The Works of John Sheffield :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thou lovely Slave to a rude Husband's Will,
By Nature us'd so well, by him so ill!
For all that Grief we see your Mind endure,
Your Glass presents you with a pleasing Cure.
Those Maids you envy for their happier State,
To have your Form, would gladly have your Fate;
And of like Slavery each Wife complains,
Without such Beauty's Help to bear her Chains.
Husbands like Him we ev'ry-where may see;
But where can we behold a Wife like Thee?

While to a Tyrant you by Fate are ty'd,
By Love you tyrannize o'er all beside:

Those Eyes, tho' weeping, can no Pity move;
Worthy our Grief! More worthy of our Love!
You, while so fair (do Fortune what she please)
Can be no more in Pain, than we at Ease:
Unless, unsatisfied with all our Vows,
Your vain Ambition so unbounded grows,
That you repine a Husband should escape
Th'united Force of such a Face and Shape.
If so, alas! for all those charming Pow'rs,
Your Case is just as desperate as ours.
Expect that Birds should only sing to you,
And, as you walk, that ev'ry Tree should bow;
Expect those Statues, as you pass, should burn;
And that with Wonder Men should Statues turn;
Such Beauty is enough to give Things Life,
But not to make a Husband love his Wife:
A Husband, worse than Statues, or than Trees;
Colder than those, less sensible than these.
Then from so dull a Care your Thoughts remove,
And waste not Sighs you only owe to Love.

'Tis Pity, Sighs from such a Breast should part,
Unless to ease some doubtful Lover's Heart;
Who dies because he must too justly prize
What yet the dull Possessor does despise.
Thus precious Jewels among Indians grow,
Who nor their Use, nor wondrous Value know;
But we for those bright Treasures tempt the Main,
And hazard Life for what the Fools disdain.

A LETTER from SEA.

Fairest, if Time and Absence can incline
Your Heart to wand'ring Thoughts no more than mine;
Then shall my Hand, as changeless as my Mind,
From your glad Eyes a kindly Welcome find;
Then, while this Note my Constancy assures,
You'll be almost as pleas'd, as I with yours.
And trust me, when I feel that kind Relief,
Absence itself awhile suspends its Grief:
So may it do with you, but straight return;
For it were cruel not sometimes to mourn
His Fate, who this long time he keeps away,
Mourns all the Night, and sighs out all the Day;

Grieving yet more, when he reflects that you
Must not be happy, or must not be true.
But since to me it seems a blacker Fate
To be inconstant, than unfortunate;
Remember all those Vows between us past,
When I from all I value parted last;
May you alike with kind Impatience burn,
And something miss, till I with Joy return;
And soon may pitying Heav'n that Blessing give,
As in the Hopes of that alone I live.

Love's Slavery.

Grave Fops my Envy now beget,
Who did my Pity move;
They, by the Right of wanting Wit,
Are free from Cares of Love.

Turks honour Fools, because they are
By that Defect secure
From Slavery and Toils of War,
Which all the rest endure.

So I, who suffer cold Neglect
And Wounds from Celia's Eyes,
Begin extremely to respect
These Fools that seem so wise.

'Tis true, they fondly set their Hearts
On things of no Delight;
To pass all Day for Men of Parts,
They pass alone the Night:

But Celia never breaks their Rest;
Such Servants she disdains;
And so the Fops are dully blest,
While I endure her Chains.

The DREAM.

Ready to throw me at the Feet
Of that fair Nymph whom I adore,
Impatient those Delights to meet,
Which I enjoy'd the Night before;

By her wonted scornful Brow,
Soon the fond Mistake I find;
Ixion mourn'd his Error so,
When Juno's Form the Cloud resign'd.

Sleep, to make its Charms more priz'd
Than waking Joys, which most prevail,
Had cunningly itself disguis'd
In a Shape that could not fail.

There my Celia's snowy Arms,
Breasts, and other Parts more dear,
Exposing new and unknown Charms,
To my transported Soul appear.

Then you so much Kindness show,
My Despair deluded flies;
And indulgent Dreams bestow
What your Cruelty denies.

Blush not that your Image Love
Naked to my Fancy brought;
'Tis hard, methinks, to disapprove
The Joys I feel without your Fault.

Wonder not a fancy'd Bliss
Can such Griefs as mine remove;
That Honour as fantastick is,
Which makes you slight such constant Love.

The Virtue which you value so,
Is but a Fancy frail and vain;
Nothing is solid here below,
Except my Love, and your Disdain.

To one who accused him of being too sensual in his Love.

Think not, my Fair, 'tis Sin or Shame,
To bless the Man who so adores;
Nor give so hard, unjust a Name,
To all those Favours he implores.
Beauty is Heav'n's most bounteous Gift esteem'd,
Because by Love Men are from Vice redeem'd.

Yet wish not vainly for a Love
From all the Force of Nature clear;
That is reserv'd for those above,
And 'tis a Fault to claim it here.
For sensual Joys ye scorn that we should love ye;
But Love without 'em is as much above ye.

The WARNING.

Lovers, who waste your Thoughts and Youth
In Passion's fond Extremes;
Who dream of Womens Love and Truth,
And doat upon your Dreams:

I should not here your Fancy take
From such a pleasing State,
Were you not sure at last to wake,
And find your Fault too late.

Then learn betimes, the Love which crowns
Our Cares, is all but Wiles;
Compos'd of false fantastick Frowns,
And soft dissembling Smiles.

With Anger, which sometimes they feign,
They cruel Tyrants prove;
And then turn Flatterers again,
With as affected Love.

As if some Injury were meant
To those they kindly us'd,
Those Lovers are the most content,
That have been still refus'd.

Since each has in his Bosom nurst
A false and fawning Foe;
'Tis just and wise, by striking first,
To 'scape the fatal Blow.

To AMORETTA.

When I held out against your Eyes,
You took the surest Course
A Heart unwary to surprize,
You ne'er could take by Force.

However, tho' I strive no more,
The Fort will now be priz'd;
Which, if surrender'd up before,
Perhaps had been despis'd.

But, gentle Amoretta, tho'
I cannot Love resist,
Think not, when you have caught me so,
To use me as you list.

Inconstancy or Coldness will
My foolish Heart reclaim:
Then I come off with Honour still,
But you, alas! with Shame.

A Heart by Kindness only gain'd,
Will a dear Conquest prove;
And, to be kept, must be maintain'd
At vast Expence of Love.

The VENTURE.

Oh, how I languish! What a strange
Unruly fierce Desire!
My Spirits feel some wondrous Change,
My Heart is all on fire.

Now, all ye wiser Thoughts, away,
In vain your Tale ye tell
Of patient Hopes, and dull Delay,
Love's foppish Part; farewel.

Suppose one Week's Delay would give
All that my Wishes move;
Oh, who so long a Time can live,
Stretch'd on the Rack of Love?

Her Soul perhaps is too sublime,
To like such slavish Fear;
Discretion, Prudence, all is Crime,
If once condemn'd by her.

When Honour does the Soldier call
To some unequal Fight,
Resolv'd to conquer or to fall,
Before his Gen'ral's Sight;

Advanc'd the happy Hero lives;
Or if ill Fate denies,
The noble Rashness Heav'n forgives,
And gloriously he dies,

Inconstancy Excused.

SONG.

I must confess, I am untrue
To Gloriana's Eyes;
But he that's smil'd upon by you,
Must all the World despise.

In Winter, Fires of little Worth
Excite our dull Desire;
But when the Sun breaks kindly forth,
Those fainter Flames expire.

Then blame me not for slighting now
What I did once adore;
O, do but this one Change allow,
And I can change no more:

Fixt by your never-failing Charms,
Till I with Age decay,
Till languishing within your Arms,
I sigh my Soul away.

SONG.

[Oh, conceal that charming Creature]

Oh, conceal that charming Creature
From my wondring, wishing Eyes!
Ev'ry Motion, ev'ry Feature
Does some ravish'd Heart surprize;
But oh, I sighing, sighing, see
The happy Swain! she ne'er can be
False to him, or kind to me.

Yet, if I could humbly show her,
Ah! how wretched I remain;
'Tis not, sure, a Thing below her,
Still to pity so much Pain.

The Gods some Pleasure, Pleasure take,
Happy as themselves to make
Those who suffer for their Sake.

Since your Hand alone was giv'n
To a Wretch not worth your Care;
Like some Angel sent from Heav'n,
Come and raise me from Despair!
Your Heart I cannot, cannot miss,
And I desire no other Bliss;
Let all the World besides be His.

DESPAIR.

All hopeless of Relief,
Incapable of Rest,
In vain I strive to vent a Grief
That's not to be exprest.

This Rage within my Veins
No Reason can remove;
Of all the Mind's most cruel Pains,
The sharpest, sure, is Love.

Yet while I languish so,
And on thee vainly call;
Take heed, fair Cause of all my Woe,
What Fate may thee befall.

Ungrateful, cruel Faults
Suit not thy gentle Sex;
Hereafter, how will guilty Thoughts
Thy tender Conscience vex!

When welcome Death shall bring
Relief to wretched me,
My Soul enlarg'd, and once on Wing,
In haste will fly to thee.

When in thy lonely Bed,
My Ghost its Moan shall make,
With saddest Signs that I am dead,
And dead for thy dear Sake.

Struck with that conscious Blow,
Thy very Soul will start;
Pale as my Shadow thou wilt grow,
And cold as is thy Heart.

Too late Remorse will then
Untimely Pity show
To him, who of all mortal Men
Did most thy Value know.

Yet, with this broken Heart,
I wish thou never be
Tormented with the thousandth Part
Of what I feel for thee.

On Apprehension of losing what he had newly gain'd.

In Imitation of OVID.

Sure I of all Men am the first
That ever was by Kindness curst,
Who must my only Bliss bemoan,
And am by Happiness undone.

Had I at Distance only seen
That lovely Face, I might have been
With the delightful Object pleas'd,
But not with all this Passion seiz'd.

When afterwards so near I came,
As to be scorch'd in Beauty's Flame;

To so much Softness, so much Sense,
Reason itself made no Defence.

What pleasing Thoughts possess'd my Mind
When little Favours shew'd you kind!
And tho', when Coldness oft prevail'd,
My Heart would sink, and Spirits fail'd,
Yet willingly the Yoke I bore,
And all your Chains as Bracelets wore:
At your lov'd Feet all Day would lie,
Desiring, without knowing why;
For, not yet blest within your Arms,
Who could have thought of half your Charms?
Charms of such a wondrous kind,
Words we cannot, must not find,
A Body worthy of your Mind:
Fancy could ne'er so high reflect,
Nor Love itself such Joys expect.

After such Embraces past,
Whose Memory will ever last,

Love is still reflecting back:
All my Soul is on a Rack:
To be in Hell's sufficient Curse,
But to fall from Heav'n is worse.
I liv'd in Grief ere this I knew,
But then I dwelt in Darkness too.
Of Gains, alas! I could not boast;
But little thought how much I lost.

Now Heart-devouring Eagerness,
And sharp Impatience to possess;
Now restless Cares, consuming Fires,
Anxious Thoughts, and fierce Desires,
Tear my Heart to that Degree,
For ever fix'd on only Thee:
Then all my Comfort is, I shall
Live in thy Arms, or not at all.

The Reconcilement.

SONG.

Come, let us now resolve at last
To live and love in Quiet;
We'll tie the Knot so very fast,
That Time shall ne'er untie it.

The truest Joys they seldom prove,
Who free from Quarrels live;
'Tis the most tender Part of Love,
Each other to forgive.

When least I seem'd concern'd, I took
No Pleasure, nor no Rest;
And when I feign'd an angry Look,
Alas! I lov'd you best.

Own but the same to me, you'll find
How blest will be our Fate;
Oh, to be happy, to be kind,
Sure, never is too late.

SONG.

[From all uneasy Passions free]

From all uneasy Passions free,
Revenge, Ambition, Jealousy,
Contented I had been too blest,
If Love and you had let me rest.
Yet that dull Life I now despise;
Safe from your Eyes,
I fear'd no Griefs, but then I found no Joys.

Amidst a thousand kind Desires,
Which Beauty moves, and Love inspires;
Such Pangs I feel of tender Fear,
No Heart so soft as mine can bear.
Yet I'll defy the worst of Harms:
Such are your Charms,
'Tis worth a Life to die within your Arms.

To a Coquet Beauty.

From Wars and Plagues come no such Harms,
As from a Nymph so full of Charms;
So much Sweetness in her Face,
In her Motions such a Grace,
In her kind inviting Eyes
Such a soft Enchantment lies;
That we please ourselves too soon,
And are with empty Hopes undone.

After all her Softness, we
Are but Slaves, while she is free;
Free, alas! from all Desire,
Except to set the World on Fire.

Thou, fair Dissembler, dost but thus
Deceive thyself, as well as us.

Like a restless Monarch, thou
Would'st rather force Mankind to bow,
And venture round the World to roam,
Than govern peaceably at Home.
But trust me, Celia, trust me, when
Apollo's Self inspires my Pen;
One Hour of Love's Delights outweighs
Whole Years of universal Praise;
And one Adorer, kindly us'd,
Gives truer Joys than Crouds refus'd.

For what does Youth and Beauty serve?
Why more than all your Sex deserve?
Why such soft alluring Arts
To charm our Eyes, and melt our Hearts?
By our Loss you nothing gain:
Unless you love, you please in vain.

The RELAPSE.

Like Children in a starry Night,
When I beheld those Eyes before,
I gaz'd with Wonder and Delight,
Insensible of all their Pow'r.

I play'd about the Flame so long,
At last I felt the scorching Fire;
My Hopes were weak, my Passion strong,
And I lay dying with Desire.

By all the Helps of human Art,
I just recover'd so much Sense,
As to avoid, with heavy Heart,
The fair, but fatal Influence.

But, since you shine away Despair,
And now my Sighs no longer shun,
No Persian in his zealous Pray'r
So much adores the rising Sun.

If once again my Vows displease,
There never was so lost a Lover;
In Love, that languishing Disease,
A sad Relapse we ne'er recover.

The RECOVERY.

Sighing and languishing I lay,
A Stranger grown to all Delight,
Passing with tedious Thoughts the Day,
And with unquiet Dreams the Night.

For your dear Sake, my only Care
Was how my fatal Love to hide;
For ever drooping with Despair,
Neglecting all the World beside:

Till, like some Angel from above,
Cornelia came to my Relief;
And then I found the Joys of Love
Can make Amends for all the Grief.

Those pleasing Hopes I now pursue,
Might fail, if you could prove unjust;
But Promises from Heav'n and you,
Who is so impious to mistrust?

Here all my Doubts and Troubles end;
One tender Word my Soul assures;
Nor am I vain, since I depend
Not on my own Desert, but yours.

The CONVERT.

Dejected, as true Converts die,
But yet with fervent Thoughts inflam'd,
So, fairest! at your Feet I lie,
Of all my Sex's Faults asham'd.

Too long, alas! have I abus'd
Love's innocent and sacred Flame,
And that divinest Pow'r have us'd
To laugh at, as an idle Name.

But since so freely I confess
A Crime which may your Scorn produce,
Allow me now to make it less
By any just and fair Excuse.

I then did vulgar Joys pursue,
Variety was all my Bliss;
But ignorant of Love and You,
How could I chuse but do amiss?

If ever now my wandring Eyes
Seek out Amusements as before;
If e'er I look, but to despise
Such Charms, and value yours the more;

May sad Remorse, and guilty Shame,
Revenge your Wrongs on faithless me;
And, what I tremble ev'n to name,
May I lose all in losing thee.

The PICTURE.

In Imitation of Anacreon.

Thou Flatterer of all the Fair,
Come with all your Skill and Care;
Draw me such a Shape and Face,
As your Flatt'ry would disgrace.
Wish not that she would appear;
'Tis well for you she is not here;
Scarce can you with Safety see
All her Charms describ'd by me:
I, alas! the Danger know;
I, alas! have felt the Blow;
Mourn, as lost, my former Days,
That never sung of Celia's Praise;

And those few that are behind
I shall blest or wretched find,
Only just as she is kind.

With her tempting Eyes begin,
Eyes that would draw Angels in
To a second, sweeter Sin.
Oh, those wanton rolling Eyes!
At each Glance a Lover dies:
Make them bright, yet make them willing;
Let them look both kind and killing.

Next, draw her Forehead; then her Nose,
And Lips just op'ning, that disclose
Teeth so bright, and Breath so sweet,
So much Beauty, so much Wit,
To our very Soul they strike,
All our Senses pleas'd alike.

But so pure a white and red,
Never, never, can be said:
What are Words in such a Case?
What is Paint to such a Face?

How should either Art avail us?
Fancy here itself must fail us.

In her Looks, and in her Mien,
Such a graceful Air is seen,
That if you, with all your Art,
Can but reach the smallest Part;
Next to her, the matchless She,
We shall wonder most at Thee.

Then her Neck, and Breasts, and Hair,
And her—but my charming Fair
Does in a thousand things excel,
Which I must not, dare not tell.

How go on then? oh! I see
A lovely Venus drawn by thee;
Oh how fair she does appear!
Touch it only here and there.
Make her yet seem more divine,
Your Venus then may look like mine,
Whose bright Form if once you saw,
You by her would Venus draw.

On Don Alonzo's being killed in Portugal, upon Account of the Infanta, in the Year 1683.

In such a Cause no Muse should fail
To bear a mournful Part;
'Tis just and noble to bewail
The Fate of fall'n Desert.

In vain ambitious Hopes design'd
To make his Soul aspire,
If Love and Beauty had not join'd,
To raise a brighter Fire.

Amidst so many dang'rous Foes
How weak the wisest prove!
Reason itself would scarce oppose,
And seems agreed with Love.

If from the glorious Height he falls,
He greatly daring dies;
Or mounting where bright Beauty calls,
An Empire is the Prize.

The SURPRIZE.

Safely perhaps dull Crowds admire;
But I, alas! am all on Fire.

Like him who thought in Childhood past
That dire Disease which kill'd at last,
I durst have sworn I lov'd before,
And fancy'd all the Danger o'er;
Had felt the Pangs of jealous Pain,
And born the Blasts of cold Disdain;
Then reap'd at length the mighty Gains,
That full Reward of all our Pains!

But what was all such Grief or Joy,
That did my heedless Years employ?
Mere Dreams of feign'd fantastick Pow'rs,
But the Disease of idle Hours;

Amusement, Humour, Affectation,
Compar'd with this sublimer Passion,
Whose Raptures, bright as those above,
Outshine the Flames of Zeal or Love.

Yet think not, Fairest, what I sing,
Can from a Love Platonick spring;
That formal Softness (false and vain)
Not of the Heart, but of the Brain.
Thou art indeed above all Nature;
But I, a wretched human Creature,
Wanting thy gentle gen'rous Aid,
Of Husband, Rivals, Friends afraid!
Amidst all this Seraphick Fire,
Am almost dying with Desire,
With eager Wishes, ardent Thoughts,
Prone to commit Love's wildest Faults!
And (as we are on Sundays told
The lusty Patriarch did of old)
Would force a Blessing from those Charms,
And grasp an Angel in my Arms.

A Dialogue sung on the Stage between an elderly Shepherd, and a very young Nymph.

Shep.
Bright and blooming as the Spring,
Universal Love inspiring!
All our Swains thy Praises sing,
Ever gazing and admiring.

Nym.
Praises in so high a Strain,
And by such a Shepherd sung,
Are enough to make me vain,
Yet so harmless and so young.

Shep.
I should have despair'd among
Rivals that appear so gayly:
But your Eyes have made me young,
By their smiling on me daily.

Nym.
Idle Boys admire us blindly,
Are inconstant, wild, and bold;
And your using me so kindly
Is a Proof you are not old.

Shep.
With thy pleasing Voice and Fashion,
With thy Humour and thy Youth,
Chear my Soul, and crown my Passion:
Oh! reward my Love and Truth.

Nym.
With thy careful Arts to cover
That which Fools will count a Fault,
Truest Friend as well as Lover,
Oh! deserve so kind a Thought.

Each a Part first, and then both together.

Happy we shall lie possessing,
Folded in each other's Arms,
Love and Nature's chiefest Blessing
In the still increasing Charms.

So the dearest Joys of Loving,
Which scarce Heav'n can go beyond,
We'll be ev'ry Day improving,

Shep.
You more fair, and I more fond.

Nym.
I more fair, and you more fond.

On one who died discovering her Kindness.

Some vex their Souls with jealous Pain,
While others sigh for cold Disdain:
Love's various Slaves we daily see;
Yet happy all, compar'd with me.

Of all Mankind, I lov'd the best
A Nymph so far above the rest,
That we outshin'd the Blest above,
In Beauty she, and I in Love.

And therefore they who could not bear
To be outdone by Mortals here,

Among themselves have plac'd her now,
And left me wretched here below.

All other Fate I could have born,
And ev'n endur'd her very Scorn;
But oh! thus all at once to find
That dread Account! both dead and kind!
What Heart can hold? If yet I live,
'Tis but to shew how much I grieve.

On Lucinda's Death.

Come all ye doleful, dismal Cares,
That ever haunted guilty Mind!
The Pangs of Love when it despairs,
And all those Stings the Jealous find:
Alas! heart-breaking tho' ye be,
Yet welcome, welcome all to me!

Who now have lost—but oh! how much?
No Language, nothing can express,
Except my Grief; for she was such,
That Praises would but make her less.
Yet who can ever dare to raise
His Voice on her, unless to praise?

Free from her Sex's smallest Faults,
And fair as Womankind can be;
Tender and warm as Lover's Thoughts,
Yet cold to all the World but me.
Of all this nothing now remains,
But only Sighs and endless Pains!

To a Lady retiring into a Monastery.

What Breast but yours can hold the double Fire
Of fierce Devotion, and of fond Desire?
Love would shine forth, were not your Zeal so bright,
Whose glaring Flames eclipse his gentler Light:
Less seems the Faith that Mountains can remove,
Than this which triumphs over Youth and Love.

But shall some threat'ning Priest divide us two?
What worse than that could all his Curses do?
Thus with a Fright some have resign'd their Breath,
And poorly dy'd only for Fear of Death.

Heav'n sees our Passions with Indulgence still,
And they who love well, can do nothing ill.
While to us nothing but ourselves is dear,
Should the World frown, yet what have we to fear?

Fame, Wealth, and Pow'r, those high-priz'd Gifts of Fate,
The low Concers of a less happy State,
Are far beneath us: Fortune's Self may take
Her Aim at us, yet no Impression make;
Let Worldlings ask her Help, or fear her Harms;
We can lie safe, lock'd in each other's Arms,
Like the blest Saints, eternal Raptures know;
And slight those Storms that vainly rest below.

Yet this, all this you are resolv'd to quit;
I see my Ruin, and I must submit:
But think, O think, before you prove unkind,
How lost a Wretch you leave forlorn behind.

Malignant Envy, mix'd with Hate and Fear,
Revenge for Wrongs too burdensome to bear,
Ev'n Zeal itself, from whence all Mischiefs spring,
Have never done so barbarous a Thing.

With such a Fate the Heav'ns decreed to vex
Armida once, tho' of the fairer Sex;

Rinaldo she had charm'd with so much Art,
Hers was his Pow'r, his Person, and his Heart:
Honour's high Thoughts no more his Mind could move;
She sooth'd his Rage, and turn'd it all to Love:
When strait a Gust of fierce Devotion blows,
And in a Moment all her Joys o'erthrows:
The poor Armida tears her golden Hair,
Matchless till now, for Love, or for Despair.
Who is not mov'd while the sad Nymph complains?
Yet you now act what Tasso only feigns;
And after all our Vows, our Sighs, our Tears,
My banish'd Sorrows, and your conquer'd Fears;
So many Doubts, so many Dangers past,
Visions of Zeal must vanquish me at last.

Thus, in great Homer's War, throughout the Field
Some Hero still made all things mortal yield;
But when a God once took the vanquish'd Side,
The Weak prevail'd, and the Victorious dy'd.

The VISION.

Written during a Sea Voyage, when sent to command the Forces for the Relief of Tangier.

Within the silent Shades of soft Repose,
Where Fancy's boundless Stream for ever flows;
Where the enfranchis'd Soul at Ease can play,
Tir'd with the toilsome Business of the Day;
Where Princes gladly rest their weary Heads,
And change uneasy Thrones for downy Beds;
Where seeming Joys delude despairing Minds,
And where ev'n Jealousy some Quiet finds;
There I and Sorrow for a while could part,
Sleep clos'd my Eyes, and eas'd a sighing Heart.

But here too soon a wretched Lover found
In deepest Griefs the Sleep can ne'er be sound;
With strange Surprize my troubled Fancy brings
Odd antick Shapes of wild unheard-of Things;
Dismal and terrible they all appear,
My Soul was shook with an unusual Fear.
But as when Visions glad the Eyes of Saints,
And kind Relief attends devout Complaints,
Some beauteous Angel in bright Charms will shine,
And spreads a Glory round, that's all divine;
Just such a bright and beauteous Form appears,
The Monsters vanish, and with them my Fears.
The fairest Shape was then before me brought,
That Eyes e'er saw, or Fancy ever thought;
How weak are Words to shew such Excellence,
Which ev'n confounds the Soul, as well as Sense!
And, while our Eyes transporting Pleasure find,
It stops not here, but strikes the very Mind.
Some Angel speak her Praise! No human Tongue,
But with its utmost Art must do her Wrong.

The only Woman that has Pow'r to kill,
And yet is good enough to want the Will;
Who needs no soft alluring Words repeat,
Nor study'd Looks of languishing Deceit.

Fantastick Beauty, always in the Wrong,
Still thinks some Pride must to its Pow'r belong;
An Air affected, and a haughty Mien;
Something that seems to say, I would be seen.
But of all Womankind this only She,
Full of its Charms, and from its Frailty free,
Deserves some nobler Muse her Fame to raise,
By making the whole Sex beside, her Pyramid of Praise.
She, She appear'd, the Source of all my Joys;
The dearest Care that all my Thought employs:
Gently she look'd, as when I left her last;
When first she seiz'd my Heart, and held it fast;
When, if my Vows, alas! were made too late,
I saw my Doom came not from her, but Fate.
With Pity then she eas'd my raging Pain,
And her kind Eyes could scarce from Tears refrain:

Why gentle Swain, said she, why do you grieve
In Words I should not hear, much less believe?
I gaze on that which is a Fault to mind,
And ought to fly the Danger which I find:
Of false Mankind tho' you may be the best,
Ye all have robb'd poor Women of their Rest.
I see your Pain, and see it too with Grief,
Because I would, yet must not give Relief.
Thus, for a Husband's Sake, as well as yours,
My scrup'lous Soul divided Pain endures;
Guilty, alas! to both; for thus I do
Too much for him, yet not enough for you.
Give over then, give over, hapless Swain,
A Passion moving, but a Passion vain.
Not Chance, nor Time shall ever change my Thought:
'Tis better much to die, than do a Fault.

Oh, worse than ever! Is it then my Doom
Just to see Heav'n, where I must never come?

Your soft Compassion, if not something more:
Yet I remain as wretched as before:
The Wind, indeed, is fair, but ah! no Sight of Shore.
Farewell, too scrup'lous Fair-one; oh! farewel.
What Torments I endure, no Tongue can tell;
Thank Heav'n, my Fate transports me now, where I
Your Martyr may with Ease and Safety die.

With that I kneel'd, and seiz'd her trembling Hand,
While she impos'd this cruel kind Command:
Live and love on; you will be true, I know;
But live then, and come back to tell me so:
For tho' I blush at this last guilty Breath,
I can endure that better than your Death.

Tormenting Kindness! Barbarous Reprieve!
Condemn'd to die, and yet compell'd to live!

This tender Scene my Dream repeated o'er,
Just as it pass'd in real Truth before.
Methought I then fell grov'ling to the Ground,
Till on a sudden rais'd, I wond'ring found

A strange Appearance all in taintless White;
His Form gave Rev'rence, and his Face Delight:
Goodness and Greatness in his Eyes were seen;
Gentle his Look, and affable his Mien.
A kindly Notice of me thus he took:
“What mean these flowing Eyes, this ghastly Look!
“These trembling Joints, this loose dishevel'd Hair,
“And this cold Dew, the Drops of deep Despair?”

With Grief and Wonder first my Spirits faint,
But thus, at last, I vented my Complaint.
Behold a Wretch whom cruel Fate has found,
And in the Depth of all Misfortune drown'd.
There shines a Nymph, to whom an envy'd Swain
Is ty'd in Hymen's ceremonious Chain;
But cloy'd with Charms of such a Marriage-Bed,
And fed with Manna, yet he longs for Bread;
And will, most Husband-like, not only range
For Love perhaps of nothing else but Change;
But to inferior Beauty prostrate lies,
And courts her Love, in Scorn of Flavia's Eyes.

All this I knew (the Form divine reply'd)
And did but ask to have thy Temper try'd,
Which prove sincere. Of both I know the Mind;
She is too scrupulous, and thou too kind:
But since thy fatal Love's for ever fix'd,
Whatever Time or Absence come betwixt;
Since thy fond Heart ev'n her Disdain prefers
To others Love, I'll something soften hers.
Else in the Search of Virtue she may stray:
Well-meaning Mortals should not lose their Way.
She now indeed sins on the safer Side,
For Hearts too loose are never to be ty'd;
But no Extremes are either good or wise,
And in the Midst alone true Virtue lies.
When Marriage-Vows unite an equal Pair,
'Tis a mere Contract, made by human Care,
By which they both are for Convenience ty'd,
The Bridegroom yet more strictly than the Bride:
For Circumstances alter ev'ry Ill,
And Woman meets with most Temptation still;

She a forsaken Bed must often bear,
While he can never fail to find her there,
And therefore less excus'd to range elsewhere.
Yet this she ought to suffer and submit:
But when no longer for each other fit,
If Usage base shall just Resentment move,
Or, what is worse, Affronts of wand'ring Love;
No Obligation after that remains.
'Tis mean, not just, to wear a Rival's Chains.

Yet Decency requires the wonted Cares
Of Int'rest, Children, and remote Affairs;
But in her Love, that dear Concern of Life,
She all the while may be another's Wife:
Heav'n that beholds her wrong'd and widow'd Bed,
Permits a Lover in her Husband's Stead.

I flung me at his Feet, his Robes would kiss,
And cry'd,—Ev'n our base World is just in this;
Amidst our Censures, Love we gently blame;
And Love sometimes preserves a Female Fame.

What Tie less strong can Woman's Will restrain?
When Honour, Checks, and Conscience plead in vain;
When Parents Threats, and Friends Persuasions fail,
When Int'rest and Ambition scarce prevail,
To bound that Sex when nothing else can move;
They'll live reserv'd to please the Man they love!

The Spirit then reply'd to all I said,
She may be kind, but not till thou art dead;
Bewail thy Memory, bemoan thy Fate:
Then she will love, when 'tis, alas! too late:
Of all thy Pains she will no Pity have,
Till sad Despair has sent thee to the Grave.

Amaz'd, I wak'd in Haste,
All trembling at my Doom;
Dreams oft repeat Adventures past,
And tell our Ills to come.

HELEN to PARIS,

FROM OVID.

Translated by the Earl of MULGRAVE, and Mr. DRYDEN.

When loose Epistles violate chaste Eyes,
She half consents, who silently denies:
How dares a Stranger, with Designs so vain,
Marriage and hospitable Rights profane?

Was it for this your Fate did Shelter find
From swelling Seas, and ev'ry faithless Wind?
(For tho' a distant Country brought you forth,
Your Usage here was equal to your Worth.)
Does this deserve to be rewarded so?
Did you come here a Stranger, or a Foe?
Your partial Judgment may perhaps complain,
And think me barb'rous for my just Disdain;
Ill-bred then let me be, but not unchaste,
Nor my clear Fame with any Spot defac'd.
Tho' in my Face there's no affected Frown,
Nor in my Carriage a feign'd Niceness shown,
I keep my Honour still without a Stain,
Nor has my Love made any Coxcomb vain.
Your Boldness I with Admiration see.
What Hope had you to gain a Queen like me?
Because a Hero forc'd me once away,
Am I thought fit to be a second Prey?
Had I been won, I had deserv'd your Blame;
But sure my Part was nothing but the Shame:

Yet the base Theft to him no Fruit did bear;
I 'scap'd unhurt by any thing but Fear:
Rude Force might some unwilling Kisses gain,
But that was all he ever could obtain.
You on such Terms would ne'er have let me go;
Were he like you, we had not parted so.
Untouch'd the Youth restor'd me to my Friends,
And modest Usage made me some Amends.
'Tis Virtue to repent a vicious Deed.
Did he repent, that Paris might succeed?
Sure 'tis some Fate that sets me above Wrongs,
Yet still exposes me to busy Tongues.
I'll not complain; for who's displeas'd with Love,
If it sincere, discreet, and constant prove?
But that I fear—not that I think you base,
Or doubt the blooming Beauties of my Face;
But all your Sex is subject to deceive,
And ours, alas! too willing to believe.
Yet others yield; and Love o'ercomes the best—
But why should I not shine above the rest?

Fair Leda's Story seems at first to be
A fit Example ready found for me:
But she was couzen'd by a borrow'd Shape,
And under harmless Feathers felt a Rape:
If I should yield, what Reason could I use?
By what Mistake the loving Crime excuse?
Her Fault was in her pow'rful Lover lost;
But of what Jupiter have I to boast?
Tho' you to Heroes, and to Kings succeed,
Our famous Race does no Addition need;
And great Alliances but useless prove
To one that springs herself from mighty Jove.
Go then and boast in some less haughty Place
Your Phrygian Blood, and Priam's ancient Race,
Which I would shew I valu'd, if I durst;
You are the fifth from Jove, but I the first.
The Crown of Troy is pow'rful, I confess;
But I have Reason to think ours no less.
Your Letter, fill'd with Promises of all
That Men can good, and Women pleasant call,

Gives Expectation such an ample Field,
As would move Goddesses themselves to yield.
But if I e'er offend great Juno's Laws,
Yourself shall be the dear, the only Cause;
Either my Honour I'll to Death maintain,
Or follow you without mean Thoughts of Gain.
Not that so fair a Present I despise;
We like the Gift, when we the Giver prize:
But 'tis your Love moves me, which made you take
Such Pains, and run such Hazards for my sake.
I have perceiv'd (tho' I dissembled too)
A thousand things that Love has made you do:
Your eager Eyes would almost dazzle mine,
In which (wild Man!) your wanton Thoughts would shine.
Sometimes you'd sigh, sometimes disorder'd stand,
And with unusual Ardour press my Hand;
Contrive just after me to take the Glass,
Nor would you let the least Occasion pass:

Which oft I fear'd I did not mind alone,
And blushing sat for things which you have done:
Then murmur'd to myself, He'll for my sake
Do any thing; I hope 'twas no Mistake.
Oft have I read within this pleasant Grove,
Under my Name, those charming Words, I love.
I, frowning, seem'd not to believe your Flame;
But now, alas! am come to write the same.
If I were capable to do amiss,
I could not but be sensible of this.
For, oh! your Face has such peculiar Charms,
That who can hold from flying to your Arms!
But what I ne'er can have without Offence,
May some blest Maid possess with Innocence.
Pleasure may tempt, but Virtue more should move;
Oh! learn of me to want the thing you love.
What you desire, is sought by all Mankind:
As you have Eyes, so others are not blind.
Like you they see, like you my Charms adore;
They wish not less, but you dare venture more.

Oh! had you then upon our Coasts been brought,
My Virgin Love when thousand Rivals sought,
You had I seen, you should have had my Voice;
Nor cou'd my Husband justly blame my Choice.
For both our Hopes, alas! you come too late;
Another now is Master of my Fate.
More to my Wish I cou'd have liv'd with you,
And yet my present Lot can undergo.
Cease to sollicit a weak Woman's Will,
And urge not her you love, to so much Ill:
But let me live contented as I may,
And make not my unspotted Fame your Prey.
Some Right you claim, since naked to your Eyes
Three Goddesses disputed Beauty's Prize:
One offer'd Valour, t'other Crowns; but she
Obtain'd her Cause, who smiling promis'd me.
But, first, I am not of Belief so light,
To think such Nymphs wou'd shew you such a Sight.
Yet, granting this, the other Part is feign'd:
A Bribe so mean, your Sentence had not gain'd.

With partial Eyes I should myself regard,
To think that Venus made me her Reward:
I humbly am content with human Praise;
A Goddess's Applause would Envy raise.
But be it as you say; for 'tis confest,
The Men who flatter highest, please us best:
That I suspect it, ought not to displease;
For Miracles are not believ'd with Ease.
One Joy I have, that I had Venus' Voice;
A greater yet, that you confirm'd her Choice;
That proffer'd Laurels, promis'd Sov'reignty,
Juno and Pallas, you contemn'd for me.
Am I your Empire then, and your Renown?
What Heart of Rock but must by this be won?
And yet bear Witness, O you Pow'rs above,
How rude I am in all the Arts of Love!
My Hand is yet untaught to write to Men;
This is th'Essay of my unpractis'd Pen:
Happy those Nymphs, whom Use has perfect made;
I think all Crime, and tremble at a Shade.

Ev'n while I write, my fearful conscious Eyes
Look often back, misdoubting a Surprize.
For now the Rumor spreads among the Croud,
At Court in Whispers, but in Town aloud.
Dissemble you, whate'er you hear 'em say:
To leave off loving were your better Way;
Yet, if you will dissemble it, you may.
Love secretly: the Absence of my Lord
More Freedom gives, but does not all afford.
Long is his Journey, long will be his Stay;
Call'd by Affairs of Consequence away.
To go or not, when unresolv'd he stood,
I bid him make what swift Return he could:
Then kissing me, he said, I recommend
All to thy Care, but most my Trojan Friend.
I smil'd at what he innocently said,
And only answer'd, You shall be obey'd.
Propitious Winds have born him far from hence,
But let not this secure your Confidence.

Absent he is, yet absent he commands:
You know the Proverb, Princes have long Hands.
My Fame's my Burthen; for the more I'm prais'd,
A juster Ground of Jealousy is rais'd.
Were I less fair, I might have been more blest,
Great Beauty through great Danger is possest.
To leave me here, his Venture was not hard,
Because he thought my Virtue was my Guard.
He fear'd my Face, but trusted to my Life,
The Beauty doubted, but believ'd the Wife.
You bid me use th'Occasion while I can,
Put in our Hands by the good easy Man.
I would, and yet I doubt, 'twixt Love and Fear;
One draws me from you, and one brings me near.
Our Flames are mutual, and my Husband's gone:
The Nights are long; I fear to lie alone;
One House contains us, and weak Walls divide,
And you're too pressing to be long deny'd.
Let me not live, but ev'ry thing conspires
To join our Loves, and yet my Fear retires.

You court with Words, when you shou'd Force employ,
A Rape is requisite to shame-fac'd Joy:
Indulgent to the Wrongs which we receive,
Our Sex can suffer what we dare not give.
What have I said! for both of us 't were best,
Our kindling Fire if each of us supprest.
The Faith of Strangers is too prone to change,
And, like themselves, their wand'ring Passions range.
Hypsipyle, and the fond Minoian Maid,
Were both by trusting of their Guest betray'd.
How can I doubt that other Men deceive,
When you yourself did fair Oenone leave?
But lest I shou'd upbraid your Treachery,
You make a Merit of that Crime to me.
Yet grant you were to faithful Love inclin'd,
Your weary Trojans wait but for a Wind.
Should you prevail, while I assign the Night,
Your Sails are hoisted, and you take your Flight;
Some bawling Mariner our Love destroys,
And breaks asunder our unfinish'd Joys.

100

But I with you may leave the Spartan Port,
To view the Trojan Wealth, and Priam's Court.
Shown while I see, I shall expose my Fame;
And fill a foreign Country with my Shame.
In Asia what Reception shall I find?
And what Dishonour leave in Greece behind?
What will your Brothers, Priam, Hecuba,
And what will all your modest Matrons say?
Ev'n you, when on this Action you reflect,
My future Conduct justly may suspect:
And whate'er Stranger lands upon your Coast,
Conclude me, by your own Example, lost.
I, from your Rage, a Strumpet's Name shall hear,
While you forget what Part in it you bear.
You, my Crime's Author, will my Crime upbraid:
Deep under Ground, oh! let me first be laid!
You boast the Pomp and Plenty of your Land,
And promise all shall be at my Command:
Your Trojan Wealth, believe me, I despise;
My own poor native Land has dearer Ties.

101

Shou'd I be injur'd on your Phrygian Shore,
What Help of Kindred cou'd I there implore?
Medea was by Jason's Flatt'ry won:
I may, like her, believe and be undone.
Plain honest Hearts, like mine, suspect no Cheat,
And Love contributes to its own Deceit.
The Ships, about whose Sides loud Tempests roar,
With gentle Winds were wafted from the Shore.
Your teeming Mother dreamt a flaming Brand,
Sprung from her Womb, consum'd the Trojan Land;
To second this, old Prophecies conspire,
That Ilium shall be burnt with Grecian Fire:
Both give me Fear, nor is it much allay'd,
That Venus is oblig'd our Loves to aid.
For they who lost their Cause, Revenge will take,
And for one Friend two Enemies you make.
Nor can I doubt, but should I follow you,
The Sword would soon our fatal Crime pursue:
A Wrong so great my Husband's Rage would rouze,
And my Relations would his Cause espouse.

102

You boast your Strength and Courage; but, alas!
Your Words receive small Credit from your Face.
Let Heroes in the dusty Field delight,
Those Limbs were fashion'd for another Fight.
Bid Hector sally from the Walls of Troy;
A sweeter Quarrel shou'd your Arms employ.
Yet Fears like these shou'd not my Mind perplex,
Were I as wise as many of my Sex:
But Time and you may bolder Thoughts inspire;
And I, perhaps, may yield to your Desire.
You last demand a private Conference:
These are your Words; but I can guess your Sense.
Your unripe Hopes their Harvest must attend:
Be rul'd by me, and Time may be your Friend.
This is enough to let you understand,
For now my Pen has tir'd my tender Hand;
My Woman knows the Secret of my Heart,
And may, hereafter, better News impart.

103

Part of the Story of Orpheus.

Being a Translation out of the Fourth Book of VIRGIL's Georgic.

'Tis not for nothing when just Heav'n does frown;
The injur'd Orpheus calls these Judgments down;
Whose Spouse, avoiding to become thy Prey,
And all his Joys at once were snatch'd away;
The Nymph, fore-doom'd that fatal way to pass,
Spy'd not the Serpent lurking in the Grass:
A mournful Cry the spacious Valley fills,
With echoing Groans from all the neighb'ring Hills;
The Dryades roar out in deep Despair,
And with united Voice bewail the Fair.

104

For such a Loss he sought no vain Relief,
But with his Lute indulg'd the tender Grief;
Along the Shore he oft would wildly stray,
With doleful Notes begin, and end the Day.
At length to Hell a frightful Journey made,
Pass'd the wide-gaping Gulph, and disman Shade:
Visits the Ghosts, and to that King repairs,
Whose Heart's inflexible to human Pray'rs.
All Hell is ravish'd with so sweet a Song;
Light Souls and airy Spirits glide along
In Troops, like Millions of the feather'd Kind,
Driv'n home by Night, or some tempestuous Wind:
Matrons and Men, raw Youths and unripe Maids;
And mighty Heroes' more majestick Shades;
And Sons entomb'd before their Parents Face;
These the black Waves of bounding Styx embrace
Nine times circumfluent; clogg'd with noisome Weeds,
And all that Filth, which standing Water breeds.

105

Amazement reach'd ev'n the deep Caves of Death;
The Sisters with blue snaky Curls took Breath;
Ixion's Wheel awhile unmov'd remain'd,
And the fierce Dog his three-mouth'd Voice restrain'd.

When safe return'd, and all these Dangers past,
His Wife, restor'd to breathe fresh Air at last,
Following (for so Proserpina was pleas'd)
A sudden Rage th'unwary Lover seiz'd,
He, as the first bright Glimpse of Day-light shin'd,
Could not refrain to cast one Look behind;
A Fault of Love! could Hell Compassion find.
A dreadful Sound thrice shook the Stygian Coast,
His Hopes quite fled, and all his Labour lost!
Why hast thou thus undone thyself and me?
What Rage is this? Oh, I am snatch'd from thee!
(She faintly cry'd) Night and the Pow'rs of Hell
Surround my Sight; Oh, Orpheus! oh, farewel!
My Hands stretch forth to reach thee as before;
But all in vain, for I am thine no more;

106

No more allow'd to view thy Face, or Day!—
Then from his Eyes, like Smoke, she fleets away.
Much he would fain have spoke: but Fate, alas!
Would ne'er again consent to let him pass.
Thus twice undone, what Course remain'd to take,
To gain her back, already pass'd the Lake?
What Tears, what Patience could procure him Ease?
Or, ah! what Vows the angry Pow'rs appease?
'Tis said, he sev'n long Moons bewail'd his Loss
To bleak and barren Rocks, on whose cold Moss,
While languishing he sung his fatal Flame,
He mov'd ev'n Trees, and made fierce Tygers tame.

So the sad Nightingale, when childless made
By some rough Swain who stole her Young away,

Bewails her Loss beneath a Poplar Shade,
Mourns all the Night, in Murmurs wastes the Day;
Her melting Songs a doleful Pleasure yield,
And melancholy Musick fills the Field.

Marriage, nor Love, could ever move his Mind,
But all alone, beat by the northern Wind,

107

Shiv'ring on Tanais Banks the Bard remain'd,
And of the Gods' unfruitful Gift complain'd.
Ciconian Dames, enrag'd to be despis'd,
As they the Feast of Bacchus solemniz'd,
Slew the poor Youth, and strew'd about his Limbs;
His Head, torn off from the fair Body, swims
Down that swift Current where the Heber flows,
And still its Tongue in doleful Accents goes.
Ah, poor Eurydice! he dying cry'd;
Eurydice resounds from every Side.

109

AN ESSAY ON SATIRE.

Written in the Year 1675.

111

How vain, and how insensible a Beast
Is Man! who yet would lord it o'er the rest!
Philosophers and Poets vainly strove,
In ev'ry Age the lumpish Mass to move:

112

But those were Pedants, if compar'd with these,
Who knew not only to instruct, but please:
Poets alone found the delightful Way,
Mysterious Morals gently to convey
In charming Numbers, that when once Men grew
Pleas'd with their Poems, they grew wiser too.

SATIRE has always shin'd among the rest,
And is the boldest Way, perhaps the best,
To shew Men freely all their foulest Faults;
To laugh at their vain Deeds, and vainer Thoughts.

In this great Work the Wise took diff'rent Ways,
Tho' each deserving its peculiar Praise:
Some did our Follies with just Sharpness blame;
While others laugh'd, and scorn'd us into Shame;
But, of these two, the last succeeded best;
As Men hit rightest, when they shoot in Jest.

Yet, if we may presume to blame our Guides,
And censure those who censur'd all besides:
In all things else they justly are preferr'd;
In this alone methinks the Ancients err'd:

113

Against the grossest Follies they declaim,
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble Game.
Nothing is easier than such Blots to hit,
And but the Talent of a vulgar Wit:
Besides, 'tis Labour lost; for who would teach
W****sly to write, or Te****** to preach?
'Tis being devout at Play, wise at a Ball,
Or bringing Wit and Friendship to Whitehall.

But, with sharp Eyes those nicer Faults to find,
Which lie obscurely in the wisest Mind,
That little Speck, which all the rest will spoil;
To wash off this, would be a noble Toil;
Beyond the loose-writ Libels of this Age,
Or the forc'd Scenes of our declining Stage:
Above the Reach of ev'ry Little Wit,
Who, yet, will smile to see a Greater hit.
But ev'n the greatest, tho' expos'd the most,
Of such Correction should have Cause to boast:
In such a Satire they might court a Share,
And each vain Fool would fancy he was there.

114

Old Story-tellers then will pine and die,
To find their antiquated Wit laid by;
Like her who miss'd her Name in a Lampoon,
And sigh'd, to find herself decay'd so soon.
No common Coxcomb must be mention'd here,
Nor the dull Train of dancing Sparks appear;
No feather'd Officers, who never fight;
Of such a wretched Rabble who would write?
Much less Half-Wits; that's more against our Rules;
For they are Fops, the others are but Fools:
Who would not be as silly as D*****r,
Or dull as W****ly, rather than Sir C****r?

The cunning Courtier should be slighted too,
Who with dull Knav'ry makes so much ado,
Till the shrewd Fool, by thriving too too fast,
Like Esop's Fox, becomes a Prey at last.

Nor should the royal Mistresses be nam'd;
Too ugly, or too easy to be blam'd;
With whom each rhiming Fool keeps such a Pother,
They are as common that way as the other:

115

While sauntring Charles, betwixt so mean a Brace,
Meets with dissembling still in either Place,
Affected Humour, or a painted Face.
In loyal Libels we have often told him,
How one has jilted him, the other sold him;
How that affects to laugh, and this to weep;
But who so long can rail, as he can keep?
Was ever Prince by two at once misled,
Foolish and false, ill-natur'd and ill-bred?

E*****y and A*****y, with all the Race
Of formal Blockheads, shall have here no Place;
At Council set, as Foils, on Da****'s Score,
To make that great false Jewel shine the more;
Who all the while is thought exceeding wise,
Only for taking Pains, and telling Lyes.

But there's no meddling with such nauseous Men;
Their very Names have tir'd my nicer Pen;
'Tis Time to quit their Company, and chuse
Some nobler Subject for a sharper Muse.

116

And first, behold the merriest Man alive
Against his careless Genius vainly strive;
Quit his dear Ease some deep Design to lay,
Appoint the Hour, and then forget the Day.
Yet he will laugh, ev'n at his Friends, and be
Just as good Company as Nokes or Lee;
But when he would the Court or Nation rule,
He turns himself the best to Ridicule.
When serious, few for great Affairs more fit;
But shew him Mirth, and bait that Mirth with Wit,
That Shadow of a Jest shall be enjoy'd,
Tho' he left all Mankind to be destroy'd.

So Puss, transform'd, sat like a mumping Bride,
Pensive, and prudent, till the Mouse she spy'd;
But soon the Lady had him in her Eye,
And from the Board did just as oddly fly.

Straining above our Nature does no Good;
We must sink back to our old Flesh and Blood.

As by our little Matchiavel we find,
That nimblest Creature of the busy Kind:

117

His Leggs are crippled, and his Body shakes,
Yet his bold Mind, that all this Bustle makes,
No Pity of its poor Companion takes;
What Gravity can hold from laughing out,
To see that lug his feeble Limbs about?
Like Hounds ill-coupled, Jowler is so strong,
He jades poor Trip, and drags him all-along.
'Tis such a Cruelty as ne'er was known,
To use a Body thus, tho' 'tis one's own.
Yet this vain Comfort in his Mind he keeps;
His Soul is soaring, while his Body creeps.
Alas! that Soaring, to those few who know,
Is but a busy Flutt'ring here below.
So visionary Brains ascend the Sky,
While on the Ground entranc'd the Wretches lie;
And so late Fops have fancy'd they can fly.

Next, our new Earl, with Parts deserving Praise,
And Wit enough to laugh at his own Ways;
Yet loses all soft Days, and sensual Nights,
Kind Nature checks, and kinder Fortune slights,

118

Striving against his Quiet all he can,
For the fine Notion of a busy Man:
And what is that at best, but one whose Mind
Is made to vex himself and all Mankind?
Drudging for Wealth, a Courtier let him live;
For, if some odd fantastick Lord will drive
A Hackney Coach, and meaner Business do,
We should both pay him, and admire him too.
But is there any other Beast alive,
Can his own Harm so wittily contrive?
Will any Dog, that has his Teeth and Stones,
Refin'dly leave his Bitches and his Bones,
To turn a Wheel, and bark to be employ'd;
While Venus is by Rival Dogs enjoy'd?
Yet this vain Man, to get a Statesman's Name,
Forfeits his Friends, his Freedom, and his Fame.

Tho' Satire, nicely writ, no Folly stings
But theirs, who merit Praise for other Things:
Yet we must needs this one Exception make,
And break our Rule for silly Tropo's Sake;

119

Who lately too much scorn'd to be accus'd,
Now therefore scarce deserves to be abus'd.
Rais'd only by a mercenary Tongue,
For Railing smoothly, and for Reas'ning wrong.
As Boys on Holidays, let loose to play,
Halloo a stumbling Jade in slipp'ry way;
Then laugh to see in Dirt and deep Distress
Some awkard Cit in her flowr'd foolish Dress;
Such mighty Satisfaction have I found,
To see this Tinsel Eloquence a-ground.
The florid Gravity we often saw
Baffled by common Whistlers of the Law.
For Sense sits silent, and condemns for weaker
The finer, nay sometimes the wittier Speaker.
So odd a Mixture no Man else affords;
Such Scarcity of Sense, such Choice of Words!
At Bar abusive, on the Bench unable,
Knave on the Wool-sack, Fop at Council Table!

But these are Politicians, such as wou'd
Be rather high than honest, great than good.

120

Another Sort of Wits shall now be shown,
Whose harmless Foibles hurt themselves alone;
Who think Excess of Luxury can please,
And Laziness call Loving of their Ease;
Pleasure and Indolence their only Aim;
Yet their whole Life's but intermitting Pain.
Such Head-achs, Surfeits, Ails, their Days divide,
They scarce perceive the little Time beside.

Well-meaning Men, who make this gross Mistake,
And Pleasure lose, only for Pleasure's sake!
Each Pleasure hath its Price, and when we pay
Too much of Pain, we squander Life away.

Thus D******t, purring like a thoughtful Cat,
Marry'd; but wiser Puss ne'er thinks on that.
Like Pembroke's Dog, fierce at his fondest Time,
At once he woes, and worries her in Rhime;
To gain her Love, exposes all her Life,
A teeming Widow, but a barren Wife.
With tame Submission to the Will of Fate,
He lugg'd about the matrimonial Weight;

121

Till Fortune, blindly kind as well as he,
Has ill restor'd him to his Liberty;
That is, to live in his old idle way,
Smoaking all Night, and dozing all the Day;
Dull as Ned H******rd, whom his brisker Time
Had fam'd for Nonsense in immortal Rhime.

M******ve had much ado to 'scape the Snare,
Tho' vers'd in all those Arts that cheat the Fair.
Beauty and Wit had seiz'd his Heart so fast,
That Numps himself seem'd in the Stocks at last.
Old injur'd Parents dry'd their weeping Eyes,
In Hopes to see this Pirate made a Prize;
Th'impatient Town waited the wish'd-for Change;
And Cuckolds sneer'd in hopes of sweet Revenge;
Till his Ambition set his Love aside,
And sav'd him, not by Prudence, but by Pride.
What tender Thoughts his harden'd Heart can move,
Who for a Shadow quits substantial Love?

And little Sid, for Simile renown'd,
Pleasure has always sought, but seldom found:

122

Tho' Wine and Women are his only Care,
Of both he takes a lamentable Share.
The Flesh he lives on is too rank and strong;
His Meat and Mistresses are kept too long.
But, sure, we all mistake the pious Man,
Who mortifies his Person all he can;
And what the World counts Lewdness, Vice, and Sin,
Are Penances of this odd Capuchin:
For never Hermit, under grave Pretence,
Has liv'd more contrary to common Sense.
Expecting Supper is his chief Delight;
Like any Labourer, our little Knight
Toils all the Day, but to be drunk at Night;
When o'er his Cups this Night-bird chirping sits,
Till he takes Huett and Jack Hall for Wits.

Last enter R********r, of sprightly Wit,
Yet not for Converse safe, or Business fit.
Mean in each Action, lewd in ev'ry Limb,
Manners themselves are mischievous in him.

123

A Gloss he gives to ev'ry foul Design,
And we must own his very Vices shine.
But of this odd Ill-Nature to Mankind
Himself alone the ill Effects will find.
So envious Hags in vain their Witchcraft try,
Yet for intended Mischief justly die.
For what a Bessus has he always liv'd,
And his own Kickings notably contriv'd?
For (there's the Folly that's still mix'd with Fear)
Cowards more Blows than any Heroes bear.
Of fighting Sparks Fame may her Pleasure say;
But 'tis a bolder Thing to run away.
The World may well forgive him all his Ill,
For ev'ry Fault does prove his Penance still.
Easily he falls into some dang'rous Noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loose:
A Life so infamous is better quitting,
Spent in base injuring, and low submitting.

How weak, and yet how vain a Thing is Man,
Mean what he will, endeavour what he can!

124

I, who design'd to be so wondrous wise,
Perceive at last, where the great Folly lies:
While others Weakness is so gravely shown,
Their Fame we ruin, but to raise our own;
That we may Angels seem, we paint them Elves,
And write but Satires, to set up ourselves.
Tho' to myself this Task appear'd so nice,
That ev'n the Ancients seem'd to want Advice;
With Strength unequal I have dar'd to climb
That lofty Height unreach'd in former Time.
No Wonder in the bold Attempt I fall,
And this, too late, to my Remembrance call;
“Learn to write well, or not to write at all.”

Remarkable for making pleasant and proper Similies on all Occasions.

146

ODE ON BRUTUS.

I.

'Tis said, that Favorite, Mankind,
Was made the Lord of all below;
But yet the Doubtful are concern'd to find,
'Tis only one Man tells another so.
And, for this great Dominion here,
Which over other Beasts we claim,
Reason our best Credential does appear;
By which, indeed, we domineer;
But how absurdly, we may see with Shame.

147

Reason, that solemn Trifle! light as Air;
Driv'n up and down by Censure or Applause:
By partial Love away 'tis blown,
Or the least Prejudice can weigh it down;
Thus our high Privilege becomes our Snare.
In any nice and weighty Cause,
How weak, at best, is Reason! yet the Grave
Impose on that small Judgment which we have.

II.

In all those Wits, whose Names have spread so wide,
And ev'n the Force of Time defy'd,
Some Failings yet may be descry'd.
Among the rest, with Wonder be it told,
That Brutus is admir'd for Cæsar's Death;
By which he yet survives in Fame's immortal Breath.
Brutus, ev'n he, of all the rest,
In whom we should that Deed the most detest,
Is of Mankind esteem'd the best.

148

As Snow descending from some lofty Hill,
Is by its rolling Course augmenting still;
So from illustrious Authors down have roll'd
Those great Encomiums he receiv'd of old:
Republick Orators still shew Esteem,
And gild their Eloquence with Praise of him.
But Truth unveil'd like a bright Sun appears,
To shine away this Heap of sev'nteen hundred Years.

III.

In vain 'tis urg'd by an illustrious Wit,
(To whom in all besides I willingly submit)
That Cæsar's Life no Pity could deserve
From one who kill'd himself, rather than serve.
Had Brutus chose rather himself to slay,
Than any Master to obey;
Happy for Rome had been that noble Pride;
The World had then remain'd in Peace, and only Brutus dy'd.

149

For he, whose Soul disdains to own
Subjection to a Tyrant's Frown,
And his own Life would rather end;
Would, sure, much rather kill himself, than only hurt his Friend.
To his own Sword in the Philippian Field
Brutus, indeed, at last did yield:
But in those Times Self-killing was not rare;
And his proceeded only from Despair:
He might have chosen else to live,
In hopes another Cæsar would forgive;
Then, for the Good of Rome, he could once more
Conspire against a Life which had spar'd his before.

IV.

Our Country challenges our utmost Care,
And in our Thoughts deserves the tender'st Share;
Her to a thousand Friends we should prefer
Yet not betray 'em, tho' it be for her.

150

Hard is his Heart, whom no Desert can move,
A Mistress or a Friend to love,
Above what e'er he does besides enjoy;
But may he, for their Sakes, his Sire or Sons destroy?
For sacred Justice, or for publick Good,
Scorn'd be our Wealth, our Honour, and our Blood:
In such a Cause, Want is a happy State;
Ev'n low Disgrace would be a glorious Fate;
And Death itself, when noble Fame survives,
More to be valu'd than a thousand Lives.
But 'tis not, surely, of so fair Renown,
To spill another's Blood, as to expose our own:
Of all that's ours we cannot give too much;
But what belongs to Friendship, oh! 'tis Sacrilege to touch.

V.

Can we stand by unmov'd, and see
Our Mother robb'd and ravish'd? Can we be

151

Excus'd, if in her Cause we never stir,
Pleas'd with the Strength and Beauty of the Ravisher?
Thus sings our Bard with almost Heat divine;
'Tis Pity that his Thought was not as strong as fine.
Wou'd it more justly did the Case express,
Or that its Beauty and its Grace were less.
(Thus a Nymph sometimes we see,
Who so charming seems to be,
That, jealous of a soft Surprize,
We scarce durst trust our eager Eyes)
Such a fallacious Ambush to escape,
It were but vain to plead a willing Rape;
A valiant Son would be provok'd the more;
A Force we therefore must confess, but acted long before;
A Marriage since did intervene,
With all the solemn and the sacred Scene;

152

Loud was the Hymenean Song;
The violated Dame walk'd smilingly along,
And in the Midst of the most sacred Dance,
As if enamour'd of his Sight,
Often she cast a kind admiring Glance
On the bold Strugler for Delight;
Who afterwards appear'd so moderate and cool,
As if for publick Good alone he so desir'd to rule.

VI.

But, oh! that this were all which we can urge,
Against a Roman of so great a Soul!
And that fair Truth permitted us to purge
His Fact, of what appears so foul!
Friendship, that sacred and sublimest Thing!
The noblest Quality, and chiefest Good,
(In this dull Age scarce understood)
Inspires us with unusual Warmth, her injur'd Rites to sing.
Assist, ye Angels! whose immortal Bliss,
Tho' more refin'd, chiefly consists in this!

153

How plainly your bright Thoughts to one another shine!
Oh! how ye all agree in Harmony divine!
The Race of mutual Love with equal Zeal ye run;
A Course, as far from any End, as when at first begun.
Ye saw, and smil'd upon this matchless Pair,
Who still betwixt 'em did so many Virtues share,
Some which belong to Peace, and some to Strife,
Those of a calm, and of an active Life,
That all the Excellence of Human-Kind
Concurr'd to make of both but one united Mind;
Which Friendship did so fast and closely bind,
Not the least Cement could appear, by which their Souls were join'd.
That Tye which holds our mortal Frame,
Which poor unknowing we a Soul and Body name,
Seems not a Composition more divine,
Or more abstruse, than all that does in Friendship shine.

154

VII.

From mighty Cæsar, and his boundless Grace,
Tho' Brutus once at least, his Life receiv'd;
Such Obligations, tho' so high believ'd,
Are yet but slight in such a Case,
Where Friendship so possesses all the Place,
There is no Room for Gratitude; since he,
Who so obliges, is more pleas'd than his sav'd Friend can be.
Just in the midst of all this noble Heat,
While their great Hearts did both so kindly beat,
That it amaz'd the Lookers on,
And forc'd them to suspect a Father and a Son;
(Tho' here ev'n Nature's Self still seem'd to be outdone)
From such a Friendship unprovok'd to fall,
Is horrid; yet I wish that Fact were all,
Which does with too much Cause ungrateful Brutus call.

155

VIII.

In coolest Blood he laid a long Design
Against his best and dearest Friend;
Did ev'n his Foes in Zeal exceed,
To spirit others up to work so black a Deed;
Himself the Centre where they all did join.
Cæsar, mean time, fearless, and fond of him,
Was as industrious all the while,
To give such ample Marks of fond Esteem,
As made the gravest Romans smile,
To see with how much Ease Love can the Wise beguile.
He, whom thus Brutus doom'd to bleed,
Did, setting his own Race aside,
Nothing less for him provide,
Than in the World's great Empire to succeed:
Which we are bound in Justice to allow,
Is all-sufficient Proof to show,
That Brutus did not strike for his own Sake:
And if, alas! he fail'd, 'twas only by Mistake.

Rome.

Cæsar was suspected to have begotten Brutus.

170

The RAPTURE.

I yield, I yield, and can no longer stay
My eager Thoughts, that force themselves away.
Sure, none inspir'd (whose Heat transports 'em still
Above their Reason, and beyond their Will)
Can firm against the strong Impulse remain:
Censure itself were not so sharp a Pain.
Let vulgar Minds submit to vulgar Sway;
What Ignorance shall think, or Malice say,
To me are Trifles; if the knowing Few,
Who can see Faults, but can see Beauties too,
Applaud that Genius which themselves partake,
And spare the Poet for the Muse's sake.

The Muse, who raises me from humble Ground,
To view the vast and various World around:

171

How fast I mount! In what a wond'rous Way
I grow transported to this large Survey!
I value Earth no more, and far below
Methinks I see the busy Pigmies go.
My Soul entranc'd is in a Rapture brought
Above the common Tracks of vulgar Thought:
With Fancy wing'd, I feel the purer Air,
And with Contempt look down on human Care.

Airy Ambition, ever soaring high,
Stands first expos'd to my censorious Eye.
Behold some toiling up a slipp'ry Hill,
Where, tho' arriv'd, they must be toiling still:
Some, with unsteady Feet, just fall'n to Ground;
Others at Top, whose Heads are turning round.
To this high Sphere it happens still that some,
The most unfit, are forwardest to come;
Yet among these are Princes forc'd to chuse,
Or seek out such as would perhaps refuse.
Favour too great is safely plac'd on none;
And soon becomes a Dragon or a Drone;

172

Either remiss and negligent of all,
Or else imperious and tyrannical.

The Muse inspires me now to look again,
And see a meaner Sort of sordid Men
Doating on little Heaps of yellow Dust;
For that despising Honour, Ease, and Lust.
Let other Bards, expressing how it shines,
Describe with Envy what the Miser finds;
Only as Heaps of Dirt it seems to me,
Where we such despicable Vermin see;
Who creep thro' Filth a thousand crooked Ways,
Insensible of Infamy or Praise:
Loaded with Guilt, they still pursue their Course;
Not ev'n restrain'd by Love, or Friendship's Force.

Not to enlarge on such an obvious Thought;
Behold their Folly, which transcends their Fault!
Alas! their Cares and Cautions only tend
To gain the Means, and then to lose the End.
Like Heroes in Romances, still in Fight
For Mistresses that yield them no Delight.

173

This, of all Vice, does most debase the Mind,
Gold is itself th'Allay to Human-kind.
Oh, happy Times! when no such Thing as Coin
E'er tempted Friends to part, or Foes to join!
Cattle or Corn, among those harmless Men,
Was all their Wealth, the Gold and Silver then:
Corn was too bulky to corrupt a Tribe,
And bell'wing Herds would have betray'd the Bribe.

Ev'n Traffick now is Intercourse of Ill,
And ev'ry Wind brings a new Mischief still;
By Trade we flourish in our Leaves and Fruit,
But Av'rice and Excess devour the Root.

Thus far the Muse unwillingly has been
Fix'd on the dull, less happy Sorts of Sin;
But, now more pleas'd, she views the diff'rent ways
Of Luxury, and all its Charms surveys.
Dear Luxury! thou soft, but sure Deceit!
Rise of the Mean, and Ruin of the Great!
Thou sure Presage of ill-approaching Fates!
The Bane of Empires, and the Change of States!

174

Armies in vain resist thy mighty Pow'r;
Not the worst Conduct would confound them more.
Thus Rome herself, while o'er the World she flew.
And did by Virtue all that World subdue,
Was by her own victorious Arms oppress'd,
And catch'd Infection from the conquer'd East;
Whence all those Vices came, which soon devour
The best Foundations of Renown and Pow'r.

But oh! what need have we abroad to roam,
Who feel too much the sad Effects at home,
Of wild Excess? which we so plainly find,
Decays the Body, and impairs the Mind.
But yet grave Fops must not presume from hence
To slight the sacred Pleasures of the Sense:
Our Appetites are Nature's Laws, and giv'n
Under the broad authentick Seal of Heav'n.
Let Pedants wrangle, and let Bigots fight,
To put Restraint on innocent Delight;
But Heav'n and Nature's always in the right;

175

They would not draw poor wretched Mortals in,
Or give Desires that shall be doom'd for Sin.
Yet, that in Height of harmless Joys we may
Last to old Age, and never lose a Day;
Amidst our Pleasures we ourselves should spare,
And manage all with Temperance and Care.
The Gods forbid but we sometimes may steep
Our Joys in Wine, and lull our Cares asleep.
It raises Nature, ripens Seeds of Worth,
As moist'ning Pictures calls the Colours forth;
But if the Varnish we too oft apply,
Alas! like Colours, we grow faint and die.
Hold, hold, impetuous Muse: I would restrain
Her over-eager Heat, but all in vain;
Abandon'd to Delights, she longs to rove;
I check her here, and now she flies to Love;
Shews me some rural Nymph by Shepherd chas'd,
Soon overtaken, and as soon embrac'd:
The Grass by her, as she by him is press'd;
For shame, my Muse, let Fancy guess the rest:

176

At such a Point Fancy can never stay,
But flies beyond whatever you can say.
Behold the silent Shades, the am'rous Grove,
The dear Delights, the very Act of Love.
This is his lowest Sphere, his Country Scene,
Where Love is humble, and his Fare but mean;
Yet springing up without the Help of Art,
Leaves a sincerer Relish in the Heart,
More healthfully, tho' not so finely fed,
And better thrives than where more nicely bred.
But 'tis in Courts where most he makes a Show,
And high enthron'd, governs the World below;
For tho' in Histories learn'd Ignorance
Attributes all to Cunning, or to Chance;
Love will in those Disguises often smile,
And knows, the Cause was Kindness all the while.
What Story, Place, or Person cannot prove
The boundless Influence of mighty Love?
Where-e'er the Sun can vig'rous Heat inspire,
Both Sexes glow, and languish with Desire.

177

The weary'd Swain fast in the Arms of Sleep
Love can awake, and often sighing keep;
And busy Gown-men, by fond Love disguis'd,
Will Leisure find to make themselves despis'd.
The proudest Kings submit to Beauty's Sway;
Beauty itself, a greater Prince than they,
Lies sometimes languishing with all its Pride
By a belov'd, tho' fickle Lover's Side.
I mean to slight the soft enchanting Charm,
But, oh! my Head and Heart are both too warm.
I doat on Womankind with all their Faults;
Love turns my Satire into softest Thoughts;
Of all that Passion which our Peace destroys,
Instead of Mischiefs, I describe the Joys.
But short will be his Reign; (I fear too short)
And present Cares shall be my future Sport.
Then Love's bright Torch put out, his Arrows broke,
Loose from kind Chains, and from th'engaging Yoke,
To all fond Thoughts I'll sing such Counter-Charms,
The Fair shall listen in their Lovers Arms.

178

Now the Enthusiastick Fit is spent,
I feel my Weakness, and too late repent.
As they who walk in Dreams, oft climb too high
For Sense to follow with a waking Eye;
And in such wild Attempts are blindly bold,
Which afterwards they tremble to behold:
So I review these Sallies of my Pen,
And modest Reason is return'd agen;
My Confidence I curse, my Fate accuse,
Scarce hold from censuring the sacred Muse.

No wretched Poet of the railing Pit,
No Critick curs'd with the wrong Side of Wit,
Is more severe from Ignorance and Spite,
Than I with Judgment against all I write.

179

On Mr. HOBBS, and his Writings.

Such is the Mode of these censorious Days,
The Art is lost of knowing how to praise;
Poets are envious now, and Fools alone
Admire at Wit, because themselves have none.
Yet whatsoe'er is by vain Criticks thought,
Praising is harder much than finding Fault;
In homely Pieces ev'n the Dutch excel,
Italians only can draw Beauty well.

As Strings, alike wound up, so equal prove,
That one resounding makes the other move;
From such a Cause our Satires please so much,
We sympathize with each ill-natur'd Touch;

180

And as the sharp Infection spreads about,
The Reader's Malice helps the Writer out.
To blame, is easy; to commend, is bold;
Yet, if the Muse inspires it, who can hold?
To Merit we are bound to give Applause,
Content to suffer in so just a Cause.

While in dark Ignorance we lay afraid
Of Fancies, Ghosts, and ev'ry empty Shade;
Great Hobbs appear'd, and by plain Reason's Light
Put such fantastick Forms to shameful Flight.
Fond is their Fear, who think Men needs must be
To Vice enslav'd, if from vain Terrors free;
The Wise and Good, Morality will guide,
And Superstition all the World beside.

In other Authors, tho' the Thought be good,
'Tis not sometimes so eas'ly understood;
That Jewel oft unpolish'd has remain'd;
Some Words should be left out, and some explain'd;
So that in Search of Sense, we either stray,
Or else grow weary in so rough a Way.

181

But here sweet Eloquence does always smile,
In such a choice, yet unaffected Style,
As must both Knowledge and Delight impart,
The Force of Reason, with the Flow'rs of Art;
Clear as a beautiful transparent Skin,
Which never hides the Blood, yet holds it in:
Like a delicious Stream it ever ran,
As smooth as Woman, but as strong as Man.

Bacon himself, whose universal Wit
Does Admiration through the World beget,
Scarce more his Age's Ornament is thought,
Or greater Credit to his Country brought.

While Fame is young, too weak to fly away,
Malice pursues her, like some Bird of Prey;
But once on Wing, then all the Quarrels cease;
Envy herself is glad to be at Peace,
Gives over, weary'd with so high a Flight,
Above her Reach, and scarce within her Sight.
Hobbs to this happy Pitch arriv'd at last,
Might have look'd down with Pride on Dangers past:

182

But such the Frailty is of Human Kind,
Men toil for Fame, which no Man lives to find;
Long rip'ning under-ground this China lies;
Fame bears no Fruit, till the vain Planter dies.

Thus Nature, tir'd with his unusual Length
Of Life, which put her to her utmost Strength,
Such Stock of Wit unable to supply,
To spare herself, was glad to let him die.

183

Written over a Gate.

Here lives a Man, who, by Relation,
Depends upon Predestination;
For which the Learned and the Wise
His Understanding much despise:
But I pronounce with loyal Tongue
Him in the right, them in the wrong.
For how could such a Wretch succeed?
But that, alas, it was Decreed!

184

The MIRACLE, 1707.

Merit they hate, and Wit they slight;
They neither act, nor reason right,
And nothing mind but Pence.
Unskilful they Victorious are,
Conduct a Kingdom without Care,
A Council without Sense.

So Moses once, and Joshua,
And that Virago Debora,
Bestrid poor Israel:
Like Rev'rence pay to these! for who
Could ride a Nation as they do,
Without a Miracle?

185

ODE on the Death of Henry Purcell.

Set to Musick.

Good Angels snatch'd him eagerly on high;
Joyful they flew, singing and soaring thro' the Sky,
Teaching his new-fledg'd Soul to fly;
While we, alas! lamenting lie.
He went musing all along,
Composing new their heav'nly Song.
A while his skilful Notes loud Hallelujahs drown'd;
But soon they ceas'd their own, to catch his pleasing Sound.
David himself improv'd the Harmony,
David in sacred Story so renown'd
No less for Musick, than for Poetry!

186

Genius sublime in either Art!
Crown'd with Applause surpassing all Desert!
A Man just after God's own Heart!
If human Cares are lawful to the Blest,
Already settled in eternal Rest;
Needs must he wish that Purcell only might
Have liv'd to set what he vouchsaf'd to write;
For, sure, the noble Thirst of Fame
With the frail Body never dies;
But with the Soul ascends the Skies
From whence at first it came.
'Tis sure no little Proof we have
That Part of us survives the Grave,
And in our Fame below still bears a Share:
Why is the Future else so much our Care,
Ev'n in our latest Moment of Despair?
And Death despis'd for Fame by all the Wise and Brave?
Oh, all ye blest harmonious Choir!
Who Pow'r Almighty only love, and only that admire!

187

Look down with Pity from your peaceful Bow'r,
On this sad Isle perplex'd,
And ever, ever vex'd
With anxious Care of Trifles, Wealth, and Pow'r.
In our rough Minds due Reverence infuse
For sweet melodious Sounds, and each harmonious Muse.
Musick exalts Man's Nature, and inspires
High elevated Thoughts, or gentle, kind Desires.

188

On the Loss of an only Son, Robert Marquis of Normanby.

Our Morning's gay and shining;
The Days our Joys declare;
At Ev'ning no Repining;
And Night's all void of Care.

A fond transported Mother
Was often heard to cry,
Oh, where is such another
So bless'd by Heav'n as I?

A Child at first was wanting;
Now such a Son is sent,
As Parents most lamenting
In him would find Content.

189

A Child, of whom kind Heaven
Not only Hope bestows,
But has already given
Him all our Hopes propose.

The happy Sire's possessing
His Share in such a Boy,
Adds still a greater Blessing
To all my other Joy.

But ah! this shiny Weather
Became too hot to last;
Black Clouds began to gather,
And all the Sky o'ercast.

So fierce a Fever rages,
We all lie drown'd in Tears;
And dismal sad Presages
Come thund'ring in our Ears.

190

The Doubts that mrde us languish,
Did worse, far worse than kill:
Yet, oh, with all their Anguish,
Would we had doubted still!

But why so much Digression,
This fatal Loss to show?
Alas, there's no Expression
Can tell a Parent's Woe!

191

On Mr. POPE, and his Poems.

With Age decay'd, with Courts and Bus'ness tir'd,
Caring for nothing but what Ease requir'd,
Too serious now a wanton Muse to court,
And from the Criticks safe arriv'd in Port;
I little thought of launching forth agen,
Amidst advent'rous Rovers of the Pen;
And, after some small undeserv'd Success,
Thus hazarding at last to make it less.

Encomiums suit not this censorious Time,
Itself a Subject for Satirick Rhyme;
Ignorance honour'd, Wit and Worth defam'd,
Folly triumphant, and ev'n Homer blam'd.

192

But to this Genius, join'd with so much Art,
Such various Learning mix'd in ev'ry Part,
Poets are bound a loud Applause to pay;
Apollo bids it, and they must obey.

And yet so wond'rous, so sublime a thing,
As the great Iliad, scarce should make me sing;
Except I justly could at once commend
A good Companion, and as firm a Friend.
One moral, or a mere well-natur'd Deed,
Can all Desert in Sciences exceed.

'Tis great Delight to laugh at some Mens Ways;
But a much greater to give Merit Praise.

193

STANZAS.

[Whene'er my foolish Bent to Publick Good]

Whene'er my foolish Bent to Publick Good,
Or fonder Zeal for some misguided Prince,
Shall make my dang'rous Humour understood,
For changing Ministers for Men of Sense:

When vainly proud to shew my publick Care,
And ev'n asham'd to see three Nations fool'd,
I shall no longer bear a wretched Share
In ruling ill, or being over-rul'd:

Then, as old Letchers in a Winter's Night
To yawning Hearers all their Pranks disclose;
And what Decay deprives them of Delight,
Supply with vain Endeavours to impose:

194

Just so shall I as idly entertain
Some stripling Patriots, fond of seeming wise;
Tell, how I still cou'd great Employments gain,
Without concealing Truths, or whisp'ring Lyes;

Boast of succeeding in my Country's Cause
Ev'n against some almost too high to blame;
Whom, when advanc'd beyond the Reach of Laws,
I oft have ridicul'd to Sense and Shame:

Say, I resisted the most potent Fraud;
But friendless Merit openly approv'd;
And that I was above the being aw'd
Not only by my Prince, but those he lov'd:

Who knows but my Example then may please
Such noble, hopeful Spirits as appear
Willing to slight their Pleasures, and their Ease,
For Fame and Honour? Till at last they hear,

195

After much Trouble borne, and Danger run,
The Crown assisted, and my Country serv'd;
Without good Fortune I had been undone,
Without a good Estate I might have starv'd.

196

The Election of a Poet Laureat in 1719.

A famous Assembly was summon'd of late:
To crown a new Laureat came Phoebus in State;
With all that Montfaucon himself could desire,
His Bow, Laurel, Harp, and abundance of Fire.

At Bartlemew-Fair ne'er did Bullies so justle,
No Country Election e'er made such a Bustle:
From Garret, Mint, Tavern, they all post away,
Some thirsting for Sack, some ambitious of Bay.

All came with full Confidence, flush'd with vain Hope,
From Cibber and Durfey, to Prior and Pope.
Phoebus smil'd on these last, but yet ne'ertheless,
Said, he hop'd they had got enough by the Press.

197

With a huge Mountain-load of Heroical Lumber,
Which from Tonson to Curll ev'ry Press had groan'd under;
Came Bl---e, and cry'd, Look, all these are my Lays;
But at present I beg you'd but read my Essays.

Lampooners and Criticks rush'd in like a Tide,
Stern Dennis and Gildon came first side by side.
Apollo confess'd that their Lashes had Stings,
But Beadles and Hangmen were never chose Kings.

Steel long had so cunningly manag'd the Town,
He could not be blam'd for expecting the Crown:
Apollo demurr'd as to granting his Wish,
But wish'd him good Luck in his Project of Fish.

Lame Congreve, unable such things to endure,
Of Apollo begg'd either a Crown or a Cure;
To refuse such a Writer, Apollo was loth,
And almost inclin'd to have granted him both.

198

When Buckingham came, he scarce car'd to be seen,
Till Phoebus desir'd his old Friend to walk in:
But a Laureat Peer had never been known;
The Commoners claim'd that Place as their own.

Yet if the kind God had been ne'er so inclin'd
To break an old Rule, yet he well knew his Mind,
Who of such Preferment would only make Sport,
And laugh'd at all Suitors for Places at Court.

Notwithstanding this Law, yet Lansdown was nam'd,
But Apollo with Kindness his Indolence blam'd;
And said he would chuse him, but that he should fear,
An Employment of Trouble he never could bear.

A Prelate for Wit and for Eloquence fam'd,
Apollo soon miss'd, and he needs not be nam'd;
Since amidst a whole Bench, of which some are so bright,
No one of them shines so learn'd and polite.

199

To Shippen, Apollo was cold with Respect,
Since he for the State could the Muses neglect:
But said, in a greater Assembly he shin'd,
And Places were things he had ever declin'd.

Tr---p, Y---g and Vanbrugh expected Reward,
For some things writ well; but Apollo declar'd,
That one was too flat, the other too rough,
And the third sure already had Places enough.

Pert B---ll came next, and demanding the Bays,
Said, Those Works must be good, which had Addison's Praise;
But Apollo reply'd, Child Eustace, 'tis known,
Most Authors will praise whatsoever's their own.

Then Ph---ps came forth, as starch as a Quaker,
Whose simple Profession's a Pastoral-maker;
Apollo advis'd him from Playhouse to keep,
And pipe to nought else but his Dog and his Sheep.

200

H---hes, F---ton, and G---y, came last in the Train,
Too modest to ask for the Grown they would gain:
Phoebus thought them too bashful, and said they would need
More Boldness, if ever they hop'd to succeed.

Apollo, now driv'n to a cursed Quandary,
Was wishing for Swift, or the fam'd Lady Mary:
Nay, had honest Tom Southern but been within Call—
But at last he grew wanton, and laugh'd at them all:

And so spying one who came only to gaze,
A Hater of Verse, and Despiser of Plays;
To him in great Form, without any Delay,
(Tho' a zealous Fanatick) presented the Bay.

All the Wits stood astonish'd, at hearing the God
So gravely pronounce an Election so odd:
And tho' Prior and Pope only laugh'd in his Face,
Most others were ready to sink in the Place.

201

Yet some thought the Vacancy open was kept,
Concluding the Bigot would never accept:
But the Hypocrite told them, he well understood,
Tho' the Function was wicked, the Stipend was good.

At last in rush'd Eusden, and cry'd, “Who shall have it,
“But I, the true Laureat, to whom the King gave it?”
Apollo begg'd Pardon, and granted his Claim;
But vow'd tho', till then he ne'er heard of his Name.

Dr. Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester.

202

On the TIMES.

Since in vain our Parsons teach,
Hear, for once, a Poet preach.
Vice has lost its very Name,
Skill and Coz'nage thought the same;
Only playing well the Game.
Foul Contrivances we see
Call'd but Ingenuity;
Ample Fortunes often made
Out of Frauds in ev'ry Trade,
Which an aukward Child afford
Enough to wed the greatest Lord.
The Miser starves to raise a Son;
But, if once the Fool is gone,
Years of Thirft scarce serve a Day,
Rake-hell squanders all away.

203

Husbands sneaking for a Place,
Or toiling for their Pay;
While the Wives undo their Race
By Petticoats and Play:
Breeding Boys to Drink and Dice,
Carrying Girls to Comedies,
Where Ma-ma's Intrigues are shown,
Which ere long will be their own.
Having first at Sermon slept,
Tedious Day is weekly kept
By worse Hypocrites, than Men,
Till Monday comes to cheat agen.
Ev'n among the Noblest-born,
Moral Virtue is a Scorn;
Gratitude, but rare at best;
And Fidelity a Jest.
All our Wit but Party-mocks;
All our Wisdom, raising Stocks:
Counted Folly to defend
Sinking Side, or falling Friend.

204

Long an Officer may serve;
Prais'd and wounded, he may starve:
No Receipt, to make him rise,
Like inventing loyal Lyes.
We, whose Ancestors have shin'd
In Arts of Peace, and Fields of Fame,
To Ill and Idleness inclin'd,
Now are grown a publick Shame.
Fatal that intestine Jar,
Which produc'd our Civil War!
Ever since, how sad a Race!
Senseless, violent, and base!

205

ON THE DUKE of YORK Banished to Brussels.

I feel a strange Impulse, a strong Desire,
(For what vain Thoughts will not a Muse inspire?)
To sing on lofty Subjects, and to raise
My own low Fame, by writing James's Praise.

Oft have we heard the Wonders of his Youth;
Observ'd those Seeds of Fortitude and Truth;
Which since have spread so wide, so wondrous high,
The Good distress'd beneath that Shelter lie.

206

In Arms more active than ev'n War requir'd,
And in the midst of mighty Chiefs admir'd.
Of all Heav'n's Gifts, no Temper is so rare,
As so much Courage, mix'd with so much Care.

When martial Fire makes all the Spirits boil,
And forces Youth to military Toil;
No Wonder it should fiercely then engage;
Women themselves will venture in a Rage:
But in the midst of all that furious Heat,
While so intent on Actions brave and great,
For other Lives to feel such tender Fears,
And careless of his own, to care for theirs;
Is that Composure which a Hero makes,
And which illustrious York alone partakes,
With that great Man whose Fame has flown so far,
Who taught him first the noble Art of War.

Oh wondrous Pair! whom equal Virtues crown;
Oh worthy of each other's vast Renown!

207

None but Turenne with York could Glory share,
And none but York deserve so great a Master's Care.

Scarce was he come to bless his native Isle,
And reap the soft Rewards of glorious Toil,
But like Alcides, still new Dangers call
His Courage forth, and still he vanquish'd all.

At Sea, that bloody Scene of boundless Rage,
Where floating Castles in fierce Flames engage,
(Where Mars himself does frowningly command,
And by Lieutenants only fights at Land)
For his own Fame howe'er he fought before,
For England's Honour yet he ventur'd more.

In those black Times, when Faction raging high,
Valour and Innocence were forc'd to fly,
With York they fled; but not deprest his Mind;
Still, like a Diamond in the Dust, it shin'd.
When from afar his drooping Friends beheld
How in Distress he ev'n himself excell'd;

208

How to his envious Fate, his Country's Frown,
His Brother's Will, he sacrific'd his own;
They rais'd their Hearts, and never doubted more
But that just Heav'n would all our Joys restore.

So when black Clouds surround Heav'n's glorious Face,
Tempestuous Darkness cov'ring all the Place;
If we discern but the least glimm'ring Ray
Of that bright Orb of Fire which rules the Day;
The chearful Sight our fainting Courage warms;
Fix'd upon that, we fear no future Harms.

The Mareschal de Turenne.

On the DEITY.

Wretched Mankind! void both of Strength and Skill!
Dextrous at nothing but at doing Ill!
In Merit humble, in Pretension high;
Among them none, alas! more weak than I;

209

And none more blind: tho' still I worthless thought
The best I ever spoke, or ever wrote.

But zealous Heat exalts the humblest Mind;
Within my Soul such strong Impulse I find
The Heav'nly Tribute of due Praise to pay:
Perhaps 'tis sacred, and I must obey.

Yet such the Subjects, various, and so high!
Stupendous Wonders of the Deity!
Miraculous Effects of boundless Pow'r!
And that as boundless Goodness shining more!
All these, so numberless, my Thoughts attend,
Oh where shall I begin, or ever end?

But on that Theme which ev'n the Wise abuse,
So sacred, so sublime, and so abstruse,
Abruptly to break off, wants no Excuse.

While others vainly strive to know Thee more,
Let me in silent Reverence adore;

210

Wishing that human Pow'r were higher rais'd,
Only that Thine might be more nobly prais'd!
Thrice happy Angels in their high Degree;
Created worthy of extolling Thee!

FINIS.