yet believe the Dream Untrue!
Amor Sepulchralis.
IN a Large stately Cave (of old the Court
Of Rural Gods, as neigbouring Swains report)
Interr'd the dear Remains of Damon lay,
Converted now into their Native Clay.
Each wishing Nymph the living Swain approv'd,
The Shepherd fair Emmoria only Lov'd.
Their mutual Passion's Kindling Flame was more
Then ere inspir'd Consenting Hearts before;
But was with time Improv'd to that Degree,
'Twas now no longer Love, but Extasie.
Endearments such as Fate cou'd not divorce,
Nor Death it self restrain their Entercourse.
The Nymph to living Swains did still preferr
Her Damon's Dust, and ev'n that Dust Lov'd Her.
At Damon's Tomb the Chast Emmoria kept
Perpetual Watch, and ore his Ashes wept;
(Fit emblem of her grief) a sprigg of Yew
She planted there, the Branch took Root and grew.
The Sun to this close Cell, no Beam cou'd guide.
No Rain or Dew the thirsting Leaves Supply'd;
Say then, from whence the Growth and Verdure came,
The Ashes still retain'd their Masters Flame.
Whose Am'rous Warmth the absent Sun Supplies,
And never-ceasing Showrs Emmoria's Eyes.
This Heat and Moisture kept the Plant alive,
And Tempering still each other, made it Thrive.
The three First Verses of the 46th Psalm Paraphas'd.
I.
OUr Strength, is the Omnipotent;
We cannot therefore condescend to Fear.
Tho danger in its gastliest shape appear;
Tho Mountains from their marble Roots were rent,
And Head-long to the Ocean hurl'd,
Their violent Career might shake the World;
But our fix'd Feet shou'd keep their Ground,
Our Heads shou'd o'er-look the Floods where Hills lay drown'd.
II.
What tho the Sea whose most capacious Womb
Gave the subverted Hills a Tomb?
What tho' its raging Waters roar,
And swell in Mountains vast as those
Which their unfathom'd Depths had gorg'd before?
This most impertinently angry Main,
With its own Rocks fierce Combat may maintain,
But can no more our Passions discompose,
Than when some shallow Fountain we survey,
Contesting with each Pibble for its Way.
The Mid-Night Thought.
NOw that the twinkling Stars essay
A faint Resemblance of the Day,
Shewn fairer now for being set
In Night (like Diamonds in Jett)
Let me (repos'd within this Grove)
The solemn Season once improve.
Restless, Alss! from Sun to Sun,
A Round of Business I have run:
Whilst others slept, projecting lay,
My Night as thoughtful as my Day;
Yet thought not once to what Account
All those Thinkings did amount!
How long since I did meditate
Of Life, of Death, and future State?
Approaching Fate his Pace will keep,
Let Mortals watch, or let them sleep.
What Sound is that?—a Passing Bell!
Then to Eternity farewell!
Poor Soul, whose Doom one Hour shall show
Eternal Bliss, or endless Woe!
If Vertues Laws thou hast despis'd,
How wou'd that Vertue now be priz'd!
Or say, thou didst in our loose Age
On her forsaken Side engage;
Would'st thou the dear Remembrance now
For the Worlds Monarchy forgoe?
What other Medicine canst thou sind
T' asswage the Fever in thy Mind?
Now, wakened Conscience, speaks at large,
And envious Fiends enhaunce the Charge!
Let the bold Atheist now draw near,
And try thy drooping Heart to chear:
His briskest Wine and Wit to thee
Will now alike inspiid be.
In Death's Arrest the Hector's Sword
As little Service can afford;
Who hopes for Rescue here, will fail,
And the grim Serjeant Takes no Bail.
The Counter-Turn.
BEhold that Pile of Skulls; but chiefly there
That Mossy Skull survey;
Observe if the Sage Front does now display
Plots, Projects, and Nocturnal Care.
Methinks it shou'd; for once it did belong
To one whose Policy cou'd shake a State,
And trusted he cou'd baffle Fate.
Who wou'd have sought that Head-piece in this Through?
He promis'd once that Skull a Crown.
In lowest Earth he founded the Design,
With Heav'n the tow'ring Roof did joyn;
'Till with a suddain Storm of Fate o'erthrown,
The Fabrick fell on the Contriver's Head,
And crusht th' aspiring Politician dead.
The Voyagers.
WHilst stemming Life's uncertain Tide
Tost on the Waves of Doubts and Fears,
If to frail Reason's Conduct we confide
We strive in vain
The happy Port to gain;
For, oft as clouded Reason disappears
We cannot fail to rove afar,
Mistaking each false Meteor for our Star.
How dismal are the Perils we engage,
When (grown t'a Hurricane)
Our boist'rous Passions rouze the sleeping Main?
But Ah! how few have perisht by the Rage
Of Storms, if numbred with the daily Throng,
Whom Syren pleasures as they sail along
Seduce to that dead Shore,
Where they themselves saw others wreckt before.
The Choice.
GRant me, indulgent Heav'n, a rural Seat,
Rather contemptible than great;
Where though I taste Life's Sweets, still I may be
Athirst for Immortality.
I wou'd have Business, but exempt from Strife;
A private, but an active Life.
A Conscience bold, and punctual to his Charge;
My Stock of Health, or Patience large.
Some Books I'd have, and some Acquaintance too;
But very good, and very few.
Then (if one Mortal two such Grants may crave)
From silent Life I'd steal into my Grave.
On Sight of some Martyrs Sepulchres.
HEre lies Dust confusedly hurl'd;
But Dust that once shall judge the World!
Blest Saints, when Foes mistaken Rage
Releas'd your Spirits from their Cage,
But can no more our Passions discompose,
Th' ambitious Fire strove to convey
Your Souls on their triumphant way;
But wing'd with Glory they aspir'd,
And left the Flames behind them tir'd.
Of Vice and Vertue.
LEt Vice no more in her full Train take pride,
Who follow Vertue chuse a suff'ring Side.
She's exil'd now, and 'tis not strange to see
Mean Souls desert afflicted Majesty:
But when just Heav'n (and sure that time draws on)
Restores this Empress to her Starry Throne,
With Crowns she will enrich her Loyal Few,
Whilst Shame and Vengeance crush the Rebel Crew.
To a Desponding Friend.
REpine not, pensive Friend, to meet
A Thorn and Sting in every Sweet;
Think it not yours, or my hard Fate,
But the fixt Lot of Humane State.
Since then this Portion is assign'd
By the Great Patron of Mankind,
(Though ne'er so darkly understood)
We shou'd presume the Method Good.
Heav'n does its rendrest Care express,
Conducting through a Wilderness,
Lest Sluggards we should take our Stand,
And stop short of the promis'd Land.
Disswasion of an Aged Friend from leaving his Retirement.
IN Life's unactive Wane your Shades forsake,
And into th' World a Sally make!
Deluded Friend, what Surfeit have you tane
Of Bliss, that now you long for Pain?
The Favourites of this hard World are few,
And they have their Disasters too.
What therefore must your Entertainment be
That have profest Hostility?
You have not learnt to slatter and caress
The Great for faithless Promises:
When disappointed, thankful to appear,
And say, How much oblig'd you are!
For Lucre you must practise every Wile;
Defraud, and do it with a Smile.
Worldlings with many Vices must be fraught,
Which you, my Friend, were never taught.
Well, you may roam, but soon return distrest,
Wounded and maim'd to your Old Nest.
Recovering from a Fit of Sickness.
I.
WHen late the Fev'rish Malady
With intermitted Rage,
And certain Symptoms did presage
My suddain Health, or Dissolution nigh:
False World (said I) that steal'st my real Joys,
And shufflest in their stead thy changeling Toys:
Begone, I'll not be brib'd at any rate,
To sell my coming Fate,
And now resume that toilsome Task to live.
I prize not Greatness, and I know
(Were I thy Fav'rite, as I am thy Foe)
What I affect thou never canst bestow.
I'd have Content; but that was never thine to give.
Remove that Taper from my Sight,
The useless and offensive Light
Presents no grateful Object to my View:
Ev'n those fair Eyes that Planets once appear'd,
Whose Influence above the Stars I fear'd,
To my dim Sight have lost their Lustre too.
II.
Thus musing as I lay, to my Bed side
(Attir'd in all his Mourning Pride)
The King of Terrors came:
Awful his Looks, but not deform'd and grim;
(He's no such Goblin as we fancy him)
Scarce we our selves so civiliz'd and tame!
Unknown the Doom assign'd me in this Change,
Tho justly I might fear Heav'ns worst Revenge;
Yet with my present Griefs redrest,
With curious Thoughts of unknown Worlds possest,
Enflam'd with Thirst of Liberty,
Long lov'd, but ne'r enjoy'd by me,
I su'd for Leave the fatal Gulf to pass:
My vital Sand is almost run,
And Death (said I) will strike anon;
Then to dull Life I bid a long Farewell;
And stretcht for flight—But as the last Grains fell,
Death fail'd my flatter'd Hopes, and turn'd the Glass.
The Challenge.
YE Sages that pretend
In Science to transcend
The dull illit'rate Crowd;
You that of Ignorance impeach,
(E'er your Pretences be allow'd)
Define that Prudence which you teach:
I fear 'tis much above your learned Reach.
Prudence has no sixt Being; but depends
On Person, Time and Chance,
And every petty Circumstance.
Actions directed to the self-same Ends,
May prudent one, the other faulty be:
For what would prove discreet in thee
Perhaps were wild Extravagance in me.
The Ants are wise, that from their Summer Hoard
Supply their Winter Board;
And doubtless full as wise as they
The Grashoppers that play,
And revell all their Harvest Days away:
For 'twere in them a senceless Drudgery
To toil for a Supply
In Winter's Dearth, that must e'er Winter die.
The Cure. A DIALOGUE, Claius and Coridon.
Claius.
COme Coridon, sit by me, gentle Swain;
Thy Cheek is pale, speak Shepherd, where's thy Pain?
Cor.
Say, Claius, Priest of our Great Pan (for you
The utmost Bounds of Humane Science know)
Is Physicks Power to Bodies Use confin'd?
Have you no Medicine for a troubled Mind?
Claius.
Yes, For as Balsoms raging Pains appease,
Sage Counsels to distemper'd Souls give Ease,
Ev'n Love is no incurable Disease.
[Page 114]Ha Swain! What meant that suddain Blush and Start?
Have I guest right, and toucht the tender Part?
Cor.
I wou'd conceal't, but have not learnt to feign—
You guest, and while you nam'd it, wak'd my Pain.
Claius.
Then to the Cure we'll take the safest Course,
And trace the Malady to its first Source.
Cor.
When from severer Business I withdrew,
Twixt Love and me a fatal Friendship grew.
With my Hearts Blood our Covenant we Seal'd
A solemn Contract ne'er to be repeal'd.
Then all Delights young Sorcerers enjoy,
A while did my deluded Soul employ.
Love fed my waking Thoughts with glorious Theams,
And blest my slumbers with transporting Dreams.
When at an awful distance I survey'd
My Nymph, transported, to my self I said,
[Page 115]Ah charming Fair! O excellent Divine!
Whilst Love in Whispers answer'd—Swain she's thine.
Claius.
Why therefore, Shepherd, are you not possest?
Cor.
Force not sh' unwilling Secret from my Breast;
Let it suffice that on a Barren Soil
I've lost of many Years th' Expence and Toil.
Claius.
Do's the false Nymph—
The Wages you so dearly earn'd, refuse?
Cor.
My self I cannot, will not her accuse.
But my Relief must from your Counsels rise:
Examine not, good Claius, but advise:
Bring your best Art (for 'twill your best require)
T'unspell my Soul from Love's tormenting Fire.
Claius.
Call Reason to your Aid, you'll put to flight
The Foe not to be quell'd by other Might.
[Page 116]Of happiest Love's Delights summ up th' account,
And learn to what the Total will amount:
Then in the Ballance Love's Vexations weigh,
How certain these, and how uncertain they.
Such sordid Joys, and of delight so nice,
That Female Coyness only gives them Price.
There are that from large Dow'rs derive their Flame,
And these in full Career pursue their Game:
They wreck their Wits the Golden Prize to gain;
But dream not how that Gold is wrought into a Chain.
Cor.
When late the false Suggestions I obey'd,
'Twas in pursuit of Happiness I stray'd.
Claius.
Mistake not Swain, I would not quench your Flame,
But fly your Passion at a nobler Game.
Wave sensual Joys; and with a Flame refin'd
Court those Diviner Pleasures of the Mind.
To sacred Vertue next make your Address;
Confess you've no Regard of Happiness;
[Page 117]Or live henceforth of Vertue's Service proud,
The brightest Beauty, and the best endow'd.
She'll guard your Youth from Passions baneful Rage,
With peaceful Thoughts divert the Pains of Age.
But then in largest Streams her Blessings flow,
When Love, grown Bankrupt, can no more bestow.
When rig'rous Death shall check your circling Blood,
And Life expire within the frozen Flood,
Your mourning Nymph, at large may tell her Grief,
But to your restless Soul give no Relief:
'Twill lurk a pensive Ghost in Caves all day,
And to its Reliques Mid-night Visits pay.
But pious Souls by Death are Gainers made,
By Vertue to th' Elysian Seats convey'd;
There Mirth, and Peace, and softest Transports reign,
Delights refin'd from all Allays of Pain.
If Love can bless beyond these Heights, return
To drag his Chain, and in his Fever burn:
Take leave of God-like Immortality,
Chide my officious Zeal to set you free,
[Page 118]And court the Frowns of some imperious she.
Cor.
Destroy not thus your gen'rous Courtesies
By this unfriendly, and unjust Surmise;
Heav'n sends me Freedom, and to sell the Pledge,
Must brand me with the foulest Sacriledge.
'Gainst Love and Beauty I'll maintain the Fort,
And six a Guard of Vertues in my Heart.
Claius.
If Beauty's Force too rashly you despise,
'Tis odds, but you are ruin'd by Surprize.
Wou'd you live free from Female Tyranny?
Ne'r parly with the tempting Sex, but fly.
Their very Tears are Fewel to Desire,
And with their Sighs they'll fan th'expiring Fire.
Their Mirth, and Grief, their Kindness and Disdain
Are fatal all, and work poor Shepherds Pain!
Nature and Art conspire to arm the fair;
For in the charming, all things charming are;
Their Glances Darts, and ev'ry Curl a Snare.
The Hurricane.
WHat cheer my Mates? Lus [...] ho!—We toll in vain!
That Northern Mist fore-bodes a Hurricane.
See how th'expecting Ocean raves,
The Billows roar before the Fray.
Untimely Night devours the Day;
I'th' dead Eclipse we nought descry,
But Lightnings wild Caprices in the Sky,
And Scaly Monsters sparkling through the Waves;
Ply, each a Hand, and furl your Sails.
Port, hard, a'port—The Tackle fails.
Sound ho!—Five Fathom and the most.
A dangerous Shelf! sh'as struck, and we are lost.
Speak in the Hold—she leaks amain—give ore;
The crazy Boat can work no more.
She draws apace, and we approach no Shore.
A Ring, my Mates, let's joyn a Ring, and so
Beneath the Deep embracing go.
Now to new Worlds we steer, and quickly shall arrive:
Our Spirits shall mount, as fast as our dull Corpses dive.
The Grateful Shepherd.
WHilst by his grazing Flock a gentle Swain,
His vacant Hours to entertain,
Perus'd a Volume, where each Tragick Page
Discours'd of some Intrigue of State,
Of Rebel Insolence and Rage,
And some unhappy Monarch's Fate:
The Youth in these transported Sounds brake forth,
What Vertue of my Ancestors
So much oblig'd you, most indulgent Pow'rs,
That in these silent Shades you gave me Birth?
You might have made me Fortune's Sport,
Doom'd me to some corrupted Court,
Where I this rural Bliss had never known;
My Cottage might have been a Throne,
My Crook a Scepter, and my Wreath a Crown:
Some Tyrant-Prince I might have been,
(By your Indulgence now a peaceful Swain)
My Chloris some proud cruel Queen,
The tendrest Nymph of our Arcadian Plain.
On the Assembling of a New Parliament the 6th. of March, 1682.
BReak, Sacred Morn, on our expecting Isle,
And make our Albion's sullen Genius smile,
His brightest Glories let the Sun display;
He rose not with a more important Day
Since Charles return'd on his triumphant Way.
A joyful Bridegroom then our Eyes he drew,
And now seems wedded to his Realms anew.
Methinks our Fears already are o'erblown,
And on our En'mies Coast the Terror thrown.
You ancient Bards that Britain's Glory wrote,
As warmly as our British Heroes fought,
Be still assisting to your Countrey's Fame,
And in my daring Song revive your Flame.
Now I behold the bright Assembly plac't,
And with our Monarch's Sacred Presence grac't;
Transported with a Vision so sublime,
My Thoughts review the Infant-Pride of Time:
I think how at the new Creation sate
Th'Eternal Monarch in his Heav'ns fresh State;
The Stars yet wondring at each others Fires,
And all the Sons of Glory rankt in Quires.
As various Streams from distant Regions fall,
And in the Deep their Gen'ral Council call,
Conveying thence Supplies to every Source,
And fail not to maintain the rowling Course;
Our Senate thus from every Quarter met,
And with our Peers in awful Council set,
Dispence their Influence to each Province round,
And in our Isle no Barren Spot is found.
Justice as plenteous as our Thames shall flow;
In Peace the Sailer steer, and Peasant plow.
Our Publick Safe from Foreign Wrongs shall be,
And private Rights from Home-Oppressors free.
Proceed, brave Worthies then, to your Debates,
Not to decree alone our private Fates;
But to judge Kingdoms, and dispose of States.
From you their Rise, or Downfal they assume,
Expecting from our Capitol their Doom:
You from their Peace and War, as you approve,
They joyn in Leagues, or to fierce Battel move.
And tho the Pride of France has swell'd so high,
A warlike Empire's Forces to defie,
To crush united States confed'rate Power,
And silence the loud Belgian Lion's Roar;
Yet let their Troops in silent Triumph come
From conquer'd Fields, and steal their Trophies home,
Take care their Canon at just distance roar;
Nor with too near a Volley rouze our Shore,
Lest our disdaining Islanders advance,
With Courage taught long since to conquer France;
Seizing at once their Spoils of many a year,
And cheaply win what they oft bought too dear.
Their late Success but juster Fears affords;
For they are now grown worthy of our Swords:
Howe'er 't must be confest, the Gallick Pow'rs
Can ne'er engage on equal Terms with ours:
In Nature we have Odds; they dread, we scorn;
The English o'er the French are Conqu'rers born.
The Terror still of our Third Edward's Name,
Rebukes their Pride, and checks their tow'ring Fame.
Nor can the Tide of many rowling Years
Wash the stain'd Fields of Cressey and Poictiers.
A conscious Terror strikes their Bosoms still,
When they behold that famous satal Hill,
Where Edward with his Host Spectator stood,
And left the Prince to make the Conquest good.
The Eagle thus from her fledg'd Young withdraws,
Each Bird a Match for Troops of Kites and Daws.
Nor has the black Remembrance left their Breast,
When our Fifth Harry to their Paris prest;
While France wept Blood for their hot Dauphin's Jest.
Such was the Vertue of our Ancestours,
And such on due Resentment shall be ours:
Our remper'd Valor just Pretence requires,
As Flints are struck before they show their Fires.
The Despair.
I.
REtir'd from any Mortal's Sight
The pensive Damon lay;
He blest the discontented Night,
And curst the smiling Day.
II.
The tender Sharers of his Pain,
His Flocks forbore to graze;
But sadly fixt around the Swain,
Like silent Mourners gaze.
III.
He heard the Musick of the Wood,
And with a Sigh reply'd;
He saw the Fish sport in the Flood,
And wept a deeper Tide.
IV.
In vain the Summer's Bloom came on;
For still the drooping Swain
Like Autumn Winds was heard to groan,
Out-wept the Winter's Rain.
V.
Some Ease, said he, some Respite give.
Why, cruel Pow'is, Ah! why
Am I too much distrest to live,
And yet forbid to die?
VI.
Such Accents from the Shepherd flew,
Whilst on the Ground he lay;
At last so deep a Sigh he drew,
As bore his Life away.
MEDEA TO JASON.
THE ARGUMENT.
Jason arrives with his Companions at Colchos, where the Golden Fleece was kept, which before he can obtain, he is to undertake several Adventures; first, to yoke the Wild Bulls, then to sow the Serpent's Teeth, from whence should instantly rise an Army, with which he must encounter; and lastly, to make his Passage by the Dragon that never slept. In order to this, he solicits Medea Daughter to the King, and skilfull in Charms, by whose Assistance (on Promise of love) he gains the Prize; then flies with her: The King pursues them: Medea kills her little Brother, scatters his Limbs; and whilst the King stays to gather them up, escapes with [Page 128]her Lover into Thessaly, where she restores decrepit Aeson to his Youth. On the same Promise perswades Pelias his Daughters to let out their Fathers blood; but deceitfully leaves them guilty of Parricide. For this and other Crimes Jason casts her off, marries Creusa, Daughter to Creon, King of Corinth, on which the enrag'd Medea, according to the various Transports of her Passion, writes this complaining, soothing, and menacing Epistle.
YEt I found leisure, though a Queen, to free
By Magick Artsthy Grecian Friends and thee;
The Fates shou'd then have finish'd with my Reign,
The Life that since was one continued Pain.
Who wou'd have dreamt the Youth of distant Greece,
Shou'd e'er have sail'd to seize the Phrygian Fleece!
That th' Argo shou'd in view of Colchos ride!
A Grecian Army stem the Phasian Tide!
Why were those Snares, thy Locks, so tempting made!
A Tongue so false, so pow'rful to perswade!
No doubt but he that had so rashly sought
Our Shore, with the fierce Bulls unspell'd had fought,
And fondly too th' Arms-bearing Seed had sown,
Till by the Crop the Tiller were o'erthrown.
How many Frands had then expir'd with Thee!
As many killing griefs remov'd from me!
'Tis some Relief when ill returns are made,
With Favours done, th' Ingrateful to upbraid;
This Triumph will afford some little Ease,
False Jason leaves me this—
When first your doubtful Vessel reacht our Port,
And you had Entrance to my Fathers Court:
There was I then, what now your new Bride's here,
My Royal Father might with her's compare.
With Princely Pomp was your arrival grac'd,
The meanest Greek on Tyrian Beds we plac'd.
Then first I gaz'd my Liberty away!
And date my Ruin from that fatal day!
Fate pusht me on, and with your Charms combin'd;
I view'd your sparkling Eyes 'till I was blind.
You soon perceiv'd, for who cou'd ever hide
A flame that by its own Light is desery'd?
But now thy Task's propos'd, and thou must tame
The Bulls with brazen Hoofs, and Breath of Flame.
With these the fatal Field thou art to Plow,
From whence a sudden Host of Foes must grow.
Those dangers past, still to the golden Prey
The baleful fiery Dragon guards the way.
Thus spake the King; your Knights start from the Feast,
And ev'n your cheeks a pale despair confest.
Where then was your ador'd Creusa's Dow'r?
And where her Fathers Creon's boasted Pow'r?
Sad went'st thou forth; my pitying Eyes pursue,
I sigh'd, and after sent a soft Adieu!
In restless Tears I spent that tedious night,
Presenting still thy dangers to my sight;
The Savage Bulls and the more Savage Host,
But the dire Serpent did affright me most!
Thus tost with Fear and Love, (Fear swell'd the Flame)
My Sister early to my Apartment came;
Sad and dejected she surpriz'd me There,
With Eyes distilling and dishevelled Hair,
On your behalf she sought me, nor cou'd crave
My Aid for you, so freely as I gave!
A Grove there is, and awful gloomy shade,
Too close for ev'n the Sun himself t'invade;
These Woods with great Diana's Fane we grac'd,
I'th' midst the Goddess on high Tripods plac'd.
There (if that place you can remember yet,
Who have forgotton Me) 'twas there we met.
Then thus in soft deluding sounds you said—
"Take pity on our sufferings, Royal Maid!
"Rest pleas'd, Thou hast the Pow'r to kill; but give
"Proofs of Diviner might, and make us Live!
"By our distresses (which thy Art alone,
"Has Pow'r to succour,) By th' all-seeing Sun,
"By the Chast Deity that Governs Here,
"And what e're else you Sacred hold or Dear,
"Take pity on our Youth, and bind us still
"Eternal servants to Medea's Will!
"And if a Strangers Form can touch your Mind,
"(If such blest Fate was e're for me design'd!)
"This Flesh to Dust dissolve, this Spirit to Air,
"When I think any but Medea Fair
"Be Conscious Juno, witness to my Vow,
"And this dread Goddess at whose Shrine we Bow.
Your Charming Tongue stopt here, and left the rest,
To be by yet more powerful Tears exprest.
I yield—and by my Art instruct you now,
To yoke the brass-hooft Bulls, and make them Plow,
Then with a daring Hand you sow the Field,
That for an Harvest do's an Army yield;
Ev'n I look'd Pale, that gave the powerful Charms,
To see the wondrous Crop of shining Arms!
Till th' Earth-born Brothers in fierce battel joyn'd,
Their sudden Lives more suddenly resign'd:
The Serpent next, a yet more dangerous Toil,
With sealy Bosom Plows the yielding Soil,
O'reshades the Field with vast expanded wings,
And brandishes in Air his threatning Stings!
Where was Creusa at this needful Hour?
Where then were her fam'd Charms and matchless Dow'r?
Medea, that Medea that is now
Despis'd, thought Poor, held guilty too by you,
'Twas she that Charm'd the wakefull Dragons sight,
Gave you the Fleece, and then secur'd your Flight:
To merit you what cou'd I more have done?
My Father I betray, my Country shun,
And all the Hazards of an Exile run!
Tho, whilst I yield me thus a Robbers prize,
My tender Mother in my Absence dies,
And at her Feet my breathless Sister lies.
Why left I not my Brother too? —cold fear
Arrests my Hand, and I must finish here!
This Hand that tore the Infant in our Flight,
What then it dar'd to Act, dreads now to Write.
To the rough Seas undaunted I repair,
For after Guilt, what can a Woman Fear?
Why scap'd our Crimes those Seas? we shou'd have dy'd;
For falshood Thou, and I for Paricide.
The justling Isles shou'd there have dash'd our Bones,
And hung us piece-meal on the ragged stones;
Or Scylla gorg'd us in her rav'nous Den,
Wrong'd Scylla thus shou'd use ingrateful Men!
Charybdis too shou'd in our Fate have shar'd,
Nor ought of our sad wreck her whirl-pool spar'd.
Yet safe we reach your Shore; the Phrygian Fleece
Is made an Oss'ring to the Gods of Greece.
The Pelian Daughters pious bloody Deed
I pass, that rashly made their Father bleed:
Your Safety 'twas that drew me to this Fraud,
The Guilt that others blam [...], you shou'd applaud!
But 'stead of Thanks, your Court I am sorbid;
Your self forbad me, faithless Jason did!
With none but my two Infants I depart,
And Jason's Form, that ne'er forsakes my Heart;
At length thy Rev'ling Nuptial Songs surprize
My wounded Ear, thy Nuptial Torch my Eyes.
The Rabble shout, the Clamour nearer drew,
And as it came more near, more dreadful grew:
My Servants weep in Corners, and refuse
Th' ingrateful Task of such unwelcom News.
I yet forbear t' enquire, tho still my Breast
The dreadful Apprehensions did suggest.
My youngest Boy now from the Window spy'd
The coming Pomp, and jocund thus he cry'd,
"Look, Mother, look! see where my Father rides,
"With shining Reins his Golden Chariot guides.
At this my pale forsaken Breast I tore,
Nor spar'd the Face whose Beauties charm no more.
Alas! what did I spare; Scarce cou'd I spare
My Honour, scarcely thee, cou'd scarce forbear
To force my Passage to thy Chariot now,
And tear the Garland from thy perjur'd Brow.
Offended Father, now thy Griefs discharge;
My Brother's Blood is now reveng'd at large.
The Man (for whom I sled and injur'd thee,
Whose Love sole Comfort of my Flight cou'd be)
Th' ingrateful Man has now forsaken me.
I tam'd the Bulls, and cou'd the Serpent bind;
But for persidious Love no spell can find:
The Dragon's baleful Fires my Arts supprest;
But not the Flames that tage within my Breast.
In Love my powerfull'st Herbs are useless made,
In vain is Hecat summon'd to my Aid:
I sigh the Day, the Night in Watches spend,
No Slumbers on my careful Brows descend:
With Poppies Juice in vain my Eyes I steep,
And try the Charm that made the Dragon sleep.
I only reap no Profit for my Charms!
They sav'd, but sav'd thee from my Rival's Arms.
There, 'cause you know the Theam will grateful be
Perhaps you'r so unjust t' exclaim on me!
To tax my manners, rally on my Face,
And make th' Adultress sport with my Disgrace.
Laugh on [...]roud Dame; but know thy Fate is nigh,
When thou shalt yet more wretched be than I!
When wrong'd Medca unreveng'd sits still,
[...] forgot to kill.
If Prayers the slinty Jason's Breast can move,
My just Complaint will sure successful prove.
Stretcht at thy Feet a suppliant Princess see;
Such was thy Posture when she pity'd thee.
And tho a Wife's discarded Title fail,
My Infants still are thine, let them prevail.
So much they'r thine, so much thy Likeness bear,
Each Look I cast is follow'd by a Tear.
Now by the Gods, by all our past Delights,
By those dear Pledges of our am'rous Nights,
Restore me to thy Love I claim my due;
Be to my Merit, and thy Promise true.
I ask thee not what I perform'd for thee,
To set me from fierce Bulls and Serpents free;
I only crave thy Love, thy Love restore,
For which I've done so much, and suffer'd more.
Do'st Thou demand a Dow'r?—'twas paid that day
When thou did'st bear the Golden Fleece away:
Thy Life's my Dow'r, and thy dear Followers health,
The Youth of Greece; weigh these with Creen's wealth.
To Me thou ow'st that thou art Creon's Heir,
That now thou liv'st to call Creusa, Fair!
You've wrong'd me All, and on you All— but hold,
I form Revenge too mighty to be told!
My thoughts are now to th'utmost Ruin bent!
Perhaps I shall the fatal Rage repent,
But on—for I (what e're the mischief be)
Shall less Repent than that I trusted Thee!
The God alone that Rages in my Breast,
Can see the dark revenge my thoughts suggest;
I only know 'twill soon effected be,
And when it comes, be Vast and Worthy Me.
Ʋpon the Marquess of Worcester's defending his Seat of Ragland Castle; the last Garrison that held out for the King.
WHen civil Discord through the Realm had reign'd,
And English Swords with English Blood were stain'd;
When out of Zeal, Religion was expell'd,
And men for Conscience 'gainst their Prince rebell'd;
The best of Princes—when the Power Divine
(On purposes too deep for Reason's Line)
Gave Rebell Arms Success, and seem'd to bring
Distress at once upon our Saint and King:
Not Jesse's Son seem'd better form'd to reign;
Nor were his Worthies of a nobler Strain.
But what Relief can boldest Valour lend,
Where Heroes not with Foes, but Fate contend?
The Age's Crimes for no less Curse did call;
And 'tis decree'd the Royal Cause must fall:
Of Conquest thus by Destiny beref [...],
Our blasted War has yet one Garland left,
Alone the Foes united Strength to fight,
And strike the last fam'd Blow for Royal Right.
This Honour to the Noble Worc'ster fell,
Who, always brave, himself do's now excell,
His Friends, his Troops, his House, his Cittadel.
Here, tho reduc'd to last extreams, he lies,
His cheerful Canon still the Foe defies;
The more distress'd, the more his Vertue shines,
His Courage rising as his Strength declines;
Oft from unequal Force he guards his Walls,
Oft in fierce Sallies on the Leaguer falls:
Thus while expir'd the other Members lie,
Worester stus last, the Heart of Loyalty.
Catullus. Epigr. II.
De passere mortuo Lesbiae.
WEep, Venus, weep, bid all the Race
Of laughing Loves weep now apace;
Let Mortal's Sorrow be as deep;
Bid the nobler Mortals weep:
All that have the Soul or Sense
For Fate of such a Consequence.
Never was such Cause to moan,
Lesbia's Sparrow's dead and gone.
The Darling she was wont to prize
Above the Conquests of her Eyes.
That educated Bird, I mean
He that was so slick and clean;
Whose Wit and Judgment did excell;
For he my Lesbia knew as well
As she her own dear Mother knew,
And to her Arms as fondly flew.
No more Alass, shall he do so!
But wanders through the Shades below,
His Everlasting Residence;
For never Soul escapt from thence.
You have him Fates, and we allow
Your Groves the Seats of Pleasure now,
My Lesbia's Bird has made them so.
But ours, as if their Soul were fled,
Are wither'd all since he is dead.
Clouds of Tears o'er-cast the Skies;
I mean the Heav'n of Lesbia's Eyes.
After beating his Mistress.
Ovid. El. Lib.
CHains, Straw and Darkness! There's no Remedy,
But Bedlam for a Wretch so mad as I!
Perish these Hands, so ill could Beauty treat,
And on a trembling Mistress Blows repeat.
Distracted Ajax once with Sword and Shield,
For Foes, drove bleating Flocks about the Field.
Such was my Rage when I her Tresses tore;
Nor seem'd she then less charming than before.
Disorder call'd fresh Beauties to her Face,
Fair as Diana, panting from the Chase.
With such an Air wrong'd Ariadne lay,
When Winds bore Theseus Sails and Vows away.
Speak, you that were Spectators of the Deed,
What Eye forbore to weep, what Heart to bleed!
You call'd me Mad-man, curst the Savage Brute,
All but the injur'd Nymph, and she was mute.
Whose Silence yet more sharply did upbraid,
Her Tears beyond all Speech my Guilt display'd.
Strange Recompence for Love, such Savage Wrong,
Why was I to my own Destruction strong?
Tydides only with my Rage can vie;
He m [...]de one Goddess bleed, another I;
But he much better may his Crime defend,
That Goddess was his Foe; but mine my Friend.
Go, Conqueror, triumphant Arches raise,
Make Altars flame, and bind your Brow with Bays;
While thus the waiting Crow your Fact proclaim,
He fought a Woman, and he overcame:
And that your Pomp may yet appear the more,
The wounded Beauty led in Chains before.
Whose Cheeks shou'd only prints of Kisses bear,
Her Necks the Marks of raging Pleasure wear.
The least sharp word (her Tenderness is such)
Had been enough, an angry Look too much:
What then were Blows, and what to see that Hair
All torn, that Goddesses with Pride might wear?
Amaz'd she stood, nor any Breath retain'd;
And but the Statue of her self remain'd.
Yet still each panting Limb confest her Fear,
Such Tremblings as in Poplar Leaves appear;
Such as when Zephyres blow in Reeds we find,
Or Floods fann'd lightly with a Southern Wind.
Her Eyes were fixt, while yet her Tears did flow,
more fair than Pearl, more free than melting Snow.
That Mirrour shew'd me my foul Trespass first;
The Stars and Fates; but most my self I curst;
For Sacriledge like mine, what Recompence?
Thrice at her Feet I fell for my Offence,
While she, Alas, as oft drew back for fear,
And durst not trust my cruel Hands so near.
Propert. Lib. 1. Eleg. 4.
CHarming and soft as Ariadne's Sleep,
When faithless Theseus cut the falser Deep;
Was that which late my Cynthia did o'ercome,
When I with Troops of Links came reeling home,
Half laid, half sitting, and the more to charm,
Her Head supported on her yielding Arm;
My Soul ev'n then her wonted Pow'r confest,
In spite of Bacchus raging in my Breast.
For without Noise I crep't to her Bed-side,
Though by my stagg'ring Feet but ill supply'd.
I gaz'd, but dar'd no nearer to entrude;
Nor Wine it self had Power to make me rude;
For still the sleeping Beauty I forbore;
Fixt like a Midnight Miser by his Store:
The Wretch so fain wou'd seize, but wants the Pow'r;
Yet what his Hands forbear, his Eyes devour.
I took the genial Garland from my Head,
And wantonly on Cinthia's Temples spread.
Sometimes her Tresses with more Gemms I grace't,
A starting Curl sometimes in Order plac't:
Her half-shut Hands with downy Peaches fill'd,
While Show'rs of Jassmine on her Brow distill'd.
Heapt all Delights the fragrant Season bore,
And Sleep was never treated so before.
Rose-Leaves and Blossoms on her Breast I threw,
Remov'd as fast with ev'ry Breath she drew.
But Oh, what Fears oft-times I did sustain,
(Ye Powers of Love bear Witness to my Pain)
When in more deep Repose she lost her Breath,
To see a Sleep so much resembling Death.
What Terrors oft my tender Breast did rend,
Lest with some frightful Dream she might contend.
At last the clouded Moon her Beams deny'd,
That were by Cinthia's waking Eye supply'd.
Soon as she spy'd me, with a Sighand Tear,
She cry'd, what makes this lewd Companion here?
To this late Hour, where have thy rambles led;
Where hast thou roar'd, and drank the Stars to Bed?
But know, perfidious Man, the Pow'rs above
Have large Revenge in store for injur'd Love.
By dear Experience may'st thou know my Pain,
Expecting all the tedious Night in vain!
Sometimes with Books I cheat the Hours away,
With Musick next—but when you longer stay,
I know that Night's on new Intreagues employ'd,
Too long a time for Beauty once enjoy'd.
'Tis thus the weary Minutes I engage,
Tost with divided Thoughts of Love and Rage;
Till Sleep, that gives to other Ills Relief,
Renewsand doubles in sad Dreams my Grief.
To the Conceal'd Author of ABSALOM and ACHITOPHEL.
HAil, Heav'n-born Muse, Hail every sacred Page,
The Glory of our Isle, and of our Age.
Th'inspiring Sun to Albion draws more nigh;
The North at last seems with a Work to vie
With Homer's Flame, and Virgil's Majesty.
While Pindus lofty Heights our Poet sought,
His ravisht Mind with vast Idea's fraught,
Our Language fail'd beneath his rising Thought.
This checks not his Attempt, for Maro's Mines
He drains of all their Store t'enrich his Lines,
Through each of which the Mantuan Genius shines.
Once Rocks obey'd the Powerful Hebrew Guide,
Their flinty Breast dissolving to a Tide:
Thus on our stubborn Language he prevails,
And makes the Helicon in which he sails.
The Dialect as well as Sense invents,
And with his Poem a new Speech presents.
Hail then, thou matchless Bard, thou great Unknown,
That give your Country Fame, yet shun your own,
In vain; for ev'ry where your Praise you'll find,
And not to meet it you must shun Mankind.
Your Loyal Theam each Loyal Reader draws,
And ev'n the Faction give your Verse Applause,
Whose Light'ning strikes to ground their Idol Cause.
The Cause for whose dear sake they drank a Flood
Of Civil Gore, nor spar'd the Royal Blood.
The Cause whose Growth to crush our Prelates wrote
In vain, almost in vain our Heroes fought;
Yet by one stab of your keen Satyr dies;
Before your Ark their shatter'd Dagon lies.
Oh, if unworthy we appear to know
The Sire to whom this wondrous Birth we owe,
Deny'd our ready Homage to express,
And can at best but thankful be by guess;
This Hope remains,—may David's God-like-Mind
The unknown Author of these Numbers find;
And having found, show'r equal Favours down
On Wit so vast as cou'd oblige a Crown.
On the Meddal.
ONce more our Poet sallies to engage
The threatning Hydra-Faction of the Age:
Once more prepares his dreadful Pen to wield;
While every Muse attends him to the Field.
By Art and Nature for this Task design'd,
Yet modestly the Fight he long declin'd;
Forbare the Torrent of his Verse to pour,
Nor loos'd his Satyr till the needful Hour.
His Sov'reign's Right by Patience half betray'd,
Wak'd his avenging Genius to its Aid:
Blest Muse, whose Wit with such a Cause was Crown'd,
And blest the Cause that such a Champion found!
But like a Prince, by Subjects forc't t' engage,
Secure of Conquest, he rebates his Rage:
His Fury not without Distinction sheds,
Hurls Mortal Bolts but on devoted Heads.
To less offending Members gentle found,
Spares them, or else pours Balm into the Wound.
This gen'rous Grace th'ingrateful Tribe abuse,
And trespass on the Mercy of his Muse.
Their wretched dog'ril Rhimers forth they bring,
To snarle and bark against the Poet's King.
A Crew that scandalize the Nation more,
Than all their Treason-canting Priests before.
On these he scarce vouchsaf't a scornful Smile;
But on their Powerful Patrons turns his Stile;
A Stile so keen as from the Faction draws
The vital Poison, stabs at Heart their Cause.
Take then, Great Bard, what Tribute we can raise,
Accept our Thanks for you transcend our Praise.
To my ingenious Friend Mr. Creech, on his Translation of Lucretius.
TWas bold for youth Lucretian heights to storm,
But Youth alone had Vigour to perform;
The stately Fabrick stood by all admir'd,
While none to Coppy the vast Frame aspir'd.
All own'd some Sacred Power the Work did guide,
Aids which our Author to the World deny'd;
What to attempt had drawn a gen'ral Blame,
Perform'd so well must Challenge greater fame:
Lucretius English'd!—tis so rich a Prize,
We gaze upon't and scarce believe our Eyes!
We read and see the Roman Genius shine,
Without Alley in each bright Page of thine,
Then pauzing with fresh Doubt, again repair;
Again we find the Learn'd Lucretius there.
Thy Pains oblige us on a double score,
True to thy Author, to Religion more,
While learnedly his Errours thou dost note;
And for his Poyson bring an Antidote,
From Epicurus Walks thus weeding vice,
No more the Garden but a Paradice.
The Battle of the B—d's in the Theatre Royal, December the 3d 1680.
GIve ore ye Tilters of the Pit, give ore,
Frighten the Boxes and your selves no more:
Two Amazons of Scandalous renown,
Have with dire Combat made this Field their own.
Their fray on no slight Grounds (like yours) was made,
But for precedence in their famous Trade;
Both for the publique break their Midnight sleep,
And open Courts for lated Mortals keep.
Zeal for the Publique did their rage excite,
But who can speak the Horrour of the fight!
The Oaths, the Banns, the Sweat, the Dust, the Blood
Is not to be exprest, nor understood.
Strong Sarcenet Scarf with Hood of Gause more slight,
Promiscuously lay scatter'd in the fight:
Necklace and Pendants perish't in the fray,
And rev'rend Point that did the Art display,
Of Ages past had now its fatal Day.
Our upper region ravish't at the sight,
With dinn of clatt'ring Sticks applaud the fight;
Nay ev'n our Squires oth' Pit like Trojans true,
Made a fair Ring, and stood Spectators too:
Some side Box Nymphs ('tis true) made Protestation.
This War would prove the ruin of the Nation:
Which to prevent Bellona interpos'd,
And with a partial Hand the Battel clos'd.
S—nce the vanquisht, S—nce quits her Ground,
The Conqu'ring Str—rd is with Myrtle [...]rown'd,
And Drury-lane all loyal Wh—es resound.
Hor. Ode 5th. lib. 3.
Quis multâ gracilis te Puer in Rosâ.
SAy, perjur'd Maid,
What tender Youth with Perfumes on his Head,
And Roses for his Bed,
Alike by Nature's Sweets and thine betray'd;
What unexperienc'd Youth does now employ
Sighs, Tears and Oaths to reap the fatal Joy?
To what new Lover do'st thou now unfold
Those Amber Locks? For thy Undress can charm,
Thy loose dishevell'd Tresses warm,
Beyond the Glances shot from Gemms and Gold.
Ah! thoughtless Wretch, how oft shall he in vain
Curse perjur'd Faith, and to the Gods complain?
Those Gods by whom the fair Deceiver swore;
When he shall hear the Tempest fall,
The Billows waking at the Thunder's Call,
Who ne'er saw Wave, nor heard a Storm before!
How oft shall he bewail his Error past,
Who thought the smiling Calm wou'd always last,
That he alone, and always he
Of Phillis Heart shall owner be,
And fix of Woman's Love th'inconstant Sea?
So curst are all that see thy Smiles,
And view thy Beauty e'er they know thy Wiles!
Thrice wretched they for whom remains this Fate;
But me Experience dear and late,
Has with a strange Escape sent back,
Resolv'd for Sea no more;
And hanging on the Rocks of this false Shore,
(That none hereafter the like Error make)
My Garments drencht, and dropping with the Wreck.
To the Translator of Father Simon's Critical History.
AS Esdras once did into Order draw,
And to the new-freed Tribes revive the Law,
So you, from Chains of Darkness which they wore,
The Captive Oracles again restore.
Hail, Inspir'd Father, who couldst force thy way
Through Night's dark Empire to the Realm of Day.
Your self creates the Sun that gives you Light,
And forms the History by which you write.
One Age dissolves (such force your Judgment bears)
The settled Cloud of many thousand Years.
This works first Fame was thine who did create,
The second his that could so well translate.
From whose joyn'd Beams a perfect Light we draw
The Ʋrim and the Thummim of the Law.
The Charge.
SONG.
I.
TEll my Strephon that I die;
Let Ecchoes to each other tell,
Till the mournful Accent fly
To Strephon's Ear, and all is well.
II.
But gently break the fatal Truth,
Sweeten ev'ry sadder Sound;
For Strephon's such a tender Youth,
The gentlest Words too deep will wound.
III.
The gentlest Words will wound too deep
The dear relenting Swain,
Then let my Griefs in Silence sleep,
And never more complain.
IV.
Fountains Ecchoes all be dumb;
For should I cost my Swain a Tear,
I shall repent me in the Tomb,
And grieve to buy my Rest so dear.
PROLOGUE.
To the Enchanted Lovers.
YOu've met us in defiance of the Weather;
How has our Magick conjur'd you together!
The Play is new—there doubtless lay the Charm,
That drew to our forsaken Hive this Swarm.
What more to sooth your Humor cou'd we do,
Than when the Play is new, an d Poet too.
He, though an early Trespasser in Rhime,
Ne'er climb'd the Stage before; and judg'd this time
For his Adventure safest when the Road
Was clear, the Pirate Wits disperst abroad.
He hop'd while you toth' Country were withdrawn,
T'have found an easie Jury of the Town;
But is surpriz'd to see an awful Pit,
Met to arrraign him by the Laws of Wit;
Laws ne'er perform'd by mortal Writer yet.
Witches and Spells the former Age believ'd,
And as authentick on the Stage receiv'd;
Our Poet fears they'll hardly pass with you,
Who no charms but in Beauty will allow.
Yet since such Lovers Knaves and Fools have been,
Shewn on the Stage, as elsewhere ne'er were seen;
Why shou'd his Haggs fore't Characters appear?
Cause your nice Reason doubts if Witches are.
He with a trembling Hand their jargons wrote;
The Entertainment of his Mid-night Thought:
Mean while his Fancy, like a tender Bride,
With th'Exercise lay pleas'd and terrify'd:
With Ease his Belldam's Tempests raise and lay;
But could contrive no Spell to save the Play.
EPILOGUE.
WHat no Attendance in this World? make way.
Where are our noisy empty Hectors? they
That hear no Scene, and yet damn all the Play,
Run down by Masque, to their old shift they flee,
And rail at us for want of Repartee.
Well, Gentlemen, howe'er you doom too Night,
Methinks this Company's a blessed Sight,
And shews the Realms Disorder coming Right.
With us as with the Publick it does pass,
The Theatre's the Nations Weather-Glass;
Where, like the Quick-silver our Audience still,
As the State goes is found to ebb or sill.
Shall I inform you one thing, Gallants?—We
In our Vocation with the Saints agree:
For as their Holders-forth their Flock enchant,
So we our Audience Charm with Noise and Rant.
'Tis thus we please, and I dare take my Oath,
That Decency and Sence would break us both.
EPILOGUE.
NOw we expect to hear our raw Blades say,
Dam me, I see no Sence in this dull Play:
Tho much of it our abler Judges know
Was famous Sense 'bove forty Years ago.
Sometimes we fail to please for want of Wit
I'th' Play; but most for want of 't in the Pit.
For many ruin'd Poet's Work 'twould save,
Had you but half the Sense you think you have.
Poets on you Fore-fathers shamm'd dull Plays,
And shrewdly you revenge it in our Days.
In troth we fare by 't as your Tradesmen do:
For while they raise Estates by cheating you,
Into Acquaintance with their Wives you fall,
And get 'em graceless Sons to spend it all.
'Tis plain they'r your's, 'cause all our Arts miscarry:
For, just like you, they'll damn before they'll marry.
Of honest Terms I now almost despair,
Unless retriev'd by some rich Yeoman's Heir,
In Grannam's Ribons, and his own straight Hair.
What Comforts such a Lover would afford!
Joynture! dear Joynture, Oh, the Heav'nly Word;
But—e'er of you, my Sparks, my Leave I take,
For your Unkindness past, these Prayers I make,
So very constant may your Misses be,
Till you grow cloy'd for want of Jealousie;
Into such Dullness may your Poets tire,
Till they shall write such Plays as you admire,
May you, instead of Whoring, Gaming, Drinking,
Be damn'd to your Aversion,—Books and thinking;
And for a last wish—what I'm sure you'll call
The Curse of Curses—Marriage take ye all.
The PROLOGUE.
To the History of King Lear, reviv'd, with Alterations.
SInce by Mistakes your best Delights are made,
(For your own Wives can please in Masquerade)
'Twere worth our while t' have drawn you in to day
By a new Name to our old honest Play.
But he that did this Ev'ning Treat prepare,
Resolv'd before-hand frankly to declare
Your Entertainment should be most Old Fare.
Yet hopes, since in rich Shakespear's Soil it grew,
'Twill relish still with Palats that are true;
And his Ambition is to please a few.
If then this Heap of Flowers shall chance to wear
Fresh Beauty in the Order they now bear,
Ev'n this is Shakespear's Praise—each Rustick knows,
With various Flowers a Garland to compose;
That strung by his course Hand may fairer show;
But 'twas a Pow'r Divine first made 'em grow.
Why shou'd these Scenes lie hid, in which we find
What may at once delight and teach the Mind?
Morals were always proper for the Stage,
But are ev'n necessary in this Age.
Poets must take the Churches teaching Trade,
Since Priests their Province of Intrigue invade;
But we the worst in this Exchange have got,
In vain our Poets preach, while Church-men plot.
EPILOGUE.
INconstancy, the reigning Sin o'th' Age,
Will scarce endure true Lovers on the Stage:
You hardly ev'n in Plays with such dispense,
And Poets kill 'em in their own Defence.
Yet one bald Proof I was resolv'd to give,
That I could three Hours Constancy out-live.
You sear, perhaps, while on the Stage we're made
Such Saints, we shall indeed take up the Trade;
Sometimes we threaten—but our Vertue may
For Truth, I fear, with your Pit-Valour weigh.
Where (not to statter either) I much doubt,
When we are off the Stage, and you are out,
We are not quite so coy, nor you so stout.
We talk of Nunneries—but to be sincere,
Whoever hopes to see us Cloyster'd there,
May hope to meet our Criticks at Tangier.
Well—since ye are for blust'ring in the Pit,
This Play's Reviver humbly does admit
Your abs'lute Power to damn his part of it.
But still so many Master-Torches shine
Of that great Hand that first laid this Design,
That in great Shakespear's Right he's bold to say,
The Play your Judgment damns, not you the Play.
To Mr. L. Maidwell, on his New Grammar.
THus early for that Homage we make way,
Which late Posterity shall better pay.
To form a Verse as perfect as our Theam,
The Air of Pindus and Pirene's Stream
Assist too feebly; our Recourse must be
For just Expression to thy Book and thee.
From thy own Stores thy Tribute we must raise;
For who best learns thy Precepts, best can praise.
How heavily till now our Youth were bred;
With painful Progress to the Muses led;
Through Clouds of Terms to Science did proceed,
Nor learnt their Grammar's Use till past the need.
Who sped the best, but late arriv'd the Coast,
The greater part on Rocks of Error lost.
So ignorant the Pilot still appear'd;
So false the Card it self by which they steer'd:
Till thou in gen'rous Pity didst impart
To weeping Youth this perfect Scheme of Art;
Whose ready Method doubly eas'd their way,
More short the Journey, and more bright the Day.
Thy Art, like Moses, on the Mount appears,
Shews at one View the Search of many years.
So short and clear all thy Instructions lie,
They teach the Mind, not load the Memory.
Thy Tree performs for Boys more Wonders now,
Than for the Heroe Virgil's Golden Bough:
With this bright Charm each cheerful Youth invades
The Muses World through darkest Authors Shades.
What Progress then in Learning must be made,
When half the Building's in the Basis laid?
An Attempt on the Ode of Assumption, By Mr. Crashaw.
I.
HEark, she is call'd, the parting Hour is come,
Poor World, take thy Farewell;
Heav'n must on Earth no longer dwell;
Take Leave poor world; for Heav'n must now go home;
Heav'ns Bride must home, then all the Stars more bright
Whose Lamps for her Arrival deck the Sky;
See where her Chariot mounts, whilst in her Flight
She gives the Crystal Sphere more glorious Light,
And wakes into broad Fire, the sleeping Galaxie.
II.
Heark she is call'd the dear Immortal Dove!
Sighs to his Silver-Mate, rise up my Love;
Arise my fair, my spotless one,
The stormy Winter's past, the Rain is gone;
The Spring is come, the Flow'rs appear,
No Sweets but thou are wanting here.
Then come away my Love;
The Pomp, the Court of Heav'n are come,
With all the Starry Host to wait thee home:
There's not one Guardian Seraph left above.
The Glories of the Spring appear,
Or quickly would if thou wert here:
The Spring is come, or if it stay,
'Tis only to keep Time withthy Delay.
The Rain is gone, except so much as we
Retain in Tears to weep the want of thee.
The gloomy Water's past;
Or if he make less Haste,
His Answer is, that she is slow;
If Summer come not, how can Winter go?
Come my Love, make haste away;
The shrill Winds chide, the Waters weep thy stay,
The Fountains murmur, and each lofty Tree
Bends low his Leasy Top to look for thee.
III.
She's call'd again, and she will now away
Heav'n will not, and she cannot stay.
Go then, rise glorious on the Golden Wings
Of Heav'ns bright Youth, while each thy triumph sings,
Whose Numbers yet a Flight more lofty take,
Than what their own immortal Pinions make.
And tho our Notes are far less sweet and strong,
Yet our best Harmony we'll send
Her rising Glories to attend;
And strive at least to reach her with our Song.
In Heav'ns own Anthem we will bear our parts,
Hail, Holy, happy Queen of humble Hearts,
Maria, Men and Angels sing,
Maria, Mother of th' Eternal King:
Live, Queen of Heav'n, the Cherub's sacred Mirth,
Restorer, and Protectress of the Earth;
Live, thou that gav'st Eternity a Birth.
Thus far our Numbers which with Grief we see,
Short of our own Desires, much more of thee.
And now our Mortal Airs have done their best,
Divinest Angels come and sing the rest.
The Three First Chapters of Job.
The First Chapter.
THe Land of Ʋzz by Nature much was blest;
But more, that Righteous Job her Soil possest.
None worshipt Heav'n with such Religious Care,
Nor of its Blessings held so large a Share.
Sev'n Princely Sons, three beauteous Daughters grac't
The Patriarch's Court, his Field increast more fast.
His Flocks and Herds in thousands he could see;
The plenteous East knew none so rich as he.
The Sons to weekly Treats each other call,
And in their Course appoint the Festival:
As oft did Job his pious Prayers renew,
And Sacrifices to their Number slew,
Lest in the warmth, said he, of Mirth and Wine,
The Youth forget, or curse the Pow'r Divine.
Such was his Practice—Now approacht the Day,
When all Jehovah's Sons in solemn way
Appear'd before him. Satan too was there:
For what will not industrious Malice dare?
From whence (said God?) From ranging far and wide
Thine Earth for Prey, the sullen Fiend reply'd.
And hast thou (said th' Almighty) hast thou found
In all the Search of that thy spacious Round,
A Saint-like Job, my Servant, scarce in Thought
Transgressing?—And does Job serve God for nought?
The Fiend returns—Are not thine Arms his Fence?
Stands not his House hedg'd round with Providence?
What wants thy Servant Man can happy call?
Well may he yield thee Praise, who giv'st him all,
Peace, Plenty, Power, what can he cover more?
My own black Tribe could bless on such a Score.
But check those vast Rewards that makes him just,
Consume his Substance, lay his Pomp in Dust,
Afflict his Person, load him with Disgrace,
Thy Saint that hour shall curse thee to thy Face.
Prove then his Truth (said God) this very hour
All but his Life we leave within thy Power.
Hells Agent smil'd: the Genial Day was set
Once more, when Job's glad Sons and Daughters met,
While to the Rev'rend Sire, a Messenger,
Breathless with Haste, and half expir'd with Fear,
These Tidings brought—While we the Plow did ply,
Our Oxen york't, the Asses grazing by,
Sabean Troops upon the Cattel fell,
And of thy Servants I survive to tell.
Imperfectly was this Relation told,
When heavier News a second does unfold:
Thy Flocks and Servants Fire from Heav'n has slain,
And I alone to tell their Fate remain.
While yet he spoke a third was heard to say,
The Camels are become the Chaldee's Prey;
On us thy Servants in three Bands they fell,
And I am scarce escap't with Breath to tell.
Nor had he finisht, when the Fourth exprest
The Loss that like a Sea devour'd the rest:
This day (said he) thy Sons and Daughters met,
With num'rous Trains about the Banquet set;
Thy Beds first Pledge, the Eldest was their Host;
But Ah, too dear the Entertainment cost!
For lo! a Whirlwind from the Desart blew,
That at one Blast the Palace overthrew:
Beneath the Pile thy Off-spring all lie slain,
And of thy Servants I alone remain.
At this the Saint his Garment rent around,
And falling prostrate, worshipt on the Ground.
Thus bare, (said he) thus naked was I born,
And naked thus I shall to Earth return.
Heav'n gives, and Heav'n with Justice may recall,
So Heav'n be prais'd whate'er to man befall.
In such Distress thus patient he remain'd;
Nor fondly once of Providence complain'd.
The Second Chapter.
THe solemn Time was now return'd, once more,
When with the rest stood Satan, as before:
From whence, said God? From ranging far and wide
The spacious Globe, the sullen Fiend reply'd.
And hast thou (said th' Almighty) hast thou found
A Saint like Job in all thy spacious Round?
Who still our Laws and Service does attend,
Nor all his causeless Griefs have made offend.
To this th' Accuser—slight is yet his Pain;
Nor would my Tribe for such Distress complain:
But touch his Flesh with thy afflicting Rod,
And to his Face the Saint shall curse his God.
Try (said th' Almighty) wreck thy Vengeance here,
Afflict his Body; but his Life forbear.
Hell's Factor strikes him now with Boils all o'er;
His ulcer'd Flesh but one continued Sore.
The patient Saint in Ashes still remains,
And with a Potsheard scrapes his swelling Blanes.
Retain'st thou still thy found Integrity?
His Wife exclaims, give o'er, curse Heav'n and die.
Forbear (said he) such impious Blasphemies;
What blacker Guilt could Belial's self advise?
Ingrateful! shall we from the Pow'r Divine
Receive Life's Sweets, and at its Griefs repine?
From both our Duties Tribute let him raise,
For these our Patience, and for those our Praise.
Thus far the utmost Rage of Hell was vain;
For still his Vertue triumpht o'er his Pain.
This wondrous Change fill'd every Breath of Fame,
And to his Friends in distant Regions came;
Who, Thunder-struck, by joint Consent repair
To comfort, or at least his Trouble share:
Far off a mournful Spectacle they view,
Three Friends; but none his Old Acquaintance knew.
At last, when Job appear'd through Griefs disguise,
Each rent his Garment, and the Air with Cries;
With Dust they strew'd their Heads, and seated round,
Seven Suns beheld them weeping on the Ground;
All speechless; for they fear'd to urge the Grief
They saw too mighty to admit Relief.
The Third Chapter
PARAPHRAS'D.
I.
LEt the Day perish; let it perish quite,
That brought a wretch like me to light:
Infernal Vapors blast the Morn,
In which 'twas said, behold a Man-child born.
The Night that did me first to Life betray;
The Night that usher'd in that fatal Day;
Infernal Horrors overtake that Night!
Let dismal Shades the Day o'ergrow,
More black than Darkness let it prove;
Let Hell confound it from below,
And let not God relieve it from above.
Deepest Sables shroud the Earth,
And Death possess the Day that gave me Birth.
Amongst his Brethren let not that appear,
Nor have a place within the circ'ling Year.
The Night that for the wretched Birth made way,
The Night that usher'd in the fatal Day;
All solitary let it be;
No Sound of Joy be heard therein;
Let Mourners curse it, all that mourn like me;
From its own Darkness let it ne'er be free,
But ever wait the Dawn that never shall begin.
II.
Because it did assist the lab'ring Womb,
And to these Sorrows me betray'd:
Why was I not from Birth to Death convey'd?
And why was not my Cradle made my Tomb?
Why did the careful Midwife close,
And mold this Head for such a Mass of Woes!
Why did the Knees prevent my Mother's Throws?
And when their Offices did cease,
When want of Food had soon restor'd my Peace,
Why did the Breast afford Relief,
And foster up the Drudge and Slave of Grief?
Who else had lain at Rest, and found
In common Earth my Sleep of Death as sound,
As Kings and Princes that in Wealth abound.
Who in the very Tomb a Palace have,
And lay whole Empires out upon a Grave.
In equal Quiet I had lain,
With things unborn, and things retir'd,
With Babes by Death restor'd to Rest again;
Or such as on their way to Life expir'd,
Convey'd to Bliss before they tasted Pain.
O Grave! O Mansion of the Dead!
Wondrous things of thee are said!
The wicked cease from troubling there,
And there the weary are at Rest.
Pris'ners, of Liberty possest;
And Slaves th' Oppressor's Voice no longer hear.
Life's Tyrant there Distinctions took away,
And Servants mingle with their Master's Clay.
III.
Why is the better Soul detain'd in Bands
Of hateful Flesh; why forc't to live?
Why shou'd the Sun to him his Lustre give,
Who at Defiance with all Comfort stands?
What does the Son of Ruin here,
Among the cheerful Race of Men?
A Wretch that ne'er must taste of Joy again.
Why shou'd he see the Changes of the Year,
Who in all Nature's Blessings has no Share,
Abandon'd and devoted to Despair.
He calls for Death his weary Lids to fold,
And courts the Terrour of Mankind:
He searches for him, diggs more deep to find
A Grave, than Misers do for Gold.
Why does his rising Day the Beams renew
On him that has no Comfort to pursue?
Why is he forc't to look abroad agen,
And meet the World where he has nought to do?
Cut off from all the cheerful ways of Men.
With blackest Terrors hedg'd around,
Whose Doom is past, his Ruin seald,
With Sentence ne'er to be repeal'd;
Whom God has left, and last Destruction found.
My Sighing comes before I seed,
And Deluges of Tears succeed:
My roaring overcomes the Main,
And Seas are husht when I complain.
The Trouble which I fear'd, without Controul
Has seiz'd upon me the long-dreadful Ill;
The Thought whereof my Blood so oft did chill,
And shot with Midnight-Trembling through my Soul.
Tis come—Yet Heav'n bear Witness what I bore,
How far remov'd from Happiness before.
Among the Sons of Sorrow I was Chief;
But former Woes were Pleasure to this Grief:
Then urge me, Friends, with vain Advice no more,
Despairing and defying all Relief.
The Charnell-House.
THis Treasury of Death Survey,
Where Poor and Rich like Tribute pay.
See what Acquaintance thou canst spy
Amongst those Skulls, I prethee try:
Man of Science, prethee show
Thy darling Friend, or deadly Foe.
Mankind by thee alive are read,
And know'st thou nothing of the Dead?
To the Memory of Sir Richard Raynsford, Lord Chief Justice.
Qui Consulta Patrum, qui Leges, Juraque servat,
Quo magnae multaeque secantur Judice lites.
Hor.
WHen Princes have to Fate resign'd their Sway,
And a low Grave receiv'd the Royal Clay,
Then ev'n a Second Death they seem to have,
More bury'd in Oblivion than the Grave;
The Charm of some diviner Poet's Flame
From Darkness has redeem'd their sully'd Name,
And sixt 'em shining in the Roll of Fame.
Not thus, Learn'd Raynsford, do we write of thee,
As we could add to thy bright Memory:
For while thy wondrous Vertues we rehearse,
We praise not thee; but thou adorn'st our Verse.
The Muses from their barren Mountains come
To stock themselves with Lawrel at thy Tomb;
Which, like a sacred Shrine they sind prepar'd,
Where Fame and Honour keep eternal Ward.
Ev'n I, the meanest of the Tribe inspir'd,
(Yet with th' Ambition of the proudest fir'd)
Design'd some Work that should immortal be,
Took the true Path, and chose to write of thee.
Before the Thirst of Wealth and Pow'r began,
When Man rul'd Brutes, and not his Brother Man,
E'er Laws were form'd (for who could wrong pretend,
When th'Infant-world yet knew not to offend)
The Angels of Mankind hae little Odds;
Earth seem'd a Heav'n, and Men a Race of Gods:
That Mortals once could such Perfection own,
In Raynsford's equal Piety was shown;
Who, in an Age most vitious and accurst,
Did prastise all the Vertues of the first.
Sill with a peaceful Air his Count'nance shin'd,
The Emblem of his more pacifick Mind;
That never did the least Contest maintain,
But of the Graces striving which should reign.
Ev'n Nature too her signal Care exprest,
Brought all her rightest Gifts t' adorn his Breast.
She gave, and gave till she could give no more;
Yet still his Industry encreas'd the store.
Beside th'Endowments Bounteous Heav'n inspir'd,
All Ornament of Science he acquir'd.
The Truth from specious Falshood could divide;
Had all the Gown-mens Skill, without their Pride.
He knew whate'er the ablest Doctors know,
Yet scorn'd not the most Ignorant and Low:
Weakness in others never did despise,
Yet was himself the wonder of the Wise.
And tho no Conquest is so hard to gain,
As when stiff Disputants Tongue-wars maintain;
Yet when he reason'd Sophistry stood mute,
and 'twas a Lecture, rather than Dispute.
Historians from his clearer Sight supply'd
Their darker Books, they ours, and he their Guide.
Remotest Ages he kept still in view,
To present Causes past Examples drew,
And all things, but his own Perfections knew.
But most regard to Truths Divine he bore,
Where both his Faith and Skill so high did soar,
Few Churchmen knew so much; none practic'd more.
The Law, that did a boundless Ocean seem,
Was coasted all, and fathom'd all by him:
A dadg'rous Sea, till he like Neptune rose
The wrangling Winds and Waters to compose:
Then banish'd Justice did to th' Courts repair,
And seem'd enthron'd while Raynsford fill'd the Chair.
Large Fees made then the Cause no heavier weigh,
The Widows smil'd, and Orphans blest the Day.
Math awful Meen he judged not austere;
Ev'n those he sentenc'd thought him not severe;
For still he pity'd where he could not spare.
With such a mildness fate the Hebrew Guide,
The trav'ling Nations Causes to decide,
While Angels from above admir'd to see
On Earth such Wisdom and Integrity:
But that bright Oracle at last expir'd,
And ours (too great a Bliss to last) retir'd.
Prhoris. From the Metamorph. of Ovid. Lib. 7
Phocus in in terius spatium pulchrosque recessus
Cecropidas ducit, &c.
TO th' inmost Cours the Grecian Youths were led
And plac'd by Phocus on a Tyrian Bed;
Who streight observ'd Aeolides to hold
A Dart of unknown Wood; but arm'd with Gold.
None better loves (said he) the Hunts-man's Sport,
Or does more often to the Woods resort;
Yet I that Jav'lins stem with wonder view;
Too smooth for Box, too smooth a Grain for Yew.
I cannot guess the Tree; but never Art
Did form, or Eyes behold so fair a Dart!
The Guest then interrupts him—'twou'd produce
Sill greater wonder, if you knew the Use.
It never fails to strike the Game, and then
Comes bloody back into your hand agen.
Then Phocus each particular desires,
And th' Author of the wondrous Gift enquires.
To which the Owner thus with weeping Eyes,
And Sorrow for his Wife's sad Fate, replies,
This Weapon here (O Prince!) can you believe
This Dart the Cause for which so much I grieve;
And shall continue to grieve on, till Fate
Afford such wretched Life yet longer Date.
Would I this fatal Gift had ne'er enjoy'd,
This fatal Gift my tender Wife destroy'd.
Procris her Name, ally'd in Charms and Blood;
To fair Orythia courted by a God.
Her Father seal'd my Hopes with Rites Divine,
But firmer Love before had made her mine.
Men call'd me blest, and blest I was indeed.
The second Month our Nuptials did succeed,
When (as upon Hymettus dewy Head,
For Mountain-Stags, my Net betimes I spread)
Aurora spy'd, and ravisht me away,
With Rev'rence to the Goddess, I must say
Against my will, for Procris had my Heart,
Nor would her Image from my Thoughts depart.
At last in Rage she cry'd, Ingrateful Boy
Go to your Procris, take your fatal Joy,
And so dismist me, Muling as I went
What those Expressions of the Goddess meant.
A Thousand jealous Fears posess me now,
Least Procris had profan'd her Nuptial Vow!
Her Youth and Charms did to my Fancy Paint.
A lowd Adultress; but her Life a Saint.
Yet I was absent long, the Goddess too
Taught me how far a Woman cou'd be true.
Aurora's Treatment much Suspition bred,
Besides, who truly Love ev'n shaddows dread.
I straight Impatient for the Tryal grew,
What Courship backt with riched Gifts could do.
Aurora's Envy aided my Design,
And lent me Features far unlike to mine.
In this Disguise to my own House I came,
But all was chast, no conscious sign of Blame.
With thousaud Arts I scarce Admittance found,
And then beheld her weeping on the Ground
For her lost Husband, hardly I retain'd
My purpose, scarce the wisht Embrace reftaind.
How charming was her Grief! Then Phocus guess
What killing Beauties waited on her Dress.
Her constant Answer when my suit prest.
"Forbear, my Lords dear Image guards this Brest.
"Wherere he is, whatever cause detains,
"Who ere has his, my Heart unmov'd remains.
What greater Proofs of Truth than these cou'd be?
Yet I persist and urge my Destinye.
At length she found when my own Form return'd,
Her Jealous Lover there whose loss she mourn'd.
Enrag'd with my suspition swift as Wind
She sled at once from me and all Mankind;
And so became, her purpose to retain,
A Nymph and Huntress in Diana's Train.
Forsaken thus I found my Flames encrease,
I own'd my Folly and I su'd for Peace.
It was a fault; but not of Guilt to move
Such Punishment, a fault of too much Love.
Thus I retriv'd her to my longing Arms,
And many happy Days posest her Charms.
But with her self she kindly did confer
What Gifts the Goddess had bestowed on her;
The fleetest Grey-hound, with this lovely Dart,
And I of both have wonders to impart.
Near Thebes a savage Beast of Race unknown,
Laid waste the Field, and bore the Vineyards down,
The swains fled from him, and with one consent
Our Grecian Youth to chase the Monster went;
More swift than Lightning he the Toils surpast,
And in his Course Spears men and Trees ore-cast.
We slipt our Doggs, and last my Lelaps too,
When none of all the Mortal Race wou'd do:
He long before was struggling from Hands,
And ere we could unloose him broke his Bands.
That Minute where he was we cou'd not find,
And only saw the Dust, he left behind.
I climb'd a neighb'ring Hill to view the Chase,
While in the Plain they held an equal Race;
The Savage now seems caught, and now by force
To quit himself, nor holds the same streight course,
But running counter, from the Foe withdraws
And with short turning cheats his gaping Jaws.
Which he retrieves, and still so closely prest
You'd swear at ev'ry stretch he were possest,
Yet for the gripe his fangs in vain prepare,
The Game shoots from him and he chops the Air.
To cast my Jav'lin then I took my stand;
But as the Thongs were fitting to my Hand,
While to the Valley I orelook'd the Wood,
Before my Eyes two Marble Statues stood.
That, as pursu'd, appearing at full stretch,
This Barking after and at point to catch.
Some God their course did with this Wonder grace
That neither might be conquer'd in the Chase.
A sudden silence here his Tongue supprest,
He here stops short and fain wou'd wave the rest;
The eager Prince then urg'd him to impart
The Fortune that attended on the Dart.
First then (said he) past Joys let me relate,
For Bliss was the foundation of my Fate.
No Language can those happy Hours express
Did from our Nuptials Me and Procris bless:
The kindest Pair! what more cou'd Heav'n confer?
For She was all to Me and I to Her.
Had Jove made Love, great Jove had been despis'd,
And I my Procris more than Venus priz'd:
Thus while no other Joy we did aspire,
We grew at last one Soul and one Desire.
Forth to the Woods I went at break of Day
(The constant practice of my Youth) for Prey:
Nor yet for Servant, Horse or Dog did call,
I found this single Dart to serve for All:
With Slaughter tir'd, I sought the cooler shade
And Winds that from the Mountains pierc'd the
Come gentle Air, (so was I wont to say) Glade.
Come gentle Air, sweet Aura come away.
This always was the Burden of my Song,
Come 'swage my Flames, sweet Aura come along.
Thou always art most welcome to my Brest;
I faint, approach thou dearest kindest Guest!
These Blandishments and more than these I said,
(By Fate to unsuspected Ruin led)
Thou art my Joy, for thy dear sake I love
Each Desert Hill and solitary Grove;
When (faint with Labour) I refreshment need,
For Cordials on thy fragrant Breath I feed.
At last a wandring Swain in hearing came,
And cheated with the sound of Aura's Name;
He thought I had some Assignation made,
And to my Procris Ear the news convey'd.
Great Love is soonest with suspicion sir'd,
She swoon'd and with the Tale almost expir'd.
Ah! wretched Heart (she cry'd) ah! faithless Man;
And then to Curse th'imagin'd Nymph began;
Yet oft she doubts, oft hopes she is deceiv'd.
And chides her self that ever she believ'd
Her Lord to such Injustice could proceed,
Till she her self were witness of the Deed.
Next Morn I to the Woods agen repair,
And weary with the Chase invoke the Air;
Approach dear Aura and my Bosom chear.
At which a mournful Sound did strike my Far;
Yet I proceeded till the Thicket by
With rustling Noise and Motion drew my Eye,
I thought some Beast of prey was shelter'd there,
And to the Covert threw my certain Spear.
From whence a tender Sigh my Soul did wound,
Ah me! it cry'd, and did like Procris, sound.
Proc [...]s was there, too well the Voice I knew
And to the Place with headlong Horrour flew.
Where I beheld her gasping on the Ground,
In vain attempting from the deadly Wound
To draw the Dart, her Love's dear fatal Gift!
My guilty Arms had searce the strength to lift
The beautcous Load, my Silks and Hair I tore
(If possible) to stanch the pressing Blood;
For pity begg'd her keep her slitting Breath,
And not to leave me guilty of her Death:
While I intreat she fainted fast away,
And these few words had onely strength to say,
"By all the [...]cred Bonds of plighted Love
"By all your Rev'rence to the Powr's above,
"By all that made me Charming once appear,
"By all the Truth for which you held me dear,
"And last by Love, the cause through which I bleed,
"Let AƲRA never to my Bed succeed.
I then perceiv'd the Errour of our Fate,
And told it her, but found and told too late!
I felt her lower to my Bosom fall;
And while her Eyes had any sight at all
On Mine she fix'd them; in her pangs still prest
My Hand, and Sigh'd her Soul into my Brest.
Yet, being undeceiv'd, resign'd her Breath
Methought more chearfully, and smil'd in Death.
VIRGIL.
The Second Eclogue.
A Hopeless Flame did Corydon destroy:
The fair Alexis was his Masters Joy.
No respite from his Grief the Shepherd knew,
But daily came where shady Beaches grew.
Where stretch'd on Earth alone he did complain
And in these Accents told the Hills his Pain.
(Cruel Alexis! hast thou no Remorse?
Must I expire? and have my Songs no force?
'Tis now high Noon, when Herds to Coverts run
The very Lizzards hide, that love the Sun.
The Reapers home to Dinner now repair
While busie Thestylis provides the Fare.
Yet through the raging Heat I search for Thee,
Heat onely known to Grashoppers and Me!
Oh was it not much better to sustain,
The angry Days of Amaryllis Reign,
Or still be subject to Menalchas sway?
Though He more black than Night and Thou more fair than day
O lovely Boy presume not on thy Form,
The fairest Flow'rs are subject to a storm:
Thou both disdain'st my Person and my Flame,
Without so much as asking who I am!
How rich in Heisers all as white as Snow,
Or Cream with which they make my Dayries slow:
A thousand Ewes within my Pastures breed,
And all the year upon new Milk I feed.
Besides, the fam'd Amphions Songs I sing
That into Theban Walls the Stones did bring
Nor am I so Deform'd! the other Day
When all the dreadful storm was blown away,
As on the Rocks above the Sea I stood,
I view'd my Picture in the smiling Food,
And if I look as handsom all the year
To Vie with Daphnis Self I wou'd not fear.
Ah wou'dst thou once in Cottages delight,
And love like me to wound the Stag in slight!
Where freshest Mallows grow our Kids to drive,
And in our Songs with Pan himself to strive!
From Pan the Reed's first use the Shepherd knew,
'Tis Pan Preserves the Sheep and Shepherd too.
Disdain not then the tuneful Reed to ply
Nor scorn the pastime of a Deity.
What was that Task Amyntas wou'd not do
For half the noble Skill I offer you;
A Pipe with Quills of various size I have
The Legacy Damoetas dying gave,
And said, Possess thou this by Right 'tis Thine,
Amyntas then stood by and did Repine;
Beside two Kids that I from Danger bore
With streaks of lovely white ennamell'd o're,
Who drein the bagging Udder twice a Day,
And both at home for thy Acceptance stay.
Oft Thestylis for them has pin'd and She,
Shall have them since thou scorn'st my Gifts and Me.
Draw near thou lovely Boy, approach and take
The richest Presents that the Spring can make,
See how each Nymph with Lillies waits on Thee
Fair Nais, scarce thy self so fair as she,
With Poppies, Dassadills, and Vi'lets joyn'd,
A Garland for thy softer Brow has twin'd,
My self with downy Peaches will appear,
And Chesnuts, Amaryllis dainty Chear:
I'll crop my Laurel too, and Myrtle Tree
Together bound because their sweets agree.
Unbred and Rustick art thou Corydon,
Nor will Alexis with thy Gifts be won:
Nor canst thou hope, if Gifts his mind cou'd sway,
That rich Iolas wou'd to Thee give way.
Ah me! while I fond wretch indulge these Dreams,
Winds blast my Flow'rs, and Boars desile my streams
Whom fly'st thou? Gods themselves have had aboad
In Woods, and Paris equal to a God.
Let Pallas in the Tow'rs she built, reside,
To me a Grove's worth all the world beside:
Lions chase Wolves, those Wolves a Kid in prime,
That very Kid seeks Heaths of flowring Tyme,
While Corydon pursues with equal Flame
Alexis Thee: each has his sev'ral Game.
See how the Oxe unyoak'd brings home the Plow,
The Shades encreasing as the Sun goes low.
Blest Fields reliev'd by Nights approach so soon;
Love has no Night! 'tis always raging Noon!
Ah Corydon what frenzy fills thy Brest!
Thy Vineyard lies half prun'd and half undrest;
Luxurious Sprouts shut out the ripening Ray,
The Branches shorn, not yet remov'd away;
Recall thy Senses, and to work with speed,
Of many Utensils thou stand'st in need.
Fall to thy Vintage; quit the peevish Boy;
Time, or some new desire shall this destroy.
THE Third ECLOGUE OF VIRGIL CALLED,
Palemon, Menalchas, and Damaetas.
Men.
ARe these Damaetas, Melibaeus Sheep?
Dam.
No, Egon's, Egon gave them me to keep.
Men.
Ah! wretched Flock! while in Neara's Arms
He lies, nor from his sight dare trust her Charms,
So oft this Hireling milks you, that the Dams,
Are pin'd for want of Feed, for suck the Lambs,
Dam.
With such an Impudence thou dost reprove,
As if we knew not who profan'd the Grove;
Your Posture did the leering Goats enflame,
But much more lewd the Nymphs that smil'd at such a Game.
Men.
So Myco's new Enclosure on the Heath
They saw me break and bleed his Vines to death.
Dam.
As sure as at the foot of yon ag'd Oak,
The gentle Daphins Bow and Darts you broke;
How did your Gall ferment and swell to find,
The Prize to that deserving Boy assign'd;
And had not present mischief eas'd your spleen,
You had expir'd, and Prey for Vultures been.
Men.
What will the Master when the Slave's so bold?
Thou Varlet did not I my self behold,
While Damons Goat you trapt upon the plain;
Lysisea open'd loud, but bark'd in vain,
[Page 205]'Till I cry'd out ware Thieves, wake Tyt'rus, wake,
You then slunk off, and sculkt behind the Brake.
Dam.
Where hast thou sculkt, that yet thou dost not know
That Goat was to my noble Conquest due?
We sung for him, and Damon's self will say
I won the Prize, tho he not dar'd to pay.
Men.
Thou sing with him, who ne'r hadst season'd Quill?
Or wax-joynd' Reed, nor know'st one Note of skill,
But, stroling, in the high-way-Hedges shade,
Some wretched strein more lewdly thou hast plaid,
Not worth the straw whereof thy Pipe was made.
Dam.
Then try with me, since thou contemn'st my Muse,
This Heifer, lest my challenge you refuse,
I'll stake; She comes to Milking twice a day
Yet suckles Twins; what dares Menalchas lay?
Men.
How shall I make a venture from my flock,
Whose Parents are so jealous of their stock;
So strict an eye o're all my charge they keep,
One dayly counts my Kids, and both my sheep.
Yet of more Price a Wager shall be laid,
Since an example you will needs be made;
This Bowl of season'd Beach, a work refin'd;
Which for his Master-piece Alcimedon design'd;
Where Grapes with Ivy wreath'd so lively show,
The Clusters seem to melt, the Leaves to grow.
Two signs within, Conon, and He whose Art,
Describ'd the Sphears, the Seasons set apart
To Sow and Reap: no boasting Nymph can say
Sh'as laid Lip to't; 'tis fresh and new as Day.
Dam.
I have two Bowls engrav'd by the same hand,
Where tuneful Orpheus draws the Woods along,
Your self would swear you heard his Lute & Song
These, yet untouch'd like sacred Reliques stand:
[Page 207]But both not to be mention'd on a Day,
With that fair Milcher which I meant to lay.
Men.
Thou shalt not 'scape; that Shepherd judge our fray
Who e're he be, that next shall pass this way;
Palaemon comes; I'll take sufficient care
No Slave henceforth shall Master-Shepherds dare.
Dam.
Begin, I'll answer you; I scorn to budge
For any Swain alive, nor will our Judge
Where so much lies at stake his best attendance grudge.
Pal.
Then since these Trees so sweet an Arbour yield,
And such convenient Seats this grassie Field,
Begin Damaetas, then Menalchas you
Shall sing your Round, as Vying Muses do.
Dam.
All live by Jove, to Jove first Praise belongs;
The God that rules the World inspires my Songs.
Men.
Me Phaebus loves, his Darlings live with me,
The blushing Hyacinth and Laurel Tree.
Dam.
Me Galatea when asleep sh'as found
With Apples pelts, then skimming o're the ground
Hides in the Grove, yet wishes to be sound.
Men.
So fond of late has my Amyntas prov'd,
That Delia by her Nymphs is loss belov'd,
Dam.
Ten Wildings, but the fairest of the store
I sent my Boy, anon I'll send ten more.
Men.
What Songs of Love were utter'd by my Fair,
Bear them to Heav'n ye Winds, and let the Gods have share.
Dam.
To grace my Birth-day let fair Phillis come;
More fair Iolas to my Harvest home:
Men.
As Rain to Plants, to Kids the sprouting Tree,
Sallow to Ewes, Amyntas is to me.
Dam.
My Songs are plain, yet sound in Pollio's Ear:
An Off'ring Muses for your Patron rear.
Men.
Pollio himself can sweetest strains command:
This Bulchin shall be his, that spurns the Sand,
Dam.
Where-e're your Pollio his loud Walks designs,
Let Honey flow, and Brambles change to Vines.
Men.
Hate Bavius or else love Maevius Notes,
The same may Foxes yoak, and milk He-Goats.
Dam.
Fly Boys! no longer gather in these Bow'rs,
The Snake lies hid among the smiling Flow'rs.
Men.
Come back my Sheep; the stream-worn Banks begin
To sink, my Ram already is fall'n in.
Dam.
Hast Tyt'rus, to the Pinfold bring my Flock,
'Tis time to steep their Fleeces in the Brook.
Mem.
Now milk your Goats, for when the Dog-star's high
Your Labour will be lost; all then go dry,
Dam.
How lean my Bulls, and yet how fat my Plain?
This wicked Love destroys both Herd and Swain.
Men.
A small Disease to what my Flocks endure,
It must be Witchcraft makes my Lambs so poor.
Dam.
Speak, and next Phaebus Th [...]e I will adore,
Where Heav'n three Ells lies open and no more?
Men.
Say in what Lands the Names of Kings are shown
On springing Flow'rs, and Phillis be your own.
Pal.
Who can decide 'twixt Swains of equal skill?
You both deserve the Prize, and all that prove
As you have done the Sweets and Ills of Love;
Boys, let your Sluces down, the Meads have drunk their fill.
TO His Friend that absconded Catullus, Epigr. 56.
‘Oramus si fortè non molestum est, demoustres ubi sint tuae tenebrae, te Campo quaesivimus minore, te in Circo, &c.’
NOw if thou hast one dram of Grace,
Save a Friends Life, and shew thy Face.
From me before thou ne're wast hid,
I saw thee tho the Sun ne're did.
Come forth I say thou sculking Elf,
Save a Friends Lise, and shew thy self.
For thee I've search'd, and search'd again
Park, Tavern, Play house, but in vain;
All these thou long hast lest i'th lurch,
I might as well have search'd a Church.
Distracted now I scour the street,
And seize all Females that I meet;
Where's my Friend aloud I cry,
Naughty Creatures, speak or die,
One, making bare her snowy Breasts,
Cry'd— Seek no further, here he rests.
I'm tir'd with this Herculean Work,
'Tis worse than tugging for the Turk.
Y'are in Intrigue you'l say—be't so!
With Quality—That may be too;
Come tell your Conquest then say I.
That's Pleasure—T'other's Drudgery.
Mischief take Thee graceless Elf,
Where canst thou thus conceal thy self?
I think (I'll swear) should I turn Witch,
To ride upon a liquer'd Switch,
Mount Lightning, and out sly the Wind,
This Sculker I shall never find.
From Petronius Arb.
On the Roman Luxury.
‘That which is in our Power is of no value with us, the Mind loves to be soothed with farther expeclation, and is pleased with the Delay, &c.’
WHat I desire I would not soon obtain,
That Conquest pleases which was hard to gain.
Fowls relish best from Colchis distant Fields,
And those that Affricks Southern Desert yields:
Through equal Danger sought in either Land,
Here, Hills of freezing Snow, and there, of burning Sand.
The Goose that turn'd the Fate of Rome away,
Because He's cheap is held a Vulgar Prey,
The painted shining Drake as much we slight
Tho plum'd by conscious Nature to invite,
And cheat the Tast to pleasure through the Sight.
The Mullet's scorn'd, our Fathers choicest Fare,
And we are only for the Indian Scare.
Yet ev'n of this we do repent our Cost
Unless a Ship or two in taking it were lost.
Our very Rose must yield to foreign Weeds,
A jilting Mistress the chaste Wife succeeds.
To Mr. Gibbons on his incomparable Carved Works.
WIth silent wonder oft have I behold
Thy Artful Works by Nature scarce excell'd,
Inhabitants of Air, of Sea and Land,
And all the fair Creation of thy Hand;
Those Figures that when touch'd, are lifeless Wood,
To sight, are Fishes sporting in a Flood.
For Banquets some on garnish'd Tables set,
Some newly caught and flouncing in the Net.
Another Scene does Paradise present,
Where all the feather'd Sons of Joy frequent;
Here singing Birds on dancing Boughs we find,
Whose tender Leaves seem russled with the Wind.
Oft from an Oaks firm Trunk with vast design
Thou carv'st the curling Tendrels of the Vine,
Where the resemblance to the life is such,
The Clusters seem to bleed without a touch.
Nor is the Conquest on the Marble less,
The hardest Rocks thy softest Forms express.
In thee Deucalion's Miracle is shown
While Humane-Race starts up from lifeless stone.
But stay— * What Godlike Figure do I view?
Dare thy bold hand attempt th' Immortals too?
'Tis Cesar's Form with such Majestick grace.
As strikes a Sacred Rev'rence through the Place.
What Muse great Artist can perform for thee
That Right, which thou hast done to Majesty?
From Europe thou long since the Palm hast won,
But in this Piece thou hast thy self out-done.
On the Translation OF EƲTROPIƲS, By Young Gentlemen, Educated by Mr. L. Maidwell.
AUspicious Youths, our Ages Hope and Pride,
Exalted minds, and worthy such a Guide:
To whose rich Skill this wonderous Growth you owe,
Most happy, if your happiness you know.
Who close entrencht Ʋutropius could o'recome,
And plunder the Records of ancient Rome.
Unlike my Fate, by Pedants led astray,
Who at my setting out mistook the way.
With Terms confounded (such their Methods were)
Those Rules my Cloud, that should have been my Star:
Yet groping forwards through the Classicks went,
Nor wholly of my Labors may repent:
Strong holds, and hard to take, but in the sett,
No Volume so obscure, no Author met
So difficult, as William Lally, yet.
Without Geography led blindfold on,
And ignorant when each exploit was done;
Of wondrous Men, and wondrous Actions read,
But all the while with Fairy Banquets sed.
All hudled without knowing when, or where,
Eutopian Fields, and Battels in the Air.
But you, where e're your Authors Scene is laid,
Beyond your knowledg never are tonvey'd.
Great your Advantage, therefore use it well,
You sail, if you but mod'rately excel;
Who for your doubts have such an Oracle.
Consult your Guide, whose Judgment more refin'd,
Unties those Knots, Dutch Comments leave behind:
By which your Authors more obscure become;
The Fogs of Holland cloud the Wit of Rome.
While these the vehicle of words essay,
The subtil Spirit flies unseen away,
He'l shew you where their secret Treasures lie;
Sublime their sense, and fix their Mercury.
Let this success, brave Youth, your minds inflame,
Eutropius conquer'd, calls for nobler Game:
Lanch boldly next on Tully's flowing Seas,
And grasp the Thunder of Demosthenes.
To noblest Sciences devote your time,
And rarely, very rarely, sport with Rhime.
See how your Teacher does the practice fly,
His Genius, and the waiting World deny,
Whilst every Muse in vain stands sighing by.
Ev'n my poor strains some small Applause have found,
Yet were they with the foremost Lawrels crown'd,
With Wit and Sense I'd hold eternal War.
To be a thriving Blockhead of the Bar.
Once more all hail to Thee industrious Friend;
Behold what Blessings on thy Toil attend!
What Pains thy Methods cost that thus excel,
Thy Mid-night Lamp and Thou can onely tell.
Yet for some longer space thy Tillage ply,
Thy own Repose and pressing Friends deny,
Till like Lycurgus Laws thy Rules succeed,
And for long Ages leave a noble Breed.
The First ELOGY OF TIBULLUS: ‘Divitias alius fulvo sibi congerat Auro, &c.’
FOR heaps of careful Gold let others toil,
And plow whole Provinces of envy'd Soil;
Whom neighb'ring Foes on constant Watch must keep,
And Martial Trumpets fright their Mid-night sleep:
While I secure in Poverty Retire;
With just enough to keep a constant Fire:
Let but my Vineyard hit, I do not care
How small of other fruits and Grain my share;
'Gainst me let Pan and Ceres both combine,
So honest Bacchus still secures my Wine.
My self turn'd Rustick 'midst the Vines will stand,
And with the blushing Clusters load my Hand.
Nor shall I scorn to use the Hedgers Bill,
Or with the Goad make restie Oxen till.
Or in my Arms bring home a Kid or Lamb,
Stray'd or forsaken by the heedless Dam.
Yet while my tural Task so close I ply,
None more Observant of the Gods than I.
To Thee great Faunus early Rites I yield,
With large Lustrations purge my little Field.
What e're my Plants on new made Rivers bear,
The rural God is sure to have his share.
Wreaths fram'd for Ceres of such early Corn,
As on her Temple Gates with Pride are worn.
Nor does Priapus Self, tho coarse and plain,
Stand always arm'd for my Defence in vain.
You Lares who once guarded my large Field,
And to the small remains Protection yield,
What [...] a Villager brought poor and low
For Obligations such as yours bestow?
Once Hecatombs came from my Herds unseen,
Now take a Lamb, you leave my Sheep-cot thin!
That tender Lamb shall make your Altar smoak,
The mighty Victim of a little Flock:
Then Nymphs and Swains from neighb'ring Farms shall come
And lend their Voices to my Harvest home.
Draw near, ye Gods, nor scorn what my poor Board,
In homely earthen Vessels can afford,
Such as first Swains of easie clay did frame,
E're yet so deep as Gold the Delver came.
My slender Fold ye Wolves and Thieves forbear,
Rob fatter Flocks whose stock can better spare.
Ye Gods, I ask not my Fore-fathers store,
Nor ev'n that Wealth my self possest before;
I do not care how small the Glebe I till,
While I may stretch and take my Rest at will.
With what Delight my constant Nymph and I
Lie listning to the storms that rend the Sky.
And when o're teeming Clouds a Deluge-pour,
To have our Sleep assisted by the Showr;
Be this my Lot, and Riches let him gain,
Who in all change of Seasons plows the Main.
Let me retire and shun the Dog-Star's Heat,
In shade of Trees by Crystal Fountains set.
Earth hide thy Gold, and Seas your Jewels keep,
E're any gentle Nymph for my departure weep.
In fights by Land and Sea let Heroes toll
And crowd their spacious Courts with forein spoil,
While I keep home to guard my Mistris Charms,
And strive for Conquest onely in her Arms.
Fame I contemn while Delia is my Prize,
And all the Censure of the World despise.
For Delia's sake I'd stoop to hold the Plow,
Or keep a Flock upon the Mountains Brow.
Oh with my tender Arms about her spread,
How gladly could I make the Earth my Bed!
How restless must your Tyrian Carpets prove
Without endearing joys of mutual Love?
No spell can such a wretches Sleep redeem,
Not ev'n the Musick of a falling stream.
How stupid was the Man that left thy Charms,
Thy World of Beauty for a Name in Arms.
Let him with all his wisht success be Crown'd,
And fix his Banners on far-conquer'd Ground;
Let him return with Hills of Trophees won
And in triumphant Gold eclipse the Sun;
Let me that while of Delia live possest,
And lean my dying Head on Delia's Brest.
If I have any Foe, to him I yield
The guilt and plunder of the bloody Field;
Let him pursue the murd'ring Trade, for Gold,
Which, Age forbids to use or Death to hold.
While I, retir'd, enjoy my little Store,
Secure from wanting, and despising more.
FINIS.