POEMS ON Several Occ …

POEMS ON Several Occasions. WITH A PASTORAL.

To which is Added, A DISCOURSE OF LIFE.

By JOHN TVTCHIN.

LONDON, Printed by J. L. for Jonathan Greenwood, in the Black Raven in the Poultry, near the Old Jury. MDCLXXXV.

THE PREFACE.

GOOD Poetry needs no Apology, and Bad deserves no Commendation. I would not have the Reader think, I make Mine come under the latter Denomina­tion, meerly out of Formality, because I would be so complaisant, as to let Others commend it for me: But, I'll assure you, I do it only to let the World know, I am not so unnatural a Parent, as to venture my Issue in the World, without a Word in its behalf. Of all Writers, Poets are most Happy; for while Others are puzling their Brains, to find a Reason for their Scribling; the Question was never put to a Poet, Why he Wrote? There are some Je ne scay quoy's in the World, we can give no [Page] Reason for: 'Tis as Natural for a Poet to write Verse, as 'tis for a Tory to talk Non-sense, or for an Old Sinner to Die impeni­tent. The greatest Reason that obliged me to Print these Trifles, was this: I had been so Vnfortunate, as to let them go out of my Hands; and had no other way to procure them, but by promising to Print them. If they advantage the Bookseller, I have my Desire. I am sensible enough of my own Failings; and I could heartily beg a Pardon for each Fault; but in so doing, I should dis­cover my own Errors; which, perhaps, every one will not find. If I am somewhat Vnfashionable in my Writing, I cannot help it: I never intended to humour a Pedantick Age; nor to turn Bombast, to please Fop's and Fools. I never thought our Language so poor, that it needed to be set off with Words coin'd in the French or Italian Mould; nor did I ever think of Flying, but I thought on Icarus; and how soon your soaring Wits dwin­dles to Nonsense. I would make This of Mr. Waller my Maxim:

[Page]Tho' Poets may of Inspiration boast,
Their Rage, ill govern'd, in the Clouds is lost:
But who proportion'd Wonders can dis­close,
At once his Judgment, and his Fancy shows.

I must confess, I never took that for Wit, which was (to use a New-born word) Un­by-any-Fancy-fathomable.

As for the First Part: The most liable to Censure in it, is the Translations; wherein I have taken a large Scope; but yet, I think, I have not injur'd the Sense of the Author. Whoever pretends to express the Conceit of a Latin Poet, in a Litteral way, must have a more compendious Brain than I. Neither do I want a sufficient Modern Authority, for this Paraphrastical way of Writing. I had Tran­slated the Best of Horace, his Art of Poetry; but finding it so excellently perform'd by the Earl of Roscommon, I was unwilling my Weakness should be a Foyl to his Wit; and therefore committed it to the Flames, to save Others the Labour.

[Page] As for the Second Part, the Pastoral: I shall only say this, That I meant it for a Piece of Dramatique; but I Writ it before I knew any such thing, as an Art in Poetry.

Now, the main Question will be, Why I could not have chosen more serious Subjects to have Treated on? But let those ask Youth, Why it is VVanton? As the Spring, Why it produces Buds and Flowers? Ask Rivers, Why they flow? And Fountains, Why they don't with-hold their Springs? I could, at this Time, have Published a Poem, that might have got me more Praise, both as to the Re­gular Parts of the Poem, and the Gravity of the Subject: But it was not my intent to Publish any, especially such as These; but they were meerly ex'orted. Neither shall I think they do, in the least, detract from Virtue; since I have Read the Poems of Beza, Hein­sius, our own Donne, &c. But, at worst, it may pass for a Pardonable (if not Com­mendable) Extravagance, in one of my Years. I wish, all the VVild Oats sown by the Youth of this Age, did produce no worse an Harvest, than This. Poetry, tho' it be an useless Stu­dy, it is an innocent Recreation; and the Ad­vantages [Page] that arise from it, are best known to them that exercise it. But those that cry down Poetry, in the general, forget that Part of the Sacred Writings were delivered in Verse: And it's well known, what Vse Di­vines have made of the Heathen Poets, in their Writings. If they Read De Verlt. Rel. Grotius, De Verit. Rel. Du Plessis, Gnom. Hom. Duport, De Causa Dei. Burthogge, and many more I could men­tion, they'd find the Antient Writings of the Poets not so inconsiderable. They all seem'd to be Inspir'd by a Divine Spirit, and to have some faint Glimmerings of the Eter­nal Mind diffused on their Souls; as One of them says: ‘Est Deus in nobis, sunt nos commercia Coeli.’

Nay, Plato goes farther; he calls them, [...], The Sons of the Gods. I must confess, the Abuse of Poetry has been very great in these latter Ages; and since Mr. Cowley, there has been none that has endeavoured to Rectifie it. But if ever I [Page] exercise my Hand again this way, it shall be on some Graver Subject. I hope, here are no Expressions can offend the Tenderest Rea­der; if there be, I declare I meant nothing less. But the Reader has this one sure Anti­dote; If he lets it alone, 'twill do him no Harm.

Naturallists tell us, That the Spider can suck Poison out of the sweetest Flower: And so a deprav'd Inclination may do out of the best Sense. Poetry is not altogether a Pi­cture of the Poet's Mind and Inclination; but a Picture of the Thing they represent: Tho' it may be, like bitter Drinks, disgust­ful to the Palate; yet it is good for the Health of the VVhole: And tho' it may be airy in the Expression, it ought be good and solid in the Moral.

John Tutchin.

Miscellanies.
The FIRST PART.

A SATYR AGAINST VICE.

NOW blessings on ye all, ye Vertuous Souls!
Who boundless Mankind brought to Laws and Rules.
Eternally may hallowed Incense burn,
In Sacred flames, around your pious Urn:
[Page 2] Your rational Laws gave Piety its rise;
And your dread hand first struck the Monster Vice.
We (thanks to Heav'en and you) can plainly see
The modern cheat of grave Iniquity.
But blest (and more if Heav'en can do't) be you,
Who naked Virtue boldly did pursue:
When Swords, and direful Spears before you lay,
You greatly trod in the Imperial Way:
And grizly Death triumphantly did meet;
Faggots your Grave, and Flames your Winding­sheet.
To make your ratio'nal Tenents true and good,
You bravely seal'd 'em with your dying blood.
Vice, thou first born of Hell! and blacker far,
Than the black Fiends, damn'd Pluto's Subjects are:
Supinely thou hadst slept in thy dark Cell,
Where mighty Sinners in oblivion dwell;
And ne're untimely had this monstrous Birth,
Had not some Devil brought thee up to Earth:
Soon thou hadst been deposed from thy Reign,
And ne're hadst seen the lightsome world again;
Had not some Earthly Fiends ador'd thy rise,
And settle'd on its Throne the Monarch Vice.
[Page 3] Now though the Scepter's in thy impious hand,
And like a potent Prince thou dost command;
Amongst the Fools thy Empire's bound does spread,
And 'mongst the solid Wise, near show'st thy head:
To the lewd Stews thou hast thy great resort,
And meanly sneak'st to the lascivious Court:
Pimps, Bawds, Buffoons, and all the numerous throng
Of wanton Lechers guard thee all along:
Lewd noisome Courtezans support thy raign,
And fill the crowd of thy inglorious train.
Tell me, ye Lordly Sots; who Vice adore,
You, who a Patent have to Lust and Whore;
Who mighty Sins, and great Estates bring forth;
Rare pompous things to agrandize your worth:
Tell me, wherein your mighty pleasure lies;
The sweet delicious good of charming Vice;
That makes you thus the Strumpet Vice adore,
And make each Sot your Pimp, & Bawd your Whore?
Factors for Hell, of the right stamp and kind,
The younger brood of the Infernal Fiend,
For Vice's traffick all alike design'd.
Sinners of all degrees come rowling on;
From Earls, and Dukes, even down to Fop Sr. John.
[Page 4] Sinners of little Wit, and great Estates,
Of mighty bulks, your first and second Rates:
On whose lewd stock such numerous branches grow,
And from whose, loins such goodly thousands flow;
Would make one think, to re-assume his reign,
The Malmesbury Devil's come again.
He, the bold Hector of the Gods, could Write,
Rail, and explode the Powers above in spite.
The Atheists Monarch, and the Courtiers tool,
The Scholars Laughing-stock, and Heavens Fool.
Always unwilling, still unfit to die;
The very dregs of damn'd Philosophy.
Irrational Brute! in whose gross Brain we see
Nonsence digested in Epitome.
Couldst contradictions joyn, and couldst perswade
Th' immortal Gods are unimmortal made?
Arm'd with thy Pen, with direful brow wast seen,
Just like some God-defying Maximin.
Out from thy Mouth a threatning Bullet flies;
And God-like Curses scale th' impartial Skies.
The echo of thy breath the Woods repeat,
Its violent storm makes the strong Tides retreat,
And puffs the very Gods from off their seat.
[Page 5] As if thou Sins Columbus meant'st to be,
Thou view'dst the Orb of large Iniquity.
And having view'd each Creek, thy fatal breath
Thou didst resign to Chance, that made thy Earth.
And thus our mighty Atheist liv'd, thus fell
The goodliest Brand that ever burnt in Hell.
Ah! Had I Wit but equal to my Spite,
With what a learned malice would I write?
Not one of Lusts lewd Company should be
From my more generous rage and passion free.
No, not those Kingly Sots, those Vertues Rods,
Who for their sinning have been counted Gods.
Here, Bawdy Cupid, I would have thee know,
I scorn thy Quiver, and contemn thy Bow!
Thou the great God of Lust! whose Empire spreads
Where Courts & Stews erect their ominous heads.
Grand Fiend! who art invok'd for mighty aid;
And for thy fatal help with Sins art paid:
False as thy Children, Whores, whose every Prayer
And plighted Oaths, like thine, dissolve in Air.
Cruel as Tyrants, when to Empire brought,
Puff't up with Blood, with direful Vengance fraught.
Who slew the mighty Turnus, I can tell;
And by whose hand great Agamemnon fell;
[Page 6] Why weeping Phillis slew Demophoon's Bride,
And in the Waves the lov'd Leander dy'd;
Why sad Oenone through the shady Groves
Laments for Paris, her unhappy Loves;
Why mournful Philomel does tell her tales
For absent Tereus through the hollow Vales.
'Tis you, God Cupid, and your Mother's Doves,
Do make the Scenes of all our Tragick Loves.
Thou stain'dst with Mortal Blood, thy self to please,
The Marriage-Bed of the Danaides.
Old Polyphemus had the Stone from you,
With which the Wretch his Rival Atis slew.
You made the poison and the fatal strife,
Which took away fair Sophonisba's life.
'Tis you invent what bloody Lovers act,
And laugh at Mischief and a cruel Fact:
Nay, your own Priests, the gladsome Bards, you wrong,
And give 'em Tears for Mirth, and Groans for Song.
Thou exil'd Ovid didst to Scythia send,
The best of Bards, the Muses dearest Friend;
By thy disdain he'd lost his Poets Name;
But from his hand some mournful Letters came:
[Page 7] Came, but unbound, ungilt, of colours bare;
The genuine off-spring of a wanderer.
Though at thy hand one Bard did mercy find,
Thou mad'st him wretched e're Castara kind.
One of his Gloriana does complain;
And Daniel woes his Delia but in vain:
Nay, greatest Cowley did his Love survive,
And all his life without his Mistress live.
If ever pity from thy bowels came,
It was to crown some base adulterate flame.
Each wandring Leecher does thy shrine adore,
Enjoys his Mistress and ten thousand more.
Thou thy descent hadst never from above;
Thou art the God of Lust, and not of Love.
If ever mortal shall thy God-head owne
Curst be the hand rebuilds thy bankrupt Throne;
Plague, Pestilence, and Fire, and what is worse,
Thy own dear Pox attend him with a Curse.
And you, fond Maids, if e're again you dare
On's Altar lay a bawdy Hymn or Prayer;
Heaven blast your Beauty and your native Pride,
'Till you're abhor'd, and he undeify'd.
May you with Curses be in triumph born;
The universal hiss of publick scorn.
[Page 8] May all your glances unsuccessful prove,
And force Men's Envy when you would their Love.
Hence, hated Vice, from our once happy Land,
E're thy ignoble tribe did here command:
Here no triumphal honours shall be paid;
Altars to Vice, and Sacred Unction made.
The grand Imposture here will ne're prevail:
With thy polluted breath swell full thy Sail;
Steer thy lewd Ship to some damn'd peoples coast,
Whom God has curst, and have their reason lost:
There thou may'st temples build & bear the sway;
And with auspicious pride may'st rule the day:
There may'st impose thy rigorous commands;
Have converts numerous as Arabian Sands:
There uncontroul'd thou may'st in safety dwell,
Blest with th' influence of powerful Hell.
Much happier we, thy Empire disavow,
Abjure thy Precepts, and contemn thy Law:
Let gawdy Prowess, for grave Sloth be seen;
Let Virtue strut, where creeping Vice has been:
Let no fantastick fool obstruct its way,
Or with vile Clouds obscure its ardent ray;
But in imperial guise let it march on,
And view around the British Horizon:
[Page 9] Then to our fair Augusta bend its way,
And there in sweet repose its blessing lay:
Our fair Augusta, once the Nations pride,
To whom new honours brought each flowing Tide;
Now, by its peoples crimes, a Desart made,
And though a well built Town, a very shade.
Once more, damn'd lewdness, I invoke thy name!
Shew me some mystick Art to spread thy shame;
No more a peaceful name I e're can use,
'Tis spite and madness shall inspire my Muse.
Damn'd be your Plays, and all Stage-Fops that write!
Immortal Satyr is my whole delight:
Let all your Stygian Votaries adore,
And find new Paint for this Lethaean Whore;
I'll of her crimes a just resentment get,
And plague, and scourge her with the force of Wit.

A SATYR AGAINST WHORING.

SLaves to Debauchery and Lustful Rage,
That drain the Streets, and prostitute the Stage,
Begot in heat of Lust on Hackney Whores,
Souls wrapt in Excrements of common Shoars.
Standing for patterns, 'fore the Limners Eye,
To draw the Lustful God Priapus by.
Pox take ye all! This Curse I doubt's too late,
It long has been, 'tis like, your Whoring Fate;
Then all the Courses ever Sodom knew,
Or pocky Jilts, light on your Race and You;
Inflam'd by Lust, may you with Passion move,
And have the Pox return'd instead of Love;
[Page 11] May you with stinking Breaths pass unador'd,
And Breath a fulsome Clap at every Word;
May Dreams disturb by Night, & Whores by Day,
And ravenous Shankers eat your flesh away;
May Sores without, and fervent Heat within,
Consume and waste away your loathsome Skin;
May you be so Debaucht, so vilely Lewd,
'Till grown so great, Lust cannot be renew'd;
'Till one sad Ach expels another Pain,
And Claps in circles meet with Claps again;
'Till Stone, and Gout, and Stranguries contend,
Which to Old-Nick your lustful Soul shall send;
Haulting may you in Lifes dull Journey go,
Condemn'd to Stews above, and Hell below;
May bawling Bawds about your Dwellings roame,
And all your Spurious Issue haunt your home;
Having spent all your Wealth in Leachery,
May you unpittied on a Dunghil die;
May all these Curses, and Ten thousand more
Than all the angry Gods have in their store,
Light on you; then may Darted Vengeance come,
With hoarded Bolts of Wrath to raise your Tomb.
Gods! why o'er Nature did you take such Care,
In making Women exquisitely Fair?
[Page 12] Why build you dazling Altars like the Skies,
And do provide no better Votaries
Than Men? Lascivious Men! whose lustful frown
Spoils all that's fair, and pulls what's Sacred down;
Will all enjoy, and Married be to none,
Though Nature dictates only to use one.
In broken Language Beasts by pairs do prate;
The cooing Dove bills but his single Mate;
But Man, unbounded Man! Attempts all ill,
His Lust is grown as Boundless as his Will;
That Name call'd Husband is of Terror full,
The State Uneasie, Melancholy, Dull;
The Kennel, Kitchin, Oyster, rampant Whore,
Before a Wife, 's the Creature they Adore.
What Sot would wander, that has by his side
The Powerful Charms of a Smiling Bride?
Cool as the coldest Night, and Chaster far
Than Anchorets, or Vestal Virgins are;
Whose equal Love, do's equal Heat Inspire,
Prompted by Kindness, not a base Desire;
In whose Embraces gladly pass away
Whole tedious years in but one Halcyon day.
Fate Favours him, that makes him spend his Life,
Doom'd to those Golden Chains, to please a Wife.

To the Memory of Mr. JOHN OLDHAM.

WHen some great Prince, or greater Poet dies,
He spends his tears in vain, who vainly cries.
All, soon or late, Life's glimmering Lamp bequeath
Unto the Fatal Puff of gloomy Death:
Mark you bold Mortal now, that threats the Skies,
How soon he's Born, and how soon he Dies!
Whil'st we of Life and endless pleasures prate,
Death whets his Scythe, and hastes the Sands of Fate:
But sure our Oldham should his stroak survive,
And to th' ungrateful Age his blessings give:
Much better Fate fresh Laurels would bestow,
And kindly took him from his toils below.
Scarce can the greatest Cowley get from me
A praise, when thy immortal Verse I see;
Crithaw and Cowley both did live in thee.
[Page 14] Let the dull Fools admire the golden Ore,
And 'midst their pompous boasts be always Poor:
I in thy praise immortal Notes will prove,
Such as I whilome wrote in Mirth and Love.
Ah! would to God I had the Pen that wrote
Of all the toils the fam'd Achilles sought;
Of all the valiant Acts that e're were done,
By brave King Priam, or King Priam's Son;
The kindest Verse that Princes Courts adorn,
Or God-like Poets sing beneath the Morn:
Each charming Note did with true praise agree;
My much lov'd Oldham, should be kept for thee.
Phillis laments thy fall, and weeps, thee gone,
And sadly in her Alcove sits alone:
She vows, no more the wonted Song shall please,
Now you, blest Man, your joyful Notes do cease:
She hates the giddy Crowd, the noisie Town,
And on some baleful Grotto sits her down;
Bites her red Lips, and tears her aubourn Hair;
She courts wild Frenzie, and, as mad, Despair:
Let Desarts be my home, in Caves my Bed;
Let the sad Yew, she cryes, adorn my Head:
[Page 15] Ye wieldy Satyrs my companions be,
And in the shady Groves come mourn with me.
But how shall I, blest Soul! my grief express,
Whose mournful accents are confin'd to Verse.
Should I, like Niobe, a Stone become,
Cold as thy Grave, and senseless as thy Tomb;
From hence no praise could to thy worth arise,
For Fools in Monuments out-do the Wise:
Then take what Nature gave me, lasting Verse,
The solid glory of a Shepherds Hearse.
True real Wit did Cowley's Statue rear,
More the good Muses than the Monarch's care;
'Tis stupid Mavius must the Laurel wear.
How well wou'd Laurels have adorn thy Head,
Whose Grave is now with mournful Cypress spread:
Much happier Soul! from Life's dull business free;
Free from the nauseous world we daily see;
What are the Joys of which our Cullies boast?
And what the toilsome pleasure thou hast lost?
What 'mongst us busie Mortals could'st thou find,
But Seas of Sins to drown an honest mind?
[Page 16] To see of Bawds and Pimps a numerous herd;
To see vast Cocks-combs, and great Rogues pre­ferr'd,
Wou'd a worse Fatigue be than tedious Death;
This Air is too polluted for thy Breath.

TO THE Memory of the Right Honourable THE EARL of ROCHESTER.

CEase, Poets, cease, you are undone;
The Muses dearest darling Son
Is to the blest Elysium gone.
If Poets have in Heaven aboad,
There he'll commence a happy God:
For sure no Earthly Star cou'd shine,
With such a lustre, so Divine.
Oh! Had I trembling at thy Death,
Stood to suck in thy parting Breath,
That charming Philtre, which could prove
The source of Poetry and Love.
Ah! who shall Paint thy Passion right?
That lasting Torch of endless Light.
What manly force thy temper sway'd?
Yet gentle as a Love-sick Maid.
[Page 18] Unhappy I, by self-conceit,
By Fools applause, and Vulgar Cheat,
Thy Fancy strive' to imitate.
Let me, Ah let me! but presume,
From thy gay Wings to pluck one Plume;
How would I brustle then, and spread
My Feathers on the Muses Bed?
But how dare I approach thy Shrine,
That's Sacred all, and all Divine:
Yet let my lesser Fire burn,
And be attendant at thy Urn;
When Orpheus, all lament and cry,
And senseless Stones, why should not I?
Under you Beech but 'tother Day,
Young Philocles and Cloris lay
To hear thy Pipe, and hear thy Lays,
That shorter made the tedious Days.
But now as much they grieve and moan;
The Lord Adonis dead and gone.
Lov'd Silver Thames, so fam'd in Song,
With groaning streams does glide along:
Dropping like Tears, its Waters fall,
As if it wept thy Funeral.
[Page 19] When I the fair Corinna see,
I grieve, I sigh, to think on thee;
But more I grieve when I peruse
The Bawdy flashes of thy Muse.
This to the Publishers was due,
Not Licens'd and Allow'd by you:
But the lewd wretches took the pain
To act the Bawdy Lectures o're again.

ODE.

I.
HArd by the Scenes of Cruel Fate
The neighb'ring Groves o're-spreadin [...] boughs,
The discontented Calia fate
Bewailing her unhappy Joys:
Ah faithless Swain, she cry'd, have I
So Lov'd you then!
Melting my Soul in Ecstasie,
A Passion I ne're thought could die.
Ah faithless Man!
II.
How vain then are the sweets of Love?
How weak the pleasure it allows?
Since disregarded are above,
False Oaths and broken vows.
A thousand times he swore by Jove
He'd Love me still:
[Page 21] He call'd upon the Powers above,
And all the Deities of Love,
To prove his skill.
III.
Then gently thus he says, my Dear,
Thou that excell'st the Paphian Queen,
E're I untrue can prove, the Year
In lasting Frosts shall still be seen,
Yet he's untrue, while Caelia dies
By base despair:
With moans she rends the yielding Skies,
Mixing her undistinguish'd sighs
With common Air.
IV.
Ah think, Ingrate! upon the Plain,
The pleasure we, once happy, had;
When thou wer't stil'd, the Lovely Swain,
And I was call'd the Beauteous Maid
When after Death you shall repair,
The Shades to see,
Amongst the Troops of all the Fair,
And Lovers Ghosts, you'll find none there
That lov'd like me.

THE Tory Catch.

I.
A Friend of mine, and I did follow
A Cart and Six, with Brandy fraught;
We sate us down, and up did swallow
Each a Gallon at a draught:
The sober Sot can't drink with us,
May kiss coy Wine with Tantalus.
II.
With Musick fit for Serenading,
We did ramble to and fro;
Then to Drink and Masquerading,
'Till we cannot stand nor go:
One Leg by Bacchus was quite lamed,
'Tother Venus had defamed.
III.
At the Tavern we did whisk it,
And full Pipes did empty drain:
[Page 23] We eat Pint-Pots instead of Bisket,
And piss'd 'em melted out again:
We beat the Vintner, kiss'd his Wife,
And kill'd three Drawers in the strife.
IV.
In the Street we found some Bullies,
And to make our valour known,
We call'd 'em Fops, and silly Cullies,
And knock'd the foremost of 'em down:
And with praise to end the Fray,
We, like good Souldiers, ran away.
V.
To the Play-House we descended,
For to get a grain of Wit,
Our own with Wine was so defended.
We sate spuing in the Pit,
'Mongst Drunken Lords and Whoring Ladies,
To see such sights whose only Trade is.

HYPERMNESTRA TO LINUS.

The ARGUMENET.

Danaus, King of Argos, had by several Wives Fifty Daughters; his Brother Aegyptus as many Sons. Danaus refusing to Marry his Daughters to his Brother's Sons, was at last compelled by an Army. In revenge, he commands his Daugh­ters each to Murder her Husband on the Wed­ding Night, All obeyed but Hypermnestra, who assisted her Husband Linus to escape, for which being afterwards Imprisoned, and put in Irons, she writes this Epistle.

THOSE words I would have spoke, your hasty flight
Would not allow, here trembling, loe!
I write;
I thank the Fates, that do the time afford
To use my Pen before I use my Sword:
[Page 25] To make the Tragedy well understood,
I'll write the Epilogue in wreaking Blood,
That when my Fame a bloody Wife survives;
Preserv'd by me my much lov'd Linus lives.
The dead of Night that favour'd your Escape,
Shew'd me pale Fear in its most ugly shape.
Why are the Destinies so cruel grown?
But newly Married must we part so soon?
Why from Embraces do we make such hast?
This the first Kiss, and must it be the last?
Scarce were you gone, but in my Father came;
His Eyes spake Terror, and my Sisters shame;
Turning his raging Eyes about, he spy'd
The Sword unsheathed, and bloodless by my side.
Does Linus live? he said, why is not he
Silent in Death as all his Brethren be?
He vow'd that I was to my Sires disgrace,
And swore that I should die in Linus place.
'Tis true, my Sisters have their Husbands slain,
And only I the guiltless Wife remain:
Let my dread Sisters in their fury rave,
And make the Marriage Bed a dismal Grave;
[Page 26] Who can with unrelenting Eyes desire,
To see their Husbands by their sides expire,
And make the Marriage Torch a Funeral Fire.
Can I more fierce than Wolves or Tygers prove,
In that soft Bed, which was design'd for Love?
Can my weak Hands lift up the pointed Steel,
Against that Breast? Can I a Husband kill?
Whilest he, poor innocent, does sleep so fast,
Must wake no more, but slumber out his last?
Let fatal Lovers their keen Poniards take,
And on themselves their bloody Vengeance wreak:
Yet fame shan't say, with unrelenting Steel,
Sad Hypermnestra did her Husband kill.
How my cold Limbs with trembling Terror shook,
When in my Hand the Fatal Sword I took?
I held it o're thy Breast, aim'd at thy Heart;
But mine, alas! did only feel the smart.
My trembling Hand made me the Body miss,
And for a deadly Wound I gave a Kiss.
Must fatal deeds appease the angry Skies?
A Husbands Blood's too dear a Sacrifice.
Good natur'd Man! he meant no Death for me;
Shall I both Cruel and Unconstant be?
[Page 27] Had I been nurst in some wild Desart place,
Sprung of a Lyon or a Tygers Race;
So that in all my Life I ne're did see
The gentle Rules of soft Humanity,
I from the Marriage Bed might bear away
The guilt of those that do their Husbands slay:
But you, kind Heavens! have given me a Soul,
That Malice cann't deceive, nor Fraud controul;
Fixt as your Bolts, it never shall remove,
From Rules of Honour, and from Laws of Love.
Though the keen Sword present unto my sight,
The coming Terrors of Eternal Night;
I still will live my Linus dearest Wife,
And thank the Fate that rids me of my Life.
And now, my Dearest, if you chance to hear
These sadder Groans the raging Storms bear:
If once this Letter be so blest to come
To your Aboade, your melancholy Home;
Kiss the lamenting Paper, and then make
Some mournful Obsequies for your Wife's sake.

CORINNA TO PHILOCLES.

The ARGUMENT.

Philocles, a Swain of Sicily, falling in Love with the beauteous Corinna, a Nymph of the Plain (after Mutual Vows of Constancy) gets her with Child, and then flies into Scythia; whereupon she writes him the following Letter.

TO thee, Dear Philocles, to thee I send,
The much abus'd Corinna's faithless Friend.
Scythia, a Sanctuary sure allows
For broken Oaths, and unregarded Vows.
Ah, perjur'd Youth! to leave those dearest Arms,
He once confest were mere Circean Charms!
[Page 29] Cast at my Feet he oft would panting lie.
While growing Love did turn to Ecstasie:
Pensive he look'd, he groan'd, he breath'd forth sighs;
Sad was his Heart, and languishing his Eyes.
Grown Drunk with gazing, he would reeling stand,
And, drown'd in Raptures, kiss my charming Hand:
Then all in Passions, by the Gods he swore,
I was his Saint, and me he would adore.
Before our Friends he unseen looks would take,
And undiscerned assignations make:
Duty to them would make him words refrain,
But's Eye made Love in a fur nobler strain.
His Eyes grown languid, did soft Vows im­part:
(The Eye's the natural Index of the Heart)
Yet after Vows and Tears he Faithless proves;
The just result of our too conscious Loves.
When to the silent Groves Corinna hies,
Those guilty Scenes of our once dearest joys;
Here I can find no sweets, nor wonted ease,
But sadly mourn my absent Philocles.
[Page 30] Down to the spreading Beech I go, whose boughs
Have oft bore witness of our mutual Vows:
There see our names upon the paler Rind,
In Amorous Characters together joyn'd:
By annual growth, the Names now distant show;
Ah! must the Lovers be at distance too?
Relentless Fate! in vain do Mortals grieve,
And chide at Destiny they cann't retrieve.
Who could have thought our joys so fresh and green,
So big with Love, had ever Mortal been?
Uninterrupted sweets ran rowling by,
In boundless days, like vast Eternity.
No hours big with Fate our rest annoys,
Nor sudden change our unadulterate joys.
Indulgent Nature strove with care to please
The lov'd Corinna and her Philocles:
Whilest he the lovely Swain did sit and sing,
Beneath the pleasures of the blooming Spring.
The neighbouring Swains lay silent on the Plain;
And Philomel did chant her Lays in vain:
Down goes his Pipe, and qualms of Love come on:
(Then Mixing Vows and Kisses all in one)
[Page 31] Ah! tender Nymph, he said, was beauty given;
(Beauty the chiefest Gift of bounteous Heaven)
To die like yielding flowers before the Sun,
And give no scent before its race be run?
Ah! lovely Mistress of my kindest fires,
Who in my active Soul beget'st desires;
Bless with a smile my melancholy hours,
And I Eternally am stiled yours.
Ah! cruel fair One, smile! and smiling say,
My anxious days you will with Love repay.
And here I smiling said, (for who cold hold,
When ravish'd looks the Heart's lov'd message told)
"Know, Philocles, your Love I've always seen,
"And e're this time it had rewarded been.
"With gazing Eyes I oft your form did view;
"When you were sick I sympathiz'd with you:
"But Love-sick Maids will any thing endure;
"Refuse the Physick, though they love the Cure.
"But now I find, in vain I long have strove;
"Excuse me, if I blushing say, I Love.
"Take no advantage 'ore my weak replyes;
"In silence cherish a poor Virgins sighs.
[Page 32] Then here he swore, by all the Powers Divine,
He wou'd be always True, be always Mine.
But, Ah! says he, How weak the Joy does prove,
If we still rest on that slight Thing, call'd Love?
Sighs are but Airy Blasts, that move the Heart,
And drive the winged downy Cupid's Dart.
Kisses are empty Prologues to the Play,
And, like the Morning Dew, soon melt away.
Ah! 'tis Enjoyment must our Souls inspire,
And prove the Vigour of our Youthful Fire.
Tell me, sweet Maid, How blessed Venus sped
With all the Pleasures of the Genial Bed,
When she Adonis drew unto her Breast,
And, with stoln Joys, the Youthful Lover blest?
This was a better Act, and pleas'd her more,
Than, o're rude Hills, to see him chase the Boar.
If Languid Looks were all Love's Mystery,
The Dead, in Tombs, might court as well as we.
Yield, Beauteous Virgin, ere the Time comes on,
When nought but the Desire shall fresh remain;
Ere fumbling Age shall soberer things perswade,
And you be call'd that hated thing, Old Maid.
Yield, yield, I say.—But here I stopt his Speech,
And, with alluring Words, did him beseech,
[Page 33] Never again that impious Passion name,
So vilely great, and so adulterous flame,
The just procurer of our future shame.
Thus the Almighty Gods will angry be,
And who can brook a thundring Deity?
Oh! Mention not the Gods, he says, for they
In amorous sports do pass whole years away.
No Mortal here on Earth, or God above,
Is such a Lecher as Almighty Jove.
Great rampant Whores, Punks lewd and over­grown,
And sprawling Bastards do surround his Throne.
Out from unlawful Beds the Heavenly Race
Did spring, and ever since have lov'd the place.
We never yet have wicked Lovers been;
None but the guilty should lament for Sin.
How many sweets we lose, and dear delights,
While the dull Priest performs the Nuptial Rites:
And silly Children grieve their Parents mind,
And fret themselves when Nuptial knots they bind.
Happy Macareus, who didst gladly prove,
The pleasing joy of an incestuous Love;
[Page 34] To toy with Canace would slily creep,
When storms had rock't his Windy Sire asleep.
For this she never sigh'd, though she did mourn
His tedious absence, and his wish'd return:
But e're I leave my Mistress and my Dear,
The Gods shall come and shall inhabit here.
Come down, ye Gods, from Heavenly Seats come down!
The perjur'd Swain is from his Mistris gone,
And left a Teeming wretch to sigh alone.
Think, lov'd Apostate, how this tender Child,
And his sad Mother you have thus beguil'd.
Methinks his Infant voice does screeching cry,
In my loath'd Womb, his and my Misery:
My Child-bed Throes come on, yet I take care
Of seeing thee, my Faithless Wanderer.
When drousie Night comes on, all Creatures fly
To sweet repose, yet restless still am I.
One Night the drousie God came to my Bed,
And with soft slumber did my Temples spread:
Senseless I lay, as if I had been dead.
Just as sick Lovers use, a pleasing Dream
Came softly on, and for its lovely Theam,
Before mine Eyes thy faithless Image came.
[Page 35] Feeble with Love; my utmost force I try'd,
To lay the airy Phantome by my side:
But strugling hard, a parting Kiss it drew,
And from my Arms my empty Lover flew.
But when I wak'd, the Sun had deck'd my Bed,
And with the Night my sleepy Vision fled.
Good Gods! I cry'd, is this the bliss we prove?
This, this the promis'd Joy of Cupid's Love?
Then grown distracted, in my rage I tare
The golden Locks of my once lovely Hair:
Whil'st in my dismal Breast fear meets with fears,
I wash my Lilly Hands in briny Tears:
You may believe't, my Eyes are watry still;
And, while I write, upon my Paper spill
Their liquid Juice: A Juice well known to me,
Yet such as Lovers never care to see.
Why do I weep, when woe is past relief;
But there's a certain pleasure found in grief.
▪Tis vain to speak to Woods and Rocks, 'tis vain
To cry to thee who 'rt harder, perjur'd Swain:
Yet read these Lines, read 'em as sent by me;
The only Legacy I leave to thee.
When unconfin'd at Liberty you rome,
Think on the wretched Nymph you've left at home▪
[Page 36] And when to windy Mountains you repair,
Waft one kind sigh to poor Corinna here.
Whil'st thou dost Scythia's Frost and Snow dis­cover,
(The fittest Climate for so cold a Lover)
Think how in scorching Love at home I burn,
And all the Night thy much loath'd absence mourn.
Thy tatter'd Flocks lie moaning 'ore the Plains;
A prey to greedy Wolves, and Pirate Swains:
Thy lowing Herds, by thee once lov'd so well,
In hoarser moans their Master's absence tell:
Scorch'd by the Summers heat, while these expire,
I die, I die, by no less scorching fire.
If to this Country▪ you shall chance to come,
And view again your melancholy home,
Here you'll behold your dear Corinna's Tomb.
Then to my Tomb one tender sigh commit,
Unless your Heart be grown as hard as it.
Then write upon my Tomb, my Ghost t'appease,
Here lies Corinna, kill'd by Philocles.

CLEOPATRA TO ANTHONY.

The ARGUMENT.

Anthony having lost most of his Men and Arms, is like to be overcome by Caesar: Ventidius pro­mises his Parthian Army, consisting of Twelve Legions. The Souldiers refuse to fight, because, they say, they only fight for Cleopatra; who was the Cause of Anthony's losing so many Battles. Anthony, drawn by the Importunity of Ventidi­us, and the Necessity of repairing his Honour on One side; and obliged to stay by the Charms and Soothing of Cleopatra on the Other, is doubt­ful whether he shall submit to Love or Honour: Resolves, at last, to regain his former Trophies; and gives out, he is going to fight Caesar. Cleo­patra hearing this ill News, sends him the follow­ing Letter.

AND will you go, my Souldier, to the Wars?
Leave harmless Combats, Love's tumul­tuous Jarrs?
[Page 38] Can you in Winter-Nights more safely rest
On Beds of Steel, than Cleopatra's Breast?
A greater Bliss, my Mars, it cannot be,
To Fight with Caesar, than to Toy with Me.
But why should I my Counsel thus afford
(My Discontented, and my Angry Lord)
To You? Yet sure, in Justice, you should view
Your dearest Mistress, bid one kind Adieu.
Did you but know the Fears that vex my Mind,
You would, my Lord, you would, you would be kind.
Pensive I lie, depress'd by Ominous Fate;
And all the Ills on the Unhappy wait.
I know Venridius frowns, and says, That I
Am the Contriver of your Destiny.
I counsel'd you to fight at Sea; you did:
I from the Fight a frightful Woman fled.
Oh! had I been a Man, a Heart like Yours,
I never then had fled from Caesar's Powers,
I grant all this; yet challenge you to tell,
Did you e're know a Woman love so well?
To me, when Young, my Nurse would often say,
Thy tender Limbs are made for Love and Play▪
[Page 39] Noble Ambition does attend the Fair;
And handsom Ladies still presumptuous are:
But my Presumption, surely, none can blame;
Or term my Loving an Ambitious Flame.
No Magick Spells, or Philtre's do I prove,
By which Medea got her Jason's Love.
Our softest Joys no Hydra Serpents yield;
You, with rough Bulls, ne're plough the Flinty Field.
'Tis to my Eyes my fatal Conquest's due;
'Twere they perswaded, and they charmed you.
Yours fixt on Mine for ever seem'd to Live;
Then you were kind, and easie to forgive.
I value not your Wealth, nor your Disdain;
Only return the Love I gave, again.
The Rabble say, I with your Foes accord;
Betray your Country, and betray my Lord:
Witness, ye Gods! how I have kept my Vows;
My plighted Oaths, and all my Faith allows!
Witness ye Scenes of Joy, that we have seen,
That I am True, and still have Constant been!
True to your Bed; Why then should perjur'd Fate
Perswade you, I am false unto the State?
[Page 40] And what with Politicks should Women do?
They to Love's Onacles should pay their due,
And to their Lords be Constant still, and True.
Fie, Anthony! Are these your Vows? You swore
By your dead Sire, whose Image then you bore,
You swore, you did, that I should bear the sway;
Your Heart was mine, and Me you would obey,
Ventidius flatters you with Hopes of Fame;
And says, From War you'll raise a lasting Name:
Bids you take noble War for rusty Peace,
And Fields of Honour for Inglorious Ease:
Feel Juno's Rage, and Jove's important Ire;
His bluest Thunder, and his palest Fire.
But yet, How light does Fame and Honour prove,
Put in the Ballance with immortal Love?
Love, at whose Altars mighty Monarchs fall;
And tender Love ought to bear sway in all.
Let Souldiers Fight, and Tyrants Kings subdue,
And greatly strutt amongst the Martial Crew:
In Conquer'd Fields their Monuments may raise,
And write in Bloody Letters all their Praise:
Heav'ns grant us Peace, and crown with Mirth our Days.
[Page 41] Can you a greater Fame or Conquest win,
Than that already you have got, a Queen:
And were I not a Queen, I could despise
Your gawdy Shows, and Roman Gallantries.
I to my Native Splendor could repeat;
For Pageant Pomp does still attend the Great.
'Tis Love that makes me act the Things I do;
Makes me demean my self, to look on You.
I (when in Aegypt) had a Thousand Eyes
Were constant Slaves; for You I all despise.
When I upon the Silver-Cydnos Row'd,
You on the Shoar, How solemnly you bow'd?
I mark't your Motion to the Neighbouring Grove:
It seem'd distracted, all confus'd with Love.
With longing Eyes upon the Shoar you stand,
And press, among the Crowd, to see me land.
I entertain'd your Passion, Lov'd you too;
And, Heaven knows, advanc'd more than my due:
I cherish't all your Love 'twixt Hope and Fear;
For Cleopatra then was Caesar's Dear:
Yet leaving him, to your Embraces run;
And fondly sought the way to be undone.
[Page 42] Now you'll leave me amidst my Envious Foes;
Your self to Dangers, and to Death expose:
Your plighted Oaths, and Faith you bear away;
If Love won't do, then I command you, stay.

Translations OUT OF HORACE.

BOOK II. ODE 14.

Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, Labuntur anni, &c.
I.
AH Posthumus! How quick our years
Do slide away!
The winged hours for none will stay,
Virtue, that always pillars rears,
Eternal Monuments of Fame,
Leaving behind a lasting Name,
To her best Friend it can no time allow,
Or keep deep Furrows from his aged brow.
II.
Should'st thou a thousand Bribes, as Offrings bring,
To the I [...]fer [...]al King
'Twould move no pity in his hardh'd Breast;
'Twould give thy weary Soul no rest.
He the bold Stygian water aws:
He gives to Gerion and to Titius Laws.
Ah sooty Lake thy waves, alas.
We all or soon or late must pass.
III.
All the bold Mortals, that do sport
On Earths round Globe,
From the base Rabble to the Court;
From Plush and ErminsIto the homely Robe,
Must all descend to Charon's Boat, and be
Wasted by him to vast Eternity.
IV.
In vain we Martial fury shun;
In vain from swelling Waves we run;
In vain we fear the ominous time;
Of sickly Autumns prime.
[Page 45] Down to the gloomy shore we soon must go;
Through Pitchy Waves must row,
To dread Cacytus, that amazing shoar,
Where Danaus wicked race does roar,
And Sysiphus does roll his Stone
In endless grief, alone.
V.
Thou soon thy pleasant Lands no more, shalt view;
To thy dear smiling Wife shalt bid a long adieu.
Nought of thy shady Groves with thee shall go,
But the sad Cypress, that does mourning show.
Thy nobler Heir with joy shall spend
All thou didst save, and Feast his Friend;
And wash the Stones with better Wine
Than that which makes the Bishops ruby Noses shine.

BOOK II. ODE 4.

Ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori, Xanthia Phoreu, &c.
I.
TO love a Serving-Maid no Sin can be:
Servants to us in Love are free.
The rough Achilles fell in Love
With the white Skin'd Briseis, and did prove
Her humble Servant, once her lofty Lord.
The Son of Telamon, so fam'd in War,
His Female Slave ador'd.
A Girle fair
Was all the great Atrides did esteem,
Of all the Wealth and Victories got by him.
II.
How canst thou tell but that fair Phillis may
Be born of as noble clay
As that which makes those Pageants we call Kingst
Thou know'st not but she springs
[Page 47] From a great Regal Line;
And weeps because the Gods have cast her down:
Believe me, Phocus, she deserves a Crown.
She needs must be Divine;
She, who no breach of Oaths did ever know,
Who for an honest fame could wealth for-go,
Must needs of some high Parentage be born.
I, whom Age doth seize
With its incurable Disease:
I, who all wanton wishes scorn,
Admire her Face, her Arms, and every Limb,
And think it worth my just esteem.

BOOK II. ODE 16.

Otium Divos rogat in patenti Prensus Aegeo, &c.
I.
WHen the poor Mariner can nought espie
But Sea and Skie,
Caught in the large Aegean Waves,
The dismal Clouds chasing away the Day;
The waining Moon no Light does give,
The guiding Lamps of Heaven are gone away;
Then the poor Merchant prays the Gods to live,
Peace, cry the Thracians, lame with War,
The Medes as quiet as their Quivers are,
Would be. But Peace, alas! is sold
Not for rich gems, nor Purple, nor for Gold.
II.
'Tis not, Oh Grosphus! treasures great
Can make perplexing care retreat;
[Page 49] 'Tis not the Spears, with Horses joyn'd,
Remove the tumults of the Mind;
Or drive the busie thoughts from off ones Bed.
His Mite a Million is, who lives so well,
As no base Fear molests his sleep:
No great Ambition does disturb his Head,
Whose Board with homely Dainties doth excell,
Above a King's desire;
Set off with one old Salt, that once did grace his Sire.
III.
Why for Eternal Pleasures do we strive,
In a decaying mortal life?
Why must our station be remov'd
From that dear Country once we lov'd?
Why do we seek another Air,
And leave our Native Land?
The change of Climates does not change our care:
Who aws a Nation can't himself command.
Care, from the sturdy Ships won't keep adoof,
Though they were all of Canon proof:
The Card, the Compass, Helm and all the Art
That Neptunes briny Subjects know,
Perplexes the poor Seamans Heart:
[Page 50] Sometimes he dreads the Rock, and then the Seas,
And knows not where to go.
Fear trips it faster than frightn'd Hind,
Flies with more hast than the rough Easter Wind,
To rob a Mind of Ease.
IV.
He that at present has a joyful Mind,
Ne're thinks on what's to come:
He scorns to think on things that are not made,
Without a Being are in Chaos laid.
What pleasure can he find
To dream of future care, or think of future ease?
He keeps his pleasant home,
And mixes his sad thoughts with those that please.
None that the Gods have blest we happy call;
For whom they happy made, was never blest in all.
How soon the great Achilles did to Death
Yield his departing Breath?
How soon Death took him hence,
Who had Millions slew?
Soon did old Tython bid his House adieu:
His snowie Hairs cou'd not their wearer save,
[Page 51] From the inexorable Grave:
What is deni'd to thee, to me may fall by chance.
V.
Thou tell'st thy hundred Flocks of bleating Sheep,
Art pleas'd when thy Sicilian Heisers low:
No Musick is so good,
As Neighing Mares, that rattle through the Wood:
Thou in bright Tissues, in deep red dost go;
When the good natur'd Gods have given me,
A Soul of Verse, a Poets name,
That's writ on the chief Pinnacle of Fame;
A Heart from all perplexing Passions free:
Free from the Cowards cold, and Madman's Heat▪
But scorns the Vulgar, and contems the great.

BOOK III. ODE 9.

Donec gratus eram tibi Nec quis quam, &c.
A DIALOGUE BETWIXT HORACE and LYDIA.
HORACE.
WHen I alone my Mistress did enjoy,
When She was kindly free, not vilely coy,
When no smooth Lad about her Neck did cling;
I vy'd in pleasure with the Persian King.
LYDIA.
When you no Beauty lov'd but only mine,
And Lydia was no slave to Chloe's shrine,
[Page 53] Then fairest Lydia had a lasting Name,
Preceded Ilia in the rank of Fame.
HORACE.
The Thracian Chloe now has got my Heart,
Sweet at her Lute, excelling in her Art:
For whose dear sake I joyfully would die,
If I might gain the living Maid thereby.
LYDIA.
Calys, Ornitho's Son, a worthy Name,
Scorches my Heart with no unequal flame:
For whom I would a double Death enjoy,
If Heaven would give me the surviving Boy.
HORACE.
What now if Venus should the game retrieve,
And Marriage bonds betwixt us two should give?
If I should hate fair Chloes Aubourn Hair,
And ope' the Gate to Lydia, as my Dear?
LYDIA.
Though thou wert wilder than the raging Sea,
And he as beauteous as the Milky-way;
Thou angry as the Seas that threat the Skie,
In thy lov'd bosom I would live and die.

ODE.

I.
AND why in red dost thou appear?
Heavens! how you look, and how I gaze?
Can you the Martial Livery wear,
And with it tread the Lovers Maze?
Though red and furious you are seen,
I'm sure you're white and kind within.
II.
For you I sigh, I grieve alone;
Give me your Heart to ease my pain;
I'll kindly mark it for mine own,
And give it back to you again:
Free from times blot, my Name shall rest,
Enroll'd so safe within your Breast.

ODE.

I.
CUrse on your Friends! Why should they interpose?
I never sought their Love:
And if my Loving you they disapprove;
You say, You Love, and you I chose.
Base, awkard Sots! To tell of Blood and Name,
And Titles, and Estate, and talk of Fame;
Things not worth the having;
Of which Young Lovers never have a Thought:
Though they by Fools are dearly bought,
They are not worth the saving.
II.
Would you that Young tawdry Cockscomb wed,
Your Father so admires?
No; bind him to your Waiting-Maid,
She's fit for his Desires.
[Page 56] I grant him store of Wealth, and I have none;
But yet my Wit will last, when all his Money's gone.
Poor silly Fool! Must he my Rival be,
'Cause he's set off with gawdy Shows,
Lace, Ribbons, and fine colour'd Cloaths?
And this is all his Equipage and Worth.
I too will dress my Sword, and set it forth
In the new fashion'd Pedantry;
It shall make Love as well, nay, better far than he.
III.
Let the old Fumblers dote at home,
And make long Baggs for whom they please;
In wanton Joys young Lovers roam,
And Fancies crosses still their Ease.
Friendship and Love all Tyes will break,
And will, from Nature, License seek.
Why then, Dear Caelia, should your Friends make such ado
About your Joynture, and your Portion given?
Which, if once done, ere 'tis obtain'd by You,
Their Souls will be either in Hell or Heaven.
[Page 57] Ne're think of Wealth, and painted Joys,
That please the Men, and cheat the Boys:
The same to All's the God of Love;
All Affections he does move;
Over all he spreads his Wings,
Making Beggars equal Kings.
Ne're from his Dictates then remove;
But give your Person where you gave your Love.

ODE.

I.
WEll; Caelia's Married! If she be, I do not care,
Since some unmarried are.
I thought, at first, my Love could never die;
But now I find it otherwise.
When Fuel's taken from the Fire,
How soon the hottest Flame in gloomy Darkness dies?
Smoak puts out Flame, Marriage Desire;
All things must wait
The Revolution of their Fate.
The Gods for us decree, and we for them obey;
They manage us like Engines, They the First Mo­vers are;
We move in a Circumscribed Sphere:
They make the Night, and They the Day:
[Page 59] They manage Love, and Leagues command:
They make those Vows above, to which we Mor­tals set our Hand.
II.
Did Caelia think, she anger'd me,
When she forsook her Vow?
No; such a Sot I ne're could be,
To die in Love for You.
Mad Men upon themselves their Poniards prove;
I am not Mad, for I am not in Love.
Shall I in some dark Corner die alone,
'Cause I have lost a Faithless One?
No, Madam, Thanks to you, my Heart is grown
As hard as any Stone:
And it has the Attractive Virtue too;
It draws a Thousand Beauties to it every Day,
Clear as the Sun, and sweet as May;
And, in my Eyes, more Bright than You.
III.
Now, Heavens be prais'd, I'm free!
And thank my Mistress for my Goal-Delivery.
[Page 60] Like some poor Prisoner, from a Tyrant got,
I'm surfeited with Ease.
Sun-Shine of Beauty was too hot;
But now, being to the Shadow got,
I find that Love was a Disease.
Now shall I, as your Gallants do,
Rail at her, that me forsook,
In whose Words I Pleasure took;
Curse her, cause she is untrue:
No; that's beneath a Man, much less a Lover,
His own dear Love to hide, or Mistress Crimes discovers.

ODE.

YOU merry Virgins, mad Maids,
Of busie London Town,
Abuse the Country sad Maids,
And every Rusty Clown:
Your Beauties all shall wither,
You Bawds and Whores together.
For if your Painting
Were but wanting,
Where would your Beauty be?
The Glances of your Eyes,
By which you do surprize,
Are all to Art, not Nature, due:
All your Charms are untrue;
Your faithless Vows do with your Paint agree.

ODE.

I.
WHere discontented Lovers walk,
Hard by the glyding Brooks, and smi­ling Springs,
And mournfully together talk
Of Love's vain Joys, and fruitless Things:
Here I once scorcht by Heat of Love and Day,
Cupid and Phoebus both my Ruine meant.
I, chiding Fortune, here expiring lay:
Alas! cry'd I; What means she now to do?
Am I her Prisoner, and her Exile too?
Come, Savage Tygers, come! and quickly tear
This dismal gloomy Breast,
By Tyrannous Love opprest;
Come quick, and all your cruel Tortures show:
But, when you find my Heart, I charge you, spare
Her Image there,
Though she be crueller than you,
And thus I cry'd;
And thus sad Echo soon reply'd:
Enough, enough of Lover's Pain;
Poor wretched Mortal, thou hast spent in vain
Enough of fruitless Pain.
II.
Then on the Grass I lay me down again:
Sleep, sleep, I cry'd; Sleep, wretched Mortal here!
Eternal Thoughts of Joy begets Despair,
And foolish Loving ever is a Pain.
Could thou enjoy thy scornful Dear,
Soon She must part from Thee, or Thou from Her.
See yonder Amorous Waters, how they sport,
And the coy Bank, their Mistress, court;
And though they would in long Embraces stay,
They only kiss the Banks, and glide away.
Of Thee, my Dear, but one soft Smile I crave;
And those that Love like me, so small a Gift may have.
And thus I cry'd;
And thus sad Echo soon reply'd:
Enough, enough of Lover's Pain;
Poor wretched Mortal, thou hast spent in vain
Enough of fruitless Pain.

A LETTER TO A FRIEND.

THanks for your Praises! were they due, I wou'd
Pamper my self with Joy, and think 'em Good.
Loaden with Laurels for mine unknown Art,
You paint me Great, although beneath Desert.
But if Maecenas had a lasting Fame,
Because the best of Poets us'd his Name;
Then Merit justly may to me belong,
Because 'tis sung by your all-skilful Tongue.
Oft have I blam'd my Stars, that I should be
Plagu'd with this soft deluding Poetry ▪
This Charming Mistress, that has kept my Heart,
Quite from a Child, by her bewitching Art.
[Page 65] From her glad Fountain I can always find
A pleasing Philtre to make Phillis kind:
For tell me that coy Maid could ever be
Cruel, when urg'd by Charming Poesie?
Verse is the Poet's Beauty, Wealth and Wit;
And what soft Virgin won't be won by it?
But, wearied with Delight, I always try
Against this Spell to find a Remedy.
By good Divinity I think to find
A Soveraign Remedy for Soul and Mind:
But then, with Holy Flame, I strait do burn,
And all to Hymns, and Sacred Anthems turn.
Nay, when the Night does waking Thoughts re­dress,
And Guardian Angels with our Souls converse,
To busie Mortals is the sleeping Time;
I dream and slumber all the Night in Rhyme.
Then puzling Logick next I take in hand;
But this, Alas! can't Poesie withstand.
Barbara, Celerent, I with Ease express,
And yoke tough Ergo's into well-made Verse:
My Faithless Lover's Syllogism tries;
I by stout Logick find their Fallacies.
[Page 66] Then Scheibler, Suarez, Bellarmine I get,
And sound the depth of Metaphysick wit:
Streight, in a fret, I damn 'em all at once,
And vow they are as dull as Zabarel or Dunce.
Credit me, Sir, no greater plague can be,
Than to be poison'd with mad Poetrie:
Like Pocky Letchers, who have got a Clap,
And paid the Doctor for the dear mishap;
But newly eased of their nausceous pain,
Return to their wanton Sin again.
So Poets be they plague'd with naughty Verse,
They never value good nor bad success:
Or be they trebly damn'd, they will prefer
Their next vile scribling to the Theater.
Well might the Audience, with their hisses, damn
The Bawdy Sot that late wrote Limberham:
But yet you see, the Stage he will command,
And hold the Laurel in's polluted Hand.
In slothful ease, a while I took delight,
And thought all Poets mad that us'd to write.
So long I kept from Verse, I thought I'd lost
My Versing Vein, and of my Fortune boast:
But having tryal made, I quickly found
My store renew'd, in numbers strong and sound.
[Page 67] With ease my happy fancies come and go,
As Rivulets do from Parnassus flow.
Then finding that in vain I long had try'd
The Poet from the Tutchin to divide;
I charming Poesie make my delight,
And propagate the humor still to Write.
Our new Divines do alter not one jot,
From what their Tribe in older times have wrot;
Except, like Parker, to have something new,
They broach new Doctrines, either false or true:
A Publick Conscience, which for nought does pass,
But proves the Writer is a publick Ass;
Who the new Philosophick world have told,
Have for a new but varnish'd o're the old.
But all Poetick Phancy can't draw dry,
Th' unfathom'd Wells of deepest Poesie,
The Bifront Hill is always stout and strong;
The Muses still are handsome, always young,
The clearest streams of Chrystal Helicon
Do o're the Pebles in sweet Rhymings run,
Why then should you, Dear Sir, (that have pre­tence
To the extreamest bounds of Wit and Sense)
[Page 68] Lay by your Quills and hold your Tune-ful, Tongue,
While all the witty want your pleasing Song?
Once more renew those Lays that gave delight,
That chear the Day, and glad the gloomy Night:
May with your dying breath your Verses end;
Thus prays your constant, and
Your truest Friend, J. T.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS E. P.
Who Died of the SMALL-POX.

I.
A Dreadful day it was, a lowring time,
Nature appear'd in black, a Mourner too;
When first I heard the Message read,
The doleful Message, that my Friend was dead.
Weep on ye Clouds, weep on till you grow dry,
At least as free from Tears as I:
Who'd lavish'd all my stock before,
And wept, till I could weep no more,
For Sylvia fled to the Elysian Shore.
II.
Scarce was lov'd Sylvia Buried;
Scarce had I
Clear'd up my Eyes, and wipe'd 'em dry,
But loe! another Bill of Fate appears,
Black as the Night, and all be-dropt with Tears:
It told, (Oh, that I ne're had heard it told!)
How my best Friend was gone;
How pinnion'd, like a Dove, she fled,
And drove the beauteous Aether on,
Till she had forc'd her passage to the Immortal Dead.
III.
Hail, Sacred Maid; for sure we know,
Thou art the same above thou wast below.
Mistaken Mortals! so unjust, unkind;
While thou wer't here we thought thee Woman­kind,
And call'd thee so; but now thou'rt gone,
What shall we do to recompence?
How shall we this impiety atone?
How oft have we blasphem'd thy Name,
And said, she's humane frame?
Ah, dire Mistake! in our dull acts of Sense.
IV.
'Tis true, thou hadst a Body, but it was
Clearer than transparent Glass;
Through which thy Virtue did appear:
The gawdy pleasure of the blooming Year,
Was never half so fair.
Ah, ungentile Disease! to take thee hence;
To crop this flower, e're 't cou'd enough dispence
The sweets of Wit, and solid fruits of Sense.
V.
So does some God-like Hero walk among
The crowded pressing of the Mortal throng:
Th' illiterate crowd knows not his real worth,
Or what immortal power brought him forth:
Sees not, through homely weeds, his Souls array;
Mistakes his Heavenly Frame for common Clay.
Unprais'd, unenvy'd, for a time does roam,
'Till kinder Heaven does take the God-like Crea­ture home.
VI.
She, like a Comet, was but shown;
A beauteous Comet in the glorious Skies,
[Page 72] To tell the World the Events of Fate;
The falls of Crowns, and overthrows of State:
But e're the Omens are entirely done,
See, in the dark, the Constellation dies!
Too bright for Mortal Eyes to gaze upon.
VII.
How soon the Good do spend their days?
How fast their downy hours post along?
The Bad their Monuments do raise,
And fill their time with Mirth and Song.
Goodness and real worth one day can't give;
She from this lightsome world had never gone away,
If solid Virtue could have brib'd her stay:
For all that we call good or great,
In her assum'd a glorious Seat;
And with her too, I doubt they went,
Except some Female did their flight prevent.
VIII.
The Monster Man long since has worn out
His rags of Virtue, which he did retain:
In Goodness weak, in Villanies grown stout;
He vows he'll ne're be good again.
[Page 73] Stupid he lyes, and senseless in his Vice;
He shar'd the Fall in Sin, but not in Virtues Rise.
Woman alone does climb the Holy Hill;
But Man below remains a Devil still:
They ne're expect in Heaven a room,
Only good Poets and good Women thither come.
IX.
Blest Maid! once more accept my tuneless Verse,
Which does in link't proportion not agree:
No Poet ever trod this Path, no Woman ever liv'd like thee.
Rude and unthought, I must my grief express;
Soft Words and tuneful Notes were here unfit,
For Grief of Harmony cou'd ne're admit.
PART II. THE Unfortu …

PART II. THE Unfortunate SHEPHERD. A PASTORAL.

[figure]

LONDON, Printed for Jonathan Greenwood, at the Black Raven in the Poultrey. 1685.

Personae.

  • Amoretta, A Nymph of the Country.
  • Ephelia, A scornful Lady of the City; descended from the Royal-Line, and come in disguise into the Country.
  • Proba, Her Maid.
  • Corydon, A Shepherd.
  • Thyrsis, Another Shepherd, in Love with Ephelia.
  • Damaetas, An old Herds-man.
  • Damon, A wealthy Shepherd.

THE Unfortunate SHEPHERD. A PASTORAL.

Thyrsis and Corydon.

Cor.
OUR Flocks beside you' Mountain cooly graze,
And joyful bleatings Echo from the place:
The roaming Ewes to the cool shadows run,
And the soft Lambs avoid the scorching Sun,
Beneath this Hawthorn-Tree let us sit down,
And talk of pleasures we can call our own:
[Page 78] For the same Fate our roving Flocks does keep,
At once does aid the Shepherd, and his Sheep.
Thyr.
There was time, indeed, when I cou'd sing,
With charming Notes could stop the hasty Spring;
Talk of my pleasures in the Myrtle shade,
Where the good Shepherds all supinely laid:
Made a resounding Chorus, charm'd the Wood,
And, like lov'd Orpheus, stopt the list'ning Flood.
To entertain her honest civil Guest,
Nature her self prepar'd a pompous Feast:
Sleep from the Grass we took, Drink from the Flood,
Solwes from the Hedge, and Wildings from the Wood.
Cool were the days, our Heads with Ivy Crown'd;
To each glad Swain a lasting Health went round:
But now, Alas! my pleasing Joy is fled,
And Grief, resistless Grief! come in its stead.
Cor.
Now by that mighty God, whose Bles­sings can
Augment the jolly Fold, our mighty Pan;
If Love has made you sad, your cruel grief
Shall from my sollid comfort find relief.
If hurtful Seasons have destroy'd your Fold,
Half of my Flock is at your service told.
Thyr.
[Page 79]
My Flocks are healthful, and their num­ber great,
The thriving Twins about their Mothers bleat.
No rave'nous Wolf of late has fill'd his Paws
With my young Lambs, or with 'em try'd his Jaws:
But angry Cupid — Curst be the Fatal Name!
Has fir'd my Breast with an Eternal Flame.
Ah! why should Shepherds such disasters prove?
Why should mean Swains be plagu'd with mel­ting Love?
Curst be the Light, that usher'd in the Day!
And Curst these Eyes, that did my Heart betray!
Ah! Corydon, 'tis Love.
Cor.
Love let it be:
'Tis Love that makes us like the Deity.
I know you're young, in Lovers Art unskill'd;
What's one Man's pleasure, has another kill'd.
You grieve for Love, which does my time devour,
And fills the empty space of every hour.
Were't not for Love, I'd quit this World below,
And to the Tombs of senseless Lovers go:
If after Death we're empty shadows made,
Rather than not b' in Love, I'll court a Shade.
[Page 80] Happy's that Man, whom Love does make its friend;
Does in his active Breast its gentle fire send.
Thyr.
Wisely you talk of Love, who never felt
The flame so long has in my bosom dwelt:
Fondly to Love at the extreamest rate,
And to receive again Disdain and Hate.
Witness, ye Heavens! how oft have I sate down
On the cold Earth, and sadly griev'd alone.
Sadly the Winds and Clouds above me fly;
But neither sigh'd or wept so much as I.
The Floods that use'd in hollow murmurs groan,
Slid silent by; and pitied my sad moan.
The neighb'ring Philomel, late lost her young,
Fills not the Woods with a more mournful Song:
But yet for all the toilsome Love I've born,
I meet with cold neglect, and publick scorn.
Cor.
Disdain and Hate the Lover oft does prove;
Yet Hatred often turns to kindest Love.
Were she a Goddess, and of Race Divine,
Her lofty Head should stoop to Cupid's shrine:
I tell thee, Shepherd, she will soon relent,
And all her offer'd injuries repent.
[Page 81] She'll Love that Man she now disdains to own;
And like an humble suppliant stooping down,
On Cupid's Altar, offer up a Prayer;
And for each angry Word, sha'll shed a Tear:
Believe me, Shepherd, for I well do know,
The deepest mysteries of Love below:
Full Twenty years its Sacred Books I've read,
And of its force a long experience had.
Trust then to Love, for sure 'twill ne're disdain,
So blithe a Shepherd, and so good a Swain.
Thyr.
Had you but seen, my Corydon, how she,
My cruel fair one, cast disdain at me;
You'd sink beneath the pressure of the pain:
No more with wonted Notes would fill the Plain.
In her hard Breast Disdain and Anger strove;
Just like the Thunder of Almighty Jove.
Lightning flew from her Eyes, a Bolt each Word;
And in my pensive Breast it loudly roar'd.
Ah! who can live, when angry Woman's skill,
With each disdainful Word, can slily kill?
I thought, when first I saw her, she had been,
A gentle Nymph, companion of the Green.
Good Gods! how well she Danc'd? How low she Bow'd?
And paid obeisance to the gazing Crowd?
[Page 82] Smil'd on each lovely Swain, and look'd such Words,
As kindest Strephon to his Dear affords.
Who could imagine Laurels would become
A scornful Nymph, Born at prouder Rome?
She boasts her Worth, and Rome's exalted place;
Her high-born Blood, and Priam's mighty Race:
Vilely she makes a Virtue of Disdain,
And loaths the very name of Country Swain.
But yet, Alas! I'm doom'd to Love her still.
Cor.
You're led not by your Reason, but your Will;
Are there not Nymphs enough here of our own?
What need have we to court the stupid Town?
From Stinks and Pride, ignoble Povertie,
And all the Plagues damn'd Citizens do see,
Good God Almighty Pan, deliver me!
Take this fine Fool, has overcome thy Heart,
And home to the inglorious Town depart:
There hug thy Chains, thy painted Slaverie;
Damon and's Chloe ne're shall envy thee.
Thyr.
Now kindest Fate to Thyrsis put an end;
I ne're shall gain my Love, yet lose my Friend.
[Page 83] On me bestow your angry Bolts in store;
No wrethed Mortal e're cou'd wish 'em more.
Exit.

Amoretta and Ephelia.

Amor.
Ho, Corydon! did not I meet Thyrsis?
Sure I did; and paler far he look't,
Than some dead Corps, that's carrying to its Cell.
What means it, Corydon? Is he in Love?
His Eyes look'd languid, and he walk'd along
Just like a shadow, or an empty Ghost.
Cor.
How soon these Women find out Love's Disease?
Dear Nymph! did not you feel his Pulse,
Observe its Motion?
Amor.
By Pan, I did not!
Cor.
Yes sure; 'tis Love does grieve his trou­bled mind:
Restless he lies at Night, and all the Day,
With Groans and Sighs, lie fills the wonted Plains:
He 'as broke his Pipe, and quite forgot to Sing;
There's nought of Man left in him but the Name.
Eph.
We came not here to talk of Love, but Sport.
Where are the jolly Swains, must Dance the Ring?
And where the Bays, the Victor's Sacred Meed?
[Page 84] I long to see the nimble Youths unstrip,
And take their chosen Nymphs into their Hands.
But now we talk of Mirth, where's old Damaetas,
My good adopted Father?

Damaetas:

Dam.
Here I am!
I must confess, I'm Old and Feeble grown;
But yet my Mirth and Age encrease together:
Winter has seiz'd my Brow, but yet some heat
Informs my aged Breast: and though it cannot
Melt down my Snowy Hairs, and turn 'em black;
Yet I can Kiss as well as e're I could.
Eph.
What! with that Beard so like a prickly Furz?
Sure it must be some wretch has bought her Grave,
And given Death its Fee already, that would take
Deucalion's Grand-Father to be her Bride.
Am.
What pleasure can it be to Wed a Lout,
Whose only Exercise is Hunting Snails:
And their dull nimble course so far exceeds
Thy awkard Limbs, they've broke thy aged wind.
Dam.
Well — I will give you leave to jeer me too;
For 'tis the property of your weak Sex
[Page 85] To laugh at Age— But I would have you know,
But t'other day, I Danc'd at Damon's Door,
And leap'd quite o're the Threshold.
Eph.
Had it any?
Amor.
Did not you tumble o're, and make it pass
For a good Leap?
Dam.
Women and Fools are the worst sort of Cattel;
So head-strong, so unruly, and so proud!
You scorn my grizly Hairs, my awkard Limbs:
Yet I must tell you, Nymph, I've been a Man,
Could Dance, and Sing a jolly Roundelay:
And though my Age has made me leave the sport,
Yet I desire it still, and love to see
The bonny Youths and Wenches trip't away
Over the Green: You know not half the Mirth,
The gladsome pleasure whileome I enjoy'd.
Here's my Friend Corydon does know full well:
He has seen me Dance, old as I am, and stood
Astonished to see my Comick sport.
Cor.
By yonder Plain, I have! I've seen this Man,
For all his Age, Blithe as a Woman, Merry as a God.
Not long since he and I together meet,
[Page 86] (Where lov'd Cayister cuts its winding way)
Encamp'd upon the Plain, an Host of Swains:
An Army, not design'd for Martial Work,
But all for Love. The amorous Ground
Gladly receiv'd us, and the hollow Vale,
As if grown covetous of what we Sang,
Lengthn'd in Echo's every charming Note.
Each River-God rais'd up a downy Wave:
On watry Chairs of State they proudly sate;
And view'd with envious Eyes our homely Joy.
The River-Nymphs poep'd out their curled Heads
From amongst the Reeds, and slunk them in a­gain;
As if they griev'd to see themselves out-done.
The nimble Satyrs all stood silent by,
Wondring to see such things more swift than they;
And raging beat, with their cloven Feet, the Ground.
You know not half the Mirth we Country Swains enjoy.
Dam.
No; if they did, they'd prize me more.
Eph.
Sure, Father, what we say, we speak in jest;
We honour your Grey Hairs; by Pan, we love you!
You are the Soul of Mirth, our only Joy.
Dam.
[Page 87]
Then come, my Friends, this day is Damon's Sheep-shear:
There you'll see acted all the joys we're told:
Joys, that can make the meanest Shepherd Great;
Can banish Grief, and make damn'd Care retreat.
Exeunt.
Finis Actus Primi.

The SECOND ACT.

Scene, Damaetas's House.

Damaetas and Servants.

Damae.
GET all things ready, in due order plac'd:
Provide the Shears, and things to hold the Wool;
Bring the clean Sheep down to the lesser Fold:
Drive those, that lately came from the Wash-Pool,
To yonder Sunny Bank, and let 'em dry.
Shear the Lambs first; and if their Fleece be wet,
Lay 'em on that quick Hedge, that Phoebus may
Bestow his piercing heat, and melt 'em dry.
Then let the rest provide the Festival:
And first, bring in the lusty Bacon-Chine
Of the great Hog, that whilome spoil'd the Pease;
And on the self-same Dish, on either side,
Serve up the two Red Cocks, that 'tother Day
Were Fighting at the Barn's Door: And bring
A piece of the Red Cow, with Coleworts boil'd:
[Page 89] And in another Dish, two sucking Piggs,
With Guts of Sage, and Bellies full of Bread;
With all the rest of the good Country Fare.
Besure to fill the Liquor well about;
And see the Beechen Bowl, that holds a Quart,
By each glad Swain be nimbly taken off.
Spare not the Sider, nor the Barley Juice;
Ceres and Pan will make all up again.

Corydon, Thyrsis, Amoretta, Damaetas, Proba and Guests.

Dam.
You're kindly welcome, Friends! pray sit you down
Upon this Hurdle; with what Mirth you can,
Dissolve the coming hours in sweetest joy,
Until such time the pleasant work is o're.
The Fleecy Sheep have ta'ne their Summer suits,
And strip'd themselves to Dance along with us.
Goes to the Work-men.
Eph.
Where am I now? Ye Gods! this Sylvane Scene
Proves your great Paradise but low and mean.
Too long the City toils, alas! too long,
Have I admired the dull inglorious throng!
[Page 90] Pardon, Augustus, I Blaspheme thy Court,
Were't here with me, thou'dst leave thy phancied sport;
Quit thy poor Throne, thy self a Shepherd make;
And for a Scepter, wouldst a Sheep-Hook take.
Health to you all! Companions, strive with me
To praise your Country life.
Thyr.
So well agree,
Our Minds and Souls in this, that all alike,
One common Note our joyful Pipes will strike.
This Hurdle is an Altar, Mirth our Prayer;
We Votaries, and you our Venus are;
Whilst each glad Swain, as an unquestion'd due,
Shall pay his Orisons to Love and You;
I'll sit and feast mine Eyes, and crowd my Breast,
With the Idea of your Beauty blest.
Amor.
Yonder's a ragged Cliff beside the Plain,
The sturdy limit of the boist'rous Main:
There every day in solitude I keep
Some nobler hours, and view the spacious deep.
Sometimes (the weather fair) my self I please,
To see the Vessels scim along the Seas,
[Page 91] With gawdy Prow, and no less gawdy Stern;
Gilt with the yellow glittering of the Morn;
Stem the proud Waves, and kiss the amorous Flood;
Play with the Winds, then Anchor in the Road;
'Till scorching Phoebus from his rest is come;
Shows his red Head, and hotly drives me home.
Cor.
Yonder's a steepy Hill, where every day,
From my glad Flocks, I slily steal a way;
Sit on a Tufft of Grass, and view the Plain,
The roving Flocks, and every roving Swain:
View here a lonesome Cottage, there a Grove;
Here a close Wood, design'd for closer Love:
Yonder the Fields of Corn, producing Food;
And Meadows groaning underneath their load.
With greedy Eyes the Forrest I survey;
And thus in glorious Ease, I nobly spend the Day.
Thyr.
By yonder Dome, there runs a purling Stream,
(The Cowherds Glory, and the Muses Theam)
On whose soft Bank an aged Alder grows;
And stretcheth o're the Flood his spacious boughs.
A natural Arbor on its Trunk is made;
And its thick Leaves afford a secret Shade.
[Page 92] Sometimes its hanging Boughs stoop'd down, and wou'd
Take a soft kiss from the transparent Flood.
Sometimes in it the neighb'ring Halcyons hung
Their brooding Nests, and there bred up their young.
Here every day I come, and sit me down,
And tell the groaning Flood my pitious moan.
I Carve my Mistresses Name on every bough,
And charge the Flood to water't, make it grow:
Then to my lonesome Flocks, I back return,
And all the way her much-loath'd Crossness mourn.
Damae.
Heavens bless ye Swains! You well have prais'd the Life
We Country-Men enjoy; let solitude,
And Country ease, and noble Luxury
Inspire each Swains immortal Breast, and make him
Tell to the Vrbane Crowd his and their Miseries.
I now defie all Caesars gawdy Cockscombs,
To vye with us in pleasure; who can boast
Of Days, and Months, and Years spent all in joy.
Care never here makes lean, but plump and full;
Swell'd up, like Bacchus, with the juice of Grape:
Grown strong, as Ceres, with the strength of Wheat.
[Page 93] This aged Head of mine scarce ever Ach'd;
These Snowy Hairs are Time's slow Harbengers
Of Death; nor are they caus'd by anxious Grief,
But 'tis the effect of Nature: All must yield
To Fate. This Fourscore years and Ten have I
Enjoy'd one lasting Scene of Mirth and Bliss:
Not one sad hour has intermix'd with Ease.
When Fate lets fall the Curtain, takes me hence,
Then every Swain shall weep, Damaetas gone;
And say, He liv'd, he dy'd, a Jovial Swain.
Damon and Servants with the Festival.
Dam.
Now are the Golden days of Orpheus come
Once more; Mirth is great, as triumphant
As e're it was; the Grecian Shepherds cou'd not
In olden times, boast of more Mirth than we.
Now all at once, our Sences shall be Feasted:
Wine that's fin'd, not pal'd, shall please our Pal­lates:
The wholsome Country Food shall fill our sto­machs:
The flowry Meeds and Lawns shall feast our Eyes;
And these young Swains shall Feast our list'ning Ears
[Page 94] With Musick. Come Lads, begin the pleasant Song,
Was whileome sung to Caelia on the Green.
They Sing.

SONG I.

I.
ALL Hail, to fair Caelia! for I will adore
Not Venus her self, nor a Goddess no more:
To Caelia, to Caelia my Vows shall be paid;
And all the Sacred Oaths, that Lovers have made.
II.
She makes Summer to smile, and the Winter to thaw,
And keeps the fierce course of Nature in awe.
The Melancholy Gods are made brisk by her Charms;
And languishing Mortals revive in her Arms.
III.
She sits on the Bank, the Forrest does view;
With her Rosie Mouth she sips of the Dew:
She gathers the Violet, and Rose of the Field;
But none, as her self, such Rich Incense can yield.
IV.
She never is Cruel, nor never Vnkind;
No Angry Thought perplexeth her Mind:
Then who wou'd complain of the Chains of her Love,
When every Link a Cupid does prove?

Damaetas Sings. SONG II.

I.
BY the side of a Mountain, my dwelling shall be
In an old hollow Tree;
With age, with age grown rusty as I.
With a hole for a Window, from whence I survey,
The neighb'ring Groves, where every day
The amorous Nymphs, and Shepherds do play.
Thus warm and still,
In my close wooden shell,
Secure from Storms and Tempests I lye.
The sullen old Scrub,
That dwelt in a Tub,
Was never so Merry, so Merry as I.
II.
On a Pipe as old as my self I Play:
When some good Lady Mag-pye, or Mistress Jay,
Resort to my boughs for shade,
I strike up a Serenade,
And fright my Guests away.
In my hollow old Tree you would wonder;
My Musick roars like Thunder:
Secure from Storms and Tempests I lye.
The sullen old Scrub,
That dwelt in Tub,
Was never so Merry, so Merry as I.
III.
Here free from Care, and Kingly disasters;
From chiding of Servants, and pleasing of Masters.
I'm a Common-wealth alone,
Mounted on a Wooden Throne:
I d' enjoy more Peace than on a Golden one.
My Kitchin, my Parlour, and Chappel's together;
Where I Pray, and I Banquet, and keep from the Weather.
[Page 97] Full fraught with Pleasure, my hours I keep,
And in the Night season supinely I sleep:
And thus undisturb'd, I quietly lye.
The sullen old Scrub,
That dwelt in a Tub,
Was never so Merry, so Merry as I.
Cor.
May every day be like to this! and may
What we have spoke and sung, be well receiv'd!
Receiv'd, as a Tribute due to Pan.
May blooming youth always adorn our Brows!
And active Blood still circle in our veins!
May Manly Heat our noble Spirits sway!
May you, blest Nymphs, always be fresh and fair;
Clear as the Spring, and brighter than the Noon,
Chast as the Morn, and silent as the Night!
May you for ever Live, for ever be
Tall as Cedar, lasting as the Yew.
Eph.
And henceforth, may the Shepherds al­ways thrive!
May every Ewe bring forth a pair of Lambs!
May hurtful Seasons ne're molest your Flocks,
Nor rav'nous Wolf tear the young tender Kid!
Amor.
All the kind blessings that the Gods have laid
[Page 98] On Mortals, light on you! May all your Life
Be one continued Scene of Bliss and Joy!
Damaet.
But now the Nightly Season hasteth on,
And trav'ling Phoebus to his rest is gone.
The Evening Toads from watry Marshes croak,
And yonder Villages begin to smoak.
Their young ones to the Roost the Partridge call;
And larger shadows from the Mountains fall.
Let us go home, and sleep until the Morn;
Rise with the Light, and with the Day return.
Exeunt.
Finis Actus Secundi.

The THIRD ACT.

Ephelia sola.

Eph.
HOW I have been deceiv'd'? Who could have thought
That Rusticks liv'd so well? Our gawdy Town,
With all its Monuments and Statues deck'd,
And all its glittering Pageants, never look'd
Half so beautiful, so gay and great
As yonder Village.
Surely the Gods have ta'ne possession here:
This is the Seat of the Aetherial Race.

Thrysis.

Thyr.
All alone! I'll enjoy a little more
Of her Scorn.
[To her] Fair Maid, I hope you'll pardon the sur­prise;
You know my Message by my languid Eyes.
Cupid has led me to this lonely Grove,
And charg'd me here perform the Dues of Love:
To you, my better Soul! my Love impart;
Give you my Hand, and offer up my Heart.
Eph.
[Page 100]
Far be't from me, your Love to entertain!
And Heaven guard me from the Monster Man!
Who open Falsehood and Deceit does show,
Though slily cover'd in Love's Name does go.
Thyr.
My Modesty's an Argument to prove,
How ignorant I am in Arts of Love:
How oft have I your Beauty prais'd, and said,
You are the best, the only lovely Maid?
When e're you Danc'd, amazed I stood by,
And at each gentle stop, I drop'd a sigh!
My Groans went faster than your Feet, and prov'd
To all the Company how much I Lov'd.
Ost when you rose, in the same place I lay'd,
And kiss'd the print your lovely Body made.
Heaven knows how much this Passion me has vext;
First to avoid, and to dissemble it next,
Has prov'd a task so exquisitely great,
A worse even Fate it self, could not create.
Had some sinister end my Passion mov'd,
I e're this time had told how much I Lov'd.
My Love, like Fire pent in a narrow hole,
Whose limits does its threatning Rage controul,
Which while but warm, glowing and quiet lay;
Now heated quite, breaks the weak bands away
[Page 101] Sooner may Ships on tumbling Surges rest,
Than Love in my no less disturbed Breast.
Winds may forget to roar, and Storms to flie,
E're this griev'd Breast shall be unlearn'd to sigh.
Eph.
Well; since you do such mighty dangers prove,
For your reward I give you leave to Love.
For being Lov'd why should we Women chide?
The Gods are Lov'd, and so we're deify'd.
Then Love me still; but Love me as a Friend.
Thyr.
You grant the Means, but you deny the End.
Such Love I always to my Sex do give:
But you, my Mistress, should more Love receive.
Eph.
Your Mistress! Cockscomb, is your Pride so great?
This the ambition of a mean Retreat?
How well my Silks and your course Weeds agree?
Have I been Born to be enjoy'd by thee?
Is that foul Mein of thine a Match for me?
Whose noble Birth each God-like Poets sing,
Sprung from an antient Race of mighty Kings:
Sooner may Grass on the wild Ocean grow,
And Tyber to its Streams may backward flow,
Rome Wed with yonder Village, Ladies court
Their bulky Foot-men, and with Pages sport:
[Page 102] E're I to thee, mean Swain! can Wedded be.
Thyr.
So well your Pride and High-born Blood agree.
If to your antient Race you proudly flie;
My Father was a Shepherd, so am I.
On yonder Hill his hundred Flocks he led;
And on yon' Hillock laid his drousie Head.
The Gods for Masterdom have often strove;
Yet Pan always out-vy'd poor Bankrupt Jove.
Let Rome to Ruines be entirely thrown;
And vast Destruction writ on every Stone!
Curse on your gawdy Crew!
Home to my Arms, my lovely fair one, flie:
On this still constant Breast securely lie.
False Oaths and broken Vows surround the Town,
Their impious Hands pull Virtues Statues down.
Try once our Country pleasure, easie Bliss;
You know not what a thing a Shepherd is.
Eph.
The pleasures of your Life I well approve;
But not one word, I charge you, more of Love.
When with these joys I've satisfi'd my mind,
I may perhaps advance, and then prove kind.
But if your Love does always thus drop down,
'Twill make my Heart as hard as any Stone;
[Page 103] And then your Words, and deep-fetch'd Sighs are vain:
'T will only serve to Echo 'em back again.
But stay; I hear some noise! for once, adieu.
Exit.

Corydon and Damaetas.

Damae.

Ha! Here's my Thyrsis!

Thyr.

Father!

Damae.
Son!
Methinks thou look'st like some old Rural God:
The happy Off-spring of our mighty Pan;
Woods to the Fields, or Verdure to the Woods,
Are not a greater Ornament, than thou to Men.
Thou know'st how 'tis to Live; how 'tis to steal
A glorious life from the inglorious Throng:
Is not that Grove thy planting? Sure it is!
It looks as if some happy Hand had set it.
When Caesar's Statues shall grow old and rusty,
Then this thy Verdant Grove shall flourish still.
When thou art dead, it shall bestow green Laurels,
As signals of thy lasting memory.
Cory.
If any are Immortal, sure 'tis we!
On yonder Mountain great Alphesebseus
Cut his lov'd Name; and still the gentle Ground
[Page 104] Retains the mark for each good Swain to read.
The wandring Sheep when o're the place they go,
Forbear to eat it, that it still may grow.
Damae.
In yonder Wood, there stands an aged Tree,
In which is carv'd the mighty Orpheus Name,
For many hundred years ago, and still
'Tis legible.
Happy the Tree that bears it, for 't has giv'n,
An Immortality, a lasting Verdure;
And sure his Pipe lies buried thereabouts;
For every day the Airy Choristers,
Do thither come, a Heavenly Consort make.
Here Philomel does need no wakeful Thorne
To spur her Breast; nor can she sleep a Nights,
But always quavers out her Tereus Song.
Thyr.
May I see henceforth nought but Woods and Plains!
May Shepherds be my Company! And may
We all be Merry!
And may these Eyes never behold the Court;
The boisterous Deep, or the tempestuous Main;
The frightful Rock, or the Death-threatning Sands!
Damaetas Sings.

SONG.

I.
THen hail ye Shepherds! free from Cares,
Free from Passions, free from Fears!
Phillis Loves, and Phillis may
A greater Bliss to us convey,
Than what painted Sylvia brings,
To the costly Bed of Kings.
II.
Kings are Gods; so let them be;
Still they're from my Envy free.
We can sport, and spend the Nights,
In no less ūdisturb'd delights.
A calm Voyage we can prove,
O're the Hellespont of Love.
III.
The Beechen Bowl no poison hath:
'Tis Gold and Silver make up Death.
[Page 106] Behind these Walls no Bullies slide;
'Tis Arras does the Traytor hide.
No wanton She was here Embrac'd:
At Court no Woman e're prov'd Chast.
IV.
Virtue here, in pomp Array'd,
Is the Beauty of each Maid.
No Ornaments but homely Stuff,
Serves to set poor Phillis off:
Yet as fair, as sweet she's seen,
As the Beauteous Paphian Queen.
V.
Then hail ye Shepherds! free from Cares,
Free from Passions, free from Fears!
Hail ye Nymphs! as kind as Day,
Fair as Spring, and sweet as May!
Your old Damaetas still shall raise
A living Structure to your Praise.
Thyr.

We thank you, Father.

Cor.
How well he Sings! Sure he grows young again!
[Page 107] He, like the Snake, has cast his antient Skin,
Has ta'ne a new, and Youth together with it.
Pray, Father, what's your Age?
Damae.

Not quite an Hundred.

Thyr.

Almost.

Damae.
Yes,
The yonder Grove, and I were born together.
That aged Oak, I well may call my Brother;
In the same Day my Father set us both.
Cory.

And you're grown up together too.

Damae.
Some Snowy Hairs have seiz'd my aged Head,
And Moss, the Hair of Wood, has seiz'd its stock:
I know not but I may survive it.
Thyr.
Were I as you, I'd cut it down, and make
A lusty fire of its spacious Boughs,
To warm my chilly Limbs in Winter.
E're I did die, I would not leave a branch
In any Wood should bear a longer date
Than I.
Damae.
No; let Posterity enjoy the fruit
Of former Ages Labour; by it we're made
Immortal.
[Page 108] Through countless Ages shall it still be said,
This Damon set, and this Damaetas planted.
Live still ye Woods! and spread your flourishing Arms!
Grow 'till you make a solitude beneath
Your Boughs, 'till ye exclude the Light,
And you become an Umbrage for the Deer,
The timerous Hare, the Fox, and Evening Wolf.
Grow, till ye be a shelter for the Swains,
A shade in Heat, and Covert from the Storm.
Exeunt.
Finis Actus Tertii.

The FOURTH ACT.

Ephelia and Amoretta.
Eph.
HE's the plague of my Life!
Am.
How you blaspheme the Sacred Deity?
Ungrateful wretch! whom Love might well dis­own.
Is that a plague, God Cupid has ordain'd,
The great perfection of our humane Race?
Of Harmony and Love our Souls are made;
And who hath neither, was by Fate design'd
To be the laughing-stock of humane kind.
A thing so near a Beast, but just the shape
Does make the difference.
Eph.
Love is indeed a Passion great and good,
And what the Gods so lovingly have given,
Should not so carelessly be thrown away:
We hoard our Jewels up in Cabinets.
Am.
A better Cabinet can ne're be found
Than the kind Breast of him adores your Name.
Eph.
That homely rotten Chest would quite disgrace,
[Page 110] So Sacred Reliques as Immortal Love.
The Smoaky Chimny of his Breast could ne're
Adorn so pure a flame as mine.
Am.
But then your Love might be an Ornament
To his mean Breast.
Eph.
'Twould look just like a Canvase Coat,
That's lace'd with Gold, and line'd with Velvet.
Am.
So much the better.
The White shows more delightful, when 'tis near
The Black. The transparent Taper never looks
Half so bright as in the Dark.
Eph.
Well; when I Wed a Swain may Night be Day,
And all the course of Nature backward run.
May the fix'd Orbe a local Motion have,
And travel round the World with the Sun:
The Spheres descend and Sing my Marriage Song.
Am.
Bravely resolved! but Blasphemously spoken!
Eph.
No! I love my self too well.
Were these Hands ever made to hold a Crook?
I phancy it a pleasant sight to see
Me driving home a drove of Milking Cows.
My Husband, Clown, just following at my heels;
[Page 111] Whistling a lamentable Tune, all clad
In Leather, ruffling and noisy, like the Wind.
Am.
A very fine description of a Swain!
Eph.
Then to the low thatch'd Cottage we are come;
And all the Houshold there is one great Dog,
And three small bawling Children.
Am.
Very well joyn'd!
Eph.
Then down I sit me by the Dun-Cows side,
And with my tender Hands I Milk her clean.
Can I leave all my glorious Pomp, my self de­mean?
I, who have known the pleasures of the Court,
Change all my former glory; meanly take
A homely Cottage, for a gawdy Pallace?
Say, Nymph, I do but what is rational?
Am.
So you say:
But what is all your boasted City Joy;
The fulsome pleasure does your Senses cloy?
Are not these homely Cotes, this Rural shade,
A better Covert than a Masquerade?
Free from all tricks of Court we quiet rest;
And talk of Summer joys close in our Winter Nest.
Eph.
And may you there still rest, unenvy'd be,
At least no great ambition work in me!
[Page 112] To Savage Woods, and Desart Caves I'll go,
When madness in my Breast does overflow:
Too well the City pomp and worth I know.
Secure, like Bees, we slumber in our Hive;
On Summer Honey we in Winter live:
Nor need we buzz about to every Bower,
And Plunder here, and there a Flower;
Rob all the Gardens, and each fruitful Soil;
Get little sweets with industry and toil.
Home to our very doors does Plenty come,
And begs admittance, prays to find a home.
We spend the day in ravishing delights;
Good Books, and better Friends, dissolve the Nights.
Each Man an Angel seems, each Prince a God;
Each Woman fair, each Maid divinely good:
Free from the Stormy Winters hurtful noise,
We bathe in Pleasure, and we swim in Joys.
Am.
And what are gawdy Joys, that do create
In Men no more but Envy, Pride and Hate?
What the adored Monster, that is born
To publick Praise, the wise call, publick Scorn?
By Nature, not by Art we're understood:
Our Youths are born both beautiful and good.
[Page 113] Sprung like a Pine-Tree up, a Youth does rise;
In Spring grows wanton, and in Winter wise:
In middle Age is strong, at length appears,
An old. Plebeian of an Hundred Years.
Gray Hairs about his Head like Laurels grow,
And down his Shoulders in grave branches flow:
Sure Emblems all of Wit; and then, to crown
His other joys, in Death he lays him down
Easy and soft, without or Ach or Pains,
Departs to Shepherds on the Elysian Plains.
Eph.
So in the Town a Youth begins his days,
Is born in Triumph and begot with Praise;
Grown up in Honor, and his Age to crown,
He wears his grisly Hairs with much Renown;
Does speak in Halls, at Council-Boards debate,
And wisely manages Affairs of State.
If the shrill noise of Mars resounds from far,
Our Youth takes up the Iron Robes of War
March out Death-threatning Warriors, and then come
Loaden with Praise and Earthly Honors home.
Of Glory's Meed, and Hero's Name he'll miss,
Who seeks for Honor where no Action is.
Am.
[Page 114]
And yet these wondrous great, these wan­dring Elves,
Know much of others, yet know not themselves:
To Fame's chief Pinacle they proudly rise,
Grow often Great but seldom they grow Wise.
Nature can teach what Arts could never do.
Adieu! here's Thyrsis!
Exit.
Eph.
She'as left me! nay betray'd me too!
Here's the tormentor of my Life already come:
False Woman!

Thyrsis.

Ho, Thyrsis!
Thyr.
Nymph!
Eph.
Shepherd?
Thyr.
Would I were your Shepherd!
I know, I am the Man that Loves you dearly;
And were your Love but half so great as mine,
I had not spent so many tedious Nights, and lain
Speechless, nay almost breathless on the ground.
I, since the time I saw you, have not slept;
Sometimes indeed I Dream'd, still Dream'd of you.
Before my Eyes methought I saw you stand:
Fair as you are, methought you then look'd kind;
[Page 115] And smiling said, My Thyrsis, Come let's go
To yonder Bower, for Thyrsis I am thine:
My nimble sleepy feet began to move;
At which I wak'd, and found 'twas but a Dream.
Had you but seen, how then I tore my Hair!
Curst the deluding Vision that was gone!
Eph.
Why, Shepherd? Love is nothing but a Dream:
Nothing of solid worth does crown its praise;
'Tis but the raging Calenture of Minds.
Some Mad-man first invented it, and made
It fashionable; at Court it got a Name
For a fit thing to please sick Ladies phancies:
Trick'd up in Complement, set off with Cringes
And modish postures, adorn'd with Tears and Sighs,
The wind of falsest Hearts to raise compassion.
It grew so much in custom, each was thought
An Ass, that was no Madman, not in Love.
The Court thus cloy'd with all its foolery,
Poor bankrupt Love, sought out another seat,
And plac'd it self in the fresh Country Air:
The gentle breezes of one blooming Spring
Made the old tatter'd Bawd look young again.
[Page 116] Swallows themselves were not more welcome made
Than this old Hag, a Minion she was thought,
Each Swain admir'd the Mines of her Face;
And Love was all the Talk and all the Song.
The Pipe could play nought but of Love; the Voice
Could sound nothing but Love; all day the Plains,
The unfrequented Woods with Love was fill'd,
The lovely Cloris, charming Phillis fill'd
The Mouth of every Swain; nay somtimes 'twould
Make 'em mistake, and call their Flock and Herds
By name of Mistress:
Nay by the Fire side in Winter-Nights,
Instead of Tales of Sprights and Fairies,
And dreadful great Hob-goblins, Love did make
All the Discourse; each Swain told of his Dear;
He prais'd her Beauty, or how well she Danc'd;
Her kindness, or the Dowry her Father left.
I tell thee, Shepherd, Love is but a Name.
Go tell thy Sheep, and Hurdle up thy Fold;
And leave these fooleries to Babes and Women.
Thyr.
Yes, I could leave them there, were but sure
They'd be accepted. Love is the thing I'd give
[Page 117] To you a Woman, but false as you are fair,
Much better had I speak to Rocks and Stones;
Mountains have more relenting Hearts than Wo­men;
Tygers are born to more Humanity;
And Wolves more kindness shew unto their Kind.
Eph.
Sure the Man's mad! How he raves?
Thyr.
If Love be Madness, then I am grown mad!
And, sure, 'tis Madness!
Eph.
I am no Company
For mad Men: Adieu! I'll never see you more!
Exit.
Thyr.
She's gone!

Damaetas.

Damaet.
From whence that Groan, good Thyrsis?
Thyr.
The Nymph just left me! She said, She'd never see
Me more.
Damaet.
And do'st thou groan for that?
I'll tell thee, Man, My noble Breast has always Joy;
And yet I never care to see a Woman.
Thyr.
Your aged Breast, which Winter's Frost has hardn'd,
[Page 118] How can it melt? But I, whom Youth and Heat
Inspire; I, who could bid Defiance once
To Love, am all in Flame!
Damaet.
And may'st thou burn!
Who, if thou would'st apply but just one Drop
Of Reason, 'twould quench th' impetuous Flame.
Thyr.
I have try'd it.
Damaet.
Is 't not a glorious Sight to a Youth
Handsom and strong, a Master-piece of Nature,
One that might win the Garland in the Dance,
Or take the Standard in the Martial Field;
To see this Man, with folded Arms, and languid Eyes,
Look like a Changeling, talk of nought but Love,
And Nymphs, and Beauty, and such idle Stuff!
Thyr.
And yet the Best have done so?
Damaet.
The best of Fools, I must confess!
Thyr.
When Friends augment, and She disdains to own
My Grief; 'tis time, I think, to die alone.
When She will never to my Love submit;
When Love deserts me, must I flie from it?
'Tis vain th' approaching Destiny to shun;
I'll meet my Ruin, to its Embraces run.
Exit.
Damaet.
[Page 119]
There went a Lover!
Now, to good Drink, and Friends, I'll get me gone;
Sport by the Day, and revel by the Moon:
Love never shall deny my aged Breast
The Sweets of Mirth, and solid Hours of Rest.
Exeunt.
Finis Actus Quarti.

The Vnfortunate Shepherd: The FIFTH ACT.

Damaetas and Corydon.
Damaet.
NOW for a Scene of Bliss, an Age of Joy,
Contracted in the narrow Hours of a Day:
Let us now use our Mirth, as dying Men
Do their last Gasp; catch, with an eager Joy,
Our parting Pleasure. Mirth we may have again;
But yet, we are not certain. Fate may retrieve
Its old Decree: Mirth is not always Man's;
We must submit to Fate. A doleful Hour
Must interpose. The Day is now our own;
Then let us use it: Hugg the downy Hours,
C [...]rt 'em to stay; and, if they will be flying,
Then we'll Contemplate on the Joys we've had.
Cory.
The yonder Dome is a substantial Place
For Pleasure; there lives an aged Woman,
Knows much of Joy; she knows true solid Plea­sure:
Let that be our Retreat. Never was Day
Spent in more Mirth: Never were Shepherds
[Page 121] So gamesom, as we'll be! This joyful Day
To future Ages shall be told.
Amoretta, Proba, and Nymphs, Weeping.
Ha! They weep! What angry Planet reigns?
Say, beauteous Maids, From whence proceed your Tears?
Am.
Would Grief would give me leave to speak!
Cory.
Now, I conjure you, by our Mighty Pan,
Tell us this dismal News?
Am.
Thyrsis is slain! Slain by himself!
Cory.
Oh, my Thyrsis!
Damaet.
Did not we talk of Joy? How soon 'tis gone?
Where's now our Scene of Bliss, our promis'd Joy?
We may decree what e're we please, below;
If Heav'n think otherwise, it shan't be so.
Ah, wretched Mortals! in uncertain State,
Govern'd by the Almighty Hand of Fate!
How soon our Hopes are turned to Despair,
And all our Joys dwindled to Wind and Air?
[Page 122] But since we cannot with our Death contend,
Let us endeavour then to mourn our Friend.
Cory.
That Work may justly, Swain, to you belong:
This is a Subject for a Skilful Tongue.
Whil'st you his Requiem sing, let others come,
With mournful Cypress to adorn his Tomb.
Damaet.
Thyrsis was once the Joy of all tho Plain;
The Lovely Thyrsis, the Renowned Swain!
True to his Gods, and Faithful in his Vows;
Constant to all the Terms that Faith allows.
Cory.
And yet ill-natur'd Death has took him hence!
What was it did thy mighty Rage insence?
Damaet.
No more his wand'ring Sheep! he ne­ver will
Behold 'em grazing on the steepy Hill!
Nor that Green Den shall never more receive
The joyful Sound his gladsom Pipe did give.
Cory.
Surely, his Tuneful Pipe could Wit in­spire;
It far out-did the Strings of Orpheus Lyre.
Ah! Would to God, he had bequeath'd to me
His Pipe, tho' tuneless, for a Legacy!
Damaet.
[Page 123]
Were't Dumb and Tuneless, yet it would rejoyce;
The Thoughts of him, would sure inspire a Voice.
Cory.
Not Beauteous Venus e're lamented more
Her lov'd Adonis, slain by Savage Boar;
Than we will mourn our Thyrsis o're the Hills,
While our sad Note the empty Valley fills.
Damaet.
Speak to the Raging Sea, and bid it tell
To all the Rivers, how lov'd Thyrsis fell;
Tell it to Tyber, and to Thame's fair Stream;
And let Cayister's Swans lament with them!
Cory.
Nay, let the Winds too, with 'em bear a part;
They, like his Lover too, can sigh without an Heart.
Damaet.
But now, let us an happier Morning chuse:
Go, Publish to the World the direful News.
Exeunt.
Ephelia.
Eph.
Why so sad, Nymph?
Am.
[Page 124]
Don't ye know, Thyrsis is slain?
Eph.
Yes.
Am.
And don't you know, that he dy'd for you?
Eph.
I know, they say so: But if so he did,
He dy'd a Fool: 'Tis more than I will do for him.
But, How dy'd he, Nymph?
Am.
Down to a Melancholy Grove he went;
Thrice on the Ground he laid him down, and wept:
Then sigh'd, then tore his Hair!
Eph.
Very pitiful!
Am.
Open'd his Breast, invok'd Ephelia's Name;
Took out his Poniard, strook it to his Heart:
The last Word e're he spake, was, Ephelia!
Eph.
Indeed, I'm much beholding for his kind­ness,
To speak of Me, when his Life was so con­cern'd.
But, Is he Dead, tho'?
Am.
Wou'd She that Kill'd him, were so Dead!
Eph.
[Page 125]
Ah, Love! Thou Child of Folly, Babe of Madness!
Parent to all Disorder! Brother of Distraction!
If ever I do own thy Deity,
May I become as False, as Mad, as Thee!
Exeunt Omnes.
Finis Actus Quinti.

A DISCOURSE OF LIFE.

IT is not my intent to make a Philoso­phical Discourse of Life; neither shall I endeavour to invent a stratagem to prolong it: to a Wise-Man it is not so desirable, and none but a Mad-Man would bestow Cost and Pain in adorning an Inn, in which he must tarry but for a Night. Whether those things Physitians call Ra­dical Moisture, and Natural Heat are any thing, or nothing, I know not; and whe­ther they are incapable of solid Reparati­on, I shall not stand to examine. But of this I am sure, That the Lamp of my Life shall burn as long as it has any matter to [Page 128] work upon; and if a puff of denouncing Fate shall blow it out before its Oyl be quite spent, I have no reason to be an­gry; but rather to bless the kind blast, that wafts me to the serenity of Darkness. I shall not fill my Discourse with the un­fathomable words of Deseccation, Arefacti­on, Alimentation, Bodies tangible, and Pneu­matical, the Glory of the Physitians; words as ridiculous as their Practice is poor; But my intent is only to discourse of the Hap­piness of Life. Though Mortality be writ on the Fore-head of all our Enjoyments, and we know that this Garland of Mirth one Sun does produce, another shall wi­ther; yet how apt are we to bless our selves under the Umbrage of our Verdant Gourd, unmindful of the envious Worm that sculcks at the bottom, and will soon eat down the pleasure of it. Our Life is so uncertain, and the happiness of it so unconstant, that we can only tell that we live; and that there is such a thing as Happiness. Some Pleasure there is, but it is mixed with Misery; we have some Honey but 'tis alloy'd with Gall; some [Page 129] lucid Intervals, some gentle gales of Mirth and Ease; but soon a black Cloud of Fate does intervene. We are all the Balls of Fortune; some she unfortunately throws into the Hazzard, and others she bandies about at her pleasure: But to a Man of Resolution, all things are alike: He's nei­ther puff'd up with Plenty, nor discon­tented with Want; He values not the praise of Fools, nor the frowns of Knaves; He can despise what the Great call Good; The Vicisicutedes, and changes of Fortune are no more to him than the Change of the Moon: Certainly there is no better Anti­dote against an exorbitant desire of the World, than a generous Contempt of its Pleasures. What wise Man would court the ruined Beauties of an old weather-heaten World? What Symetry or Pro­portion is there in its Features? What Votary did it ever make Eternally Rich? What Admirers did it ever make happy? I had rather be the Servant of Aristotle or Pythagoras, than the Heir of Midas. Apu­leius his Golden Ass, is the exact Emblem of a great Man. Happiness is no more [Page 130] consistent with Superfluity, than it is with Penury. Content is a greater stranger to the Palace, than 'tis to the Cottage. Pyra­mids and Spires of Steeples are rent by the Thunder-bolt, when the low Houses remain untouch'd. The lofty Hills are cloathed with Barrenness, while the hum­ble Valleys rejoyce in their Plenty. If there be any thing Great below, 'tis a No­bleness of Mind: If there be any Gran­deur, 'tis Virtue: If there be any Happi­ness, 'tis Wisdom. Virtue is a Sacred A­mulet, who ever wears it, is secured from the stings of Serpentine Greatness. Figure to your self a Virtuous Man, though Poor; how well he becomes the meanest condi­tion? he looks like a transparent Taper in a gloomy Night; like a Jewel amongst a heap of Rubbish and Stones: Though he chuses his Seat upon the Earth, his Mind is employ'd above the Clouds; like the Poetick Birds, who sing on the tops of Trees, though their Nest be in the Hedge. It shews more of a generous and Heroick temper, to contemn the grandeur of the World, than to desire it. The [Page 131] greatest Spirits that ever blest the World with their Memory, have done it. A better sight it was to see Scipio retired into a Wood, after all his Conquests, than to behold him at the head of his Army. Epaminondas, the best Man that ever Greece bred, who delivered his Coun­try of Thebes from the Lacedemonian Sla­very, whose Conquests could have lifted him to the highest pitch of Pride and Profit; yet was he such a Contemner of Riches, that when he died, he left not enough behind him [...]o defray his Funeral Charges. Natural Reason can easily dis­cover how much they are mistaken in Happiness, who place it in Wealth, and outward Grandeur. What the chiefest Felicity is, cannot easily be determin'd; but of this we are sure, That it is hard to be obtain'd. We may truly say of Happiness, That Philosophers seek it, Di­vines find it, and only Religious Men enjoy it. The chiefest Felicity, by the excellent Boethius, is defined to be Statu [...] omnium bonorum aggregatione perfectu [...]; a State perfect in the confluence of all good [Page 132] things: A state certainly not attained by any in this Life. All that Men call Good may be reduced to these Three heads, Either the Goods of Fortune; the Goods of the Mind; or the Goods of the Body. But where shall we find one Man that enjoys 'em all? We see we purchase one by the loss of the other. If I am Rich, and great in Fortune, yet I may want a greatness of Mind: If I am Beautiful, Rich, and Learned, yet I may be too Bookish, and want a complaisant Hu­mor to render me agreeable. Had Me­thusalem lived to this Age, 'tis like he might have acquired these accomplish­ments; but our Age is too short to ad­mit of 'em.

Da spatium vitae! multos da Jupiter an­nos!
Give many Years, good God! and lasting Life!

is the Prayer both of Old and Young. Though Life be indeed so Calamitous and troublesome, that were we capable [Page 133] of knowing what it is before we enjoy it, none would venture on so tedious a Fatigue: Yet do we naturally desire our Lives to be lengthn'd out, though our Misery encrease with it. As a Man is a Creature, he is Mortal; as he is Rational, he is Miserable: For his Reason is but the Usher to introduce his Misery, and the Perspective through which he beholds his trouble. Whoever expects to have an entire Happiness here, may expect to see the Orbes move irregularly; Rivers flow back to their Fountains, and Rivulets command the Ocean. The most we can enjoy, is but a Scene of Bliss; Fate will change the Scene, let down the Curtain, and put an Exit to our phancied Joys. Why then should we court a Shadow we cannot hold? and be desirous of a Good that depends only upon the imagination? For certainly there is no other Happiness here, but what is phancied; we sooth our selves with hopes of future Joys, and Paint what the Wise call Vanity and Vexation of Spirit, like the Statue of Pleasure. Well then, if Life does afford [Page 134] no Happiness that is real, let us expect it at Death; certainly there 'tis to be found, according to that of Ovid,

—Sed ultima semper
Expectanda dies homini est, dici (que) beatus,
Ante obitum nemo, suprema (que) Funera debet.
Which Mr. Sands very excellently Tran­slates.
But Man must censur'd be by his last hour:
Whom truly we can never happy call
Afore his Death, and closing Funeral.

Indeed there is no better way to un­derstand the Vanity of Life, than the Contemplation of its contrary, Death: Death, that frees us from the Miseries of Life; that removes us from the distracti­on of Noise and Tumult; that delivers us from the Fetters of Diseases, and Lashes of Pain. Sleep, which is the image of Death, how grateful, how refreshing is it to a Natural Body? When I am a­sleep, I am in the Land of Forgetfulness; [Page 135] happily buried in a pleasing silence; my Soul for that time is, as it were, removed from its troublesome companion, the Bo­dy: Oblivion has seiz'd on all my Passi­ons; all my Pains and Aches are still and quiet: What a Tranquility then must at­tend Death, which is Sleep in the high­est degree, Sleep in its perfection? When I am Dead, I need no pleasing murmurs of Winds in the Trees, nor sleepy groanings of purling Brooks, to lull my Senses asleep: I need no soft melancholy Musick, to charm the Evil-Spirit from my Eye-lids, they close na­turally: The Province of Death affords no Noise, Hurry, or Contention; but a lucid Ray of Serenity informs each Breast: Morpheus is the only God they adore; and Tranquility the only Pleasure they admire. Death is the beginning of Hap­piness, and the consummation of it. Happiness has not a motion, as other things, by degrees; it has not a Ma­turing and Mellowing time, like Fruits; but is born in Perfection. The destructi­on of Life is the Generation of Hap­piness. [Page 136] And if Happiness be not attain­able before Death, how diligent ought we to be, to make our Lives as Happy as we can? To counterfeit a Happiness, and please our selves with it on the Ocean of Life, 'till we arrive at the Harbour of Death.

To live well, is to be Wise betimes; and Wisdom is attained by so few, that we have reason to doubt, whether Ani­mal Rationale be a good definition of Man in general. Methinks it is a bold saying of the Sieur de Mountaigne, That were he to live over his Life again, he would live as he had done: Were the Sieur my Equal, I should accuse him of Madness and Folly. For my part, I am but in the Twenty third Year of my Age; and have always devoted my Time to the study of Learning and Wisdom; yet were I to Correct the Errata's of my short Life, I would quite alter the Press: Not an Action have I done, but is lyable to the censure of right Reason; and not a Line have I Written; but has need of Correction. Certainly the Life of the best amongst us, is but [Page 137] one great Blot. We may see Folly at­tending the wisest of Philosophers; when they would perswade us to follow their dictates, at the same time they grow Cy­nical and morose; and the Tub of a Di­ogenes is but the derision of an Alexander. Should I speak of those Worthies, that have won the immortal Garland of Honor in the Field, we should find Folly and Rashness always mixed with their Enter­prizes: Should I speak of Alexander? he Slew Parmenio: Should I mention Marcus Antonius? he lost the World for a Cleopa­tra; a Woman, a thing in Petticoats: What an odious sight must it be, to see this great Man, this Anthony, who not long since appear'd in Iron, and Painted it with Blood, now prostrate at the Feet of a silly Woman? To see Honor and Glory subdu'd by Beauty? Hence we may conclude, That Effeminacy is mixed with the greatest Valour, and Folly with the greatest Wisdom. All our Actions are mark'd with the Character of Weak­ness: Our Humanity supposeth us frail and inconstant. The Decaying Nature [Page 138] of what we Enjoy, tells us every day, there is no solid Happiness in Life▪ Why then should we be so stupid to court this lucid Vapor to remain in our inglorious Houses of Clay? Why should we be so Tyrannous and Cowardly, to desire our Souls to remain in Prison, and keep them unblest from their Enlarge­ment? But it is natural to Man to desire Life; and the Wisest and Stoutest Men do it: Therefore Curtius gives a good description of a Valiant Man; not to hate Life, but to contemn Death: i. e. To have no servile fear of a dissolution, or tremble at grizly Hairs, the Emblems of Death. How vainly do the Old envy the Pleasures, or rather Follies of the Young? An amazing spectacle it is, to see an old grizly Lady applying the black Patches to her Face; tampering of her Fucus, and courting her new-vamp'd Visage in her Glass? though the stench of Death has seiz'd her already, and su­persedes the rankness of her Powders. There is nothing so much incenses a Wo­man, as to tell her, She is Old: That [Page 139] unlucky word, Old, brings all the Blood in her Body to her Face; and for a time sup­plies the place of artificial Beauty. Nei­ther are the Men free from this Folly; 'tis a contagious Plague, a Gangrene that spreads over the whole Body of Man­kind: To see an Old-Man with the mark of Death in his Forehead, buttressed up with a Crutch (like the Pinion-end of an Old-House) spitting and spawling, as if he did intend to drown himself with an inundation of Phlegm: To see him, like a superannuated Ape, acting all his Juvenile Follies over; chewing his Cud upon some delicious Cavalcade, perform'd by him in Whetstones-Park, or White-Friers: To see him pruning of his Head, and pick­ing the Hairs from his Cloaths; setting up for a Spark, with a Cravat of Point de Venice, which the longitude of his Beard will not suffer to be seen: To hear him repeating some of his Comple­ments out of the Academy: To hear him talk of his Assignation-Notes, and telling the young Wantons, how many Mistresses he formerly had; how he knew the [Page 140] meaning of their Hearts, by the glancing of their Eyes, and the colour of their Garters by the complexion of their Shoe­strings; and then holds up his old reve­rent Nodle, concluding with ‘Oh mihi praeter [...]itos referet si Jupiter annos!’ I phancy there is nothing more absurd and ridiculous than this. That ever the wrinkles of Old-Age, should be the In­dexes of lost Reason! And gray Hairs should be attended with so much Folly!

Were Envy a Vertue, I should exercise it in nothing more than in coveting a Country-Man's life, who has enough of the World to keep him from being behold­ing, and burthensome to Friends; enough to make him an ordinary Gentleman, and not enough to advance him to the place of a Justice of the Peace; enough to secure him from Contempt, and not enough to make him Honourable, or Miserable, which you please: For Honour is a per­plexing Plague, the damn'd Fatigue of Life, the Devil that bewitches Mortals, [Page 141] the Ignis fatuus, that leads Men into Ruine. Were I to lay a Curse upon a Man, a Curse, that should have more than all Pharoah's Plagues in it, I would wish him Honourable; I would damn him to a gilt Coach and Six, two cast off Lackqueys al­ways to attend him; always to be ma­king his Honors; Complementing and Caressing of Ladies; often to be at Balls, and never to appear but in uncomfortable Grandeur. Indeed, Princes and Great Per­sonages cannot properly be said to live; they are but the Pageants of the People, the Sign-Posts of Honor; what they count their Glory (the praise of the multi­tude) is but Air and Wind. It was a noble and resolute act of Horace, to chuse the melancholy Dome in the Tiburtine Wood, before the place of Secretary to Augustus. He was too much a Poet, to be pleased with any kind of Lustre, beside the Or­naments of the Mind; and certainly ne­ver Man appear'd in more splendor upon that account than he. He was too well acquainted with the folly of Noise and Tumult: He could not be ignorant of the [Page 142] pleasure of a Country Retirement, who had all the Muses for his instructors.

Solitude is a thing so agreeable with an Ingenuous and Manly Temper, that it seems to be the very Parent of Wit. What greater Pleasure can there be than to live retir'd? Company is the Remora of all glorious designs; the spring of Vice; the source of Discord and Disorder. Were it not for Company, Emulation had ne­ver had a being; Pride had been con­ceal'd in its original Chaos; Thefts, Rapes and Murders had never sill'd the World with their nauseous fame. To live Retired, is to imitate our pristine state of Innocence, e're Rapine and Cru­elty had invaded our World. But, Alas! herein is our Misery, we never can attain to the Happy State of our Fore-Father: He lived in a Garden, so may we; but it cannot be an Eden: He was retir'd in a glorious obscurity, we may be so too; but here is the fatal consequence, our Pas­sions, our Lusts, our Inordinate Desires still accompany us: But yet for all this, Solitude is a thing the nearest Happiness [Page 143] of any; for though we have our Passions always with us, the infamous Retinue, the black Guard of Miserable Bodies; yet in Solitude they are better tamed, there are fewer objects to exercise them on. When I am alone, I can Envy, Hate, Quarrel with none: Indeed Solitude is an Antidote against all the raging Plagues of the Tumultuous World. What En­comiums are good enough for Noble Solitude?

I.
Ah Solitude! what shall I do
Thy worth to show!
Thou source of Poetry, and gay Desire;
Love's brightest Spark, and Wit's immortal Fire:
School of Sense, and Learned Arts;
With Whom Philosophy is bred:
The glory of Ambitious Hearts;
And honour of each Laurel Head:
Thou giv'st new Life to the Immortal Dead.
II.
First State, and Best of Men!
Free from all Cares!
Ancorité Adam happy still had been,
Free from Lust, and free from Fears
Had not Company and Vice come rowling in;
And with it all that Mortals vex:
Envy pale, and Discontent
Hand in hand together went;
Envy could not be withstood,
It dy'd the Earth with Brother's Blood.
Noisy Tumults then perplext
The quiet Sylvane Scene, and silent Shade;
Where, drunk with Rest, the Creature was su­pinely laid.
III.
The greatest Scipio Thee admir'd,
After his Conquests to a Grove retir'd.
'Tis Solitude that gives us Rest;
'Tis Solitude inspires each noble Breast.
[Page 145] In vain's the giddy Noise of worthless Schools,
Or Taverns cramm'd with loads of Knaves and Fools:
Let them boast on of Wit in Company,
While all the Wise grow Great in good Obscu­rity.
I know, in this I differ much from the Men of Business; who place their Hap­piness in Talk, admire London, and damn the Country; think that the harmonious Twatling of a Company of Gossipping Hero's, is more delightful than the Me­lancholy Singing of Birds in a Noble So­litude. These are the genuine Sons of Mother-Midnight; and would better be­come the Society of a Christ'ning, than the Solid Retinue of Wisdom. Others there are, that place their Happiness in outward Pomp and Grandeur; that think nothing Great, but what is Gaudy: And some there are, that as much admire an Infinite heap of Gold and Silver; and think, Happiness only consists in Excess and Superfluity; when indeed, the sub­stantial Goodness of our Estates, as well [Page 146] as our Passions, consists in a Mediocrity. I think, I could say Amen to this Prayer of Mr. Cowley's:
Magne Deus, quod ad has Vitae brevis attinet horas,
Da mihi, Da panem Libertatemque nec ultra
Sollicitas effundo preces; si quid datur ultra
Accipiam gratus, sin non contentu [...] a­bibo.
And were I to lay down a Rule for a Wise Man to walk by, (I wish, I were capable of following it my self) it should be to Retire from the World, to Immure himself within the Earthen Walls of a Homely Cottage; where not one Cran­ny should be open, for Lust or Passion to enter: For we are the best Friends, or worst Enemies to our selves. Another's Affronts cannot injure us, unless we re­sent them: And he that keeps his Breast shut against all Temptations, keeps his Soul more secure, than a Body that is sur­rounded [Page 147] with the Walls of a Castle. To Conclude:
Could we our Passions guide by Reason's Law,
And keep th' Affections in severest Awe:
Could we a Limit set to boundless Love,
And make our Wrath in peaceful Order move:
Could we unruly Hate in Fetters bind,
And tame the wild Desires of the Mind;
Not Lovers would enjoy more Blissful Ease,
Or Halcions brooding on the silent Seas:
More Damage would the sturdy Oaks sustain
From Fighting Winds, and the Tempestuous Rain,
Than We; though Passion should its Storms raise,
Wild as the Wind, and raging as the Seas.
Grant me, good God! a Melancholy Seat,
Free from the Noise and Tumults of the Great:
Like some Blest Man, who his Retinue sees
A tall and sprightly Grove of servile Trees,
Of complemental Trees, that fright the Hindes,
Making low Congees to the roaring Winds:
[Page 148] A Place where Lust and Passion die away,
And some good Friends make sort [...] the tedious Day.
Fraught full of Mirth, the Hours more Joy would bring,
Than the black Days attend a Regent King.
FINIS.

THE CONTENTS.

PART I.

  • A Satyr against Vice. Page 1
  • A Satyr against Whoring. 10
  • On the Memory of Sir John Oldham. 13
  • On the Memory of the Right Honourable the Earl of Rochester. 17
  • An Ode. 20
  • The Tory Catch. 22
  • Hypermnestra to Linus. 24
  • Corinna to Philocles. 28
  • Cleopatra to Anthony. 37
  • Translations out of Horace. 43
  • Ode. 54
  • [Page] Ode. Page 55
  • Ode. 58
  • Ode. 61
  • Ode. 62
  • A Letter to a Friend. 64
  • On the Death of Mrs. E.P. who died on the Small Pox. 69

PART II.

  • The Vnfortunate Shepherd, a Pastoral. 77
  • A Discourse of Life. 127

Books Printed for Jonathan Green­wood, at the Black Raven in the Poultry, [...]ear the Old Jury.

INstructions about Heart-Work; what is to be done on God's Part, and Ours, for the Cure and Keeping of the Heart, that we may live in the Exercise and Growth of Grace here, and have a comfortable Assurance of Glory to Eterni­ty: By that Eminent Gospel-Minister, Mr. Ri­chard Allein, Author of Vindiciae Pietatis: With a Preface, by Dr. Annesley.

Compassionate Counsel to all Young Men; especially, 1. London-Apprentices. 2. Students of Divinity, Physick and Law. 3. The Sons of Magistrates, and Rich Men. By Richard Bax­ter. Price bound, 1s. 6d.

A Sermon Preached at the Funeral of the Right Honourable Anne Baroness Holles, of Ifield in Sus­sex; with a short Account of her Holy Life, and Patience under all Afflictions, from Heb. 13.14. By James Waters, Domestick Chaplain to the Right Honourable Francis Lord Holles, Baron Holles of Ifield, her late Husband.

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