Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Give me my heart again (fair Treachery)
You ravish'd from me with a smile,
Oh! let it in some nobler quarrel die
Than a poor Trophy of your guile.
And Faith (bright Cœlia) tell me, what should you,
Who are all Falshood, doe with one so true?

II

Or lend me yours awhile instead of it,
That I in time my skill may try,
Though ill I know it will my bosom fit,
To teach it some Fidelity;
Or that it else may teach me to begin
To be to you what you to me have been.

III

False and imperious Cœlia, cease to be
Proud of a Conquest is your shame,
You triumph o'er an humble Enemy,
Not one you fairly overcame.
Your eyes alone might have subdu'd my heart,
Without the poor confed'racy of Art.

IV

But to the pow'r of Beauty you must add
The Witchcraft of a sigh and tear
I did admire before, but yet was made
By those to love; they fix'd me there:
I else, as other transient Lovers doe,
Had twenty lov'd e'er this as well as you.

V

And twenty more I did intend to love,
E'er twenty weeks are past and gone,
And at a rate so modish, as shall prove
My heart a very civil one:
But oh, (false fair!) I thus resolve in vain,
Unless you give me back my heart again.

The Expostulation.

I

Have I lov'd my Fair so long,
Six Olympiads at least,
And to Youth and Beauties wrong,
On Vertues single Interest,
To be at last with scorn oppress'd?

II

Have I lov'd that space so true,
Without looking once awry,
Lest I might prove false to you,
To whom I vow'd Fidelity,
To be repay'd with Cruelty?

III

Was you not, oh sweet! confess,
Willing to be so belov'd?
Favour gave my Flame encrease,
By which it still aspiring mov'd,
And had gone out, if disapprov'd.

IV

Whence then can this change proceed?
Say; or whither does it tend?
That false heart will one day bleed,
When it has brought so true a Friend
To cruel and untimely end.

Sonnet.

[What have I left to doe but dye]

What have I left to doe but dye,
Since Hope, my old Companion,
That train'd me from my Infancy,
My Friend, my Comforter is gone?

Oh fawning, false, deceiving Friend!
Accursed be thy Flatteries,
Which treacherously did intend
I should be wretched to be wise:

And so I am; for being taught
To know thy guiles, have only wrought
My greater misery and pain:

My misery is yet so great,
That, though I have found out the Cheat,
I wish for thee again in vain.

The Tempest.

I

Standing upon the margent of the Main,
Whilst the high boiling Tide came tumbling in,
I felt my fluctuating thoughts maintain
As great an Ocean, and as rude, within;
As full of Waves, of Depths, and broken Grounds,
As that which daily laves her chalky bounds.

II

Soon could my sad Imagination find
A Parallel to this half World of Floud,
An Ocean by my walls of Earth confin'd,
And Rivers in the Chanels of my Bloud:
Discovering man, unhappy man, to be
Of this great Frame Heaven's Epitome.

III

There pregnant Argosies with full Sails ride,
To shoot the Gulphs of Sorrow and Despair,
Of which the Love no Pilot has to guide,
But to her Sea-born Mother steers by Pray'r,
When, oh! the Hope her Anchor lost, undone,
Rolls at the mercy of the Regent Moon.

IV

'Tis my ador'd Diana, then must be
The Guid'ress to this beaten Bark of mine,
'Tis she must calm and smooth this troubled Sea,
And waft my hope over the vaulting Brine:
Call home thy venture Dian then at last,
And be as merciful as thou art chaste.

To Cœlia.

ODE.

I

When Cœlia must my old day set,
And my young morning rise
In beams of joy so bright as yet
Ne'er bless'd a Lovers eye,
My State is more advanc'd, than when
I first attempted thee;
I su'd to be a Servant then,
But now to be made Free.

II

I've serv'd my time Faithfull and True,
Expecting to be plac'd,
In happy Freedom, as my due,
To all the Joys thou hast:
Ill Husbandry in Love is such
A Scandal to Love's pow'r,
We ought not to mispend so much
As one poor short-liv'd hour.

III

Yet think not (Sweet) I'm weary grown,
That I pretend such haste,
Since none to surfeit e'er was known,
Before he had a taste;
My Infant Love could humbly wait,
When young it scarce knew how
To plead; but, grown to Man's estate,
He is impatient now.

The Picture.

I

How, Chloris, can I e'er believe
The Vows of Women kind,
Since yours I faithless find,
So faithless, that you can refuse
To him your shadow, that to chuse
You swore you could the substance give?

II

Is't not enough that I must go
Into another Clime,
Where Feather-footed Time
May turn my Hopes into Despair,
My youthful Dawn to bristled Hair,
But that you add this torment too?

III

Perchance you fear Idolatry
Would make the Image prove
A Woman fit for love;
Or give it such a soul as shone
Through fond Pigmalion's living stone,
That so I might abandon thee.

IV

O no! 'twould fill my Genius room,
My honest one, that when
Frailty would love agen,
And, failing, with new objects burn,
Then, Sweetest, would thy Picture turn
My wandring eyes to thee at home.

Elegy.

Gods! are you just, and can it be
You should deal man his misery
With such a liberal hand, yet spare
So meanly when his Joys you share?
Durst timorous Mortality
Demand of this the reason why?
The Argument of all our Ills
Would end in this, that 'tis your Wills.
Be it so then, and since 'tis fit
We to your harsh Decrees submit,
Farewell all durable content,
Nothing but woe is permanent.

How strangely, in a little space,
Is my State chang'd from what it was,
When my Clorinda with her Rays,
Illustrated this happy place?

When she was here, was here, alass!
How sadly sounds that, when she was!
That Monarch rul'd not under sky,
Who was so great a Prince as I:
And if who boasts most Treasure be
The greatest Monarch, I was he;
As seiz'd of her, who from her Birth
Has been the Treasure of the Earth:
But she is gone, and I no more
That mighty Sovereign, but as poor,
Since stript of that my glorious trust,
As he who grovels in the dust.

Now I could quarrel Heav'n, and be
Ring-leader to a Mutiny,
Like that of the Gygantick Wars,
And hector my malignant Stars;
Or, in a tamer method, sit
Sighing, as though my heart would split;

With looks dejected, armes across,
Mourning and weeping for a loss
My sweet (if kind as heretofore)
Can in two short-liv'd hours restore.

Some God then, (sure you are not all
Deaf to poor Lovers when they call)
Commiserating my sad smart,
Touch fair Clorinda's noble heart
To pitty a poor sufferer,
Disdains to sigh, unless for her!
Some friendly Deity possess
Her generous Breast with my distress!
Oh! tell her how I sigh away
The tedious hours of the day;
Hating all light that does not rise
From the gay Morning of her eyes:
Tell her that Friends, which were to be
Welcome to men in misery,
To me, I know not how, of late
Are grown to be importunate:

My Books which once were wont to be
My best beloved Company,
Are (save a Prayer-book for Form)
Left to the Canker or the Worm:
My Study's Grief, my Pleasure Care,
My Joys are Woe, my Hope Despair,
Fears are my Drink, deep Sighs my Food,
And my Companions Solitude.

Night too, which Heav'n ordain'd to be
Man's chiefest Friend's my Enemy,
When she her Sable Curtain spreads,
The whole Creation make their beds,
And every thing on Earth is bless'd
With gentle and refreshing Rest;
But wretched I, more pensive made
By the addition of that shade,
Am left alone, with sorrow roar
The grief I did but sigh before;
And tears which, check'd by shame and light,
Do only drop by day, by night

(No longer aw'd by nice respects,)
Gush out in Flouds and Cataracts.
Ill life, ah Love, why is it so!
To me is measur'd out by woe,
Whilst she, who is that life's great light,
Conceals her Glories from my sight.
Say, fair Clorinda, why should he
Who is thy Vertue's Creature be
More wretched than the rest of men
Who love and are belov'd agen?
I know my passion, not desert,
Has giv'n me int'rest in a heart,
Truer than ever Man possess'd,
And in that knowledge I am bless'd;
Yet even thence proceed my care,
That makes your absence hard to bear;
For were you cruel, I should be
Glad to avoid your cruelty;
But happy in an equal flame,
I, Sweetest, thus impatient am:

Then since your presence can restore
My heart the joy it had before,
Since lib'ral Heaven never gave
To Woman such a pow'r to save,
Practise that Sovereign pow'r on one
Must live or dye for you alone.

Taking leave of Chloris.

I

She sighs as if she would restore
The life she took away before;
As if she did recant my doom,
And sweetly would reprieve me home:
Such hope to one condemn'd appears
From every whisper that he hears:
But what do such vain hopes avail,
If those sweet sighs compose a gale,
To drive me hence, and swell my sail?

II

See, see, she weeps! Who would not swear
That love descended in that tear,
Boasting him of his wounded prize
Thus in the bleeding of her eyes?
Or that those tears with just pretence
Would quench the fire that came from thence?
But oh! they are (which strikes me dead)
Chrystal her frozen heart has bred,
Neither in love nor pitty shed.

III

Thus of my merit jealous grown,
My happiness I dare not own,
But wretchedly her favours wear,
Blind to my self, unjust to her
Whose sighs and tears at least discover
She pitties, if not loves her Lover:
And more betrays the Tyrant's skill,
Than any blemish in her will,
That thus laments whom she doth kill.

IV

Pitty still (Sweet) my dying state,
My flame may sure pretend to that,
Since it was only unto thee
I gave my life and liberty;
Howe'er my life's misfortune's laid,
By love I'm pitty's object made.
Pitty me then, and if thou hear
I'm dead, drop such another tear,
And I am paid my full arrear.

Song.

I

Fie pretty Doris! weep no more,
Damon is doubtless safe on shoar,
Despight of wind and wave;
The life is Fate-free that you cherish,
And 'tis unlike he now should perish
You once thought fit to save.

II

Dry (Sweet) at last, those twins of light,
Which whilst ecclips'd, with us 'tis night,
And all of us are blind:
The tears that you so freely shed,
Are both too pretious for the Dead,
And for the Quick too kind.

III

Fie, pretty Doris! sigh no more,
The Gods your Damon will restore,
From Rocks and Quick-sands free;
Your wishes will secure his way,
And doubtless he, for whom you pray,
May laugh at Destiny.

IV

Still then those Tempests of your breast,
And set that pretty heart at rest,
The man will soon return;
Those sighs for Heav'n are only fit,
Arabian Gums are not so sweet,
Nor Off'rings when they burn.

V

On him you lavish grief in vain,
Can't be lamented, nor complain,
Whilst you continue true:
That man's disaster is above,
And needs no pitty, that does love
And is belov'd by you.

Resolution in four Sonnets, of a Poetical Question put to me by a Friend, concerning four Rural Sisters.

Sonnet. I.

[Alice is tall and upright as a Pine]

Alice is tall and upright as a Pine,
White as blaunch'd Almonds, or the falling Snow,
Sweet as are Damask Roses when they blow,
And doubtless fruitful as the swelling Vine.

Ripe to be cut, and ready to be press'd,
Her full cheek'd beauties very well appear,
And a year's fruit she loses e'ery year,
Wanting a man t'improve her to the best.

Full fain she would be husbanded, and yet,
Alass! she cannot a fit Lab'rer get
To cultivate her to her own content:

Fain would she be (God wot) about her task,
And yet (forsooth) she is too proud to ask,
And (which is worse) too modest to consent.

Sonnet. II.

[Marg'ret of humbler stature by the head]

Marg'ret of humbler stature by the head
Is (as it oft falls out with yellow hair)
Than her fair Sister, yet so much more fair,
As her pure white is better mixt with red.

This, hotter than the other ten to one,
Longs to be put unto her Mothers trade,
And loud proclaims she lives too long a Maid,
Wishing for one t'untie her Virgin Zone.

She finds Virginity a kind of ware
That's very very troublesome to bear,
And being gone, she thinks will ne'er be mist:

And yet withall the Girl has so much grace,
To call for help I know she wants the face,
Though ask'd, I know not how she would resist.

Sonnet. III.

[Mary is black, and taller than the last]

Mary is black, and taller than the last
Yet equal in perfection and desire,
To the one's melting snow, and t'other's fire,
As with whose black their fairness is defac'd:

She pants as much for love as th' other two,
But she so vertuous is, or else so wise,
That she will win or will not love a prize,
And but upon good terms will never doe:

Therefore who her will conquer ought to be
At least as full of love and wit as she,
Or he shall ne'er gain favour at her hands:

Nay, though he have a pretty store of brains,
Shall only have his labour for his pains,
Unless he offer more than she demands.

Sonnet. IV.

[Martha is not so tall, nor yet so fair]

Martha is not so tall, nor yet so fair
As any of the other lovely three,
Her chiefest Grace is poor simplicity,
Yet were the rest away, she were a Star.

She's fair enough, only she wants the art
To set her Beauties off as they can doe,
And that's the cause she ne'er heard any woo,
Nor ever yet made conquest of a heart:

And yet her bloud's as boiling as the best,
Which, pretty soul, does so disturb her rest,
And makes her languish so, she's fit to die.

Poor thing, I doubt she still must lie alone,
For being like to be attack'd by none,
Sh'as no more wit to ask than to deny.

On my pretty Marten.

Come, my pretty little Muse,
Your assistence I must use,
And you must assist me too
Better than you use to doe,
Or the Subject we disgrace
Has oblig'd us many ways.
Pretty Matty is our Theme,
Of all others the supreme;
Should we studie for't a year,
Could we chuse a prettier?
Little Mat, whose pretty play
Does divert us ev'ry day,
Whose Caresses are so kind,
Sweet, and free, and undesign'd,
Meekness is not more disarming,
Youth and modesty more charming;

Nor from any ill intent
Nuns or Doves more innocent:
And for Beauty, Nature too
Here would shew what she could doe;
Finer Creature ne'er was seen,
Half so pretty, half so clean.
Eyes as round and black as Sloe,
Teeth as white as morning Snow;
Breath as sweet as blowing Roses,
When the Morn their leaves discloses,
Or, what sweeter you'll allow,
Breath of Vestals when they vow,
Or, that yet doth sweeter prove,
Sighs of Maids who die for Love.
Next his Feet my praise commands,
Which methinks we should call hands.
For so finely they are shap'd,
And for any use so apt,
Nothing can so dext'rous be,
Nor fine handed near as he.
These, without though black as Jet,
Within are soft and supple yet

As Virgins Palm, where Man's deceit
Seal of promise never set.
Back and Belly soft as Dawn,
Sleeps which peace of Conscience crown,
Or the whispers Love reveal,
Or the kisses Lovers steal:
And of such a rich perfume,
As, to say I dare presume,
Will out-ravish and out-wear
That of th' fulsome Milliner.
Tail so bushy and so long,
(Which t'omit would doe him wrong)
As the proudest she of all
Proudly would be fann'd withall.

Having given thus the shape
Of this pretty little Ape,
To his Vertues next I come,
Which amount to such a summe,
As not only well may pass
Both my Poetry and Dress

To set forth as I should do't,
But Arithmetick to boot.

Valour is the ground of all
That we Mortals Vertues call;
And the little Cavalier
That I do present you here,
Has of that so great a share,
He might lead the World to war.
What the Beasts of greater size
Tremble at he does despise,
And is so compos'd of heart,
Drums nor Guns can make him start:
Noises which make others quake,
Serve his Courage to awake.
Libyan Lyons make their Feasts
Of subdu'd Plebean Beasts,
And Hyrcanian Tigers prey
Still on Creatures less than they,
Or less arm'd; the Russian Bears
Of tamer Beasts make massacres.

Irish Wolves devour the Dams,
English Foxes prey on Lambs.
These are all effects of course,
Not of Valour, but of Force;
But my Matty does not want
Heart t'attack an Elephant.
Yet his Nature is so sweet,
Mice may nibble at his feet,
And may pass as if unseen,
If they spare his Megazine.
Constancy, a Vertue then
In this Age scarce known to men,
Or to Womankind at least,
In this pretty little Beast
To the World mght be restor'd,
And my Matty be ador'd.
Chaste he is as Turtle Doves,
That abhor adult'rate Loves;
True to Friendship, and to Love,
Nothing can his Vertue move,

But his Faith in either giv'n,
Seems as if 'twere seal'd in Heaven.
Of all Brutes to him alone
Justice is, and Favour known.
Now is Matty's excellence
Mearly circumscrib'd by sense,
He for judgment what to doe
Knows both good and evil too,
But is with such vertue bless'd,
That he chuses still the best,
And wants nothing of a Wit
But a Tongue to utter it:
Yet with that we may dispense,
For his Signs are Eloquence.
Then for Fashion, and for Meine,
Matty's fit to court a Queen;
All his motions gracefull are,
And all Courts outshine as far
As our Courtiers peakish Clowns,
Or those peaknils Northern Loons,
Which should Ladies see, they sure
Other Beasts would ne'er endure;

Then no more they would make suit
For an ugly pissing-coat
Rammish Cat, nor make a pet
Of a bawdy Mamoset.
Nay, the Squerrel, though it is
Pretty'st Creature next to this,
Would henceforward be discarded,
And in Woods live unregarded.
Here sweet Beauty is a Creature
Purposely ordain'd by Nature,
Both for cleanness and for shape
Worthy a Fair Ladies lap;
Nor her Bosom would disgrace,
Nor a more beloved place.

Live long, my pretty little Boy,
Thy Master's Darling, Ladies Joy,
And when Fate will no more forbear
To lay his hands on him and her,
E'en then let Fate my Matty spare,
And when thou dy'st then turn a Star.

The New-year.

To Mr. W. T.

Hark, the Cock crows, and you, bright Star,
Tells us the day himself's not far;
And see where, breaking from the night,
He guilds the Western hills with light.
With him old Janus does appear,
Peeping into the future Year
With such a look as seems to say
The prospect is not good that way.
Thus do we rise ill sights to see,
And 'gainst our selves to Prophesie,
When the Prophetick fear of things
A more tormenting mischief brings,
More full of Soul-tormenting Gall
Than direst mischiefs can befall.

But stay! but stay! methinks my sight,
Better inform'd by clearer light,
Discerns sereneness in that brow,
That all contracted seem'd but now:
His reverse face may shew distast,
And frown upon the ills are past;
But that which this way looks is clear,
And smiles upon the New-born year.
He looks too from a place so high,
The year lies open to his eye,
And all the moments open are
To the exact discoverer;
Yet more and more he smiles upon
The happy revolution.
Why should we then suspect or fear
The Influences of a year
So smiles upon us the first morn,
And speaks us good so soon as born?

Pox on't! the last was ill enough,
This cannot but make better proof;
Or at the worst, as we brush'd through
The last, why so we may this too;
And then the next in reason shou'd
Be superexcellently good:
For the worst ills we daily see,
Have no more perpetuity
Than the best Fortunes that do fall;
Which also bring us wherewithall
Longer their being to support,
Than those do of the other sort;
And who has one good year in three,
And yet repines at Destiny,
Appears ingrateful in the case,
And merits not the good he has.

Then let us welcome the new guest,
With lusty Brimmers of the best;

Mirth always should good Fortune meet,
And renders e'en disaster sweet:
And though the Princess turn her back,
Let us but line our selves with Sack,
We better shall by far hold out,
Till the next year she face about.

The Joys of Marriage.

How uneasie is his Life
Who is troubled with a Wife!
Be she ne'er so fair or comely,
Be she ne'er so foul or homely,
Be she ne'er so young and toward,
Be she ne'er so old and froward,
Be she kind with armes enfolding,
Be she cross and always scolding,
Be she blith or melancholy,
Have she Wit or have she Folly,

Be she wary, be she squandring,
Be she staid, or be she wandring,
Be she constant, be she fickle,
Be she fire, or be she ickle,
Be she pious or ungoldy,
Be she chaste or what sounds odly:
Lastly, be she good or evil,
Be she Saint, or be she Devil;
Yet uneasie is his Life
Who is marri'd to a Wife.

If fair she's subject to temptation,
If foul her self's solicitation;
If young and sweet she is too tender,
If old and cross no man can mend her,
If too too kind she's over clinging,
If a true scold she's ever ringing,
If blith find Fiddles, or y'undoe her,
If sad then call a Casuist to her,

If a Wit she'll still be jeering,
If a Fool she's ever fleering,
If too wary then she'll shrue thee,
If too lavish she'll undoe thee,
If staid she'll mope a year together,
If gadding then to London with her,
If true she'll think you don't deserve her,
If false a thousand will not serve her,
If lustfull send her to a Spittle,
If cold she is for one too little,
If she be of th' Reformation,
Thy House will be a Convocation,
If a Libertine then watch it,
At the window thou maist catch it,
If chaste her pride will still importune,
If a Whore thou know'st thy Fortune:
So uneasie is his Life
Who is marri'd to a Wife.

These are all extremes I know,
But all Womankind is so,
And the Golden Mean to none
Of that cloven Race is known;
Or to one if known it be,
Yet that one's unknown to me.
Some Ulissean Traveller
May perhaps have gone so far,
As t'have found (in spight of Nature)
Such an admirable Creature.
If a Voyager there be
Has made that discovery,
He the fam'd Odcombian gravels,
And may rest to write his Travels.

But alas! there's no such woman,
The Calamity is common,
The first rib did bring in ruine,
And the rest have since been doing,

Some by one way, some another,
Woman still is mischief's mother,
And yet cannot Man forbear,
Though it cost him ne'er so dear.

Yet with me 'tis out of season
To complain thus without reason,
Since the best and sweetest fair
Is allotted to my share:
But alas! I love her so
That my love creates my woe;
For if she be out of humour,
Streight displeas'd I do presume her,
And would give the World to know
What it is offends her so:
Or if she be discontented,
Lord, how am I then tormented!
And am ready to persuade her
That I have unhappy made her:

But if sick I then am dying,
Meat and Med'cine both defying:
So uneasie is his Life
Who is marri'd to a Wife.

What are then the Marr'age Joys
That make such a mighty noise?
All's enclos'd in one short Sentence,
Little Pleasure, great Repentance;
Yet it is so sweet a Pleasure,
To repent we scarce have leisure,
Till the pleasure wholly fails,
Save sometimes by Intervals:
But those intervals again,
Are so full of deadly pain,
That the pleasure we have got,
Is in Conscience too dear bought.

Pox on't! would Womankind be free,
What needed this Solemnity,

This foolish way of coupl'ing so,
That all the World (forsooth) must know?
And yet the naked truth to say,
They are so perfect grown that way,
That if't only be for pleasure
You would marry, take good leisure,
Since none can ever want supplies
For natural necessities;
Without exposing of his Life
To the great trouble of a Wife.

Why then all the great pains taking?
Why the sighing? why the waking?
Why the riding? why the running?
Why the artifice and cunning?
Why the whining? why the crying?
Why pretending to be dying?
Why all this clutter to get Wives,
To make us weary of our Lives.

If Fruition we profess
To be the only happiness,
How much happier then is he,
Who with the industrious Bee
Preys upon the several Sweets
Of the various Flow'rs he meets,
Than he who with less delight
Dulls on one his Appetite?

Oh 'tis pleasant to be free!
The sweetest Miss is Liberty;
And though who with one sweet is bless'd
May reap the sweets of all the rest
In her alone, who fair and true,
As Love is all for which we sue,
Whose several Graces may supply
The place of full variety,
And whose true kindness or address
Summs up the All of happiness;

Yet 'tis better live alone,
Free to all than ti'd to one,
Since uneasie is his Life
Who is marri'd to a Wife.

ODE. To Love.

I

Great Love, I thank thee, now thou hast
Paid me for all my suff'rings past,
And wounded me with Nature's Pride,
For whom more glory 'tis to die
Scorn'd and neglected, than enjoy
All Beauty in the world beside.

II

A Beauty above all pretence,
Whose very scorns are recompence,

The Regent of my heart is crown'd,
And now the sorrows and the woe,
My Youth and Folly help'd me to,
Are buried in this friendly wound.

III

Led by my Folly or my Fate,
I lov'd before I knew not what,
And threw my thoughts I knew not where:
With judgment now I love and sue,
And never yet perfection knew,
Untill I cast mine eyes on her.

IV

My Soul, that was so base before
Each little beauty to adore,
Now rais'd to Glory, does despise
Those poor and counterfeited rays
That caught me in my childish days,
And knows no power but her eyes.

V

Rais'd to this height, I have no more,
Almighty Love, for to implore
Of my auspicious Stars or thee,
Than that thou bow her noble mind
To be as mercifully kind
As I shall ever faithfull be.

Song.

I

Sad thoughts make hast and kill me out,
I live too long in pain;
'Tis dying to be still in doubt,
And death, that ends all miseries,
The chief and only favour is
The wretched can obtain.

II

I have liv'd long enough to know
That life is a Disease,
At least it does torment me so,
That Death, at whom the happy start,
I court to come, and with his Dart
To give me a release.

III

Come, friendly Death, then strike me dead,
For all this while I die,
And but long dying nothing dread;
Yet being with grief the one half slain,
With all thy power thou wilt gain
But half a Victory.

Elegy.

Away to th' other world, away,
In this I can no longer stay;
I long enough in this have stai'd
To see my self poorly betrai'd,
Forsaken, robb'd, and left alone,
And to all purposes undone.
What then can tempt me to live on,
My Peace and Honour being gone!
O yes! I still am call'd upon
To stay by my affliction.
Oh fair affliction! let me go,
You best can part with me I know;
'Tis an ill natur'd pride you take
To triumph o'er the fool you make,
And you loose time in trampling o'er
One, whilst you might make twenty more.

Your eyes have still the conqu'ring pow'r
They had in that same dang'rous hour
They laid me at your beauties feet,
Your Roses still as fair and sweet;
And there more hearts are to subdue,
But, oh! not one that's half so true.
Dismiss me then t'eternal rest,
I cannot live but in your Breast;
Where, banish'd by Inconstancy,
The world has no more room for me.

In Coccam.

Epigram De Monsieur Maynard.

Thy cheeks having their Roses shed,
And thy whole Frame through Age become
So loathsome for all use in bed,
That 'tis much fitter for a Tomb;

Cocca, thou should'st not be so vain,
Although thy Eloquence be great,
As to expect it should obtain
That I should doe the filthy Feat:

And that same Engine in your hand
You cherish, court, and flatter so,
Now you have made him bravely stand,
Is not so charitable though,

As in his vigorous youth to be
A crutch to your Antiquity.

Writ in Calista's Prayer-Book.

An Epigram OF Monsieur de Malherbe.

Whilst you are deaf to love, you may,
Fairest Calista, weep and pray,
And yet, alas! no mercy find;
Not but God's mercifull, 'tis true,
But can you think he'll grant to you
What you deny to all Mankind?

Song.

I

How comes it to pass with so little adoe
That I've broke all my Fetters and Chains,
And that no remembrance of all my great woe
But like that of a Tale now remains?
I no more for a Star now do Phillis esteem,
And all her Perfections to me now do seem
But like Dreams when I've malted my Brains.

II

I am now quite asham'd to see how she looks,
And no more the same Fair that before,
Those Beauties all gone put me so off the hooks,
And so troubled my Coxcomb of yore;
I Now see all the shot that she made was false fire,
And those murthering Charms I so much did admire
Were defects, mere defects, and no more.

III

The Sun, or yet Love, are no more in her eyes,
They're as dim as a Nail's in a door,
She's so far with her Charms from gaining a prize,
That I doubt she must now run o'th' score;
And for that we call Mistress so monst'rous unfit
To any man living that has Grace or Wit,
That she's scarce good enough for a Whore.

IV

Yet, Sot that I was, I did once cry and blubber
For this damnable piece of Infection,
Which none could have done but an Owl and a Lubber,
But his sense would have been his Protection;
And for which on my self I will now pass this Sentence,
That to th' hour of my death I will weep for repentance
That I ever did weep for affection.

V

Farewell then, O Phillis! it is the Gods pleasure
That I reason might see to forsake you,
To open my eyes, then out of my loves treasure
Please t'accept of this farewell I make you;
'Tis a Complement that is most justly your due,
And but what in times past I took kindly from you,
Ugly Phillis, a Whoreson's Pox take you.

ODE. To Chloris.

I

Fair and Cruel, still in vain
Must I adore, still, still persevere,
Languish still, and still complain,
And yet a Med'cine for my Feaver
Never, never must obtain?

II

Chloris, how are you to blame,
To him that dies to be so cruel
Not to stay my falling frame,
Since your fair eyes do dart the fuel
That still nourishes my flame?

III

Shade those Glories of thine eye,
Or let their Influence be milder,
Beauty, and disdain destroy
Alike, and make our Passions wilder,
Either let me live or die.

IV

I have lov'd thee (let me see;
Lord, how long a time of loving!)
Years no less than three times three,
Still my flame and pain improving,
Yet still paid with cruelty.

V

What more wouldst thou have of me?
Sure I've serv'd a pretty season,
And so prov'd my constancy,
That methinks it is but reason
Love or Death should set me free.

ODE.

I

Was ever man of Nature's framing
So given o'er to roving,
Who have been twenty years a taming
By ways that are not worth the naming,
And now must die of loving?

II

Hell take me if she been't so winning
That now I love her mainly,
And though in jeast at the beginning,
Yet now I'd wond'rous sain be sinning,
And so have told her plainly.

III

At which she cries I doe not love her,
And tells me of her Honor;
Then have I no way to disprove her,
And my true passion to discover,
But streight to fall upon her.

IV

Which done, forsooth, she talks of wedding,
But what will that avail her?
For though I am old Dog at Bedding,
I'm yet a man of so much reading,
That there I sure shall fail her.

V

No, hang me if I ever marry,
Till Womankind grow stancher,
I do delight delights to vary,
And love not in one Hulk to tarry,
But only Trim and Launch her.

To John Bradshaw, Esq

I

Could you and I our Lives renew,
And be both young agen,
Retaining what we ever knew
Of Manners, Times, and Men,

II

We could not frame so loose to live,
But must be useful then,
E'er we could possibly arrive
To the same Age agen;

III

But Youth's devour'd in Vanities
Before we are aware,
And so grown old before grown wise,
We good for nothing are:

IV

Or, if by that time knowing grown,
By reading Books and Men,
For others Service, or our own,
'Tis with the latest then.

V

Happy's that man, in this estate,
Whose Conscience tells him still,
That though for good he comes too late,
He ne'er did any ill.

VI

The satisfaction flowing thence,
All dolours would assuage,
And be sufficient recompence
For all the ills of Age:

VII

But very few (my Friend) I fear,
Whom this ill Age has bred,
At need have such a Comforter
To make their dying Bed.

VIII

'Tis then high time we should prepare
In a new World to live,
Since here we breath but panting air,
Alas! by short reprieve.

IX

Life then begins to be a pain,
Infirmity prevails,
Which, when it but begins to reign,
The bravest Courage quails;

X

But could we, as I said, procure
To live our lives agen,
We should be of the better sure
Or the worst sort of men.

WINTER.

De Monsieur Marigny.

Directed to Sir Robert Coke.

Bleak Winter is from Norway come,
And such a formidable Groom,
With's Icled beard, and hoary head,
That, or with cold, or else with dread,
Has frighted Phœbus out on's wit,
And put him int' an Ague Fit:
The Moon too, out of rev'rend care
To save her beauty from the Air,
And guard her pale Complexion,
Her Hood and Vizard Mask puts on:
Old gray-pate Saturn too is seen,
Muffled up in a great Bear's skin:
And Mars a quilted Cap puts on,
Under his shining Morion:

And in these posting Luminaries
It but a necessary care is,
And very consonant to reason,
To go well clad in such a season.
The very Heaven it self, alass!
Is now so pav'd with liquid Glass,
That if they han't (on th' other side)
Learn'd in their younger days to slide,
It is so slippy made withall,
They cannot go two steps but fall.
The Nectar which the Gods do troll,
Is frozen i'th' Celestial Boul,
And the Cup-bearer Ganimed
Has capp'd his frizled flaxed head.
The naked Gemini, God wot,
A very scurvy Rhume have got;
And in this coldest of cold weathers,
Had they not been warm wrap'd in Feathers,
Mercury's heels had been, I trow,
Pepper'd with running Kibes e'er now.

Nor are these Deities, whom Love
To men has tempted from above
To pass their time on Earth, more free
From the cold blast than th' others be.
For Truth, amidst the blust'ring Rout,
Can't keep her Torch from blowing out.
Justice, since none would take her word,
Has for a Wastcoat pawn'd her Sword;
And it is credibly related,
Her Fillet's to a Quoife translated.
Fortune's foot's frozen to her Ball,
Bright Chrystal from her nose does fall,
And all the work she now intends,
Is but to blow her fingers ends.
The Muses have the Schools forsook
To creep into the Chimney nook,
Where, for default of other wood,
(Although it goes to his heart's blood)
Apollo, for to warm their shins,
Makes fires of Lutes and Violins.

The Trout and Grailing that did rove
At liberty, like swift wing'd Dove,
In Ice are crusted up and pent,
Enslav'd with the poor Element.
'Tis strange! but what's more strange than these,
Thy Bounties, Knight, can never freeze,
But e'en amidst the Frost and Snow
In a continued Torrent flow;
Oh! let me come and live with thee,
I Winter shall nor feel nor see.

On Rutt: the Judge.

Rutt , to the Suburb Beauties full well known,
Was from the bag scarce crept into a Gown,
When he, by telling of himself fine tales,
Was made a Judge, and sent away to Wales:
'Twas proper and most fit it should be so,
Whither should Goats but to the Mountains go?

On Sim and Simon.

Though Sim, whilst Sim, in ill repute did live,
He yet was but a Knave diminutive;
But now his name being swell'd two letters bigger,
Simon's a Knave at length, and not in figure.

Virelay.

Thou cruel Fair, I go
To seek out any Fate but thee,
Since there is none can wound me so,
Nor that has half thy cruelty;
Thou cruel Fair, I go.

For ever then farewell,
'Tis a long leave I take, but oh!
To tarry with thee here is Hell,
And twenty thousand Hells to go,
For ever though farewell.

Madrigal.

To be a Whore, despight of Grace,
Good Counsel and an ugly face,
And to distribute still the Pox,
To men of wit
Will seem a kind of Paradox;
And yet
Thou art a Whore, despight of Grace,
Good Counsel and an ugly face.

La Illustrissima.

On my Fair and Dear Sister, Mrs. Anne King.

Oft have I lov'd, but ne'er aright,
Till th' other day I saw a sight
That shot me through & through with conq'ring light

A Beauty of so rare a frame
As does all other Beauties shame,
And renders Poetry to praise it lame.

Poor sotted Poets, cease to praise
Your Laura's, Cynthia's, Lydia's,
Fondly ador'd in your mistaken days.

Tell me no more of golden hair,
Of all ill colours the worst wear,
And renders beauty terrible as fair.

Almanna's curls are black as night,
Thorough whose Sable ring's a white,
Whiter than whiteness, strikes the wounded sight.

Tell me no more of arched brows,
Nor henceforth call them Cupid's Bows,
Which common praise to common form allows.

Hers, shining, smooth, and black as Jet,
Short, thick, and even without fret,
Exceed all Simile and counterfeit.

Study no more for Eulogies,
For English gray, or French blew eyes,
Which never yet but of a Fool made prize.

Almanna's eyes are such as none
Could ever dare to gaze upon,
But in a trice he found his heart was gone.

Those lights the coldest bloud can thaw,
And hearts by their attraction draw,
As warm chaf'd Jet licks up a trembling straw.

No more for cheeks make senseless Posies
Of Lillies white, and Damask Roses,
Which more of fancy than of truth discloses.

In hers Complexion's mixed so,
That white and red together grow,
Like Lovers bloud sprinkled on Virgin Snow.

Cease, cease of Coral Lips to prate,
Of Rubies, and I can't tell what,
Those Epithets are all grown stale and flat.

Almanna's rosie lips are such,
To praise them is for wit too much,
Till first inspir'd by their most blessed touch.

No more hang teeth upon a string,
And ropes of Pearl for Grinders bring,
Your Treasure is too poor an Offering.

Comparisons doe hers no right,
Ivory's yellow in their sight,
Which are than all things but themselves more white.

No more of Odours go in quest
As far as the remotest East,
Thence to perfume a Ladies rotten Chest.

Her breath, much sweeter than the Spring
With all its join'd perfumes can bring,
Gives life and happy life to ev'ry thing.

Tell me no more of Swan-white breasts,
Which you call little Cupid's nests,
In those you praise fit for such wanton guests:

Almanna's ten times whiter are
Than those of the supremest fair,
But yet, alas! no Loves inhabit there.

Oh! set your wits no more o'th' laste,
To praise a Nymph's contorted Waste,
By such admirers fit to be embrac'd;

Here is a shape, and such a one
As regulates Proportion,
And but to see is half Fruition.

Tell me no more Poetick lies,
Of hard, cold, crusted, marble thighs,
Hopeless and fond impossibilities;

Hers, by the rule of Symmetry,
Although unseen, we know must be
Above the poor report of Poetry.

Tell me no more of Legs and Feet,
Where Grace and Elegancy meet,
But leave your lying, and come here to see't;

Here's shape, invention that disgraces,
And when she moves the charming Graces
Both number, figure, and adjust her paces:

But to this shape there is a mind
From flesh and bloud so well refin'd.
As renders her the Glory of her Kind.

On the World's Centre never yet
Were Form and Vertue so well met,
Nor priceless Diamond so neatly set.

Beauty, but Beauty is alone,
But Fair Almanna's such a one
As Earth may glory in, and Heav'n may own.

Almanna is the onely she
Deserves the gen'ral Eulogy,
The praise of all the rest is Poetry.

Chanson a Boire.

I.

Come let's mind our drinking,
Away with this thinking;
It ne'er, that I heard of, did any one good;
Prevents not disaster,
But brings it on faster,
Mischance is by mirth and by courage withstood.

He ne'er can recover
The day that is over,
The present is with us and does threaten no ill;
He's a Fool that will sorrow
For the thing call'd to morrow,
But the hour we've in hand we may weild as we will.

II.

There's nothing but Bacchus
Right merry can make us,
That vertue particular is to the Vine;
It fires ev'ry creature
With wit and good nature,
Whose thoughts can be dark when their noses doe shine?

A night of good drinking
Is worth a year's thinking,
There's nothing that kills us so surely as sorrow;
Then to drown our cares Boys
Let's drink up the Stars Boys,
Each face of the gang will a Sun be to morrow.

The Angler's Ballad.

I

Away to the Brook,
All your Tackle out look,
Here's a day that is worth a year's wishing;
See that all things be right,
For 'tis a very spight
To want tools when a man goes a fishing.

II

Your Rod with tops two,
For the same will not doe
If your manner of angling you vary;
And full well you may think,
If you troll with a Pink,
One too weak will be apt to miscarry.

III

Then Basket, neat made
By a Master in's trade,
In a belt at your shoulders must dangle;
For none e'er was so vain
To wear this to disdain,
Who a true Brother was of the Angle.

IV

Next, Pouch must not fail,
Stuff'd as full as a Mail,
With Wax, Cruels, Silks, Hair, Furs and Feathers,
To make several Flies
For the several Skies,
That shall kill in despight of all weathers.

V

The Boxes and Books
For your Lines and your Hooks,
And, though not for strict need notwithstanding,
Your Scissors, and your Hone
To adjust your points on,
With a Net to be sure for your landing.

VI

All these being on,
'Tis high time we were gone,
Down, and upward, that all may have pleasure;
Till, here meeting at night,
We shall have the delight
To discourse of our Fortunes at leisure.

VII

The day's not too bright,
And the wind hits us right,
And all Nature does seem to invite us;
We have all things at will
For to second our skill,
As they all did conspire to delight us.

VIII

Or stream now, or still,
A large Panier will fill,
Trout and Grailing to rise are so willing;
I dare venture to say
'Twill be a bloudy day,
And we all shall be weary of killing.

IX

Away then, away,
We loose sport by delay,
But first leave all our sorrows behind us;
If misfortune doe come,
We are all gone from home,
And a fishing she never can find us.

X

The Angler is free
From the cares that degree
Finds it self with so often tormented;
And although we should slay
Each a hundred to day,
'Tis a slaughter needs ne'er be repented.

XI

And though we display
All our Arts to betray
What were made for man's Pleasure and Diet;
Yet both Princes and States
May, for all our quaint Bates,
Rule themselves and their People in quiet.

XII

We scratch not our pates,
Nor repine at the Rates
Our Superiors impose on our living;
But do frankly submit,
Knowing they have more wit
In demanding, than we have in giving.

XIII

Whilst quiet we sit
We conclude all things fit,
Acquiescing with hearty submission;
For, though simple, we know
That soft murmurs will grow
At the last unto down-right Sedition.

XIV

We care not who says,
And intends it dispraise,
That an Angler t'a Fool is next neighbour;
Let him prate, what care we,
We're as honest as he,
And so let him take that for his labour.

XV

We covet no Wealth
But the Blessing of Health,
And that greater good Conscience within;
Such Devotion we bring
To our God and our King,
That from either no offers can win.

XVI

Whilst we sit and fish
We do pray as we wish,
For long life to our King James the Second;
Honest Anglers then may,
Or they've very foul play,
With the best of good Subjects be reckon'd.

Epistle to John Bradshaw Esq;

I.

From Porto Nova as pale wretches go
To swing on fatal Tripus, even so,
My dearest Friend, I went last day from thee,
Whilst for five Miles, the figure of that Tree
Was ever in my guilty Fancy's eye,
As if in earnest I'd been doom'd to die
For, what deserv'd it, so unworthily
Stealing so early, Jack, away from thee.
And that which (as't well might) encreas'd my fear.
Was the ill luck of my vile Chariotier,
Who drove so nicely too, t'increase my dread,
As if his Horses with my vital thread
Had Harness'd been, which being, alas! so weak
He fear'd might snap, and would not it should break
Till he himself the honour had to do't
With one thrice stronger, and my neck to boot.

Thus far in hanging posture then I went,
(And sting of Conscience is a punishment
On Earth they say the greatest, and some tell
It is moreo'er the onely one in Hell,
The Worm that never dies being alone
The thing they call endless Damnation:)
But leaving that unto the Wise that made it,
And knowing best the Gulf, can best evade it,
I'll tell you, that being pass'd through High-gate, there
I was saluted by the Countrey Air,
With such a pleasing Gale, as made me smell
The Peak it self; nor is't a Miracle,
For all that pass that Portico this way
Are Transontani, as the Courtiers say;
Which suppos'd true, one then may boldly speak,
That all of th' North-side High-gate are i'th' Peak;
And so to hanging when I thought to come,
Wak'd from the Dream, I found my self at home.

Wonder not then if I, in such a case
So over-joy'd, forgot thee for a space;

And but a little space, for, by this light,
I thought on thee again ten times e'er night;
Though when the night was come, I then indeed
Thought all on one of whom I'd greater need:
But being now cur'd of that Malady,
I'm at full leisure to remember thee,
And (which I'm sure you long to know) set forth
In Northern Song my Journey to the North.

Know then with Horses twain, one sound, one lame,
On Sunday's Eve I to St. Alban's came,
Where, finding by my Body's lusty state
I could not hold out home at that slow rate,
I found a Coach-man, who, my case bemoaning,
With three stout Geldings, and one able Stoning,
For eight good Pounds did bravely undertake,
Or for my own, or for my Money's sake,
Through thick and thin, fall out what could befall,
To bring me safe and sound to Basford-hall.
Which having drank upon, he bid good-night,
And (Heaven forgive us) with the Morning's light,

Not fearing God, nor his Vice-gerent Constable,
We roundly rowling were the Road to Dunstable,
Which, as they chim'd to Prayers, we trotted through,
And fore elev'n ten minutes came unto
The Town that Brickhill height, where we did rest,
And din'd indifferent well both man and beast.
'Twixt two and four to Stratford, 'twas well driven,
And came to Tocester to lodge at Even.
Next day we din'd at Dunchurch, and did lie
That night four miles on our side Coventry.
Tuesday at Noon at Lichfeild Town we baited,
But there some Friends, who long that hour had waited,
So long detain'd me, that my Chariotier
Could drive that night but to Uttoxiter.
And there the Wedn'sday, being Market-day,
I was constrain'd with some kind Lads to stay
Tippling till afternoon, which made it night
When from my Hero's Tow'r I saw the light
Of her Flambeaux, and fanci'd as we drave
Each rising Hillock was a swelling wave,
And that I swimming was in Neptune's spight
To my long long'd-for Harbour of delight.

And now I'm here set down again in peace,
After my troubles, business, Voyages,
The same dull Northern clod I was before,
Gravely enquiring how Ewes are a Score,
How the Hay-Harvest, and the Corn was got,
And if or no there's like to be a Rot;
Just the same Sot I was e'er I remov'd,
Nor by my travel, nor the Court improv'd;
The same old fashion'd Squire, no whit refin'd,
And shall be wiser when the Devil's blind:
But find all here too in the self-same state,
And now begin to live at the old rate,
To bub old Ale, which nonsense does create,
Write leud Epistles, and sometimes translate
Old Tales of Tubs, of Guyenne, and Provence,
And keep a clutter with th' old Blades of France,
As D' Avenant did with those of Lombardy,
Which any will receive, but none will buy,
And that has set H. B. and me awry.

My River still through the same Chanel glides,
Clear from the Tumult, Salt, and dirt of Tides,
And my poor Fishing-house, my Seat's best grace,
Stands firm and faithfull in the self-same place
I left it four months since, and ten to one
I go a Fishing e'er two days are gone:
So that (my Friend) I nothing want but thee
To make me happy as I'd wish to be;
And sure a day will come I shall be bless'd
In his enjoyment whom my heart loves best;
Which when it comes will raise me above men
Greater than crowned Monarchs are, and then
I'll not exchange my Cottage for White-hall,
Windsor, the Lauvre, or th' Escurial.

Anacreontick.

Fill a Boul of lusty Wine,
Briskest Daughter of the Vine;
Fill't untill it Sea-like flow,
That my cheek may once more glow.
I am fifty Winters old,
Bloud then stagnates and grows cold,
And when Youthfull heat decays,
We must help it by these ways.
Wine breeds Mirth, and Mirth imparts
Heat and Courage to our hearts,
Which in old men else are lead,
And not warm'd would soon be dead.

Now I'm sprightly, fill agen,
Stop not though they mount to ten;
Though I stagger do not spare,
'Tis to rock and still my Ear;
Though I stammer 'tis no matter,
I should doe the same with water;

When I belch, I am but trying
How much better 'tis than sighing;
If a tear spring in mine eye,
'Tis for joy not grief I cry:
This is living without thinking,
These are the effects of drinking.

Fill a main, (Boy) fill a main,
Whilst I drink I feel no pain;
Gout or Palsie I have none,
Hang the Chollick and the Stone;
I methinks grow young again,
New bloud springs in ev'ry vein,
And supply it (Sirrah) still,
Whilst I drink you sure may fill:
If I nod, Boy, rouse me up
With a bigger fuller Cup;
But when that, Boy, will not doe,
Faith e'en let me then goe to,
For 'tis better far too lie
Down to sleep than down to dye.

Burlesque. Upon the Great Frost.

To John Bradshaw Esq;

You now, Sir, may, and justly, wonder
That I, who did of late so thunder
Your frontier Garrison by th' Ferry,
Should on a sudden grow so weary;
And thence may raise a wrong conclusion,
That you have bob'd my Resolution;
Or else that my Poetick Battery,
With which so smartly I did patter ye,
(Though I am not in that condition)
Has shot away her Ammunition;
Or (if in kindness peradventure
You are more gentle in your censure)
That I my writing left pursuing,
'Cause I was weary of ill doing.

Now of these three surmizes any,
Except the last, might pass with many;
But such as know me of the Nation,
Know I so hate all Reformation,
Since so much harm to doe I've seen it,
That in my self I'll ne'er begin it;
And should you under your hand give it,
Not one of twenty would believe it.

But I must tell you in brief Clauses,
If you to any of these Causes
Impute the six weeks Truce I've given,
That you are wide, Sir, the whole Heaven:
For know, though I appear less eager,
I never mean to raise my Leaguer,
Till or by storm, or else by Famine,
I force you to the place I am in;
Your self sans Article to tender,
Unto Discretion to surrender;
Where see what comes of your vain glory,
To make me lie so long before ye.

To shew you next I want no pouder,
I thus begin to batter louder;
And for the last vain Hope that fed ye,
I think I've answer'd it already.

Now, to be plain, although your Spirit
Will ill, I know, endure to hear it,
You must of force at least miscarry,
For reasons supernumerary:
And though I know you will be striving
To doe what lies in mortal living,
And may, it may be, a month double
To lie before you give me trouble,
(Though with the stronger men but vapour ill)
And hold out stiff till th' end of April,
Or possibly a few days longer,
Yet then you needs must yield for hunger,
When, having eaten all Provisions,
Y'are like to make most brave Conditions.

Now having friendship been so just to,
To tell you what y'are like to trust to,
I'll next acquaint you with one reason
I've let you rest so long a season,
And that my Muse has been so idle;
Know Pegasus has got a Bridle,
A Bit and Curb of crusted water,
Or if I call't plain Ice no matter,
With which he now is so commanded,
His days of galloping are ended,
Unless I with the spur do prick him,
Nay, rather though I whip and kick him;
He who unbidden us'd to gambol,
Can now nor prance, nor trot, nor amble,
Nor stir a foot to take his airing,
But stands stiff froze, like that at Charing,
With two feet up, two down, 'tis pitty
He's not erected in the City.

But, to leave fooling, I assure ye
There never was so cold a Fury

Of nipping Frost, and pinching weather,
Since Eve and Adam met together.
Our Peak, that always has been famous
For cold wherewith to cramp and lame us,
Worse than it self, did now resemble a
Certain damn'd place call'd Nova Zembla,
And we who boast us humane Creatures,
Had happy been had we chang'd features,
Garments at least, though theirs be shabbed,
With those who that cold place inhabit,
The Bears and Foxes, who sans question
Than we by odds have warmer Vests on.
How cold that Country is, he knows most
Has there his Fingers and his Toes lost;
But here I know that every Member
Alike was handled by December:
Who blew his nose had clout or fist all
Instead of snivel fill'd with Crystal,
Who drew for Urinal ejection,
Was b'witch'd into an odd erection,

And these, Priapus like, stood strutting,
Fitter for Pedestal than rutting:
As men were fierce, or gentle handed,
Their Fists were clutch'd, or Palms expanded;
Limbs were extended, or contracted,
As use or humour most affected;
For, as men did to th' air expose 'em,
It catch'd and in that figure froze 'em;
Of which think me not over ample:
If I produce you here example.
Where, though I am believ'd by scarce one,
None will, I hope, suspect the Person,
Who, from Lies he far remote is,
Will give in verbo sacerdotis:

One going to discharge at will-Duck
Had for his recompence the ill luck,
(Or my Informer's an Impostor)
To be in that presenting posture,
Surpriz'd with his left eye fast winking,
Till by good fires, and hot things drinking,

He thaw'd, to the beholders laughter,
Unto it self a few hours after.
Two Towns, that long that war had waged,
Being at Foot-ball now engaged
For honour, as both sides pretended,
Left the brave tryall to be ended
Till the next Thaw, for they were frozen
On either part at least a dozen;
With a good handsome space between 'em,
Like Rolle rich stones, if you've seen 'em,
And could no more run, kick, or trip ye,
Than I can quaff off Aganippe;
Till Ale, which crowns all such pretences,
Mull'd them again into their senses.
A Maid compell'd to be a gadder,
T'abate th' extension of her Bladder,
Which is an importuning matter,
Was so supported by her water,
To ease her knees with a third Pillar,
That as she sate the poor distiller

Look'd on the tripod, like the famous
Astrologer hight Nostradamus.
These stories sound so very odly,
That though men may be pretty godly,
One should though store of Mustard give 'em,
E'er they expect they should believe 'em.
But, to allure your Faith a little,
What follows true is to a tittle:
Our Countrey Air was, in plain dealing,
Some weaks together so congealing,
That if, as men are rude in this age,
One spit had in another's visage,
The Constable by th' back had got him,
For he infallibly had shot him.
Nay, Friend with Friend, Brother with Brother,
Must needs have wounded one another
With kindest words, were they not wary
To make their greetings sideways carry;
For all the words that came from gullets,
If long were slugs, if short ones Bullets.
You might have read from mouths, (sans Fable,)
Your humble Servant, Sir, in Label;

Like those, (yet theirs were warmer Quarters,)
We see in Foxe's Book of Martyrs.
Eyes that were weak, and apt to water,
Wore Spectacles of their own matter;
And Noses that to drop were ceased,
To such a longitude encreased,
That who e'er wrung for ease or losses,
Snap'd off two handfulls of Proboscis.
Beards were the strangest things, God save us,
Such as Dame Nature never gave us!
So wild, so pointed, and so staring,
That I should wrong them by comparing
Hedg-hogs, or Porcupine's small Taggers
To their more dang'rous Swords and Daggers.
Mustachio's look'd like Hero's Trophies
Behind their Arms i'th' Herald's Office;
The perpendicular Beard appear'd
Like Hop-poles in a Hop-yard rear'd:
'Twixt these the underwoody Acres
Look'd just like Bavins at a Baker's,

To heat the Oven mouth most ready,
Which seem'd to gape for heat already.
In mouths with salivation flowing,
The horrid hairs about 'em growing,
Like Reeds, look'd in confused order,
Growing about a Fish-pond's border.
But stay my self I caught have tripping,
(This Frost is perillous for slipping)
I've brought this stupifying weather,
These Elements, too near together;
The bearded therefore look'd as Nature,
Instead of forming humane Creature,
So many Garrisons had made us,
Our Beards t'our Sconces Pallisadoes.
Perukes now stuck so firm and stedfast,
They all were riveted to headfast;
Men that bought Wiggs to goe a wooing,
Had them made natural now and growing;
But let them have a care, for truly
The hair will fall 'twixt this and July.
The tender Ladies, and the Lasses,
Were vitrifi'd to drinking-Glasses,

100

Contriv'd to such an admiration,
After so odd fantastick fashion,
One scarce knew at which end to guzzle,
The upper or the lower muzzle.
The Earth to that degree was crusted
That, let me never more be trusted
(I speak without Poetick Figure)
If I don't think a lump no bigger
Than a good Wall-nut, had it hit one,
Would as infallibly have split one,
As Cannon-shot, that killing's sure at,
Had not both been alike obdurate.
The very Rocks, which in all reason
Should stoutli'st have withstood the season,
Repetrifi'd with harder matter,
Had no more privilege than water:
Had Pegasus struck such a Mountain,
It would have fail'd him for a Fountain;
'Twas well Pernassus, when he started,
Prov'd to his hoof more tender-hearted,
Or else of Greece the sullen Bulley,
And Trojan Hector, had been dully

101

In thread-bare Prose, alas! related,
Which now in Song are celebrated;
For steed Poetick ne'er had whinny'd
Greek Iliad, or Latin Æneid;
Nor Nero writ his ribble rabbles,
Of sad Complaints, Love, and strange Fables:
Then too Anacreon and Flaccus
Had ne'er made Odes in praise of Bacchus,
And taught blind Harpers for their bread sneak,
From Feast to Feast to make Cats dead squeak.
Nor Martial giv'n so great offences,
With Epigrams of double Senses.
Rhime then had ne'er been scan'd on Fingers,
No Ballad-makers then, or Singers,
Had e'er been heard to twang out Meetre,
Musick than which back droans make sweeter:
Of Poetry, that writing mystick,
There had not extant been one Dystich;
And, which is worst, the noblest sort on't,
And to the World the most important
Of th' whole Poetical Creation,
Burlesque, had never been in fashion.

102

But how have I this while forgot so
My Mistress Dove, who went to pot too,
My white Dove that was smoaking ever,
In spight of Winter's worst endeavour,
And still could so evade or fly him,
As never to be pinnion'd by him,
Now numb'd with bitterness of weather,
Had not the pow'r to stir a Feather,
Wherein the Nymph was to be pitti'd,
But flag'd her wings and so submitted.
The Ruffian bound though, knowing's betters,
Her Silver feet in Chrystal Fetters,
In which Estate we saw poor Dove lye,
Even in Captivity more lovely:
But in the fate of this bright Princess
Reason it self you know convinces,
That her pinniferous fry must die all,
Imprison'd in the Chrystal Vial;
And doubtless there was great Mortality
Of Trout and Grailing of great Quality,
Whom Love and Honour did importune
To stick to her in her misfortune,

103

Though we shall find, no doubt, good Dishes
Next Summer of Plebean Fishes,
Or, if with greater art and trouble
An old Patrician Trout we bubble,
In better Liquor swim we'll make him
By odds than that from whence we take him.

Now though I have in stuff confounded,
Of small truths and great lies compounded,
Giv'n an account, that we in England
May, for cold weather, vie with Green-land,
I han't yet the main reason given,
Why I so very long have driven
My answer to the last you sent me,
Which did so highly complement me:
Know therefore that both Ink and Cotten
So desperately hard were gotten,
It was impossible by squeezing
To get out either truth or leasing:
My Fingers too, no more being jointed,
My Love and Manners disappointed;

104

Nay, I was numb'd on that strange fashion,
I could not sign an Obligation,
(Though Heaven such a Friend ne'er sent me)
Would one a thousand pounds have lent me
On my own Bond; and who is't buckles
To writing, pray, that has no knuckles?
But now I'm thaw'd beyond all Conscience
Into a torrent of damn'd Nonsense:
Yet still in this our Climate frigid
I'm one day limber, next day rigid;
Nay, all things yet remain so crusty,
That were I now but half so lusty
As when we kiss'd four months agon,
And had but Dutch Goloshoes on,
At one run I would slide to Lon---
But surely this transforming weather
Will soon take leave for altogether,
Then what now Lapland seems in May,
You'll swear is sweet Arcadia.

105

Clepsydra.

I

Why, let it run! who bids it stay?
Let us the while be merry;
Time there in water creeps away,
With us it posts in Sherry.

II

Time not employ'd's an empty sound,
Nor did kind Heaven lend it,
But that the Glass should quick goe round,
And men in pleasure spend it.

III

Then set thy foot, brave Boy, to mine,
Ply quick to cure our thinking;
An hour-glass in an hour of Wine
Would be but lazy drinking.

106

IV

The man that snores the hour-glass out
Is truly a time-waster,
But we, who troll this glass about,
Make him to post it faster.

V

Yet though he flies so fast, some think,
'Tis well known to the Sages,
He'll not refuse to stay and drink,
And yet perform his stages.

VI

Time waits us whilst we crown the hearth,
And dotes on Rubie Faces,
And knows that this Carier of mirth
Will help to mend our paces:

VII

He stays with him that loves good time,
And never does refuse it,
And only runs away from him
That knows not how to use it:

107

VIII

He only steals by without noise
From those in grief that waste it,
But lives with the mad roaring Boys
That husband it, and taste it.

IX

The moralist perhaps may prate
Of vertue from his reading,
'Tis all but stale and foisted chat
To men of better breeding.

X

Time, to define it, is the space
That men enjoy their being;
'Tis not the hour, but drinking glass,
Makes time and life agreeing.

XI

He wisely does oblige his fate
Does chearfully obey it,
And is of Fops the greatest that
By temp'rance thinks to stay it.

108

XII

Come, ply the Glass then quick about,
To titillate the Gullet,
Sobriety's no charm, I doubt,
Against a Cannon-Bullet.

Eclogue.

Corydon, Clotten.
Corydon.
Rise, Clotten, rise, take up thy Pipe & play,
The Sheepherds want thee, 'tis Pan's Holy-day;
And thou, of all the Swains, wert wont to be
The first to grace that great Solemnity.

Clotten.
True, Corydon, but then I happy was,
And in Pan's favour had a Minion's place:
Clotten had then fair Flocks, the finest Fleece
These Plains and Mountains yielded then was his.

109

In these auspitious times the fruitfull Dams
Brought me the earliest and the kindli'st Lambs;
Nor nightly watch about them need I keep,
For Pan himself was Sheepherd to my Sheep;
But now, alas! neglected and forgot
Are all my off'rings, and he knows me not.
The bloudy Wolf, that lurks away the day,
When night's black palm beckons him out to prey
Under the cover of those guilty shades,
No Folds but mine the rav'nous Foe invades;
And there he has such bloudy havock made,
That, all my Flock being devour'd or stray'd,
I now have lost the Fruits of all my pain,
And am no more a Sheepherd but a Swain.

Corydon.
So sad a Tale thou tell'st me, that I must
Allow thy grief (my Clotten) to be just,
But mighty Pan has thousand Flocks in store,
He, when it pleases him, can give thee more,
And has perhaps afflicted thee, to try
Thy Vertue onely, and thy Constancy.

110

Repine not then at him that thou art poor,
'Twas by his bounty thou wert rich before;
And thou should'st serve him at the same free rate,
When most distress'd, as when most fortunate.

Clotten.
Thus do the healthfull still the sick advise,
And thus men preach when they would fain seem wise;
But if in my wretched Estate thou wert,
I fear me thy Philosophy would start,
And give thee o'er to an afflicted Sense,
As void of Reason as of Patience.
Had I been always poor, I should not be
Perhaps so discontent with Poverty,
Nor now so sensible of my disgrace,
Had I ne'er known what Reputation was;
But from so great a height of happiness
To sink into the bottom of distress
Is such a change as may become my care,
And more than, I confess, I well can bear.

Corydon.
But art thou not too sensible, my Lad,
Of those few losses thou hast lately had?

111

Thou art not yet in want, thou still dost eat
Bread of the finest Flower of purest Wheat;
Who better Syder drinks, what Sheepherd's board
Does finer Curds, Butter, or Cheese afford?
Who wears a Frock, to grace a Holy-day,
Spun of a finer Wooll, or finer Grey?
Whose Cabin is so neatly swept as thine,
With Flow'rs and Rushes kept so sweet and fine?
Whose name amongst our many Sheepherds Swains
So great as thine is throughout all these Plains?
Who has so many Friends, so pretty Loves?
Who by our bubbling Fountains and Green Groves
Passes away the Summer heats so well?
And who but thee in singing does excell?
So that the Swains, when Clotten sings or plays,
Lay down their Pipes, and listen to his Lays?
Wherein then can consist, I fain would know,
The Misery that thou complain'st of so?

Clotten.
Some of these things are true, but, Corydon,
That which maintain'd all these, alas! is gone,
The want of Wealth I reckon not distress,
But of enough to doe good offices;

112

Which growing less, those Friends will fall away;
Poverty is the ground of all decay;
With our Prosperities our Friendships end,
And to misfortune no one is a Friend,
Which I already find to that degree,
That my old Friends are now afraid of me,
And all avoid me, as good men would fly
The common Hangman's shamefull company.
Those who by Fortune were advanc'd above,
Being oblig'd by my most ready love,
Shun me, for fear least my necessity
Should urge what they're unwilling to deny,
And are resolv'd they will not grant; and those
Have shar'd my Meat, my Money, and my Cloaths,
Grown rich with others Spoils as well as mine,
The coming near me now do all decline,
Least shame and gratitude should draw them in,
To be to me what I to them have been;
By which means I am stripp'd of all supplies,
And left alone to my own Miseries.

113

Corydon.
In the relation that thy grief has made,
The World's false friendships are too true display'd;
But, courage man, thou hast one Friend in store,
Will ne'er forsake thee for thy being poor:
I will be true to thee in worst estate,
And love thee more now than when Fortunate.

Clotten.
All goodness then on Earth I see's not lost,
I of one Friend in misery can boast,
Which is enough, and peradventure more
Than any one could ever do before;
And I to thee as true a Friend will prove,
Not to abuse but to deserve thy love.

114

To my dear and most worthy Friend, Mr. Isaac Walton.

Whilst in this cold and blust'ring Clime,
Where bleak winds howl, and Tempests roar,
We pass away the roughest time
Has been of many years before;

Whilst from the most tempest'ous Nooks
The chillest Blasts our peace invade,
And by great Rains our smallest Brooks
Are almost navigable made;

Whilst all the ills are so improv'd
Of this dead quarter of the year,
That even you, so much belov'd,
We would not now wish with us here;

In this estate, I say, it is
Some comfort to us to suppose,
That in a better Clime than this
You our dear Friend have more repose;

115

And some delight to me the while,
Though nature now does weep in Rain,
To think that I have seen her smile,
And haply may I do again.

If the all-ruling Power please
We live to see another May,
We'll recompence an Age of these
Foul days in one fine fishing day:

We then shall have a day or two,
Perhaps a week, wherein to try,
What the best Master's hand can doe
With the most deadly killing Flie:

A day without too bright a Beam,
A warm, but not a scorching Sun,
Southern gale to curl the Stream,
And (Master) half our work is done.

There whilst behind some bush we wait
The Scaly People to betray,
We'll prove it just with treach'rous Bait
To make the preying Trout our prey;

116

And think our selves in such an hour
Happier than those, though not so high,
Who, like Leviathans, devour
Of meaner men the smaller Fry.

This (my best Friend) at my poor Home
Shall be our Pastime and our Theme,
But then should you not deign to come
You make all this a flatt'ring Dream.

To the Countess of Chesterfield, on the Birth of her first Son.

Madam, let an humble stranger
Give you Joy without the danger
Of correction from your brow;
And I fancy 'tis not easie
For the rudest to displease ye,
Y'are in so good an humour now.

117

Such a Treasure you have brought us,
As in gratitude has taught us
To praise and bless your happy Womb;
And since you have oblig'd so many,
You cannot but expect sure (can ye?)
To be thank'd at least by some.

A more wish'd-for Heir by Heaven
Ne'er to Family was given,
Nor a braver Boy to boot;
Finer ne'er was born before him,
One may know who got and bore him,
And now a days 'tis hard to do't.

You Copie well, for which the rather,
Since you so well have hit the Father,
Madam, once more try your skill
To bring of th' other Sex another
As Fair, and Good, and like the Mother,
And double 'em after when you will.

118

To Chloris.

Stanzes Irreguliers.

I.

Lord! how you take upon you still!
How you crow and domineer!
How! still expect to have your will,
And carry the Dominion clear,
As you were still the same that once you were!

II.

Fie, Chloris, 'tis a gross mistake,
Correct your errour, and be wise,
I kindly still your kindness take,
But yet have learn'd, though love I prize,
Your froward humours to despise,
And now disdain to call them Cruelties.

119

III.

I was a Fool whilst you were fair,
And I had Youth t'excuse it,
And all the rest are so that Lovers are;
I then my self your Vassal swear,
And could be still so; (which is rare;)
Nay, I could force my will
To love, and at a good rate still,
But on condition that you not abuse it;
I am now Master of the Gate,
And therefore, Chloris, 'tis too late
Or to insult, or to capitulate.

IV.

'Tis Beauty that to Womankind
Gives all the Rule and Sway,
Which once declining, or declin'd,
Men afterwards unwillingly obey;
Your Beauty 'twas at first did awe me,
And into Bondage, woefull Bondage draw me;
It was your Cheek, your Eye, your Lip,
Which rais'd you first to the Dictator-ship:

120

V.

But your six months are now expir'd,
'Tis time I now should reign,
And if from you obedience be requir'd,
You must not to submit disdain,
But practise what y'ave seen me doe,
And love and honour me as I did you;
That will an everlasting peace maintain,
And make me Crown you Sovereign once again.

VI.

And Faith consult your Glass, and see
If I ha'n't reason on my side;
Are those eyes still the same they use to be?
Come, come, they're alter'd, 'twill not be deni'd:
And yet although the Glass be true,
And shew you, you no more are you,
I know you'll scarce believe it,
For Womankind are all born proud, and never, never leave it.

121

VII.

Yet still you have enough, and more than needs,
To rule a more Rebellious heart than mine;
For as your eyes still shoot my heart still bleeds,
And I must be a Subject still,
Nor is it much against my will,
Though I pretend to wrestle and repine:
Your Beauties sweet are in their height,
And I must still adore,
New years, new Graces still create,
Nay, maugre Time, Mischance and Fate,
You in your very ruines shall have more
Than all the Beauties that have grac'd the World before.

122

Old Tityrus to Eugenia.

I

Eugenia young, and fair, and sweet,
The Glories of the Plains,
In thee alone the Graces meet
To conquer all the Swains:
Tall as the Poplar of the Grove,
Streight as the winged shaft of Love,
As the Spring's early Blossoms white,
Soft as the Kisses of the light,
Serene and modest as the Morn,
E'er Vapors doe from Fens arise,
To dim the Glory of the Skies,
Untainted, or with Pride, or Scorn,
T'oblige the World, bright Nymph, thou sure wast born.

123

II

O! be still fair, thou charming Maid,
For Beauty is no Crime;
May thy Youth's Flower never fade,
But still be in its prime:
Be calm, and clear, and modest still,
Oblige as many as you will,
Still, still be humble, still be sweet,
By those ways conquer all you meet;
But let them see 'tis undesign'd,
Nat'ral Vertues, not put on
To make a prize of any one,
The native goodness of your mind,
And have a care of being over-kind.

III

That's (my Eugenia) a mistake
That noblest ardours cools,
And serves on th' other side to make
Damn'd over-weening Fools.

124

Be courteous unto all, and free,
As far as Virgin-modesty;
Be not too shie, but have a care
Of being too familiar;
The Swain you entertain alone,
To whom you lend your hand or lip,
Will think he has you on the hip,
And streight conclude you are his own,
Women so easie, men so vain are grown.

IV

Reserv'dness is a mighty Friend
To Form and Vertue too,
A shining merit should pretend
To such a Star as you;
'Tis not a Roundelay well plaid,
A Song well sung, a thing well said,
A Fall well giv'n, a Bar well thrown,
Should carry such a lovely one.

125

Should these knacks win you, you will be
(Of all the Nymphs that with their Beams
Gild swift Columba's Chrystal Streams)
Lost to the World, your self, and me,
And more despis'd than freckled Lalage.

V

Maintain a modest kind of State,
'Tis gracefull in a Maid;
It does at least respect create,
And makes the Fools afraid.
Eugenia, you must pitch upon
A Sylvia, not a Corydon;
'Twould grate my Soul to see those Charms
In an unworthy Sheepherd's Armes.
A little coldness (Girl) will doe,
Let baffled Lovers call it Pride,
Pride's an excess o'th' better side,
Contempt to arrogance is due,
Keep but state now, and keep't hereafter too.

126

Epistle to John Bradshaw Esq;

II.

Sir, you may please to call to mind,
That Letters you did lately find
From me, which I conceiv'd were very kind;

So hearty kind, that by this hand Sir,
Briefly, I doe not understand Sir,
Why you should not vouchsafe some kind of answer.

What though in Rhime y'are no proficient?
Your Love should not have been deficient,
When down-right Prose to me had been sufficient.

'Tis true, I know that you dare fight Sir,
But what of that? that will not fright Sir;
I know full well your Worship too can write Sir.

Where the Peace therefore broken once is,
Unless you send some fair Rosponses,
I doubt there will ensue some broken Sconces.

127

Then dream not valour can befriend you,
For if I justly once suspend you,
Your Sanct'ary, nor your Club, can yet defend you;

But, fairly Sir, to work to goe;
What the Fiend is the matter, trow,
Should make you use an old Companion so?

I know the life you lead a-days,
And, like poor Swan, your foot can trace
From home to Pray'rs, thence to the forenam'd

Viz. the Sanctuary.

place:

And can you not from your Precation;
And your as daily Club-Potation,
To think of an old Friend find some vacation.

'Tis true you sent a little Letter,
With a great Present, which was better,
For which I must remain your humble Debtor,

But for th' Epistle, to be plain,
That's paid with Int'rest back again,
For I sent one as long at least as twain.

128

Then mine was Rhime, and yours but Reason;
If therefore you intend t'appease one,
Let me hear from you in some mod'rate season.

'Tis what y'are bound to by the tie
Of Friendship first, then Equity,
To which I'll add a third, call'd Charity.

For one that's banish'd the Grand Mond
Would sometimes by his Friends be own'd,
'Tis comfort after whipping to be moan'd.

But though I'm damn'd t'a People here,
Than whom my Dog's much civiller,
I hear from you some twice or thrice a year.

Saints that above are plac'd in Glory,
Unless the Papists tell a Story,
Commiserate poor Souls in Purgatory,

129

Whilst you, Sir Captain, Heav'n remit ye,
Who live in Heav'n on Earth, the City,
On me, who live in Hell, can have no pity.

In faith it looks unkind! pray mend it,
Write the least Scrip you will, and send it,
And I will bless and kiss the hand that pen'd it.

Epistle to John Bradshaw, Esq;

III.

What though I writ a tedious Letter,
Whereas a shorter had been better,
And that 'twas writ in Moor-lands Metre,
To make it run, I thought, the sweeter,
Yet there was nought in that Epistle,
At which your Worship ought to bristle;

130

For though it was too long, 'twas civil,
And though the Rhime, 'tis true, was evil,
I will maintain 'twas well meant yet,
And full of heart, though void of wit:
Why, with a Horse-Pox, then should you,
I thought my Friend, keep such adoe,
And set Tom Weaver on my back,
Because I ha'n't forsooth the knack
To please your over-dainty ear;
(Impossible for me I fear)
Nor can my Poesy strew with Posies
Of Red, White, Damask, Provense Roses,
Bears-ears, Anemonies, and Lillies,
As he did in Diebus illis?
What man! all Amblers are not Couryats,
Neither can all who Rhime be Laureats:
Besides the Moor-lands not a Clime is,
Nor of the year it now the time is
To gather Flowers, I suppose,
Either for Poetry or Prose;
Therefore, kind Sir, in courteous fashion,
I wish you spare your expectation.

131

And since you may be thin of clothing,
(Something being better too than nothing)
Winter now growing something rough,
I send you here a piece of Stuff,
Since your old Weaver's dead and gone,
To make a Fustian Wastcoat

For Rhimes take a new Figure.

on.
Accept it, and I'll rest your Debtor,
When more Wit sends it, I'll send better.

And here I cannot pretermit
To that Epitome of Wit,
Knowledge and Art, to him whom we
Saucily call, and I more saucily
Presume to write the little d.
All that your Language can improve
Of Service, Honour, and of Love:
After whose Name the rest I know
Would sound so very flat and low,
They must excuse, if in this case
I wind them up Et Cætera's.

132

Lastly, that in my tedious Scribble
I may not seem incorrigible,
I will conclude by telling you
(And on my honest word 'tis true)
I long as much as new made Bride
Does for the Marriage Even Tide;
Your plump Corpusculum t'imbrace,
In this abominable place:
And therefore when the Spring appears,
(Till when short days will seem long years)
And that under this scurvy hand,
I give you, Sir, to understand,
In April, May, or then abouts,
Doves People are your humble Trouts,
Be sure you do not fail but come
To make the Peak Elizium;
Where you shall find then, and for ever,
As true a

Though not half so good a Poet.

Friend as was Tom Weaver.

133

The Retirement.

Stanzes Irreguliers.

To Mr. Isaak Walton.

I.

Farewell thou busie World, and may
We never meet again:
Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray,
And doe more good in one short day,
Than he who his whole Age out-wears
Upon thy most conspicuous Theatres,
Where nought but Vice and Vanity do reign.

II.

Good God! how sweet are all things here!
How beautifull the Fields appear!

134

How cleanly do we feed and lie!
Lord! what good hours do we keep!
How quietly we sleep!
What Peace! what Unanimity!
How innocent from the leud Fashion,
Is all our bus'ness, all our Conversation!

III.

Oh how happy here's our leisure!
Oh how innocent our pleasure!
Oh ye Vallies, oh ye Mountains,
Oh ye Groves and Chrystall Fountains,
How I love at liberty,
By turn to come and visit ye!

135

IV.

O Solitude, the Soul's best Friend,
That man acquainted with himself dost make,
And all his Maker's Wonders to intend;
With thee I here converse at will,
And would be glad to do so still;
For it is thou alone that keep'st the Soul awake.

V.

How calm and quiet a delight
It is alone
To read, and meditate, and write,
By none offended, nor offending none;
To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease,
And pleasing a man's self, none other to displease!

136

VI.

Oh my beloved Nymph! fair Dove,
Princess of Rivers, how I love
Upon thy flow'ry Banks to lie,
And view thy Silver stream,
When gilded by a Summer's Beam,
And in it all thy wanton Fry
Playing at liberty,
And with my Angle upon them,
The All of Treachery
I ever learn'd to practise and to try!

VII.

Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show,
Th' Iberian Tagus, nor Ligurian Po;
The Meuse, the Danube, and the Rhine,
Are puddle-water all compar'd with thine;

137

And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are
With thine much purer to compare:
The rapid Garonne, and the winding Seine
Are both too mean,
Beloved Dove, with thee
To vie Priority:
Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoyn'd, submit,
And lay their Trophies at thy Silver Feet.

VIII.

Oh my beloved Rocks! that rise
To awe the Earth, and brave the Skies,
From some aspiring Mountain's crown
How dearly do I love,
Giddy with pleasure, to look down,
And from the Vales to view the noble heights above!

138

IX.

Oh my beloved Caves! from Dog-star heats,
And hotter Persecution safe Retreats,
What safety, privacy, what true delight
In the artificial Night
Your gloomy entrails make,
Have I taken, do I take!
How oft, when grief has made me fly
To hide me from Society,
Even of my dearest Friends, have I
In your recesses friendly shade
All my sorrows open laid,
And my most secret woes entrusted to your privacy!

X.

Lord! would men let me alone,
What an over-happy one

139

Should I think my self to be,
Might I in this desart place,
Which most men by their voice disgrace,
Live but undisturb'd and free!
Here in this despis'd recess
Would I maugre Winter's cold,
And the Summer's worst excess,
Try to live out to sixty full years old,
And all the while
Without an envious eye
On any thriving under Fortune's smile,
Contented live, and then contented die.

140

Rondeau.

Thou Fool! if madness be so rise,
That, spight of wit, thou'lt have a Wife,
I'll tell thee what thou must expect,
After the Honey-Moon neglect,
All the sad days of thy whole Life:

To that a World of Woe and Strife,
Which is of Marriage the effect,
And thou thy woe's own Architect,
Thou Fool!
Thou'lt nothing find but disrespect,
Ill words i'th' scolding Dialect,
For she'll all Tabor be, or Fife;
Then prythee go and whet thy Knife,
And from this Fate thy self protect,
Thou Fool!

141

To Cupid.

I

Fond Love, deliver up thy Bow,
I am become more Love than thou;
I am as wanton grown, and wild,
Much less a Man, and more a Child,
From Venus born, of chaster kind,
A better Archer, though as blind.

II

Surrender without more adoe,
I am both King and Subject too,
I will command, but must obey,
I am the Hunter and the Prey,
I vanquish, yet am overcome,
And Sentencing receive my Doom.

142

III

No springing Beauty scapes my Dart,
And ev'ry ripe one wounds my Heart;
Thus whilst I wound, I wounded am,
And, firing others, turn to flame,
To shew how far Love can combine
The Mortal part with the Divine.

IV

Faith, quit thine Empire, and come down,
That thou and I may share the Crown,
I've tri'd the worst thy Arms can doe,
Come then, and taste my power too,
Which (howsoe'er it may fall short)
Will doubtless prove the better sport.

143

V

Yet do not; for in Field and Town,
The Females are so loving grown,
So kind, or else so lustfull, we
Can neither err, though neither see;
Keep then thine own Dominions, Lad,
Two Loves would make all Women mad.

To Ælia.

ODE.

Poor antiquated Slut, forbear,
Thy Importunity's so strong,
It will, I fear, corrupt the Air,
And doe an universal wrong.

144

Be modest, or I swear and vow,
I neither can nor will be kind;
Pox on't! now thou dost clam'rous grow,
There's no enduring in the wind.

Whilst silence did thy thoughts betray,
I only was the sufferer;
But now thy Lungs begin to play,
All the whole Province suffers here.

Faith, Ælia, if thou be'st so hot,
That nor Satiety, nor Age,
Can cool the over-boiling Pot,
Nor thy ebullient Lust assuage,

Yet be so charitably kind,
Though damn'd thou art resolv'd to be,
As not to poyson all Mankind
By fulsome importunity.

145

But sure 'tis time we should give o'er,
And if I mourn my time mispent,
How much for fifty years of Whore
Ought'st thou, poor Ælia, to repent?

Yet, if in spight of all advice
Thou needs wilt importune me still,
I am not so reclaim'd from Vice,
But I can satisfie thy will:

And 'twill to my advantage be;
For should I new amours begin,
Delight might damn me, when with thee
The penance expiates the sin.

146

Sonnet.

[Goe, false one, now I see the cheat]

Goe, false one, now I see the cheat,
Your love was all a Counterfeit,
And I was gall'd to think that you,
Or any she, could long be true.

How could you once so kind appear,
To kiss, to sigh, and shed a tear,
To cherish and caress me so,
And now not let but bid me go?

Oh Woman! Frailty is thy name,
Since she's untrue y'are all to blame,
And but in man no truth is sound:

'Tis a fair Sex, we all must love it,
But (on my conscience) could we prove it,
They all are false ev'n under ground.

147

Stanzes de Monsieur Bertaud.

I

Whilst wishing Heaven in his ire
Would punish with some judgment dire
This heart to love so obstinate;
To say I love her is to lie,
Though I do love t'extremity,
Since thus to love her is to hate.

II

But since from this my hatred springs,
That she neglects my Sufferings,
And is unto my love ingrate,
My hatred is so full of flame,
Since from affection first it came,
That 'tis to love her thus to hate.

148

III

I wish that milder Love, or Death,
That ends our Miseries with our breath,
Would my affections terminate;
For to my Soul, depriv'd of peace,
It is a torment worse than these
Thus wretchedly to love and hate.

IV

Let Love be gentle or severe,
It is in vain to hope or fear
His grace or rage in this estate,
Being I from my fair one's Spirit
Nor mutual love, nor hatred merit,
Thus foolishly to love and hate.

149

V

Or, if by my example here
It just and equal do appear,
She love and loath who is my fate,
Grant me, ye powers, in this case,
Both for my punishment and grace,
That as I do, she love and hate.

The eighth Psalm paraphrased.

1.

O Lord, our Governour, whose potent sway
All Pow'rs in Heav'n and Earth obey,
Throughout the spacious Earth's extended frame
How great is thy adored Name!
Thy Glories thou hast seated, Lord, on high,
Above the Empirean Sky.

150

2.

Out of the mouths of Infants, newly come
From the dark Closet of the Womb,
Thou hast ordained pow'rfull Truth to rise,
To baffle all thine Enemies;
That thou the furious Rage might'st calm agen,
Of bloudy and revengefull men.

3.

When on thy Glorious Heav'ns I reflect,
Thy work, almighty Architect,
The changing Moon and Stars that thou hast made
T'illuminate night's sable shade:

4.

Oh! what is man, think I, that Heaven's King
Should mind so poor a wretched thing;
Or Man's frail Off-spring, that Almighty God
Should stoop to visit his abode?

5.

For thou createdst him but one degree
Below the Heav'nly Hierarchy
Of bless'd and happy Angels, and didst crown
Frail Dust with Glory and Renown.

151

6.

Over the works of thy Almighty hand
Thou giv'st him absolute command,
And all the rest that thou hast made
Under his feet hast subject laid;

7.

All Sheep, and Oxen, and the wilder breed
Of Beasts that on their Fellows feed;

8.

The Air's Inhabitants, and scaly brood,
That live and wanton in the Flood,
And whatsoe'er does either swim or creep
Thorough th' investigable Deep:

9.

Throughout the spacious Earth's extended frame
How great is thy adored Name!

152

Advice.

I

Go, thou perpetual whining Lover,
For shame leave off this humble Trade,
'Tis more than time thou gav'st it over,
For sighs and tears will never move her,
By them more obstinate she's made,
And thou by Love, fond, constant Love, betray'd.

II

The more, vain Fop, thou su'st unto her,
The more she does torment thee still,
Is more perverse the more you woo her,
When thou art humblest lays thee lower,
And when most prostrate to her will
Thou meanly begg'st for life, does basely kill.

153

III

By Heaven 'tis against all Nature,
Honour and Manhood, Wit and Sense,
To let a little Female Creature
Rule on the poor account of Feature,
And thy unmanly patience
Monstrous and shamefull as her Insolence.

IV

Thou may'st find forty will be kinder,
Or more compassionate at least,
If one will serve, two hours will find her,
And half this 'doe for ever bind her
As firm and true as thine own Breast,
On Love and Vertue's double Interest:

154

V

But if thou canst not live without her,
This onely she, when it comes to't,
And she relent not, (as I doubt her),
Never make more adoe about her,
To sigh and whimper is no boot;
Go, hang thy self, and that will do't.

Lyrick.

Ex Cornelio Gallo

[_]

Trans.

Lydia , thou lovely Maid, whose white
The Milk and Lilly does outvie,
The pale and blushing Roses light,
Or polish'd Indian Ivory,

155

Dishevel, Sweet, thy yellow hair,
Whose Ray doth burnish'd Gold disprize,
Disclose thy neck so white and fair,
That doth from snowy shoulders rise.

Virgin, unvail those starry eyes
Whose Sable brows like arches spread,
Unvail those Cheeks, where the Rose lies
Streak'd with the Tyrian Purple's red.

Lend me those Lips with Coral lin'd,
And kisses mild of Doves impart,
Thou ravishest away my mind,
Those gentle kisses wound my heart.

Why suck'st thou from my panting Breast
The youthfull Vigour of my Bloud?
Hide those twin-apples, ripe, if press'd,
To spring into a milky Floud.

156

From thy expanded bosome breath
Perfumes Arabia doth not know;
Thy ev'ry part doth love bequeath,
From thee all excellencies flow.

Thy bosome's killing-white then shade,
Hide that temptation from mine eye;
See'st not I languish, cruel Maid!
Wilt thou then go, and let me die?

Amoret in Masquerade.

Bless me! wonder how I'm struck
With that Youth's victorious look!
So much Lustre, so much Grace,
Never broke from humane face;

157

Fond Narcissus was an Ass,
Cynthia's Love a Moon-Calf was,
Ganimede, that bears Jove's Boul,
Was a Chit, Paris an Owl,
And Adonis, with th' fine Miss,
Was a Puppy-Dog to this.
Women, now lay by your Charms,
Here is one has other Arms,
And of greater power too,
Than your Megazines can shew:
All your Beauties, all your Arts,
Conqu'ring or deceiving hearts,
You may spare and let alone,
We shall henceforth be by none
Conquer'd, but this peerless one.
Yet I have a Lover been,
Sev'ral Beauties I have seen,
Nor in Love am yet so rude,
But I've often been subdu'd;

158

Nor so old but that again,
Once more struck I might have been,
By some Glances, or some Features
Of those little Female Creatures,
Had I but escap'd this night,
Seeing of this charming sight:
But now having seen those eyes,
I all Female force despise;
Yet my flame I can't approve,
'Tis but a prodigious love,
And there can be little joy
In thus doating on a Boy,
Who, although he love again,
Never can reward my pain:
Yet methinks it cannot be,
There is in't some Mystery,
Nature sure would ne'er so use me,
Nor Instinct so much abuse me,
As my Reason thus to blind,
But there's something in the wind.

159

I have e'er a loather been
Of the foul Italian Sin,
And yet know not where the bliss is
In a little Stripling's kisses.
My heart tells me, to those eyes
There belongs a pair of thighs,
'Twixt whose Iv'ry Columns is
Th' Ebor folding door to bliss:
And this Spring, all that we see
Strut with such Formality,
Huff, and strive to look so big,
Is but Pallas in a Wigg;
And though his count'nance he doth set
To a good pitch of counterfeit,
Yet he cannot hide the while,
Venus dimple in his smile;
Were the Story not cold fled,
And the party long since dead,
I should swear a thousand Oaths,
Hellen 'twere in Paris cloths;

160

But there I should wrong him yet,
Hellen was not half so sweet,
For all Greeks and Trojans arming,
Nor is Venus half so charming.

Pretty Monsieur, I must pry
More into your Symmetry;
Those fine Fingers were not made
To be put to th' fighting trade,
And that pretty little arme,
Methinks threatens no great harm;
Wastes, which Thimbles will environ,
Are not to be shell'd with Iron,
And those little Martin-nests,
Which swell out upon your Breasts,
With Steel are not to be press'd,
But whereon for Kings to rest;
Your soft Belly, not unlike,
May sometimes feel push of Pike,
But there will be Balsom found
In the Spear to heal the wound;

161

Nor those thighs yet, by their leaves,
Were, I take it, made for Greaves;
Nor yet do you walk so wide,
As you us'd to ride astride,
But look your Saddle, when you do,
Be well stuff'd and pummell'd too.
Next, those pretty Legs and Feet
Ne'er were spur'd and booted yet,
I dare swear it. Come, tell truth,
Are you not a cloven Youth?

See, he laughs, and has confess'd,
God-a-mercy for the Jest:
Monsieur Amoret let me
Your Valet de Chambre be,
I will serve with humble duty
Both your Valour and your Beauty,
You shall all day Master hight,
Eat my Mistriss, Sir, at night:

162

Which if you will please to grant
To your humble Supplicant,
Since you wear your Wigg so featly,
And become your Cloaths so neatly;
He has sworn, who thus beseeches,
You shall always wear the Breeches.

Estreines.

To Calista.

I

I reckon the first day I saw those eyes,
Which in a moment made my heart their prize
To all my whole futurity,
The first day of my first new year,
Since then I first began to be,
And knew why Heaven plac'd me here;
For till we love, and love discreetly too,
We nothing are, nor know we what we doe.

163

II

Love is the Soul of Life, though that I know
Is call'd Soul too, but yet it is not so,
Not rational at least, untill
Beauty with her diviner light
Illuminates the groaping will,
And shews us how to chuse aright;
And that's first prov'd by th' objects it refuses,
And by being constant then to that it chuses.

III

Days, Weeks, Months, Years, and Lustres take
So small time up i'th' Lover's Almanack,
And can so little Love assuage,
That we (in truth) can hardly say,
When we have liv'd at least an Age,
A long one, we have lov'd a day.
This day to me, so slowly does time move,
Seems but the Noon unto my Morning Love.

164

IV

Love by swift time, which sickly passions dread,
Is no more measur'd than 'tis limited:
That passion where all others cease,
And with the fuel lose the flame,
Is evermore in its encrease,
And yet being love, is still the same:
They err call liking Love, true Lovers know
He never lov'd who does not always so.

V

You who my last love have, my first love had,
To whom my all of love was, and is paid,
Are onely worthy to receive
The richest New-years-gift I have,
My love, which I this morning give,
A nobler never Monarch gave,
Which each New-year I will present a-new,
And you'll take care, I hope, it shall be due.

165

Epigramme de Monsieur des-Portes.

Some four years ago I made Phillis an offer,
Provided she would be my Wh---re,
Of two thousand good Crowns to put in her Coffer,
And I think should have given her more.

About two years after, a Message she sent me,
She was for a thousand my own,
But unless for an hundred she now would content me,
I sent her word I would have none.

She fell to my price six or seven weeks after,
And then for a hundred would doe;
I then told her in vain she talk'd of the matter,
Than twenty no farther I'd goe.

166

T'other day for six Ducatoons she was willing,
Which I thought a great deal too dear,
And told her unless it would come for two shilling,
She must seek a Chapman elsewhere.

This Morning she's come, and would fain buckle gratis,
But she's grown so fulsome a Wh---re,
That now methinks nothing a far dearer rate is,
Than all that I offer'd before.

Epigramme de Monsieur Cotin.

I perish of too much desire
If she inexorable prove,
And shall with too much Joy expire
If she be gratious to my love.

167

Thus nought can cure my wounded Breast,
But I most certain am to die,
Or by the ill by which possess'd,
Or by the happy remedy.

Epigramme de Monsieur Maynard.

Old Fop, why should you take such pains
To paint and Perriwig it so?
My nobler love, alas! disdains
To stoop so infamously low.

Time, that does mow the fairest Flow'rs,
Has made so very bold with yours,
You should expect to be deni'd;
The Footmen can no more endure ye,
And if no sport in Hell, assure ye,
You'll never more be occupi'd.

168

A Voyage to Ireland in Burlesque.

[Canto 1.]

The Lives of frail men are compar'd by the Sages,
Or unto short Journies, or Pilgrimages,
As men to their Inns do come sooner or later,
That is, to their Ends; (to be plain in my matter;)
From whence, when one dead is, it currantly follows,
He has run his Race, though his Goal be the Gallows;
And this 'tis, I fancy, sets Folk so a madding,
And makes Men and Women so eager of gadding;
Truth is, in my youth I was one of those People
Would have gone a great way to have seen an high Steeple,
And though I was bred 'mongst the Wonders o'th' Peak,
Would have thrown away Money, and ventur'd my neck
To have seen a great Hill, a Rock, or a Cave,
And thought there was nothing so pleasant and brave;
But at Forty years old you may (if you please)
Think me wiser than run such errands as these;

169

Or, had the same humour still ran in my Toes,
A Voyage to Ireland I ne'er should have chose:
But to tell you the truth on't, indeed it was neither,
Improvement nor pleasure for which I went thither;
I know then you'll presently ask me, for what?
Why, faith, It was that makes the Old Woman trot;
And therefore I think I'm not much to be blam'd
If I went to the place whereof Nick was asham'd.

Oh Couriate! thou Traveller fam'd as Ulysses,
In such a stupendious labour as this is
Come lend me the Aids of thy hands and thy feet,
Though the first be pedantick, the other not sweet,
Yet both are so restless in Peregrination,
They'll help both my Journey, and eke my Relation.

'Twas now the most beautifull time of the year,
The days were now long, and the Sky was now clear,
And May, that fair Lady of splendid renown,
Had dress'd herself fine, in her flowr'd Tabby Gown,

170

When about some two hours and an half after Noon,
When it grew something late, though I thought it too soon,
With a pitifull voice, and a most heavy heart,
I tun'd up my Pipes to sing loth to depart,
The Ditty concluded, I call'd for my Horse,
And with a good pack did the Jument endorse,
Till he groan'd and he farted under the burthen,
For sorrow had made me a cumbersome Lurden:
And now farewell Dove, where I've caught such brave Dishes
Of over-grown, golden, and silver-scal'd Fishes;
Thy Trout and thy Grailing may now feed securely,
I've left none behind me can take 'em so surely;
Feed on then, and breed on, untill the next year,
But if I return I expect my arrear.

By pacing and trotting, betimes in the Even,
E'er the Sun had forsaken one half of the Heaven,
We all at fair Congerton took up our Inn,
Where the Sign of a King kept a King and his Queen

171

But who do you think came to wellcome me there?
No worse a man, marry, than good Master Mayor,
With his Staff of Command, yet the man was not lame,
But he needed it more when he went, than he came;
After three or four hours of friendly potation
We took leave each of other in courteous fashion,
When each one, to keep his Brains fast in his head,
Put on a good Night-cap, and streight-way to bed.

Next Morn, having paid for boil'd, roasted, and Bacon,
And of sovereign Hostess our leaves kindly taken,
(For her King (as 'twas rumor'd) by late pouring down,
This morning had got a foul flaw in his crown,)
We mounted again, and full soberly riding,
Three miles we had rid e'er we met with a biding;
But there (having over night plied the Tap well)
We now must needs water at place call'd Holmes-Chapel;
A Hay! quoth the foremost, Ho! who keeps the House?
Which said, out an Host comes as brisk as a Louse,

172

His hair comb'd as slick, as a Barber he'd bin,
A Cravat with black Ribbon ti'd under his chin,
Though by what I saw in him I streight'gan to fear
That knot would be one day slip'd under his ear:
Quoth he, (with low Congy) what lack you my Lord?
The best Liquor, quoth I, that the House will afford:
You shall streight, quoth he, and then calls out, Mary,
Come quickly, and bring us a quart of Canary:
Hold, hold, my spruce Host, for i'th' Morning so early
I never drink Liquor but what's made of Barley;
Which words were scarce out, but, which made me admire,
My Lordship was presently turn'd into Squire;
Ale, Squire, you mean, quoth he, nimbly again,
What, must it be purl'd? no, I love it best plain:
Why, if you'll drink Ale, Sir, pray take my advice,
Here's the best Ale i'th' Land, if you'll go to the price,
Better, I sure am, ne'er blew out a stopple,
But then, in plain truth, it is six pence a Bottle:
Why, Faith, quoth I, Friend, if your Liquor be such,
For the best Ale in England, it is not too much;

173

Let's have it, and quickly; O Sir! you may stay,
A Pot in your pate is a mile in your way:
Come, bring out a Bottle here presently, Wife,
Of the best Cheshire Hum he e'er drank in his Life.
Streight out comes the Mistress in Wastcoat of Silk,
As clear as a Milk-maid, and white as her Milk,
With Visage as oval and slick as an Egg,
As streight as an Arrow, as right as my Leg;
A court'sie she made, as demure as a Sister,
I could not forbear, but alighted and kiss'd her,
Then ducking another with most modest meen,
The first word she said, was, wilt please you walk in?
I thank'd her, but told her, I then could not stay,
For the haste of my bus'ness did call me away;
She said she was sorry it fell out so odd,
But if, when again I should travel that Road,
I would stay there a night, she assur'd me the Nation
Should no where afford better accommodation:
Mean while my spruce Landlord has broken the Cork,
And call'd for a Bodkin, though he had a Fork;

174

But I shew him a Skrew, which I told my brisk Gull
A Trepane was for Bottles had broken their skull;
Which, as it was true, he believ'd without doubt,
But 'twas I that appli'd it, and pull'd the Cork out:
Bounce, quoth the Bottle, the work being done,
It roar'd, and it smoak'd, like a new fir'd Gun;
But the shot miss'd us all, or else we'd been routed,
Which yet was a wonder, we were so about it;
Mine Host pour'd and fill'd, till he could fill no fuller,
Look here, Sir, quoth he, both for Nap and for colour,
Sans bragging, I hate it, nor will I e'er do't,
I defie Leek, and Lambhith, and Sandwich to boot:
By my troth he said true, for I speak it with tears,
Though I have been a Toss-pot these twenty good years,
And have drank so much Liquor has made me Debtor,
In my days, that I know of, I never drank better;
We found it so good, and we drank so profoundly,
That four good round Shillings were whipt away roundly;

175

And then I conceiv'd it was time to be jogging,
For our work had been done, had we staid t'other Noggin.

From thence we set forth with more mettle and spright,
Our Horses were empty, our Coxcombs were light,
O'er Dellamore Forrest we, Tantivy, posted,
Till our Horses were basted as if they were roasted;
In truth, we pursu'd might have been by our Host,
And I think Sir George Booth did not gallop so fast,
Till about two a Clock after Noon, God be bless'd,
We came safe and sound, all to Chester i'th' West.

And now in high time 'twas to call for some Meat,
Though drinking does well, yet some time we must eat;
And I'faith we had Vict'als both plenty and good,
Where we all laid about us as if we were wood:
Go thy ways, Mistress Anderton, for a good Woman,
Thy Guests shall by thee ne'er be turn'd to a Common,

176

And whoever of thy entertainment complains,
Let him lie with a Drab, and be pox'd for his pains.

And here I must stop the Carier of my Muse,
The poor Jade is weary, 'lass! how should she chuse,
And if I should farther here spur on my Course,
I should, questionless, tire both my Wits and my Horse:
To night let us rest, for 'tis good Sunday's Even,
To morrow to Church, and ask pardon of Heaven.
Thus far we our time spent, as here I have pen'd it,
An odd kind of Life, and 'tis well if we mend it;
But to morrow (God willing) we'll have t'orher bout,
And better or worse be't, for Murther will out,
Our future Adventures we'll lay down before ye,
For my Muse is deep sworn to use truth of the Story.

177

Canto 2.

After seven hours sleep, to commute for pains taken,
A man of himself, one would think, might awaken,
But riding, and drinking hard, were two such spells,
I doubt I'd slept on, but for jangling of Bells,
Which, ringing to Mattens all over the Town,
Made me leap out of Bed, and put on my Gown,
With intent (so God mend me) I have gone to the Choire,
When streight I perceived my self all on a fire;
For the two fore-nam'd things had so heated my bloud,
That a little Phlebotomy would doe me good:
I sent for Chirurgion, who came in a trice,
And swift to shed bloud, needed not be call'd twice,
But tilted Steeletto quite thorough the Vein,
From whence issued out the ill humours amain;

178

When having twelve Ounces he bound up my arme,
And I gave him two Georges, which did him no harm:
But after my bleeding I soon understood
It had cool'd my Devotion as well as my Bloud,
For I had no more mind to look on my Psalter
Than (saving your presence) I had to a Halter;
But like a most wicked and obstinate Sinner,
Then sate in my Chamber till Folks came to dinner:
I din'd with good stomach, and very good chear,
With a very fine Woman, and good Ale and Beer;
When my self having stuff'd than a Bag-pipe more full,
I fell to my smoaking untill I grew dull;
And therefore to take a fine nap thought it best,
For when Belly full is bones would be at rest;
I tumbled me down on my Bed like a swad,
Where O the delicious Dream that I had!
Till the Bells, that had been my morning molesters,
Now wak'd me again, chiming all in to Vespers;
With that starting up, for my man I did whistle,
And comb'd out and powder'd my locks that we grizle,

179

Had my cloths neatly brush'd, and then put on my Sword,
Resolv'd now to go and attend on the word.

Thus trick'd, and thus trim, to set forth I begin,
Neat and cleanly without, but scarce cleanly within;
For why, Heaven knows it, I long time had bin
A most humble obedient Servant to sin;
And now in Devotion was even so proud,
I scorned (forsooth) to joyn pray'r with the Croud,
For though courted by all the Bells as I went,
I was deaf, and regarded not the Compliment.
But to the Cathedral still held on my pace,
As 'twere, scorning to kneel but in the best place;
I there made my self sure of good Musick at least,
But was something deceiv'd, for 'twas none of the best:
But however I staid at the Churches commanding
Till we came to the peace passes all understanding,
Which no sooner was ended, but whir and away,
Like Boys in a School when they've leave got to play,

180

All save Master Mayor, who still gravely stays
Till the rest had left room for his Worship and's Mace:
Then he and his Brethren in order appear,
I out of my stall and fell into his rear;
For why, 'tis much safer appearing, no doubt,
In Authority's Tail, than the head of a Rout.

In this rev'rend order we marched from Pray'r;
The Mace before me borne as well as the May'r;
Who looking behind him, and seeing most plain
A glorious Gold Belt in the rear of his Train,
Made such a low Congey, forgetting his place,
I was never so honour'd before in my days;
But then off went my scalp-case, and down went my Fist,
Till the Pavement, too hard, by my knuckles was kiss'd.
By which, though thick-scull'd, he must understand this,
That I was a most humble Servant of his;
Which also so wonderfull kindly he took,
(At I well perceiv'd both b'his gesture and look,)

181

That to have me dogg'd home, he streightway appointed,
Resolving, it seems, to be better acquainted;
I was scarce in my Quarters, and set down on Crupper,
But his man was there too, to invite me to Supper;
I start up, and after most respective fashion
Gave his Worship much thanks for his kind Invitation,
But begg'd his excuse, for my stomach was small,
And I never did eat any Supper at all;
But that after Supper I would kiss his hands,
And would come to receive his Worship's commands:
Sure no one will say, but a Patron of Slander,
That this was not pretty well for a Moorelander;
And since on such reasons to sup I refus'd,
I nothing did doubt to be holden excus'd;
But my quaint Repartée had his Worship possess'd
With so wonderfull good a conceit of the rest,
That with mere Impatience he hop'd in his Breeches
To see the fine Fellow that made such fine Speeches:
Go, Sirrah, quoth he, get you to him again,
And will and require in his Majesties Name,

182

That he come; and tell him, obey he were best, or
I'll teach him to know that he's now in West-Chester:
The man, upon this, comes me running again,
But yet minc'd his Message, and was not so plain;
Saying to me onely, good Sir, I am sorry
To tell you my Master has sent again for you;
And has such a longing to have you his Guest,
That I, with these ears, heard him swear and protest,
He would neither say Grace, nor sit down on his Bum,
Nor open his Napkin, untill you do come.
With that I perceiv'd no excuse would avail,
And, seeing there was no defence for a Flail,
I said I was ready Master May'r to obey,
And therefore desir'd him to lead me the way:
We went, and e'er Malkin could well lick her ear,
For it but the next door was, forsooth, we were there
Where lights being brought me, I mounted the Stairs
The worst I e'er saw in my life at a Mayor's,
But every thing else must be highly commended;
I there found his Worship most nobly attended,

183

Besides such a Supper as well did convince,
A May'r in his Province to be a great Prince:
As he sate in his Chair, he did not much vary,
In state, nor in face, from our Eighth English Harry;
But whether his face was swell'd up with fat,
Or puff'd up with Glory, I cannot tell that:
Being enter'd the Chamber half length of a Pike,
And cutting of faces exceedingly like
One of those little Gentlemen brought from the Indies,
And skrewing my self into Congeys and Cringes,
By then I was half way advanc'd in the Room
His Worship most rev'rendly rose from his Bum,
And with the more Honour to grace and to greet me,
Advanc'd a whole step and an half for to meet me;
Where leisurely dossing a Hat worth a Tester,
He bad me most heartily wellcome to Chester;

184

I thank'd him in Language the best I was able,
And so we forthwith sate us all down to Table.

Now here you must note, and 'tis worth Observation,
That as his Chair at one end o'th' Table had station,
So sweet Mistress May'ress, in just such another,
Like the fair Queen of Hearts, sate in state at the other;
By which I perceiv'd, though it seemed a Riddle,
The lower end of this must be just in the middle;
But perhaps 'tis a Rule there, and one that would mind it
Amongst the Town-Statutes 'tis likely might find it.
But now into th' Pottage each deep his Spoon claps,
As in truth one might safely for burning one's chaps,
When streight, with the look and the tone of a Scold,
Mistress May'ress complain'd that the Pottage was cold,
And all long of your fiddle-saddle, quoth she;
Why, what then; Goody two-shoes, what if it be?
Hold you, if you can, your tittle-tattle, quoth he.

185

I was glad she was snapp'd thus, and guess'd by th' discourse,
The May'r, not the gray Mare, was the better Horse;
And yet for all that, there is reason to fear,
She submitted but out of respect to his year;
However, 'twas well she had now so much grace,
Though not to the Man, to submit to his place;
For had she proceeded, I verily thought
My turn would the next be, for I was in fault;
But this brush being past we fell to our Diet,
And e'ery one there fill'd his Belly in quiet.

Supper being ended, and things away taken,
Master Mayor's Curiosity 'gan to awaken;
Wherefore making me draw something nearer his Chair,
He will'd and requir'd me there to declare
My Countrey, my Birth, my Estate, and my Parts,
And whether I was not a Master of Arts;
And eke what the bus'ness was had brought me thither,
With what I was going about now, and whither:

186

Giving me caution, no lye should escape me,
For if I should trip, he should certainly trap me.
I answer'd, my Country was fam'd Stafford-shire;
That in Deeds, Bills, and Bonds, I was ever writ Squire;
That of Land, I had both sorts, some good, and some evil,
But that a great part on't was pawn'd to the Devil;
That as for my Parts, they were such as he saw;
That indeed I had a small smatt'ring of Law,
Which I lately had got more by practice than reading,
By sitting o'th' Bench, whilst others were pleading;
But that Arms I had ever more studi'd than Arts,
And was now to a Captain rais'd by my deserts;
That the bus'ness which led me through Palatine ground
Into Ireland was, whither now I was bound;
Where his Worship's great favour I loud will proclaim,
And in all other places where ever I came.
He said, as to that, I might doe what I list,
But that I was wellcome, and gave me his fist;

187

When having my Fingers made crack with his gripes,
He call'd to his man for some Bottles and Pipes.

To trouble you here with a longer Narration
Of the several parts of our Confabulation,
Perhaps would be tedious, I'll therefore remit ye
Even to the most rev'rend Records of the City,
Where doubtless the Acts of the May'rs are recorded,
And if not more truly, yet much better worded.

In short, then we pip'd, and we tippled Canary,
Till my Watch pointed one in the Circle Horary;
When thinking it now was high time to depart,
His worship I thank'd with a most gratefull heart;
And because to great men Presents are acceptable,
I presented the May'r, e'er I rose from the Table,
With a certain fantastical Box and a Stopper;
And he having kindly accepted my offer,
I took my fair leave, such my visage adorning,
And to bed, for I was to rise early i'th' Morning.

By which you may note, that either the man was mistaken, or the Mayor was not so good as his word, when he said he would not sit down till I came.

188

Canto 3.

The Sun in the Morning disclosed his light,
With complexion as ruddy as mine over night;
And o'er th' Eastern Mountains peeping up's head,
The Casement being open, espi'd me in bed;
With his Rays he so tickled my lids that I wak'd,
And was half asham'd, for I found my self nak'd;
But up I soon start, and was dress'd in a trice,
And call'd for a draught of Ale, Sugar, and Spice;
Which having turn'd off, I then call to pay,
And packing my Nawls, whip'd to Horse, and away:
A Guide I had got, who demanded great vails,
For conducting me over the Mountains of Wales;
Twenty good shillings, which sure very large is;
Yet that would not serve, but I must bare his Charges;
And yet for all that, rode astride on a Beast,
The worst that e'er went on three Legs, I protest;

189

It certainly was the most ugly of Jades,
His hips and his rump made a right Ace of Spades;
His sides were two Ladders, well spur-gall'd withall;
His neck was a Helve, and his head was a Mall;
For his colour, my pains and your trouble I'll spare,
For the Creature was wholly denuded of hair,
And, except for two things, as bare as my nail,
A tuft of a Mane, and a sprig of a Tail;
And by these the true colour one can no more know,
Than by Mouse-skins above stairs the Merkin below:
Now such as the Beast was, even such was the Rider,
With a head like a Nutmeg, and legs like a Spider;
A voice like a Cricket, a look like a Rat,
The brains of a Goose, and the heart of a Cat;
Even such was my Guide, and his Beast, let them pass,
The one for a Horse, and the other an Ass.

190

But now with our Horses, what sound and what rotten,
Down to the Shoar, you must know, we were gotten;
And there we were told, it concern'd us to ride,
Unless we did mean to encounter the Tide;
And then my Guide lab'ring with heels and with hands,
With two up and one down, hopp'd over the Sands,
Till his Horse, finding th' labour for three Legs too sore,
Fol'd out a new leg, and then he had four:
And now by plain dint of hard spurring and whipping,
Dry-shod we came where Folks sometimes take Shipping;
And where the Salt-Sea, as the Devil were in't,
Came roaring, t'have hinder'd our Journey to Flint;
But were, by good luck, before him got thither,
He else would have carried us no man knows whither.

191

And now Her in Wales is, Saint Taph be her speed,
Gotts plutter her taste, some Welch-Ale her had need;
For her ride in great haste, and was like shit her Breeches,
For fear of her being catcht up by the Fishes;
But the Lord of Flint Castle's no Lord worth a Louse,
For he keeps ne'er a drop of good drink in his House;
But in a small House near unto't there was store
Of such Ale, as (thank God) I ne'er tasted before;
And surely the Welch are not wise of their Fuddle,
For this had the taste and complexion of puddle.
From thence then we march'd, full as dry as we came;
My Guide before prancing, his steed no more lame,
O'er Hills, and o'er Valleys uncouth and uneven,
Untill 'twixt the hours of twelve and eleven,

192

More hungry and thirsty than tongue can well tell,
We happily came to St. Winnifred's Well;
I thought it the Pool of Bethesda had been
By the Cripples lay there, but I went to my Inn
To speak for some Meat, for so Stomach did motion,
Before I did farther proceed in Devotion;
I went into th' Kitchin, where Vict'als I saw,
Both Beef, Veal, and Mutton, but all on't was raw;
And some on't alive, but it soon went to slaughter,
For four Chickens were slain by my Dame and her Daughter;
Of which to Saint Win: e'er my vows I had paid,
They said I should find a rare Frigassey made;
I thank'd them, and streight to the Well did repair,
Where some I found cursing, and others at Pray'r;
Some dressing, some stripping, some out and some in,
Some naked, where Botches and Boiles might be seen:

193

Of which some were Fevors of Venus I'm sure,
And therefore unfit for the Virgin to cure:
But the Fountain, in truth, is well worth the sight,
The beautifull Virgin's own tears not more bright;
Nay, none but she ever shed such a tear,
Her Conscience, her Name, nor her self were more clear:
In the bottom there lie certain stones that look white,
But streak'd with pure red, as the Morning with light,
Which they say is her bloud, and so it may be,
But for that, let who shed it look to it for me.
Over the Fountain a Chapel there stands,
Which I wonder has scap'd Master Oliver's hands;
The floor's not ill pav'd, and the Margent o'th' Spring,
Is enclos'd with a certain Octagonal Ring;
From each Angle of which a Pillar does rise,
Of strength and of thickness enough to suffice
To support and uphold from falling to ground
A Cupolo wherewith the Virgin is crown'd.

194

Now 'twixt the two Angels, that fork to the North,
And where the cold Nymph does her Bason pour forth,
Under ground is a place, where they bathe, as 'tis said,
And 'tis true, for I heard Folks Teeth hack in their head;
For you are to know, that the Rogues and the Whores
Are not let to pollute the Spring-head with their sores.
But one thing I chiefly admir'd in the place,
That a Saint, and a Virgin, endu'd with such Grace,
Should yet be so wonderfull kind a well-willer,
To that whoring and filching Trade of a Miller,
As within a few paces to furnish the Wheels,
Of I cannot tell how many Water-mills:
I've studi'd that point much, you cannot guess why,
But the Virgin was, doubtless, more righteous than I:
And now for my wellcome, four, five, or six Lasses,
With as many Chrystalline liberal Glasses,

195

Did all importune me to drink of the Water
Of Saint Winnefreda, good Thewith's fair Daughter:
A while I was doubtfull, and stood in a Muse,
Not knowing, amidst all that choice, where to chuse,
Till a pair of black eyes, darting full in my sight,
From the rest o'th' fair Maidens did carry me quite;
I took the Glass from her, and, whip, off it went,
I half doubt I fansi'd a health to the Saint;
But he was a great Villain committed the slaughter,
For St. Winnefred made most delicate water.
I slip'd a hard Shilling into her soft hand,
Which had like to have made me the place have profan'd,
And giving two more to the Poor that were there,
Did, sharp as a Hawk, to my quarters repair.

My Dinner was ready, and to it I fell,
I never ate better meat that I can tell;
When having half din'd, there comes in my Host,
A Catholick, good, and a rare drunken Tost;

196

This man, by his drinking, inflamed the Scot,
And told me strange stories, which I have forgot;
But this I remember, 'twas much on's own Life,
And one thing, that he had converted his Wife.

But now my Guide told me, it time was to go,
For that to our beds we must both ride and row;
Wherefore calling to pay, and having accounted,
I soon was down stairs, and as suddenly mounted:
On then we travell'd, our guide still before,
Sometimes on three Legs, and sometimes on four,
Coasting the Sea, and over Hills crawling,
Sometimes on all four, for fear we should fall in;
For underneath Neptune lay shalking to watch us,
And, had we but slip'd once, was ready to catch us:

197

Thus in places of danger taking more heed,
And in safer travelling mending our speed,
Redland-Castle and Abergoney we pass'd,
And o'er against Connaway came at the last:
Just over against a Castle there stood,
O'th' right hand the Town, and o'th' left hand a Wood;
'Twixt the Wood and the Castle they see at high water
The storm, the place makes it a dangerous matter;
And besides, upon such a steep Rock it is founded,
As would break a man's neck, should he scape being drowned:
Perhaps though in time one may make them to yield,
But 'tis pretty'st Cob-Castle e'er I beheld.

The Sun now was going t'unharness his Steeds,
When the Ferry-boat brasking her sides 'gainst the Weeds,

198

Came in as good time, as good time could be,
To give us a cast o'er an arme of the Sea;
And bestowing our Horses before and abaft,
O'er god Neptune's wide Cod-piece gave us a waft;
Where scurvily landing at foot of the Fort,
Within very few paces we enter'd the Port,
Where another King's head invited me down,
For indeed I have ever been true to the Crown.

199

The Storm.

To the Earl of ---

How with ill Nature does this World abound!
When I, who ever thought my self most sound,
And free from that infection, now must chuse
Out you, (my Lord,) whom least I should abuse
To trouble with a Tempest, who have none
In your firm Breast t'afflict you of your own;
But since of Friendship it the nature is,
In any accident that falls amiss,
Whether of sorrow, terrour, loss, or pain,
Caus'd or by Men or Fortune, to complain
To those who of our ills have deepest sense,
And in whose savour we've most confidence.

200

Pardon, if in a Storm I here engage
Your calmer thoughts, and on a Sea, whose rage,
When but a little mov'd, as far outbraves
The tamer Mutinies of Adria's Waves,
As they, when worst for Neptune to appease
The softest curls of most pacifick Seas;
And though I'm vain enough half to believe
My danger will some little trouble give,
I yet more vainly fansie 'twill advance
Your pleasure too, for my deliverance.

'Twas now the time of year, of all the rest,
For slow, but certain Navigation best;
The Earth had dress'd her self so fine and gay,
That all the World, our little World, was May;
The Sea too, had put on his smoothest face,
Clear, slick, and even as a Looking-glass;

201

The rugged Winds were lock'd up in their Gaoles,
And were but Zephyrs whisper'd in the Sails;
All Nature seem'd to court us to our woe;
Good God! can Elements dissemble too?
Whilst we, secure, consider'd not the whiles
That greatest Treasons lie conceal'd in smiles.

Aboard we went, and soon were under Sail,
But with so small an over-modest Gale,
And to our Virgin Canvass so unkind,
As not to swell their laps with so much wind,
As common courtship would in breeding pay
To Maids less buxom and less trim than they.
But of this Calm we could not long complain,
For scarcely were we got out to the Main
From the still Harbour but a League, no more,
When the false Wind (that seem'd so chaste before)

202

The Ship's lac'd Smock began to stretch and tear,
Not like a Suitor, but a Ravisher;
As if delight were lessen'd by consent,
And tasted worse for being innocent.
A Sable Curtain, in a little space,
Of thick wove Clouds was drawn o'er Phœbus face,
He might not see the horrour of the fight,
Nor we the comfort of his heav'nly light:
Then, as this darkness had the Signal been,
At which the furious Storm was to begin,
Heaven's loud Artillery began to play,
And with pale flashes made a dreadfull day:
The Centre shook by these, the Ocean
In hills of Brine to swell and heave began;
Which growing Mountains, as they rolling hit,
To surge and foam, each other broke and split,
Like men, who, in intestine storms of state,
Strike any they nor know, nor yet for what;

203

But with the stream of fury headlong run
To war, they know not how nor why begun.

In this disorder streight the winds forlorn,
Which had lain ambush'd all the flatt'ring Morn,
With unexpected fury rushes in,
The ruffling Skirmish rudely to begin;
The Sea with Thunder-claps allarm'd before,
Assaulted thus anew, began to roar.
In Waves, that striving which should fastest run,
Crouded themselves into confusion.

At which advantage Æolus brought on
His large spread Wings, and main Battallion,
When by opposing shoars the flying Foe
Forc'd back against the Enemy to flow,
So great a conflict follow'd, as if here
Th' enraged Enemies embattel'd were;

204

Not only one another to subdue,
But to destroy themselves and Nature too.

To paint this Horrour to the life; weak Art
Must want a hand, Humanity a heart,
And I, the bare Relation whilst I make,
Methinks am brave, my hand still does not shake;
For surely since men first in Planks of wood
Themselves committed to the faithless Floud,
Men born and bred at Sea, did ne'er behold
Neptune in such prodigious furrows roll'd;
Those winds, which with the loudest terrour roar,
Never so stretch'd their lungs and cheeks before;
Nor on this floating stage has ever been
So black a Scene of dreadfull ruine seen.

Poor Yacht! in such a Sea how canst thou live?
What ransome would not thy pale Tenants give

205

To be set down on the most desp'rate shoar,
Where Serpents hiss, Tygers and Lyons roar,
And where the men, inhumane Savages,
Are yet worse Vermin, greater Brutes than these?
Who would not for a danger that may be
Exchange a certain ruine that they see?
For such, unto our Reason, or our fear,
Ours did in truth most manifest appear;
And how could we expect a better end,
When Winds and Seas seem'd only to contend,
Not which should conquer other in this War,
But in our wreck which should have greatest share?
The Winds were all let loose upon the Main,
And every wind that blew a Hurricane,
Nereus's whole pow'r too muster'd seem'd to be,
Wave rode on wave, and every wave a Sea.
Of our small Bark gusts rush'd the trembling sides
Against vast billows that contain'd whole Tides,

206

Which in disdainfull fury beat her back
With such a force, as made her stout sides crack,
'Gainst others that in crowds came rolling in,
As if they meant their liquid walls between
T'engage the wretched hulk, and crush her flat,
And make her squeeze to death her dying fraight.
Sometimes she on a Mountain's ridge would ride,
And from that height her gliding Keel then slide
Into a Gulf yawning, and deep as Hell,
Whilst we were swooning all the while we fell;
Then by another billow rais'd so high,
As if the Sea would dart her into th' Sky,
To be a Pinnace to the Argosie;
Then down a precipice so low and steep,
As it had been the bottom of the Deep:
Thus whilst we up and down, and to and fro,
We're miserably toss'd and bandi'd so,

207

'Twas strange our little Pink, though ne'er so tight,
Could weather't so, and keep her self upright;
Or was not sunk with weight of our despair,
For Hope, alas! could find no ank'ring there:
Her Prow, and Poop, Star-board, and Lar-board side
B'ing with these Elements so hotly pli'd,
'Twas no less than a Miracle her seams
Not ripp'd and open'd, and her very Beams
Continu'd faithfull in these loud extremes;
That her tall Masts, so often bow'd and bent
With gust on gust, were not already spent;
That all, or any thing indeed withstood
A Sea so hollow, such a high wrought Floud.

Here, where no Sea-man's Art nor strength avails,
Where use of Compass, Rudder, or of Sails,
There now was none; the Mariners all stood
Bloudless and cold as we; or though they cou'd

208

Something, perhaps, have help'd in such a stress,
Were ev'ry one astonish'd ne'ertheless
To that degree, they either had no heart
Their Art to use, or had forgot their Art.
Meanwhile the miserable Passengers,
With sighs the hardest, the more soft with tears,
Mercy of Heav'n in various accents crav'd,
But after drowning hoping to be sav'd.
How oft, by fear of dying, did we die?
And every death, a death of cruelty,
Worse than worst Cruelties provok'd impose
On the most hated, most offending Foes.
We fansi'd death riding on every Wave,
And every hollow seem'd a gaping Grave:
All things we saw such horrour did present,
And all of dying too were so intent,
Ev'ry one thought himself already dead,
And that for him the tears he saw were shed.

209

Such as had not the courage to behold
Their danger above deck, within the Hold
Utter'd such groans in that their floating Grave,
As even unto terrour terrour gave;
Whilst those above pale, dead, and cold appear,
Like Ghosts in Charon's Boat that sailing were.
The last day's dread, which none can comprehend,
But to weak fancy only recommend,
To form the dreadfull Image from sick fear,
That fear and fancy both were height'ned here
With such a face of horrour, as alone
Was fit to prompt Imagination,
Or to create it where there had been none.
Such as from under Hatches thrust a head
T'enquire what news, seem'd rising from the dead,
Whilst those who stai'd above, bloudless with fear,
And gastly look, as they new risen were.

210

The bold and timorous, with like horrour struck,
Were not to be distinguish'd by their look;
And he who could the greatest courage boast
Howe'er within, look'd still as like a Ghost.

Ten hours in this rude Tempest we were toss'd,
And ev'ry moment gave our selves for lost;
Heav'n knows how ill prepar'd for sudden death,
When the rough winds, as they'd been out of breath,
Now seem'd to pant, and panting to retreat,
The Waves with gentler force against us beat;
The Sky clear'd up, the Sun again shone bright,
And gave us once again new life and light;
We could again bear sail in those rough Seas,
The Sea-men now resume their offices;
Hope warm'd us now anew, anew the heart
Did to our cheeks some streaks of bloud impart;

211

And in two hours, or very little more,
We came to Anchor Faulcon-shot from shoar,
The very same we left the Morn before;
Where now in a yet working Sea, and high,
Untill the wind shall veere, we rolling lie,
Resting secure from present fear; but then
The dangers we escap'd must tempt agen;
Which if again I safely shall get through,
And sure I know the worst the Sea can doe)
So soon as I shall touch my native Land,
I'll thence ride Post to kiss your Lordship's hand.

212

ODE.

Is't come to this, that we must part?
Then Heav'n is turn'd all cruelty,
And Fate has neither eyes nor heart,
Or else (my Sweet) it could not be.

She's a blind Deity I'm sure;
For woefull sights compassion move,
And Heav'nly minds could ne'er endure
To persecute the truest love.

Love is the highest attribute
Of pow'rs unknown we Mortals know;
For that all homage we commute
From that all good, and Mercies flow.

213

And can there be a Deity
In those eternal seats above,
Will own so dire a Cruelty,
As thus to punish faithfull Love?

Oh Heav'nly Pow'rs! be good and just,
Cherish the Law your selves have made,
We else in vain in Vertue trust,
And by Religion are betray'd.

Oh! punish me some other way
For other sins, but this is none;
Take all the rest you gave away,
But let my dearest Dear alone.

Strip me as into th' World I came,
I never shall dispute your will,
Or strike me dumb, deaf, blind or lame,
But let me have Chlorinda still.

214

Why was she given me at all?
I thought indeed the Gift too great
For my poor Merit; but withall
I always knew to value it.

I first by you was worthy made,
Next by her choice; let me not prove
Blasphemous, if I'm not afraid
To say most worthy by my love.

And must I then be damn'd from Bliss
For valuing the Blessing more,
Be wretched made through Happiness,
And by once being rich more poor?

This Separation is, alass!
Too great a punishment to bear,
Oh! take my life, or let me pass
That life, that happy life, with her.

215

O my Chlorinda! couldst thou see
Into the bottom of my heart,
There's such a Mine of Love for thee,
The Treasure would supply desert.

Let the King send me where he please,
Ready at Drum and Trumpet's call,
I'll fight at home, or cross the Seas,
His Soulder, but Chlorinda's Thrall.

No change of Diet, or of Air,
In me can a Distemper breed;
And if I fall it should be fair,
Since 'tis her bloud that I'm to bleed.

And sitting so I nothing fear
A noble she of living fame;
And who shall then be by, nay hear,
In my last groans, Chlorinda's Name?

216

But I am not proscrib'd to die,
My Adversaries are too wise;
More rigour and less Charity
Condemns me from Chlorinda's eyes.

Ah cruel Sentence, and severe!
That is a thousand deaths in one;
Oh! let me die before I hear
A sound of Separation.

And yet it is decreed, I see,
The Race of men are now combin'd,
Though I still keep the Body free,
To persecute a Loyal mind.

And that's the worst that Man can doe,
To banish me Chlorinda's sight,
Yet will my heart-continue true,
Maugre their power and their spight.

217

Mean while my Exit now draws nigh,
When, Sweet Chlorinda, thou shalt see
That I have heart enough to die,
Not half enough to part with thee.

Εις το δουιν πινειν

Paraphras'd from Anacreon.

The Earth with swallowing drunken showers
Reels a perpetual round,
And with their Healths the Trees and Flowers
Again drink up the Ground.

The Sea, of Liquor spuing full,
The ambient Air doth sup,
And thirsty Phœbus at a pull
Quaffs off the Ocean's cup.

218

When stagg'ring to a resting place,
His bus'ness being done,
The Moon, with her pale platter face,
Comes and drinks up the Sun.

Since Elements and Planets then
Drink an eternal round,
'Tis much more proper sure for men
Have better Liquor found.

Why may not I then, tell me pray,
Drink and be drunk as well as they?

219

On Christmas-day.

Hymn.

I

Rise, happy Mortals, from your sleep,
Bright Phospher now begins to peep,
In such apparel as ne'er dress'd
The proudest day-break of the East:
Death's Sable Curtain 'gins disperse,
And now the blessed Morn appears,
Which has long'd and pray'd for him
So many Centuries of years,
To defray th' arrears of sin.
Now through the joyfull Universe
Beams of Mercy and of Love
Shoot forth comfort from above,
And Choires of Angels do proclaim
The Holy Jesus blessed Name.

220

II

Rise Sheepherds, leave your Flocks, and run,
The Soul's great Sheepherd now is come;
Oh! wing your tardy feet, and fly
To greet this dawning Majesty:
Heaven's Messenger, in tidings bless'd,
Invites you to the Sacred place,
Where the blessed Babe of Joy,
Wrapp'd in his Holy Father's Grace,
Come's the Serpent to destroy,
That lurks in ev'ry humane Breast.
To Judah's Beth'lem turn your feet,
There you shall Salvation meet;
There, in a homely Manger hurl'd,
Lies the Messias of the World.

221

III

Riding upon the Morning's wings,
The joyfull Air Salvation sings,
Peace upon Earth, tow'rds men good will,
Ecchoes from ev'ry Vale and Hill;
For why the Prince of Peace is come,
The glorious Infant, who this Morn
(By a strange mysterious Birth,)
Is of his Virgin Mother born,
To redeem the Seed of Earth
From foul rebellious heavy doom.
Travel Magi of the East,
To adore this sacred Guest;
And offer up (with reverence,)
Your Gold, your Myrrhe, and Frankincense.

222

IV

At th' teeming of this Blessed Womb
All Nature is one Joy become;
The Fire, the Earth, the Sea, and Air,
The great Salvation do declare:
The Mountains skip with Joy's excess,
The Ocean's briny billows swell
O'er the surface of their Lands,
And at this Sacred Miracle
Flouds do clap their liquid hands,
Joy's Inundation to express;
Babes spring in the narrow rooms
Of their tender Mothers Wombs,
And all for Triumph of the Morn
Wherein the Child of bliss was born.

223

V

Let each religious Soul then rise
To offer up a Sacrifice,
And on the wings of Pray'r and Praise
His gratefull heart to Heaven raise;
For this, that in a Stable lies,
This poor neglected Babe is he,
Hell and Death that must controll,
And speak the blessed Word, be free
To ev'ry true believing Soul:
Death has no sting, nor Hell no prize
Through his Merits great, whilst we
Travel to Eternity,
And with the Blessed Angels sing
Hosannah's to the Heav'nly King.

224

Chorus.

Rise then, O rise, and let your voices
Tell the Spheres the Soul rejoyces.
In Beth'lem this auspicious Morn,
The Glorious Son of God is born.
The Child of Glory, Prince of Peace,
Brings Mercy that will never cease,
Merits that wipe away the sin
Each Humane Soul was forfeit in;
And washing off the fatall stain,
Man to his Maker knits again:
Joyn then your gratefull Notes, and sing
Hosannah's to the Heav'nly King.

225

Saphick Ode.

How easie is his Life, and free,
Who, urg'd by no necessity,
Eats chearfull Bread, and over night does pay
For's next day's Crapula.

No suitor such a mean estate
Invites to be importunate,
No supple flatt'rer, robbing Villain, or
Obstreperous Creditor.

This man does need no Bolts nor Locks,
Nor needs he start when any knocks,
But may on careless Pillow lie and snoar,
With a wide open door.

Trouble and Danger Wealth attend,
An usefull but a dang'rous Friend,
Who makes us pay, e'er we can be releas'd,
Quadruple Interest.

226

Let's live to day then for to morrow,
The Fool's too provident will borrow
A thing, which through Chance or Infirmity,
'Tis odds he ne'er may see.

Spend all then e'er you go to Heaven,
So with the World you will make even;
And men discharge by dying Nature's score,
Which done we owe no more.

The Morning Quatrains.

I

The Cock has crow'd an hour ago,
'Tis time we now dull sleep forgo;
Tir'd Nature is by sleep redress'd,
And Labour's overcome by Rest.

227

II

We have out-done the work of Night,
'Tis time we rise t'attend the Light,
And e'er he shall his Beams display,
To plot new bus'ness for the day.

III

None but the slothfull, or unsound,
Are by the Sun in Feathers found,
Nor, without rising with the Sun,
Can the World's bus'ness e'er be done.

IV

Hark! Hark! the watchfull Chanticler,
Tells us the day's bright Harbinger
Peeps o'er the Eastern Hills, to awe
And warn night's sov'reign to withdraw.

228

V

The Morning Curtains now are drawn,
And now appears the blushing dawn;
Aurora has her Roses shed,
To strew the way Sol's steeds must tread.

VI

Xanthus and Æthon harness'd are,
To roll away the burning Carr,
And, snorting flame, impatient bear
The dressing of the Chariotier.

VII

The sable Cheeks of sullen Night
Are streak'd with Rosie streams of light,
Whilst she retires away in fear,
To shade the other Hemisphere.

229

VIII

The merry Lark now takes her wings,
And long'd-for days loud wellcome sings,
Mounting her body out of sight,
As if she meant to meet the light.

IX

Now doors and windows are unbar'd,
Each-where are chearfull voices heard,
And round about Good-morrows fly,
As if Day taught Humanity.

X

The Chimnies now to smoke begin,
And the old Wife sits down to spin,
Whilst Kate, taking her Pail, does trip
Mulls swoln and stradl'ing Paps to strip.

230

XI

Vulcan now makes his Anvil ring,
Dick whistles loud, and Maud doth sing,
And Silvio with his Bugle Horn
Winds an Imprime unto the Morn.

XII

Now through the morning doors behold
Phœbus array'd in burning Gold,
Lashing his fiery Steeds, displays
His warm and all enlight'ning Rays.

XIII

Now each one to his work prepares,
All that have hands are Labourers,
And Manufactures of each trade
By op'ning Shops are open laid.

231

XIV

Hob yokes his Oxen to the Team,
The Angler goes unto the stream,
The Wood-man to the Purlews highs,
And lab'ring Bees to load their thighs.

XV

Fair Amarillis drives her Flocks,
All night safe folded from the Fox,
To flow'ry Downs, where Collin stays,
To court her with his Roundelays.

XVI

The Traveller now leaves his Inn
A new days Journey to begin,
As he would post it with the day,
And early rising makes good way.

232

XVII

The slick-fac'd School-boy Sachel takes,
And with slow pace small riddance makes;
For why, the haste we make, you know,
To Knowledge and to Vertue's slow.

XVIII

The Fore-horse gingles on the Road,
The Waggoner lugs on his Load,
The Field with busie People snies,
And City rings with various cries.

XIX

The World is now a busie swarm,
All doing good, or doing harm;
But let's take heed our Acts be true,
For Heaven's eye sees all we doe.

233

XX

None can that piercing sight evade,
It penetrates the darkest shade,
And sin, though it could scape the eye,
Would be discover'd by the Cry.

Noon Quatrains.

I

The day grows hot, and darts his Rays
From such a sure and killing place,
That this half World are fain to fly
The danger of his burning eye.

II

His early Glories were benign,
Warm to be felt, bright to be seen,
And all was comfort, but who can
Endure him when Meridian?

234

III

Of him we as of Kings complain,
Who mildly do begin to reign,
But to the Zenith got of pow'r,
Those whom they should protect devour.

IV

Has not another Phaeton
Mounted the Chariot of the Sun,
And, wanting Art to guide his Horse,
Is hurri'd from the Sun's due course.

V

If this hold on, our fertile Lands
Will soon be turn'd to parched Sands,
And not an Onion that will grow
Without a Nile to overflow.

235

VI

The grazing Herds now droop and pant,
Een without labour fit to faint,
And willingly forsook their Meat
To seek out cover from the heat.

VII

The lagging Ox is now unbound,
From larding the new turn'd up ground,
Whilst Hobbinal alike o'er-laid,
Takes his course dinner to the shade.

VIII

Cellars and Grottos now are best
To eat and drink in, or to rest,
And not a Soul above is found
Can find a refuge under ground.

236

IX

When Pagan Tyranny grew hot,
Thus persecuted Christians got
Into the dark but friendly Womb
Of unknown Subterranean Rome.

X

And as that heat did cool at last,
So a few scorching hours o'er pass'd,
In a more mild and temp'rate Ray
We may again enjoy the day.

237

The Night.

Written by Monsieur le Comte de Cremail.

Stanzes.

I

Oh Night! by me so oft requir'd,
Oh Night! by me so much desir'd,
Of my Felicity the cause,
Oh Night! so wellcome to my eyes,
Grant, in this horrour of the Skies,
This dreadfull shade thy Curtain draws,
That I may now adore this Night
The Star that burns and gives me light.

238

II

Spread o'er the Earth thy Sable Veil,
Heaven's twinckling sparklets to conceal,
That darkness seems to day t'improve;
For other light I do need none
To guide me to my lovely one,
But only that of mine own love;
And all light else offends my sight,
But hers whose eye does give me light.

III

Oblivion of our forepass'd woes,
Thou Charm of sadness, and repose
Of Souls that languish in despair,
Why dost thou not from Lethe rise?
Dost thou not see the whole World snies
With Lovers who themselves declare
Enemies to all noise and light,
And covet nothing but the Night?

239

IV

At her transparent Window there
Thou'lt see Aminta's eye appear,
That, like a Sun set round with Ray,
The shadows from the Sky shall chase,
Changing the colour of its face
Into a bright and glorious day;
Yet do not fear this Sun so bright,
For 'tis a mighty Friend to Night.

V

Rise then, lov'd Night, rise from the Sea,
And to my Sun Aurora be,
And now thy blackest Garment wear;
Dull sleep already thee forgoes,
And each-where a dumb silence does
Thy long'd-for long approach declare;
I know the Star that gives me light,
To see me only stays for Night.

240

VI

Ha! I see shades rise from th' Abiss,
And now I go the Lips to kiss,
The Breasts and Eyes have me deceiv'd;
Oh Night! the height of my desire,
Canst thou put on so black attire
That I by none can be perceiv'd,
And that I may this happy Night
See the bright Star that gives me light?

VII

Oh that my dusky Goddess could
In her thick Mantle so enfold
Heaven's torches, as to damp their fire,
That here on Earth thou might'st for ever
Keep thy dark Empire, Night, and never
Under the Waves again retire;
That endless so might be the Night,
Wherein I see the Star my light!

241

Evening.

Quatrains.

I

The Day's grown old, the fainting Sun
Has but a little way to run,
And yet his Steeds, with all his skill,
Scarce lug the Chariot down the Hill.

II

With Labour spent, and Thirst opprest,
Whilst they strain hard to gain the West,
From Fetlocks hot drops melted light,
Which turn to Meteors in the Night.

III

The Shadows now so long do grow,
That Brambles like tall Cedars show,
Mole-hills seem Mountains, and the Ant
Appears a monstrous Elephant.

IV

A very little little Flock
Shades thrice the ground that it would stock;

242

Whilst the small Stripling following them,
Appears a mighty Polypheme.

V

These being brought into the Fold,
And by the thrifty Master told,
He thinks his Wages are well paid,
Since none are either lost, or stray'd.

VI

Now lowing Herds are each-where heard,
Chains rattle in the Villains Yard,
The Cart's on Tayl set down to rest,
Bearing on high the Cuckolds Crest.

VII

The hedg is stript, the Clothes brought in,
Nought's left without should be within,
The Bees are hiv'd, and hum their Charm,
Whilst every House does seem a Swarm.

VIII

The Cock now to the Roost is prest:
For he must call up all the rest;
The Sow's fast pegg'd within the Sty,
To still her squeaking Progeny.

243

IX

Each one has had his Supping Mess,
The Cheese is put into the Press,
The Pans and Bowls clean scalded all,
Rear'd up against the Milk-house Wall.

X

And now on Benches all are sat
In the cool Air to sit and chat,
Till Phœbus, dipping in the West,
Shall lead the World the way to Rest.

Night.

Quatrains.

I

The Sun is set, and gone to sleep
With the fair Princess of the Deep,
Whose Bosom is his cool Retreat,
When fainting with his proper Heat:

244

II

His Steeds their flaming Nostrils cool
In Spume of the Cerulean Pool;
Whilst the Wheels dip their hissing Naves
Deep in Columbus's Western Waves.

III

From whence great rowls of Smoke arise
To overshade the Beauteous Skies;
Who bid the World's bright Eye adieu
In gelid tears of falling Dew.

IV

And now from the Iberian Vales
Nights sable Steeds her Chariot hales,
Where double Cypress Curtains skreen
The gloomy Melancholick Queen.

V

These, as they higher mount the Sky,
Ravish all Colour from the Eye,
And leave it but an useless glass,
Which few, or no Reflections grace.

245

VI

The Crystal Arch o're Pindus's Crown
Is on a sudden dusky grown,
And all's with Fun'ral Black o'respread,
As if the Day, which sleeps, were dead.

VII

No Ray of Light the Heart to chear,
But little twinkling Stars appear;
Which like faint dying embers ly,
Fit nor to work, nor travel by.

VIII

Perhaps to him they Torches are,
Who guide Night's Sovereign's drowsy Car,
And him they may befriend so near,
But us they neither light, nor chear.

IX

Or else those little sparks of Light
Are Nayls that tyre the Wheels of Night,
Which to new stations still are brought,
As they rowl o'r the gloomy Vault.

246

X

Or Nayls that arm the Horses hoof,
Which trampling o're the marble Roof,
And striking Fire in the Air,
We Mortals call a shooting Star.

XI

That's all the Light we now receive,
Unless what belching Vulcans give,
And those yield such a kind of Light
As adds more horror to the Night.

XII

Nyctimine now freed from day,
From sullen Bush flies out to prey,
And does with Feret note proclaim
Th' arrival of th' usurping Dame.

XIII

The Rail now cracks in Fields and Meads,
Toads now forsake the Nettle-beds,
The tim'rous Hare goes to relief,
And wary Men bolt out the Theef.

247

XIV

The Fire's new rak'r, and Hearth swept clean
By Madg, the dirty Kitchin Quean,
The Safe is lock't, the Mouse-trap set,
The Leaven laid, and Bucking wet.

XV

Now in false Floors and Roofs above,
The lustful Cats make ill tun'd Love,
The Ban dog on the Dunghil lies,
And watchful Nurse sings Lullabies.

XVI

Philomel chants it whilst she bleeds,
The Butern booms it in the Reeds,
And Reynard entring the back Yard,
The Capitolian Cry is heard.

XVII

The Goblin now the Fool alarms,
Haggs meet to mumble o're their Charms;
The Night mare rides the dreaming Ass,
And Fairies trip it on the grass.

248

XVIII

The Drunkard now supinely snores,
His load of Ale sweats through his Pores,
Yet when he wakes the Swine shall find
A Cropala remains behind.

XIX

The Sober now and Chast are blest
With sweet, and with refreshing rest,
And to sound sleeps they've best pretence,
Have greatest share of Innocence.

XX

We should so live then that we may
Fearless put off our Clotts and Clay,
And travel through Death's shades to Light;
For every Day must have its Night.

249

Ode.

Good night, my Love, may gentle rest
Charm up your Senses till the Light,
Whilst I with Care and Woe opprest,
Go to inhabit endless Night.

There, whilst your Eyes shall grace the Day,
I must in the despairing shade,
Sigh such a woful time away,
As never yet poor Lover had.

Yet to this endless Solitude
There is one dangerous step to pass,
To one that loves your sight so rude,
As Flesh and Blood is loth to pass.

But I will take it to express
I worthily your Favours wore,
Your merits (Sweet) can claim no less,
Who dyes for you can do no more.

250

Ode de Monsieur Racan.

Ingrateful cause of all my harms,
I go to seek amidst Alarms
My Death, or Liberty;
And that's all now I've left to do,
Since (cruel Fair) in serving you
I can nor live nor dye.

The King his Towns sees desart made,
His Plains with armed Troops o're-spread,
Violence do's controul;
All's Fire and Sword before his Eyes,
Yet has he fewer Enemies
Than I have in my Soul.

But yet, alas! my hope is vain
To put a period to my pain,
By any desperate ways,
'Tis you that hold my Life enchain'd,
And (under Heaven) you command,
And only you, my days.

251

If in a Battel's loud'st Alarms,
I rush amongst incensed Arms,
Invoking Death to take me,
Seeing me look so pale, the Foe
Will think me Death himself, and so
Not venture to attaque me.

In Bloody Fields where Mars doth make
With his loud Thunder all to shake,
Both Earth, and Heav'n to boot;
Mans pow'r to kill me I despise,
Since Love, with Arrows from your Eyes,
Had not the Pow'r to doo't.

No, I must languish still unblest,
And in worst Torments manifest
My firm Fidelity;
Or that my Reason set me free,
Since (Fair) in serving you I see,
I can nor live nor dye.

252

Contentation.

Directed to my Dear Father, and most Worthy Friend, Mr. Isaac Walton.

I

Heav'n, what an Age is this! what Race
Of Giants are sprung up, that dare
Thus fly in the Almighty's Face,
And with his Providence make War!

II

I can go no where but I meet
With Malecontents, and Mutineers,
As if in Life was nothing sweet,
And we must Blessings reap in Tears.

III

O senseless Man, that murmurs still
For Happiness, and does not know,
Even though he might enjoy his Will,
What he would have to make him so.

253

IV

Is it true Happiness to be
By undiscerning Fortune plac't,
In the most eminent Degree,
Where few arrive, and none stand fast?

V

Titles and Wealth are Fortune's Toyls
Wherewith the Vain themselves ensnare?
The Great are proud of borrow'd Spoils,
The Miser's Plenty breeds his Care.

VI

The one supinely yawns at rest,
Th' other eternally doth toyl,
Each of them equally a Beast,
A pamper'd Horse, or lab'ring Moyl.

VII

The Titulado's oft disgrac'd,
By publick hate, or private frown,
And he whose Hand the Creature rais'd,
Has yet a Foot to kick him down.

254

VIII

The Drudge who would all get, all save,
Like a brute Beast both feeds, and lies,
Prone to the Earth, he digs his Grave,
And in the very labour dies.

IX

Excess of ill got, ill kept Pelf,
Does only Death, and Danger breed,
Whilst one rich Worldling starves himself
With what would thousand others feed.

X

By which we see what Wealth and Pow'r
Although they make men rich and great,
The sweets of Life do often sour,
And gull Ambition with a Cheat.

XI

Nor is he happier than these,
Who in a moderate estate,
Where he might safely live at ease,
Has Lusts that are immoderate.

355

XII

For he, by those desires misled,
Quits his own Vine's securing shade,
T'expose his naked, empty head
To all the Storms Man's Peace invade.

XIII

Nor is he happy who is trim,
Trick't up in favours of the Fair,
Mirrors, with every Breath made dim,
Birds caught in every wanton snare.

XIV

Woman, man's greatest woe, or bliss,
Does ofter far, than serve, enslave,
And with the Magick of a Kiss,
Destroys whom she was made to save.

XV

Oh fruitful Grief, the World's Disease!
And vainer Man to make it so,
Who gives his Miseries encrease
By cultivating his own woe.

256

XVI

There are no ills but what we make,
By giving Shapes and Names to things;
Which is the dangerous mistake
That causes all our Sufferings.

XVII

We call that Sickness, which is Health,
That Persecution, which is Grace;
That Poverty, which is true Wealth,
And that Dishonour, which is Praise.

XVIII

Providence watches over all,
And that with an impartial Eye,
And if to Misery we fall,
'Tis through our own Infirmity.

XIX

'Tis want of foresight makes the bold
Ambitious Youth to danger climb,
And want of Vertue, when the old
At Persecution do repine.

257

XX

Alas, our Time is here so short,
That in what state soe're 'tis spent,
Of Joy or Wo does not import,
Provided it be innocent.

XXI

But we may make it pleasant too,
If we will take our Measures right,
And not what Heav'n has done, undo
By an unruly Appetite.

XXII

'Tis Contentation that alone
Can make us happy here below,
And when this little Life is gone,
Will lift us up to Heav'n too.

XXIII

A very little satisfies
An honest, and a grateful heart,
And who would more than will suffice,
Does covet more than is his part.

258

XXIV

That man is happy in his share,
Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed,
Whose Necessaries bound his Care,
And honest Labour makes his Bed.

XXV

Who free from Debt, and clear from Crimes,
Honours those Laws that others fear,
Who ill of Princes in worst Times
Will neither speak himself, nor hear.

XXVI

Who from the busie World retires,
To be more useful to it still,
And to no greater good aspires,
But only the eschewing ill.

XXVII

Who, with his Angle, and his Books,
Can think the longest day well spent,
And praises God when back he looks,
And finds that all was innocent.

259

XXVIII

This man is happier far than he
Whom publick Business oft betrays,
Through Labyrinths of policy,
To crooked and forbidden ways.

XXIX

The World is full of beaten Roads,
But yet so slippery withall,
That where one walks secure, 'tis odds
A hundred and a hundred fall.

XXX

Untrodden Paths are then the best,
Where the frequented are unsure,
And he comes soonest to his rest,
Whose Journey has been most secure.

XXXI

It is Content alone that makes
Our Pilgrimage a Pleasure here,
And who buyes Sorrow cheapest, takes
An ill Commodity too dear.

260

XXXII

But he has Fortunes worst withstood,
And Happiness can never miss,
Can covet nought, but where he stood,
And thinks him happy where he is.

Stances de Monsieur de Scudery.

Fair Nymph, by whose Perfections mov'd,
My wounded heart is turn'd to flame,
By all admir'd, by all approv'd,
Endure at least to be belov'd,
Although you will not love again.

Aminta, as unkind as fair,
What is there that you ought to fear?
For cruel if I you declare,
And that indeed you cruel are;
Why the Reproach may you not hear?

Even Reproaches should delight,
If Friendship for me you have none,

261

And if no Anger, I have yet
Enough perhaps that may invite
Your hatred or Compassion.

When your Disdain is most severe,
When you most rigorous do prove,
When frowns of Anger most you wear,
You still more charming do appear,
And I am more and more in Love.

Ah, let me, Sweet, your sight enjoy,
Though with the forfeit of my Life,
For fall what will, I'de rather dye,
Beholding you, of present Joy,
Than absent, of a lingring grief.

Let your Eyes lighten, 'till expiring
In flame, my Heart a Cinder lye,
Falling is nobler than retiring,
And in the glory of aspiring,
'Tis brave to tumble from the Sky.

Yet I would any thing embrace
Might serve your Anger to appease,

262

And if I may obtain my grace,
Your steps shall leave no print, nor trace
I will not with Devotion kiss.

If, Tyrant, you will have it so,
No word my Passion shall betray,
My wounded Heart shall hide its woe;
But if it sigh, those Sighs will show,
And tell you what my Tongue would say.

Should yet your Rigour higher rise,
Even those offending Sighs shall cease,
I will my Pain and grief disguise;
But, Sweet, if you consult mine Eyes,
Those Eyes will tell you my Disease.

If th' utmost my Respect can do,
Still will your Cruelty displease,
Consult your Face, and that will shew
What Love is to such Beauty due,
And to the state of my Disease.

263

Melancholy.

Pindarick Ode.

I.

What in the name of wonder's this
Which lyes so heavy at my heart,
That I ev'n Death it self could kiss,
And think it were the greatest Bliss
Even at this moment to depart!
Life, even to the wretched dear,
To me's so nauseous grown,
There is no ill, I'de not commit,
But proud of what would forfeit it,
Would act the mischeif without fear,
And wade through thousand lives to lose my own.

II.

Yea, Nature never taught me bloody Rules;
Nor was I yet with vicious precept bred;
And now my Virtue paints my cheeks in Gules,
To check mee for the wicked thing I said.

264

'Tis not then I, but something in my Breast,
With which unwittingly I am possest,
Which breaths forth Horror to proclaim
That I am now no more the same:
One that some seeds of Vertue had;
But one run resolutely mad,
A Fiend, a Fury, and a Beast,
Or a Demoniack at least,
Who, without sence of Sin, or shame,
At nothing but dire mischiefs aim,
Egg'd by the Prince of Fiends, and Legion is his Name.

III.

Alas! my Reason's overcast,
That Sovereign Guide is quite displac't,
Clearly dismounted from his Throne,
Banish'd his Empire, fled and gone,
And in his room
An infamous Usurper's come,
Whose Name is sounding in mine Ear
Like that, methinks, of Oliver.
Nay, I remember in his Life,
Such a Disease as mine was mighty rise,

265

And yet, methinks, it cannot be,
That he
Should be crept into me,
My skin could ne're contain sure so much Evil,
Nor any place but Hell can hold so great a Devil.

IV.

But by its symtomes now I know
What is that does torment me so,
'Tis a disease,
As great a Fiend almost as these,
That drinks up all my better blood,
And leaves the rest a standing Pool,
And though I ever little understood,
Makes me a thousand times more Fool.
Fumes up dark vapours to my Brain,
Creates burnt Choler in my breast,
And of these nobler parts possest,
Tyrannically there does reign,
Oh when (kind Heaven) shall I be well again.

V.

Accursed Melancholy, it was Sin
First brought thee in;

266

Sin lodg'd the first in our first Father's Breast,
By Sin thou'rt nourish't, and by Sin increast,
Thou'rt man's own Creature, he has giv'n thee pow'r,
The sweets of Life thus to devour.
To make us shun the cheerful Light,
And creep into the shades of Night,
Where the sly Tempter ambush't lies
To make the discontented Soul his prize.
There the Progenitor of guile,
Accosts us in th' old Serpent's style;
Rails at the World as well as we,
Nay, Providence it self's not free;
Proceeding then to Arts of Flattery,
He there extolls our Valour and our Parts,
Spreads all his Nets to catch our Hearts,
Concluding thus; what generous mind
Would longer here draw breath,
That might so sure a Refuge find
In the repose of Death!
Which having said, he to our choice presents
All his destroying Instruments,

267

Swords and Steeletto's, Halters, Pistols, Knives,
Poysons, both quick and slow, to end our Lives.
Or if we like none of those fine Devices,
He then presents us Pools and Precipices;
Or to let out, or suffocate our breath,
And by once dying to obtain an everlasting Death.

VI.

Avaunt thou Devil Melancholy,
Thou grave and sober Folly;
Night of the Mind, wherein our Reasons grope
For future Joys, but never can find hope.
Parent of Murthers, Treasons, and Despair,
Thou pleasing and eternal care:
Go sow thy rank and poys'nous seeds
In such a soyl of mind as breeds,
With little help, black and nefarious deeds;
And let my whiter Soul alone,
For why should I thy sable weed put on,
Who never meditated ill, nor ill have never done!

268

VII.

Ah, 'tis ill done to me, that makes me sad
And thus to pass away,
With sighs the tedious Nights, and does
Like one that either is, or will be mad.
Repentance can our own fowl soules make pure,
And expiate the foulest Deed,
Whereas the thought others offences breed,
Nothing but true amendment one can cure.
Thus man, who of this world a member is,
Is by good nature subject made
To smart for what his fellows do amiss,
As he were guilty, when he is betray'd,
And mourning for the vices of the Time,
Suffers unjustly for anothers Crime.

VIII.

Go foolish Soul, and wash thee white,
Be troubled for thine own misdeeds
That Heav'nly sorrow comfort breeds,
And true contrition turns delight.

269

Let Princes thy past services forget,
Let dear-bought Friends thy Foes becom,
Though round with misery thou art beset,
With Scorn abroad, and Poverty at home,
Keep yet thy hands but clear, and Conscience pure,
And all the ills thou shalt endure
Will on thy Worth such luster set
As shall out-shine the brightest Coronet.
And Men at last will be asham'd to see,
That still,
For all their malice, and malicious skill,
Thy mind revive as it was us'd to be,
And that they have disgrac't themselves to honor thee.

Hope.

Pindarick Ode.

I.

Hope; thou darling, and delight
Of unforeseeing reckless Minds,
Thou deceiving Parrisite,
Which no where Entertainment finds

270

But with the wretched; or the vain;
'Tis they alone fond Hope maintain.
Thou easie Fool's chief Favorite;
Thou fawning Slave to slaves, that still remains
In Galleys, Dungeons, and in Chains;
Or with a whining Lover lov'st to play,
With treach'rous Art
Fanning his Heart,
A greater Slave by far, than they
Who in worst Durance wear their Age away.
Thou, whose Ambition mounts no higher,
Nor does to greater Fame aspire,
Than to be ever found a lyar:
Thou treach'rous Fiend, deluding Shade,
Who would with such a Phantom be betray'd,
By whom the wretched are at last more wretched made!

II.

Yet once, I must confess, I was
Such an overweening Ass,
As in Fortunes worst distress
To believe thy Promises;

271

Which so brave a change foretold,
Such a stream of Happiness,
Such Mountain hopes of glitt'ring Gold,
Such Honours, Friendships, Offices,
In Love and Arms so great Success;
That I ev'n hugg'd my self with the conceit,
Was my self Party in the cheat,
And in my very Bosom laid
That fatal Hope by which I was betray'd,
Thinking my self already rich, and great:
And in that foolish thought despis'd
Th' advice of those who out of Love advis'd;
As I'de foreseen what they did not foresee,
A Torrent of Felicity,
And rudely laught at those, who pittying wept for me.

III.

But of this Expectation, when't came to't,
What was the fruit?
In sordid Robes poor Disappointment came,
Attended by her Handmaids, Grief and Shame;
No Wealth, no Titles, no Friend could I see,
For they still court Prosperity,

272

Nay, what was worst of what Mischance could do,
My dearest Love forsook me too;
My pretty Love, with whom, had she been true,
Even in Banishment,
I could have liv'd most happy and content,
Her sight which nourish't me withdrew.
I then, although too late, perceiv'd
I was by flattering Hope deceiv'd,
And call'd for it t'expostulate
The Treachery and foul deceit:
But it was then quite fled away,
And gone some other to betray,
Leaving me in a state
By much more desolate,
Than if when first attack't by Fate,
I had submitted there
And made my courage yeild unto despair.
For Hope, like Cordials, to our wrong
Does but our Miseries prolong,
Whilst yet our Vitals daily wast,
And not supporting Life, but pain
Call their false friendships back again
And unto Death, grim Death abandon us at last.

273

IV.

In me, false Hope, in me alone,
Thou thine own Treach'ry hast out-done:
For Chance, perhaps may have befriended
Some one th' hast labour'd to deceive
With what by thee was ne're intended,
Nor in thy pow'r to give:
But me thou hast deceiv'd in all, as well
Possible, as impossible,
And the most sad Example made
Of all that ever were betray'd.
But thou hast taught me Wisdom yet,
Henceforth to hope no more
Than I see reason for,
A Precept I shall ne're forget:
Nor is there any thing below
Worth a man's wishing, or his care,
When what we wish begets our wo,
And Hope deceiv'd becomes Despair.
Then thou seducing Hope farewel,
No more thou shalt of Sense bereave me,
No more deceive me,
I now can countercharm thy Spell,

274

And for what's past, so far I will be even,
Never again to hope for any thing but Heaven.

Epistle to the Earl of ---

To write in Verse, O Count of mine,
To you, who have the Ladies nine,
With a wet finger, at your call,
And I believe have kist 'um all,
Is such an undertaking, none
But Peakrill bold would venture on:
Yet having sound, that, to my woes
No help will be procur'd by Prose,
And to write that way is no boot,
I'll try if Ryming will not doo't.

Know then, my Lord, that on my word,
Since my first, second, and my third,
Which I have pester'd you withall,
I've heard no syllable at all,
Or where you are, or what you do
Or if I have a Lord, or no.

275

A pretty comfort to a man
That studies all the ways he can
To keep an Interest he does prize
Above all other Treasuries.

But let that pass, you now must know
We do on our last Quarter go;
And that I may go bravely out,
Am trowling merry Bowl about,
To Lord, and Lady, that and this,
As nothing were at all amiss,
When after twenty days are past,
Poor Charles has eat and drunk his last.
No more Plum-porridge then, or Pye,
No Brawn with Branch of Rosemary,
No Chine of Beef, enough to make
The tallest Yeoman's Chine to crack;
No Bag-pipe humming in the Hall,
Nor noise of House-keeping at all,
Nor sign, by which it may be said,
This House was once inhabited.
I may perhaps, with much ado,
Rub out a Christmas more, or two;

276

Or, if the Fates be pleas'd, a score,
But never look to keep one more.
Some three Months hence, I make account
My Spur-gall'd Pegasus to mount,
When, whither I intend to go,
My Horse, as well as I, will know:
But being got, with much ado,
Out of the reach a Stage or two,
Though not the conscience of my shame,
And Pegasus fall'n desp'rate lame,
I shake my stirrups, and forsake him,
Leaving him to the next will take him;
Not that I set so lightly by him,
Would any be so kind to buy him;
But that I think those who have seen
How ill my Muse has mounted been,
Would certainly take better heed
Than to bid money for her Steed.
Being then on foot, away I go,
And bang the hoof, incognito,

277

Though in condition so forlorn,
Little Disguise will serve the turn,
Since best of Friends, the World's so base,
Scarce know a man when in Disgrace.
But that's too serious. Then suppose,
Like trav'ling Tom, with dint of Toes,
I'me got unto extreamest shore,
Sick, and impatient to be o're
That Channel which secur'd my state
Of Peace, whilst I was fortunate,
But in this moment of distress,
Confines me to unhappiness:
But where's the Money to be had
This surly Neptune to perswade?
It is no less than shillings ten,
Gods will be brib'd as well as men.
Imagine then your High lander
Over a Cann of muddy Beer,
Playing at Passage with a pair
Of drunken Fumblers for his Fare;
And see I've won, oh, lucky chance,
Hoist Sail amain, my Mates, for France;

278

Fortune was civil in this throw,
And having rob'd me, lets me go.
I've won, and yet how could I choose,
He needs must win, that cannot lose;
Fate send me then a happy wind,
And better luck to those behind.
But what advantage will it be
That Winds and Tides are kind to me,
When still the wretched have their woes,
Wherever they their Feet dispose?
What satisfaction, or delight
Are ragousts to an appetite?
What ease can France or Flanders give
To him that is a Fugitive?
Some two years hence, when you come o're,
In all your State, Ambassadour,
If my ill Nature be so strong
T'out-live my Infamy so long,
You'l find your little Officer
Ragged as his old Colours are;

279

And naked, as he's discontent,
Standing at some poor Sutlers Tent,
With his Pike cheek't, to guard the Tun
He must not tast when he has done.
Hump, says my Lord, I'me half afraid
My Captain's turn'd a Reformade,
That scurvy Face I sure should know,
Yes faith, my Lord, 'tis even so,
I am that individual he:
I told your Lordship how 'twould be.
Thou did'st so, Charles, it is confest,
Yet still I thought thou wer't in jest;
But comfort! Poverty's no Crime,
I'll take thy word another time.
This matters now are coming to,
And I'm resolv'd upon't; whilst you,
Sleeping in Fortune's Arms, near dream
Who feels the contrary Extream;
Faith write to me, that I may know
Whether you love me still, or no;

280

Or if you do not, by what ways
I've pull'd upon me my disgrace;
For whilst I still stand fair with you,
I dare the worst my Fate can do;
But your opinion long I find,
I'm sunk for ever to mankind.

Beauty.

PINDARICK ODE.

[_]

In Answer to an Ode of Mr. Abraham Cowley's upon the same Subject.

I.

Beauty! thou Master-piece of Heav'ns best skill,
Who in all shapes and lights art Beauty still,
And whether black, or brown, tawny, or white,
Still strik'st with wonder every judging sight;
Thou tryumph, which dost entertain the Eye
With Admirations full variety.

281

Who, though thou variest here and there,
And trick'st thy self in various colour'd hair,
And though with several washes Nature has
Thought fit thy several Lineaments to grace,
Yet Beauty still we must acknowledge thee,
Whatever thy Complexion be.

II.

Beauty, Love's Friend, who help'st him to a Throne,
By Wisdom Deify'd, to whom alone
Thy Excellence is known,
And ne're neglected but by those have none;
Thou noble Coyn, by no false sleight allay'd,
By whom we Lovers Militant are paid,
True to the Touch, and ever best
When thou art brought unto the Test,
And who do'st still of higher value prove,
As deeper thou art search'd by Love.
He who allows thee only in the Light
Is there mistaken quite,
For there we only see the outer skin,
When the Perfection lies within;

282

Beauty more ravishes the Touch than Sight,
And seen by Day, is still enjoy'd by Night,
For Beauty's chiefest Parts are never seen.

III.

Beauty, thou Active, Passive good!
Who both enflam'st and cool'st our Blood!
Thou glorious Flow'r, whose sov'reign juyce
Does wonderful Effects produce,
Who, Scorpion-like, do'st with thee bring
The Balm that cures thy deadly sting.
What pity 'tis the fairest Plant
That ever Heaven made
Should ever ever fade,
Yet Beauty we shall never want:
For she has off-sets of her own,
Which e're she dyes will be as fairly blown,
And though they blossom in variety,
Yet still new Beauties will descry,
And here the Fancy's govern'd by the Eye.

283

IV.

Beauty, thy Conquests still are made
Over the Vigorous more than the Decay'd;
And chiefly o're those of the Martial Trade;
And whom thou conquer'st still thou keep'st in thrall,
Untill you both together fall,
Whereas of all the Conquerours, how few
Know how to keep what they subdue?
Nay, even froward Age subdues thee too.
Thy Power, Beauty, has no bounds,
All sorts of men it equally confounds,
The young and old does both enslave,
The proud, meek, humble, and the brave,
And if it wounds, it only is to save.

V.

Beauty, thou Sister to Heav'ns glorious Lamp,
Of finer Clay, thou finer stamp!
Thou second Light, by which we better live,
Thou better Sexe's vast prerogative!
Thou greatest gift that Heaven can give!
He who against thee does inveigh,
Never yet knew where Beauty lay,
And does betray

284

A deplorable want of Sense,
Blindness, or Age, or Impotence:
For Wit was given to no other end,
But Beauty to admire, or to commend;
And for our Sufferings here below
Beauty is all the recompence we know:
'Tis then for such as cannot see,
Nor yet have other sence to friend
Adored Beauty, thus to slander thee,
And he who calls thee madness let him be,
By his own doom from Beauty doom'd for me.

Rondeau.

Forbear (fair Phillis) Oh forbear
Those deadly killing frowns, and spare
A heart so loving, and so true,
By none to be subdu'd, but you,
Who my poor life's sole Princess are.
You only can create my care;
But offend you I all things dare;
Then lest your cruelty you rue Forbear;

285

And lest you kill that heart, beware,
To which there is some pitty due,
If but because I humbly sue.
Your anger therefore, sweetest fair,
Though mercy in your Sex is rare, Forbear.

Woman.

Pindarick Ode.

I.

What a bold Theam have I in hand,
What Fury has possest my Muse,
That could no other subject choose,
But that which none can understand!
Woman, what Tongue, or Pen is able
To determine what thou art,
A thing so moving, and unstable,
So Sea like, so investigable,
That no Land Map, nor Sea-man's Chart,

286

Though they shew us snowy Mountains,
Chalky Cliffs, and Christal Fountains;
Sable Thickets, golden Groves,
All that man admires and loves,
Can direct us to thy heart!
Which, though we seek it night and day
Through vast Regions Ages stray,
And over Seas with Canvas wings make way;
That Heart the whiles,
Like to the floating Isles,
Our Compass evermore beguiles,
And still, still, still remains Terra Incognita.

II.

Woman! the fairest sweetest Flow'r
That in happy Eden grew,
Whose sweets and graces had the pow'r
The World's sole Monarch to subdue,
What pity 'tis thou wer't not true.
But there, even there, thy frailty brought in sin,
Sin that has cost so many Sighs and tears,
Enough to ruin all succeeding Heirs,

287

To Beauties Temple let the Devil in.
And though (because there was no more)
It in one single story did begin;
Yet from the Seeds shed from that fruitful Core,
Have sprung up Volumes infinite, and great,
With which th' ore charged world doth sweat,
Of women false, proud, cruel, insolent;
And what could else befall,
Since she her self was President
Who was the Mother of them all;
And who, altho' Mankind indeed was scant,
To shew her malice, rather than her want,
Would make a loathsom Serpent her Gallant.

III.

O Mother Eve, sure 'twas a fault
So wild a Rule to give,
E're there were any to be taught,
Or any to deceive.
'Twas ill to ruine all thy Off-spring so,
E're they were yet in Embrio,

288

Great mischeifs did attend thy easie will,
For all thy Sons (which usually are
The Mothers care)
For ever lost, and ruin'd were,
By thy instructing thy fair Daughters ill.
What's he that dares his own fond choice approve
Or be secure his spouse is Chast;
Or if she be, that it will last,
Yet all must love.
Oh Cruel Nature that does force our wills
T'embrace those necessary ills!
Oh negligent, and treacherous eyes,
Given to man for true and faithful spies;
How oft do you betray your trust,
And joyn'd Confederate with our lust,
Tell us that Beauty is, which is but flesh, that flesh but Dust.

IV.

Heaven, if it be thy undisputed will
That still
This charming Sex we must adore,
Let us love less, or they love more;

289

For so the Ills that we endure,
Will find some ease, if not a cure:
Or if their hearts from the first Gangrene be
Infected to that desperate degree
As will no Surgery admit;
Out of thy love to Men at least forbear
To make their faces so subduing fair,
And if thou wilt give Beauty, limit it:
For moderate Beauty, though it bear no price,
Is yet a mighty enemy to Vice,
And who has Vertue once, can never see
Any thing of Deformity
Let her Complexion swart, or Tawny be,
A Twilight Olive, or a Mid-night Ebony.

V.

She that is chast, is always fair,
No matter for her Hue,
And though for form she were a Star,
She's ugly, if untrue:
True Beauty alwayes lies within,
Much deeper, than the outer skin,

290

So deep, that in a Woman's mind,
It will be hard, I doubt, to find;
Or if it be, she's so deriv'd,
And with so many doors contriv'd,
Harder by much to keep it in.
For Vertue in a Woman's Breast
Seldom by Title is possest,
And is no Tenant, but a wand'ring Guest.

VI.

But all this while I've soundly slept,
And rav'd as Dreamers use:
Fy! what a coil my brains have kept
T'instruct a sawcy Muse
Her own fair Sex t'abuse.
'Tis nothing but an ill Digestion
Has thus brought Women's Fame in question,
Which have been, and still will be what they are,
That is, as chaste, as they are sweet and fair;
And all that has been said
Nothing but ravings of an idle Head,

291

Troubled with fumes of wine;
For now, that I am broad awake
I find 'tis all a gross mistake,
Else what a case were his, and thine, and mine?

The World.

ODE.

I

Fy! What a wretched World is this?
Nothing but anguish, griefs, and fears,
Where, who does best, must do amiss,
Frailty the Ruling Power bears
In this our dismal Vale of Tears.

II

Oh! who would live, that could but dye,
Dye honestly, and as he shou'd,
Since to contend with misery
Will do the wisest Man no good,
Misfortune will not be withstood.

292

III

The most that helpless man can do
Towards the bett'ring his Estate
Is but to barter woe for woe,
And he ev'n there attempts too late,
So absolute a Prince is Fate.

IV

But why do I of Fate complain;
Man might live happy, if not free,
And Fortunes shocks with ease sustain,
If Man would let him happy be:
Man is Man's Foe, and Destiny.

V

And that Rib Woman, though she be
But such a little little part;
Is yet a greater Fate than he,
And has the Power, or the Art
To break his Peace; nay break his Heart.

293

VI

Ah, glorious Flower, lovely peice
Of superfine refined Clay,
Thou poyson'st only with a Kiss,
And dartest an auspicious Ray
On him thou meanest to betray.

VII

These are the World, and these are they
That Life does so unpleasant make,
Whom to avoid there is no way
But the wild Desart straight to take,
And there to husband the last stake.

VIII

Fly to the empty Desarts then,
For so you leave the World behind,
There's no World where there are no Men,
And Brutes more civil are, and kind,
Than Man whose Reason Passions blind.

294

IX

For should you take an Hermitage,
Tho' you might scape from other wrongs,
Yet even there you bear the rage
Of venemous, and slanderous tongues,
Which to the Innocent belongs.

X

Grant me then, Heav'n, a wilderness,
And there an endless Solitude,
Where though Wolves howl, and Serpents hiss,
Though dang'rous, 'tis not half so rude
As the ungovern'd Multitude.

XI

And Solitude in a dark Cave,
Where all things husht, and silent be,
Resembleth so the quiet Grave,
That there I would prepare to flee,
With Death, that hourly waits for me.

295

De Vita Beata.

[_]

Paraphras'd from the Latin.

Come, y'are deceiv'd, and what you do
Esteem a happy Life's not so;
He is not happy that excells
I'th' Lapidary's Bagatells;
Nor he, that when he sleeps doth lye
Under a stately Canopy;
Nor he, that still supinely hides,
In easie Down, his lazy sides;
Nor he, that Purple wears, and sups
Luxurious Draughts in golden Cups;
Nor he, that loads, with Princely Fare,
His bowing Tables, whilst they'l bear;
Nor he, that has each spacious Vault
With Deluges of Plenty fraught,
Cull'd from the fruitful Libyan Fields,
When Autumn his best Harvest yields:

296

But he whom no mischance affrights,
Nor popular applause delights,
That can unmov'd, and undismay'd
Confront a Ruffians threatning blade:
Who can do this; that man alone
Has power Fortune to disthrone.

Q. Cicero, De mulierum levitate.

[_]

Transl.

Commit a Ship unto the Wind
But not thy Faith to Woman-kind,
For th' Oceans waving billows are
Safer than Woman's faith by far.
No Woman's good, and if there be
Hereafter such a thing as she,
'Tis by, I know not what, of Fate,
That can from bad, a good create.

297

Despair.

ODE.

It is decreed, that I must dy,
And could lost men a reason show
For losing so themselves, 'tis I,
Woman, and Fate will have it so.

Woman, more cruel, than my Fate,
From thee this sentence was severe,
'Tis thou condemn'st me, fair ingrate,
Fate's but the Executioner.

And mine must be Fate's hands to strike
At this uncomfortable life,
Which I do loath, cause you dislike,
And court cold Death to be my wife.

In whose embraces though I must
Fail of those Joyes, that warm'd my heart,

298

And only be espous'd to dust,
Yet Death, and I shall never part.

That's one assurance I shall have,
Although I wed Deformity,
And must inhabit the cold Grave,
More than I, Sweet, could have with thee.

And yet if thou could'st be so kind,
As but to grant me a Reprieve,
I'me not to Death so much inclind,
But I could be content to live.

But so, that that same life should be
With thee, and with thy kindness blest;
For without thee, and all of thee,
'Twere dying only with the rest.

But that, you'l say's, too arrogant,
T'enslave your Beauties, and your will,
And cruelty in you to grant,
Who saving one, must Thousands kill.

299

And yet you Women take a pride
To see men dye by your disdain;
But thou wilt weep the Homicide,
When thou consider'st whom th' ast slain.

Yet don't; for being as I am,
Thy Creature, thou in this estate,
To Life, and Death hast equal claim,
And may'st kill him thou did'st create.

Then let me thine own Doom abide,
Nor once for him o'recast thine eyes,
Who glories, that he liv'd, and dy'd
Thy Lover, and thy Sacrifice.

Sonnet.

[Why dost thou say thy Heart is gone]

Why dost thou say thy Heart is gone,
And no more mine, no more thine own?
But, past retrieve, for ever wed,
By sacred Vow, t'anothers Bed?

300

Why dost thou tell me that I lye
Bound in the same perplexed tye,
And that our now divided Souls
Are cold, and distant as the Poles?

Do'st thou not know, when first our Loves
Were plighted in the secret Groves,
Our hearts were chang'd with equal Flame,

Say, Chloris, then how can it be?
Could'st thou give me, or I give thee?
No, no, our selves are still the same.

Sonnet.

[How should'st thou love, and not offend?]

How should'st thou love, and not offend?
Why, Cloris, I will tell thee how,
As thou did'st once, so love me now,
And lye with me, and there's an end.

301

Thou only art enjoyn'd (my Sweet)
To keep thy Reputation high,
And that indeed is Secrecy,
Since all do err, though all not see't.

Then fairest, fearless of all blame,
That sacred Treasure of thy Name
Into my faithful Arms commit;

Thou once did'st trust me with thy Fame,
I then was just and true to it,
And, Chloris, I am still the same.

Sonnet.

[Chloris, whilst thou and I were free]

Chloris , whilst thou and I were free,
Wedded to nought but Liberty,
How sweetly happy did we live,
How free to promise, free to give?

302

Then, Monarch's of our selves, we might
Love here, or there, to change delight,
And ty'd to none, with all dispence,
Paying each Love its recompence.

But in that happy freedom, we
Were so improvidently free,
To give away our liberties;

And now in fruitful sorrow pine
At what we are, what might have bin,
Had thou, or I, or both been wise.

Sonnet.

[Why dost thou say thou lov'st me now]

Why dost thou say thou lov'st me now,
And yet proclaim it is too late,
When bound by folly, or by Fate,
Thou can'st no further grace allow?

303

Repeat no more that killing Voice,
Thou beauteous Victrice of my heart;
Or find a way to ease my smart,
Maugre thy now repented choice.

'Tis not too late to love, and do
What Love and Nature prompt thee to,
Whilst thus thou tryumph'st in thy prime,

Thou may'st discreetly love, and use
Those Pleasures thou did'st once refuse:
But to profess it were a Crime.

Poverty.

Pindarick Ode.

I.

Thou greatest Plague that Mortals know!
Thou greatest Punishment!
That Heav'n has sent
To quell and humble us below!

304

Thou worst of all Diseases and all Pains
By so much harder to endure,
By how much thou art hard to cure,
Who having rob'd Physitians of their brains,
As well as of their Gain
A Chronical Disease doth still remain!
What Epithet can fit thee, or what words thy ills explain!

II.

This puzzles quite the Æsculapian Tribe
Who, where there are no Fees, can have no wit
And make them helpless Med'cines still provide,
Both for the sick, and poor alike unfit.
For inward griefs all that they do prepare
Nothing but Crumbs, and Fragments are,
And outwardly apply no more
But sordid Rags unto the sore.
Thus Poverty is drest, and Dose't
With little Art, and little Cost,
As if poor Rem'dies for the Poor were fit
When Poverty in such a place doth sit,
That 'tis the grand Projection only that must conquer it.

305

III.

Yet Poverty, as I do take it,
Is not so Epidemical
As many in the world would make it,
Who all that want their wishes Poor do call:
For if who is not with his Divident
Amply content,
Within that acceptation fall,
Most would be poor, and peradventure all.
This would the wretched with the rich confound:
But I not call him Poor does not abound,
But him, who snar'd in Bonds, and endless strife,
The Comforts wants more than Supports of Life;
Him whose whole Age is measur'd out by fears,
And though he has wherewith to eat,
His Bread does yet
Tast of affliction, and his Cares
His purest Wine mix and allay with Tears.

IV.

'Tis in this sence that I am poor,
And I'me afraid shall be so still,
Obstrep'rous Creditors besiege my door,
And my whole House clamorous Eccho's fill;

306

From these there can be no Retirement free,
From Room to Room, they hunt, and follow me;
They will not let me eat, nor sleep, nor pray,
But persecute me Night, and Day;
Torment my body, and my mind,
Nay, if I take my heels, and fly,
They follow me with open Cry,
At Home no rest, Abroad no Refuge can I find.

V.

Thou worst of Ills! what have I done,
That Heav'n should punish me with thee?
From Insolence, Fraud, and Oppression,
I ever have been innocent and free.
Thou wer't intended (Poverty)
A scourge for Pride, and Avarice,
I ne're was tainted yet with either Vice;
I never in prosperity,
Nor in the height of all my happiness,
Scorn'd, or neglected any in distress,
My hand, my heart, my door
Were ever open'd to the poor;

307

And I to others in their need have granted,
E're they could ask, the thing they wanted,
Whereas I now, although I humbly crave it,
Do only beg for Peace, and cannot have it.

VI.

Give me but that, ye bloody Persecutors,
(Who formerly have been my suitors)
And I'le surrender all the rest
For which you so contest,
For Heav'ns sake, let me but be quiet,
I'le not repine at Cloths, nor Diet,
Any habit ne'r so mean,
Let it be but whole, and clean,
Such as Nakedness will hide,
Will amply satisfie my pride;
And for meat
Husks, and Acorns I will eat,
And for better never wish;
But when you will me better treat,
A Turnip is a Princely dish:

308

Since then I thus far am subdu'd,
And so humbly do submit,
Faith, be no more so monstrous rude,
But some Repose at least permit;
Sleep is to Life, and Humane Nature due,
And that, alas, is all for which I humbly sue.

Death.

Pindarick Ode.

I.

At a Melancholick season,
As alone I musing sate,
I fell, I know not how, to reason
With my self of Man's Estate,
How subject unto Death, and Fate:
Names that Mortals so affright,
As turns the brightest Day to Night,
And spoils of Living the Delight,

309

With which, so soon as Life is tasted,
Lest we should too happy be,
Even in our Infancy,
Our joys are quash't, our hopes are blasted;
For the first thing that we hear,
(Us'd to still us when we cry)
The Nurse to keep the Child in fear,
Discreetly tell's it, it must dy,
Be put into a hole, eaten with worms;
Presenting Death in thousand ugly forms,
Which tender minds so entertain,
As ever after to retain,
By which means we are Cowards bred,
Nurs't with unnecessary dread,
And ever dream of dying, 'till w'are dead.

II.

Death! thou Child's Bug-bear, thou fools terrour,
Gastly set forth the weak to awe;
Begot by fear, increast by errour,
Whom none but a sick Fancy ever saw,
Thou who art only fear'd
By the illiterate, and tim'rous Heard,

310

But by the wise
Esteem'd the greatest of Felicities.
Why, sithence by an Universal Law,
Entail'd upon Mankind thou art,
Should any dread, or seek t'avoid thy Dart,
When of the two, Fear is the greatest smart?
O senceless Man, who vainly flies
What Heaven has ordain'd to be
The Remedy
Of all thy Mortal pains, and miseries.

III.

Sorrow, Want, Sickness, Injury, Mischance,
The happy'st Man's certain Inheritance,
With all the various Ills,
Which the wide World with mourning fills,
Or by Corruption, or Disaster bred,
Are for the living all, not for the dead.
When Life's Sun sets, Death is a Bed
With sable Curtains spread,
Where we lye down
To rest the weary Limbs, and careful Head,
And to the Good, a Bed of Down.

311

There, there no frightful Tintamarre
Of Tumult in the many headed Beast,
Nor all the loud Artillery of War,
Can fright us from that sweet, that happy Rest,
Wherewith the still, and silent Grave is blest;
Nor all the rattle, that above they keep,
Break our repose, or rouze us from that everlasting sleep.

IV.

The Grave is priviledg'd from noise, and care,
From Tyranny, and wild oppression,
Violence has so little power there,
Ev'n worst Oppressors let the dead alone:
We're there secure from Princes frowns,
The Insolencies of the Great,
From the rude hands of barb'rous Clowns,
And Policies of those that sweat
The simple to betray, and cheat:
Or, if some one with Sacrilegious hand,
Would persecute us after Death,
His want of Power shall his Will withstand,
And he shall only lose his breath;

312

For all that he by that shall gain,
Will be Dishonour for his pain,
And all the clutter he can keep
Will only serve to rock us whilst we soundly sleep.

V.

The Dead no more converse with Tears,
With idle Jealousies and Fears,
No danger makes the Dead man start,
No idle Love torments his heart,
No loss of Substance, Parents, Children, Friends,
Either his Peace, or Sleep offends;
Nought can provoke his anger, or despite,
He out of combat is, and injury,
'Tis he of whom Philosophers so write,
And who would be a Stoick let him dye,
For whilst we living are, what Man is he,
Who the Worlds wrongs does either feel, or see,
That possibly from Passion can be free!
But must put on
A noble Indignation
Warranted both by Vertue, and Religion.

313

VI.

Then let me dye, and no more subject be
Unto the Tyrannizing pow'rs,
To which this short Mortality of ours,
Is either preordain'd by Destiny,
Or bound by natural Infirmity.
We nothing, whilst we here remain,
But Sorrow, and Repentance gain,
Nay, ev'n our very joyes, are pain;
Or being past,
To woe, and torment turn at last:
Nor is there yet any so sacred place,
Where we can sanctuary find,
No Man's a friend to Sorrow, and Disgrace;
But flying one, we other mischiefs meet;
Or if we kinder Entertainment find,
We bear the seeds of Sorrow in the Mind,
And keep our frailty, when we shift our feet.
Whilst we are Men we still our Passions have,
And he that is most free, is his own slave,
There is no refuge, but the friendly Grave.

314

On the Death of the Most Noble Thomas Earl of Ossory.

Carmen Irregulare.

I.

Enough! Enough! I'le hear no more,
And would to Heav'n I had been deaf before
That fatal Sound had struck my Ear:
Harsh Rumor has not left so sad a note
In her hoarse Trumpet's brazen throat
To move Compassion, and inforce a Tear.
Methinks all Nature should relent, and droop,
The Center shrink, and Heaven stoop,
The Day be turn'd to mourning Night,
The twinkling Stars weep out their Light,
And all things out of their Distinction run
Into their primitive Confusion.
A Chaos, with cold Darkness overspread,
Since the Illustrious Ossory is dead.

315

II.

When Death that fatal Arrow drew,
Ten Thousand hearts he pierced through,
Though one alone he out-right slew;
Never since Sin gave him his killing Trade,
He, at one shot, so great a slaughter made;
He needs no more at those let fly,
They of that wound alone will dye,
And who can now expect to live, when he,
Thus fell unpriviledg'd we see!
He met Death in his greatest Tryumph, War,
And always thence came off a Conqueror,
Through rattling shot, and Pikes the Slave he sought,
Knock't at each Cuirass for him, as he fought,
Beat him at Sea, and baffled him on shore,
War's utmost sury he out-brav'd before:
But yet, it seems, a Fever could do more.

III.

The English Infantry are Orphans now,
Pale Sorrow hangs on every Souldiers brow:

316

Who now in Honour's path shall lead you on,
Since your beloved General is gon?
Furl up your Ensigns, case the warlike Drum,
Pay your last honours to his Tomb;
Hang dow your Manly heads in sign of woe;
That now is all that your poor Loves can do;
Unless by Winter's Fire, or Summer's shade
To tell what a brave Leader once you had:
Hang your now useless Arms up in the Hall,
There let them rust upon the sweating Wall;
Go, Till the Fields, and with inglorious Sweat,
An honest, but a painful living get:
Your old neglected Callings now renew,
And bid to glorious War a long adieu.

IV.

The Dutch may now have Fishing free,
And, whilst the Consternation lasts,
Like the proud Rulers of the Sea,
Shew the full stature of their Masts;
Our English Neptune, deaf to all Alarms,
Now soundly sleeps in Deaths cold Arms,

317

And on his Ebon Altar has laid down
His awful Trident, and his Naval Crown.
No more shall the tall Frigat dance
For joy she carrys this Victorious Lord,
Who to the Captain chain'd Mischance,
Commanding on her lofty board.
The Sea it self, that is all tears,
Would weep her soundless Channel dry,
Had she unhappily but Ears,
To hear that Ossory could dye.
Ah, cruel Fate, thou never struck'st a blow,
By all Mankind regretted so;
Nor can't be said who should lament him most,
No Country such a Patriot e're could boast,
And never Monarch such a Subject lost.

V.

And yet we knew that he must one day dye,
That should our grief asswage;
By Sword, or Shot, or by Infirmity;
Or, if these fail'd, by Age.

318

But He, alas! too soon gave place
To the Successors of his Noble Race:
We wisht, and coveted to have him long,
He was not old enough to dye so soon,
And they to finish what he had begun,
As much too young:
But Time, that had no hand in his mischance,
Is sitter to mature, and to advance
Their early hopes to the Inheritance
Of Titles, Honors, Riches, and Command,
Their Glorious Grandsir's Merits have obtain'd,
And which shines brighter than a Ducal Crown,
Of their Illustrious Family's Renown;
Oh, may there never fail of that brave Race,
A man as great, as the great Ossory was,
To serve his Prince, and as successful prove
In the same Valour, Loyalty, and Love;
Whilst his own Vertues swell the cheeks of Fame,
And from his consecrated Urn doth Flame
A Glorious Pyramid to Botelers Name.

319

Ode Bachique.

De Monsieur Racan.

I

Now that the Day's short and forlorn,
Dull Melancholy Capricorn
To Chimney-corners Men translate,
Drown we our Sorrows in the glass,
And let the thoughts of Warfare pass,
The Clergy, and the third Estate.

II

Menard, I know what thou hast writ,
That spritely issue of thy Wit
Will live whilst there are men to read:
But, what if they recorded be
In Memory's Temple, boots it thee,
When thou art gnawn by Worms, and dead?

III

Henceforth those fruitless studies spare,
Let's rather drink until we stare
Of this immortal juyce of ours,

320

Which does in excellence precede
The Beverage which Gannimede
Into th' Immortals Goblet pours.

IV

The Juyce that sparkles in this glass
Makes tedious Years like Days to pass,
Yet makes us younger still become,
By this from lab'ring thoughts are chac't
The sorrow of those Ills are past,
And terrour of the Ills to come.

V

Let us drink brimmers then, Time's fleet,
And steals away with winged feet,
Haling us with him to our Urn,
In vain we sue to it to stay,
For Years like Rivers pass away,
And never, never do return.

321

VI

When the Spring comes attir'd in Green,
The Winter flies, and is not seen:
New Tydes do still supply the Main:
But when our frolick Youth's once gone,
And Age has ta'ne possession,
Time nere restores us that again.

VII

Deaths Laws are Universal, and
In Princes Palaces command,
As well as in the poorest Hutt,
We're to the Parcæ subject all,
The threds of Clown's and Monarchs shall,
Be both by the same Cizors cut.

VIII

Their rigours which all this deface,
Will ravish in a little space,
What ever we most lasting make,

322

And soon will lead us out to drink,
Beyond the pitchy Rivers Brink,
The waters of Oblivion's Lake.

Epistle to Sir Clifford Clifton, then sitting in Parliament.

When from thy kind hand, my dearest, dear brother,
Whom I love as th' adst been the Son of my Mother,
Nay, better, to tell you the truth of the story,
Had you into the World but two minutes before me;
I receiv'd thy kind Letter, good Lord, how it eas'd me
Of the villanous Spleen that for six days had seiz'd me:
I start from my Couch, where I lay dull and muddy,
Of my Servants inquiring the way to my Study,
For, in truth, of late days I so little do mind it,
Should one turn me twice about I never should find it:
But by help of direction, I soon did arrive at
The place where I us'd to sit fooling in private.

So soon as got thither, I straight fell to calling,
Some call it invoking, but mine was plain bawling;

323

I call'd for my Muse, but no answer she made me,
Nor could I conceive why the Slut should evade me,
I knew I there left her, and lock't her so safe in,
There could be no likelihood of her escaping:
Besides, had she scap't, I was sure to retrieve her,
She being so ugly that none would receive her:
I then fell to searching, since I could not hear her,
I sought all the shelves, but never the nearer:
I tumbled my Papers, and rifled each Packet,
Threw my Books all on heaps, and kept such a racket,
Disordering all things, which before had their places
Distinct by themselves in several Classes,
That who'd seen the confusion, and look't on the ware,
Would have thought he had been at Babylon Fair:
At last, when for lost I had wholly resign'd her,
Where canst thou imagine, dear Knt, I should find her?
Faith, in an old Drawer, I late had not been in,
'Twixt a course pair of sheets of the Houswifes own spinning,
A Sonnet instead of a coif her head wrapping,
I happily took her small Ladiship napping.

Why how now, Minx, quoth I, what's the matter pray,
That you are so hard to be spoke with to day?

324

Fy, fy on this Idleness, get up, and rowze you,
For I have a present occasion to use you:
Our Noble Mecænas, Sir Clifford of Cud-con,
Has sent here a Letter, a kind and a good one:
Which must be suddenly answer'd, and finely,
Or the Knight will take it exceeding unkindly;
To which having some time sat musing and mute,
She answer'd sh'ad broke all the strings of her Lute;
And had got such a Rheum with lying alone,
That her Voice was utterly broken and gone:
Besides this, she had heard, that of late I had made
A Friendship with one that had since bin her Maid;
One Prose, a slatternly ill-favour'd toad,
As common as Hackney, and beaten as Road,
With whom I sat up somtimes whole Nights together,
Whil'st she was exposed to the Wind and weather.
Wherefore, since that I did so slight and abuse her,
She likewise now hop'd I would please to excuse her.

At this sudden reply I was basely confounded,
I star'd like a Quaker, and groan'd like a Round-head,
And in such a case, what the Fiend could one do?
My conscience convinc'd her Reproaches were true;

325

To swagger, I durst not, I else could have beat her,
But what if I had, I'd been never the better,
To quarrel her then had been quite out of season,
And ranting would ne'r have reduc'd her to reason;
I therefore was fain to dissemble Repentance,
I disclaim'd and forswore my late new Acquaintance.
I kist her, and hugg'd her, I clapt her, and chuck't her,
I push't her down backward, and offer'd to have ------
But the Jade would not buckle, she pish't & she pouted,
And wrigling away, fairly left me without it:
I caught her, and offered her Mony, a little,
At which, she cry'd that were to plunder the Spittle:
I then, to allure her, propos'd to her, Fame,
Which she so much despised, she pish't at the name;
And told me in answer, that she could not glory at
The Sail-bearing Title of Muse to a Laureat,
Much less to a Rhymer, did nought but disgust one,
And pretended to nothing but pittiful Fustion.
But oh, at that word, how I rated, and call'd her,
And had my Fist up, with intent to have maul'd her:
At which, the poor Slut, half afraid of the matter,
Changing her note, 'gan to wheedle and flatter;

326

Protesting she honour'd me, Jove knew her heart,
Above all the Peers o'th' Poetical Art:
But that of late time, and without provocation,
I had been extremely unjust to her Passion.
Me thought this sounded, I then laid before her,
How long I had serv'd her, how much did adore her;
How much she her self stood oblig'd to the Knight,
For his kindness and favour, to whom we should write;
And thereupon called, to make her amends,
For a Pipe and a Bottle, and so we were Friends.

Being thus made Friends, we fell to debating
What kind of Verse we should congratulate in:
I said 't must be Doggrel, which when I had said,
Maliciously smiling, she nodded her head,
Saying Doggrel might pass to a friend would not show it,
And do well enough for a Derbyshire Poet.
Yet mere simple doggrel, she said, would not do't,
It needs must be galloping doggrel to boot,
For Amblers and Trotters, tho' th' had thousands of feet,
Could never however be made to be fleet;
But would make so damnable slow a progression,
They'd not reach up to Westminster till the next Session.

327

Thus then unto thee, my dear Brother, and Sweeting,
In Canterbury Verse I send health and kind greeting,
Wishing thee honour, but if thou bee'st cloy'd we't,
Above what thy Ancestry ever enjoy'd yet;
May'st thou sit where now seated, without fear of blushing,
Till thy little fat buttock e'en grow to the cushin.
Give his Majesty Mony, no matter who pays it,
For we never can want it so long as he has it;
But, wer't Wisdom to trust sawcy Counsel in Letters,
I'de advise thee beware falling out with thy betters;
I have heard of two Dogs once that fought for a bone,
But the Proverb's so greazy, I'll let it alone;
A word is enough to the wise; then resent it,
A rash Act than mended is sooner repented:
And, as for the thing call'd a Traytor; if any
Be prov'd to be such, as I doubt there's too many;
Let him e'en be hang'd up, and never be pray'd for,
What a pox were blocks, gibbets, and gallowses made for?
But I grow monstrous weary, and how should I chuse,
This galloping Rhyme has quite jaded my Muse:

328

And I swear, if thou look'st for more posting of hers,
Little Knt, thou must needs lend her one of thy Spurs.
Farewel then, dear Bully, but ne're look for a Name,
For, expecting no honour, I will have no shame:
Yet, that you may ghess at the Party that writes t'ee,
And not grope in the dark, I'll hold up these Lights t'ee.

For his Stature, he's but a contemptible Male,
And grown something swab with drinking good Ale;
His Looks, than your brown, a little thought brighter,
Which gray hairs make every year whiter & whiter,
His Visage, which all the rest mainly disgraces,
Is warp't, or by Age, or cutting of Faces.
So that, whether 'twere made so, or whether 'twere marr'd,
In good sooth, he's a very unpromising Bard:
His Legs, which creep out of two old-fashion'd Knapsacks,
Are neither two Mill-posts, nor yet are they trap-sticks;
They bear him, when sober, bestir 'em and spare not,
And who the Devil can stand when they are not?

Thus much for his Person, now for his condition,
That's sick enough full to require a Physician:

329

He always wants Mony, which makes him want ease,
And he's always besieg'd, tho himself of the Peace,
By an Army of Duns, who batter with Scandals,
And are Foemen more fierce than the Goths or the Vandals.
But when he does sally, as somtimes he does,
Then hey for Bess Juckson, and a Fig for his Foes:
He's good Fellow enough to do every one right,
And never was first that ask't, what time of Night:
His delight is to toss the Cann merrily round,
And loves to be wet, but hates to be drow'nd:
He fain would be just, but sometimes he cannot,
Which gives him the trouble that other men ha' not.
He honours his Friend, but he wants means to show it,
And loves to be rhyming, but is the worst Poet.
Yet among all these Vices, to give him his due,
He has the Vertue to be a true Lover of you.
But how much he loves you, he says you may ghess it,
Since nor Prose, nor yet Meeter, he swears can express it.

330

Stances de Monsieur Bertaud.

I

Whilst wishing, Heaven, in his ire,
Would punish with some Judgment dire,
This heart to Love so obstinate;
To say I love her, is to lye,
Though I do love t'Extremity,
Since thus to love her, is to hate.

II

But since from this my hatred Springs,
That she neglects my Sufferings,
And is unto my love ingrate;
My hatred is so full of flame,
Since from affection first it came,
That 'tis to love her, thus to hate.

III

I wish that milder Love, or Death,
That ends our miseries with our Breath,
Would my Afflictions terminate,
For to my Soul, depriv'd of peace,
It is a torment worse than these,
Thus wretchedly to love and hate.

331

IV

Let Love be gentle, or severe,
It is in vain to hope, or fear
His grace, or rage in this Estate;
Being I, from my fair ones Spirit,
Nor mutual Love, nor hatred merit,
Thus sencelesly to Love, and Hate.

V

Or, if by my Example here
It just, and equal do appear,
She love, and loath who is my Fate;
Grant me, ye Powers, in this case,
Both for my punishment and grace,
That as I do, she Love, and Hate.

Contentment.

Pindarick Ode.

I.

Thou precious Treasure of the peaceful mind,
Thou Jewel of Inestimable price,
Thou bravest Soul's Terrestrial Paradice,

332

Dearest Contentment, thou best happiness
That Man on Earth can know,
Thou greatest gift Heav'n can on Man bestow,
And greater than Man's Language can express;
(Where highest Epithets would fall so low,
As only in our dearth of words to show,
A part of thy perfection; a poor part
Of what to us, what in thy self thou art)
What Sin has banisht thee the World,
And in thy stead despairing Sorrow hurld
Into the breasts of Humane kind;
Ah, whether art thou fled! who can this Treasure find!

II.

No more on Earth now to be found,
Thou art become a hollow sound,
The empty name of something that of old
Mankind was happy in, but now,
Like a vain Dream, or Tale that's told,
Art vanisht hence we know not how.
Oh, fatal loss, for which we are
In our own thoughts at endless War,
And each one by himself is made a Sufferer?

333

III.

Yet 'twere worth seeking, if a Man knew where,
Or could but ghess of whom t'enquire:
But 'tis not to be found on Earth, I fear,
And who can best direct will prove a Lyar,
Or be himself the first deceiv'd,
By none, but who'd be cheated too, to be believ'd.

IV.

Shew me that Man on Earth, that does profess
To have the greatest share of happiness,
And let him, if he can,
Forbear to shew the Discontented Man:
A few hours Observation will declare,
Hee is the same that others are.
Riches will cure a Man of being poor,
But oft creates a thirst of having more,
And makes the Miser starve, and pine amidst his store.

V.

Or if a plentiful Estate,
In a good Mind, good Thoughts create,

334

A generous Soul, and free,
Will Mourn at least, though not repine,
To want an overflowing Mine
Still to supply a constant Charity;
Which still is Discontent, what e're the Motive be.

VI.

Th' ambitious, who to place aspire,
When rais'd to that they did pretend,
Are restless still, would still be higher;
For that's a Passion has no end.
'Tis the minds Wolf, a strange Disease,
That ev'n Saciety can't appease,
An Appetite of such a kind,
As does by feeding still increase,
And is to eat, the more it eats, inclin'd.
As the Ambitious mount the Sky,
New prospects still allure the Eye,
Which makes them upwards still to fly;
Till from the utmost height of all,
Fainting in their Endeavour, down they fall,
And lower, than at first they were, at last do lye.

335

VII.

I then would know where lies the happiness
Of being Great,
For which we blindly so much strive, and press,
Fawn, Bribe, Dissemble, Toyl, and Sweat;
Whilst the Mind Tortur'd in the doubtful quest,
Is so Sollicitous to be at rest;
Nay, when that Greatness is obtain'd, is yet
More Anxious how to keep, than t'was to get
Unto that glorious height of tickle Place,
And most, when unto honour rais'd, suspects disgrace.

VIII.

Were Men contented, they'd sit still,
Embrace, and hug their present state,
Without contriving Good or Ill,
And have no conflicts with the Will,
That still is prompting them, to Love, to Hate,
Fear, Envy, Anger, and I can't tell what,
All which, and more, do in the mind make War,
And all with Contentation inconsistent are.

336

IX.

And he who says he is content,
But hides ill nature from Mens sight;
Nor can he long conceal it there,
Something will vent,
For all his cunning, and his care,
That will disclose the Hypocrite.
A Man may be contented for an hour
Or two, or three; perhaps a Night;
But then his pleasure wanting Power,
His tast goes with his Appetite.
Frailty the peace of Humane life Confounds;
Flesh does not know, Reason obeys no bounds.

X.

But 'tis our selves that give this frailty sway,
By our own promptness to obey
Our Lust, Pride, Envy, Avarice;
By being so confederate with vice,
As to permit it to Controul
The Rational immortal Soul,

337

Which, whilst by these subjected, and opprest,
Cannot enjoy it self, nor be at rest;
But, or transported is with Ire,
Puff't up with vain, and empty Pride;
Or languishes with base desire,
Or pines with th' Envy it would hide.
And (the Grave Stoick let me not displease)
All Men that we converse with here,
Have some, or all of their disturbances,
And rarely settled are, and clear.
If ever any mortal then could boast
So great a Treasure, with that Man 'tis lost;
And no one should, because none truly can,
Though sometimes pleas'd, say, he's a contented Man.

Epigram.

Fy, Delia, talk no more of Love,
It galls me to the Heart,
You Threescore are, I doubt above,
For all your plaist'ring Art.

338

And therefore spare your pains you may;
For though you press me Night and Day,
I can't do that my Soul abhors:
Or by your Art's assistance, though I might
Prevail upon my appetite,
I dur'st not couple, though I swear
With you, of all the World, for fear
Of Cuckolding my Ancestors.

In Mendacem.

EPIG.

Mendax , 'tis said th' art such a Lyar grown,
That th' hast renounc't all Truth, and 'tis well done;
Lying best fits our Manners and our Times;
But, pray thee, Mendax, do not praise my Rhymes.

339

Day-Break.

I

Stay, Phœbus, stay, and cool thy flaming Head
In the Green bosom of thy liquid Bed:
Betray not, with thine envious Light,
Th' embraces of an happy Night;
For her fair blushes, if thou dar'st to rise,
Will, by Eclipse, hoodwink thy sawcy Eyes.

II

Lest Lovers do upbraid thy beamy Car,
With the pale glory of th' inferiour Star,
And henceforth dare to say, in scorn,
Sol's Ray is wain'd to Phæbe's horn,
And, for his Treason to a Lovers bliss,
Suffers Actæons Metamorphosis.

III

Why should we rise t'adore the rising Sun,
And leave the Rites to greater Lights undone?
Or quit her warm, and spicy nest,
Because the Morn peeps through the East,

340

To scortch in thy rude flames, to toyl, and sweat,
When in Loves fire we melt without thy heat?

IV

When from my passionate Embraces she
Springs, as asham'd to be surpriz'd by thee,
The pillows furrow'd brows descry
A wrath for thy discovery,
Swell, and wax pale at thy insulting height,
For rage to be depriv'd of her dear weight.

V

Then stay, or lash thy Pamper'd Horses still,
To shew a swift obedience to her Will,
And blushing, bow as low as Night,
Lest I pursue thee, by thy Light,
And lock the Morning Doors to stop thy Race,
Imprisoning so in Clouds thy tell-tale Face.

341

SONG

[_]

Set by Mr. Coleman.

I

Why, Dearest, should'st thou weep, when I relate
The story of my wo?
Let not the swarthy Mists of my black Fate,
O'recast thy Beauty so,
For each rich Pearl lost on that score,
Adds to mischance, and wounds your Servant more.

II

Quench not those Stars, that to my bliss should Guide,
Oh, spare that precious Tear!
Nor let those drops unto a deluge Tide,
To drown your Beauty there,
That cloud of Sorrow makes it Night,
You lose your Lustre, but the World its Light.

342

Forbidden Fruit.

I

Pish! 'tis an idle fond excuse,
And Love, enrag'd by this abuse,
Is deaf to any longer truce.

II

My Zeal, to Lust you still impute,
And when I justifie my suit,
You tell me, 'Tis Forbidden Fruit.

III

What though your Face be Apple-round,
And with a Rosy colour Crown'd?
Yet, Sweet, it is no Apple found.

IV

Nor have you ought resembling more
That fatal Fruit the Tree once bore,
But that indeed your Heart's a core.

343

V

'Tis true, the bliss that I would tast,
Is something lower than the wast,
And in your Gardens Centre plac't.

VI

A Tree of Life too, I confess,
Though but Arbuscular in dress,
Yet not forbidden ne'retheless.

VII

It is a tempting golden tree,
Which all Men must desire that see,
Though it concern'd Eternity.

VIII

Then, since those blessings are thine own,
Not subject to Contrition,
Then, Fairest, Sweetest, grant me one.

IX

Thy Dragon, wrapt in drowsiness,
Ne're thinks whose bed thy beauties bless,
Nor dreams of his Hesperides.

344

The Picture.

[_]

Set by Mr. Laws.

I

How, Chloris, can I e're believe
The Vows of Woman kind,
Since yours I faithless find,
So faithless, that you can refuse
To him your Shadow, t'whom, to chuse,
You swore you could the Substance give.

II

Is't not enough that I must go
Into another Clime,
Where Feather-footed Time
May turn my Hopes into Despair,
My downy Youth to bristled Hair,
But that you add this torment too?

III

Perhaps you fear m'Idolatry
Would make the Image prove
A Woman fit for Love;

345

Or give it such a Soul, as shone
Through fond Pigmalion's living bone;
That so I may abandon thee.

IV

Oh, no! 'twould fill my Genius's room,
Mine honest one, that when
Frailty would love again,
And faultring with new Objects burn,
Then, Sweetest, would thy Picture turn
My wandring Eyes to thee at home.

On One, who said, He drank to clear his Eyes.

As Phœbus, drawing to his Western Seat,
His shining Face bedew'd with beamy Sweat,
His flaming Eyes at last grown blood-shot-red,
By Atoms sprung from his hot Horses speed,
Drives to that Sea-green Bosom of his Love's,
And in her Lap his fainting Light improves;

346

So Thyrsis, when at th' unresisted flame
Of thy fair Mistress's eye, thine dull became,
In sovereign Sack thou did'st an Eye-salve seek,
And stol'st a blest dew from her rosie Cheek:
When straight thy lids a chearful vigour wore,
More quick and penetrating than before.

I saw the sprightly Grape in glory rise,
And with her Day thy drooping Night surprize,
So that, where now a giddy darkness dwells,
Brightness now breaks through liquid Spectacles

Had Adam known this cure in Paradice,
He'd scap'd the Tree, and drunk to clear his Eyes.

The Separation.

I

I ghess'd none wretched in his love,
But who his Mistress's scorn did prove,
Nor judg'd him happy, but whose fire
Was paid with mutual desire:

347

But sad Experience tells,
In both extreams there dwells
A destiny, which so malignant is
To make Man wretched in his greatest bliss.

II

The brightest Beauty I adore,
That consecrated Earth e're bore,
The sweetest Person, fairest Mind,
That ever met in Woman-kind;
And (which afflicts me) am
Met with an equal flame:
For, had she hated me, her scorn might have
Condemn'd my Infant-love to its blest Grave.

III

But such 'tis nourisht by her grace,
As Time, nor Objects can deface,
To such a faith, as cannot be
Compell'd from its Integrity.
But oh, th' unwelcome cause,
Of superstitious Laws!
That us, from our mutual Embraces tear,
And separates our bloods, because too near.

348

Another of the same.

I

At what a wild malicious rate,
Blind, cruel Deity,
Do thy keen Arrows fly!
Sure th' art not God of Love, but Hate,
Bold Tyrant-Child, that can'st endure
To make a Wound admits no Cure.

II

An Happiness can wait upon
Strangers, that distant are,
As North and Southern Star:
But we, though born under one Zone,
Who in one Root, one Cradle lay,
In Love must be less blest than they.

III

Ah! that's the cause why we must run,
Like streams sprung from one Source,
Each in a various course,
The fiction Incest so to shun:

349

When better, that we mixt, it were,
Than other Rivers ravish't her.
But I'll pursue her, till our floods agree,
Alpheus I, and Arethusa she.

On the great Eater of Grays-Inn.

Oh! for a lasting wind! that I may rail
At this vile Cormorant, this Harpey-male:
That can, with such an hungry hast, devour
A years Provision in one short liv'd hour.
Prodigious Calf of Pharoah's lean-rib'd Kine,
That swallowest Beef, at every bit a Chine!
Yet art thy self so meagre, Men may see
Approaching Famine in thy Phys'nomy.
The World may yet rejoice, thou wer't not one
That shar'd Joves mercy with Deucalion;
Had he thy grinders trusted in that boat,
Where the whole Worlds Epitomy did float,

350

Clean, and Unclean had dy'd, th' Earth found a want
Of her irrational Inhabitant:
'Tis doubted, there their sury had not cea'st,
But of the humane part too made a Feast;
How Fruitless then had been Heaven's charity?
No Man on earth had liv'd, nor Beast, but thee.
Had'st thou been one to feed vpon the fare
Stor'd by old Priam for the Grecian War;
He, and his Sons had soon been made a prey,
Troys ten years Siege had lasted but one day;
Or thou might'st have preserv'd them, and at once
Chop't up Achilles, and his Mirmydons.

Had'st thou been Bell, sure thou had'st sav'd the Lives
O'th' cheating Priests, their Children, and their Wives,
But at this rate, 'twould be a heavy tax
For Hercules himself to cleanse thy jakes.

Oh! that kind Heav'n to give to thee would please
An Estridge-maw, for then we should have peace.
Swords then, or shining Engines would be none,
No Guns, to thunder out Destruction:

351

No rugged Shackles would be extant then,
Nor tedious Grates, that limit free-born Men.
But thy Gut-pregnant womb thy paws do fill
With spoils of Natures good, and not her ill.

'Twas th' Inns of Courts improvidence to own
Thy Wolvish Carcase for a Son 'oth' Gown:
The danger of thy jaws, they ne're foresaw;
For, Faith! I think thou hast devour'd the Law.
No wonder th' art complain'd of by the Rout,
When very Curs begin to smell thee out.
The reasons Southwark rings with howlings, are,
Because thou rob'st the Bull-Dogs of their share.

Beastly Consumer! not content to eat
The wholesome quarters destin'd for Mens meat,
But Excrement, and all: nor wilt thou bate
One entrail, to inform us of thy Fate:
Which will, I hope, be such an ugly Death,
As hungry Beggars, can in cursings breath,

352

But I have done, my Muse can scold no more,
She to the Bearwards Sentence turns thee o're,
And, since so great's thy Stomach's tyranny,
For writing this, pray God, thou eat not me.

An Epitaph on my Dear Aunt, Mrs. Ann Stanhope.

Forbear, bold Passenger, forbear
The verge of this sad Sepulchre:
Put off thy shooes, nor dare to tread
The Hallowed Earth, where she lyes dead:
For in this Vault the Magazine
Of Female virtue's stor'd, and in
This Marble Casket is confin'd
The Jewel of all Woman-kind.

For here she lies, whose Spring was Crown'd
With every grace in Beauty found;
Whose Summer to that Spring did suit,
Whose Autumn crackt with happy Fruit.

353

Whose Fall was like her Life, so spent,
Exemplary, and Excellent.

For here the fairest, chastest Maid,
That this Age ever knew, is laid:
The best of Kindred, best of Friends,
Of most Faith, and of fewest Ends;
Whose Fame the Tracks of Time survives;
The best of Mothers, best of Wives.

Lastly, which the whole Sum of praise implies,
Here she, who was the best of Women, lies.

SONG.

[_]

Set by Mr. Coleman.

I

See, how like Twilight Slumber falls
T'obscure the glory of those balls,
And, as she sleeps,
See how Light creeps

354

Thorow the Chinks, and Beautifies
The rayie fringe of her fair Eyes.

II

Observe Loves feuds, how fast they fly,
To every heart, from her clos'd Eye,
What then will she,
When waking, be?
A glowing Light for all t'admire,
Such, as would set the World on fire.

III

Then seal her Eye-lids, gentle Sleep,
Whiles cares of her mine open keep;
Lock up, I say,
Those Doors of Day,
Which with the Morn for Lustre strive,
That I may look on her, and live.

An Epitaph on M. H.

In this cold Monument lies one,
That I know who has lain upon,

355

The happier He: her Sight would charm,
And Touch have kept King David warm.
Lovely, as is the dawning East,
Was this Marble's frozen Guest;
As soft, and Snowy, as that Down
Adorns the Blow-balls frizled Crown;
As straight and slender as the Crest,
Or Antlet of the one beam'd Beast;
Pleasant as th' odorous Month of May:
As glorious, and as light as Day.

Whom I admir'd, as soon as knew,
And now her Memory pursue
With such a superstitious Lust,
That I could fumble with her Dust.

She all Perfections had, and more,
Tempting, as if design'd a Whore,
For so she was; and since there are
Such, I could wish them all as fair.

356

Pretty she was, and young, and wise,
And in her Calling so precise,
That Industry had made her prove
The sucking School-Mistress of Love:
And Death, ambitious to become
Her Pupil, left his Ghastly home,
And, seeing how we us'd her here,
The raw-bon'd Rascal ravisht her.

Who, pretty Soul, resign'd her Breath,
To seek new Letchery in Death.

The Retreat.

I

I am return'd, my Fair, but see
Perfection in none but thee:
Yet many Beauties have I seen,
And in that Search a Truant been,
Through Fruitless Curiosity.

357

II

I've been to see each blear-ey'd Star,
Fond Men durst with thy light compare;
And, to my admiration, find,
That all, but I, in Love are blind,
And none but Thee, divinely fair.

III

Here then I fix, and now grown wise,
All Objects, but thy face, despise,
(Taught by my folly) now I swear,
If you forgive me, ne're to err,
Nor seek Impossibilities.

The Sleeper.

What a strange lump of Laziness here lies,
That from the light of Day bolts up his Eyes!
Thou look'st, when God created thee, as if
He had forgot t'impart his breath of Life.

358

That th' art with Seven sleepy Fiends possest,
A man would judge, or that bewitcht at least.
It is a curse upon thee, without doubt,
And Heav'n for Sin, has put thy Candles out.

I could excuse thee, if this Sloth could be
Bred by the venom of Infirmity;
But 'tis in Nature's force impossible,
Her whole Corruption makes not such a spell,
Though thou an Abstract had'st ingrost of all
Ills, and Diseases Apoplectical.
Wer't thou not Male, I should guess thee the Bride
Cut out of sleeping Adam's senceless side;
But that I do this doubtful Quære find,
Whether such Sloth can spring from humane kind?
If so, thy Mother in conception,
With Wine, and Dormice fed her Embrion;
Or, when he did the penitential deed,
Thy drowsie Father voided Poppy seed,

I should believe th' had'st drunk in Lethes deep,
But that I see, th' ast not forget to sleep.

359

Sleep without end, which justifies the Theme
That thus informs, Mans life is but a Dream.
Just such is thine; and since 'tis so profound,
'Tis well if thou wak'st at the Trumpets sound.

The Token.

I

Well, cruel Mistress, though you'r too unkind,
Since thus my banishment's by you design'd,
I go, but with you leave my heart behind.

II

A truer heart, I'me sure you never wore,
'Tis the best Treasure of the blind God's store,
And, truly, you can justly ask no more.

III

Then blame me not, if curious to know,
I ask, on what fair Limb you will bestow
The Token, that my zeal presents you now?

360

IV

I shall expect so great an interest
For such a Gift, as t'have that Gemam possest,
Not of your Cabinet, but of your Breast.

V

There fixt, 'twill glory in its blest remove,
And flaming by degrees a Vigil prove,
Icy Disdain to thaw, nay, kindle love.

Song. Montross.

I

Ask not, why sorrow shades my brow;
Nor why my sprightly looks decay?
Alas! what need I Beauty now,
Since he, that lov'd it, dy'd to day.

II

Can ye have Ears, and yet not know,
Mirtillo, brave Mirtillo's slain?
Can ye have Eyes, and they not flow,
Or Hearts, that do not share my pain?

361

III

He's gone! he's gone! and I will go;
For in my Breast, such Wars I have,
And thoughts of him perplex me so
That the whole World appears my grave.

IV

But I'le go to him, though he lie
Wrapt in the cold, cold Arms of Death:
And under yon sad Cypress-tree,
I'le mourn, I'le mourn away my Breath.

SONG.

I

Pre'thee, why so angry, Sweet?
'Tis in vain,
To dissemble a Disdain,
That Frown i'th' infancy I'le meet,
And kiss it to a Smile again.

362

II

In that pretty Anger is
Such a grace,
As Loves fancy would embrace,
As to new Crimes may Youth entice,
So that Disguise becomes that Face.

III

When thy rosie Cheek thus checks
My offence,
I could sin with a pretence:
Through that sweet chiding Blush there breaks,
So fair, so bright an Innocence.

IV

Thus your very frowns entrap
My desire,
And inflame me to admire
That Eyes, drest in an angry shape,
Should kindle, as with amorous fire.

363

A Journey into the Peak.

To Sir Aston Cockain.

Sir, Coming home into this Frozen Clime,
Grown cold, and almost senceless, as my Rhyme,
I found that Winters bold impetuous rage
Prevented Time, and antidated Age,
For in my Veins, did nought but Crystal dwell,
Each Hair was frozen to an Icicle.
My flesh was Marble, so, that as I went,
I did appear a walking Monument:
'T might have been judg'd, rather than Marble, Flint,
Had there been any spark of fire in't.
My Mistress looking back, to bid good Night,
Was Metamorphos'd like the Sodomite.

Like Sinon's horse, our horses were become,
And since they could not go, they slided home;
The hills were hard, to such a quality,
So beyond Reason in Philosophie,

364

If Pegasus had kick'd at one of those,
Homer's Odysses had been writ in Prose.

These are strange stories, Sir, to you, who sweat
Under the warm Sun's comfortable heat;
Whose happy Seat of Pooley far out-vies
The fabled Pleasures of blest Paradise:
Whose Canaan fills your House with Wine and Oyl,
Till't crack with burdens of a fruitful Soil:
Which House, if it were plac'd above the Sphere,
Would be a Palace fit for Jupiter.

The humble Chappel, for Religious Rites,
The inner Rooms, for honest, free delights;
And Providence, that these miscarry loth,
Has plac'd the Tower a Centinel to both:
So that there's nothing wanting to improve
Either your Piety, or Peace, or Love.

Without, you have the pleasure of the Woods,
Fair Plains, rich Meadows, and transparent Floods;

365

With all that's good and excellent, beside
The tempting Apples by Euphrates side;
But that which does above all these aspire,
Is Delphos brought from Greece to Warwick shire.

But oh, ungodly Hodge! that valued not
That saving juice o'th' œnigmatick pot.
Whose charming vertue made me to forget
T'enquire of Fate; else I had staid there yet,
Nor had I then once dar'd to venture on
The cutting Air of this our Frozen Zone.
But once again, dear Sir, I mean to come,
And thankful be, as well as troublesom.

New Prison.

You Squires o'th' shade, that love to tread
In gloomy Night, when Day's in bed;
That court the Moon, supposing she
Likes such a watchful Industry:

366

Read here a Story, it will make
Your Eye-lids droop, when she's awake.
'Tis not the horrid noise of Wars,
Consequent Chances, Wounds and Scars,
The dangers of the foaming Deep,
Nor all the Bug bear Fates, that keep
Fond Men in awe, Hobgoblins, Sprites,
Dire Dreams in dark and tedious Nights,
A troubled Conscience, nor the sence
Of man's despairing Diffidence,
That can present so sad a face
Of black Affliction, as this place.

The sneaking Rascals, lowsie Whores,
The creaking of the dismal Doors,
That stink of stinks that fumes within,
(Symptoms of Beasts that dwell therein)
So rot the Air, Cameleons cou'd
Not live unpoyson'd with such Food;
There's reason for't, no Mortal can
Step from the Excrement of Man;

367

And that which should howe're be sweet,
Is like the rest; I mean, their meat;
The Locusts of the wilderness
Are Sweet-meats to their Nasty Mess.
I could say more; the Place provokes me,
But that the vile Tobacco choaks me.

Her Name.

I

To write your Name upon the Glass,
Is that the greatest you'l impart
Of your Commands? when, Dear, alas!
'Twas long since graven in my Heart?
But you foresee my Heart must break, and sure
Think't in that brittle Quarry more secure.

II

My Breast impregnable is found,
Which nothing, but thy Beauty, wracks,
Than this frail Metal far more sound,
That every Storm and Tempest cracks.

368

And, if you add Faith to my Vows and Tears,
More firm, and more transparent it appears.

III

Yet, I obey you, when, behold!
I tremble at the forced fact,
My hand too sawcy and too bold,
Timorously shivers at the act;
And 'twixt the wounded glass, and th' harder stone,
I hear a murmuring Emulation.

IV

'Tis done; to which let all hearts bow,
And to the Tablet sacrifice;
Incense of loyal Sighs allow,
And Tears from wonder-strucken Eyes;
Which, should the Schismaticks of Sion see,
Perchance they'd break it for Idolatry.

369

V

But, cursed be that awkward hand
Dares raze the glory from this frame,
That, notwithstanding thy Command,
Tears from this glass thy ador'd Name;
Whoe're he be, unless he do repent,
He's damn'd for breaking thy Commandement.

VI

Yet, what thy dear will here has plac't,
Such is its unassured state,
Must once, my Sweetest, be defac't,
Or by the stroke of Time, or Fate;
It must at last, howe're, dissolve, and die,
With all the World, and so must thou, and I.

370

Epitaph On Mr. Robert Port.

Here lies he, whom the Tyrants rage,
Snatch't in a venerable Age;
And here, with him, intomb'd do lie
Honour, and Hospitality.

SONG.

[_]

Set by Mr. Coleman.

I

Bring back my Comfort, and return,
For well thou know'st that I
In such a vigorous passion burn,
That missing thee, I die.
Return, return, insult no more,
Return, return, and me restore
To those sequestred joyes I had before.

371

II

Absence, in most, that quenches Love,
And cools the warm desire,
The ardour of my heat improves,
And makes the flame aspire;
Th' Opinion therefore I deny,
And term it, though a Tyranny,
The Nurce to Faith, and Truth, and Constancy.

III

Yet Dear, I do not urge thy stay,
That were to prove unjust
To my desires; nor Court delay:
But ah! thy speed I must;
Then bring me back the stol'n Delight
Snatch't from me in thy speedy flight,
Destroy my tedious Day, my longing Night.

372

Sir William Davenant

To Mr. Cotton.

I

Unlucky fire, which though from Heaven deriv'd,
Is brought too late, like Cordials to the Dead,
When all are of their Sovereign Sence depriv'd,
And Honour, which my rage should warm, is fled.

II

Dead to Heroick Song this Isle appears,
The Antient Musick of victorious Verse,
They tast no more than he his Dirges hears,
Whose useless Mourners sing about his Herse.

III

Yet shall this sacred Lamp in Prison burn,
And through the darksome Ages hence invade
The wondering World, like that in Tully's Urn,
Which, though by Time conceal'd, was not decay'd.

373

IV

And Charles, in that more civil Century,
When this shall wholly fill the voice of Fame,
The busie Antiquaries then will try
To find amongst their Monarchs coin, thy Name.

V

Much they will bless thy Virtue, by whose fire
I'll keep my Laurel warm, which else would fade,
And, thus inclos'd, think me of Natures Quire,
Which still sings sweetest in the shade.

VI

To Fame, who rules the World, I lead thee now,
Whose solid Power the thoughtful understand,
Whom, though too late, weak Princes to her bow,
The People serve, and Poets can command.

VII

And Fame, the only Judge of Empire past,
Shall to Verona lead thy Fancies Eyes,
Where Night so black a Robe on Nature cast,
As Nature seem'd affraid of her disguise.

374

To Sir William Davenant.
[_]

In Answer to the Seventh Canto, of the Third Book of his Gondibert, directed to my Father.

Written by Sir William, when Prisoner in the Tower. 1652.

I

Oh happy Fire! whose heat can thus controul
The rust of Age, and thaw the frost of Death,
That renders Man immortal, as his Soul,
And swells his Fame with everlasting Breath.

II

Happie's that Hand, that unto Honours Clime
Can lift the Subject of his living praise,
That rescues Frailty from the Sythe of Time,
And equals glory to the length of days.

375

III

Such, Sir, is yours, that, uncontroul'd as Fate,
In the black bosom of o're-shading Night,
Can Sons of immortality create,
To dazle Envy with prevailing Light.

IV

In vain they strive your glorious Lamp to hide
In that dark Lanthorn to all noble minds,
Which, through the smallest cranny is descry'd,
Whose force united no resistance finds.

V

Blest is my Father, that has found his Name
Amongst the Heroes, by your Pen reviv'd,
By running in Time's wheel his thriving Fame,
Shall still more youthful grow, & longer liv'd.

VI

Had Alexander's Trophies thus been rear'd,
And in the circle of your Story come,
The spacious Orb, full well he might have spar'd,
And reap't his distant Victories at home.

376

VII

Let Men of greater Wealth than Merit cast
Medals of Gold for their succeeding part;
That paper-Monument shall longer last,
Than all the rubbish of decaying Art.

To my Friend Mr. John Anderson.

From the Countrey.

I

You that the City Life embrace,
And in those Tumults run your race,
Under the th' aspect of the Celestial face
Of your bright Lady:
You, that to Masks, and Plays resort,
As if you would rebuild the Court,
We here can match you with our Countrey-sport,
As neer as may be.

377

II

For, though 'tis good to be so nigh.
Rich wine, and excellent Company:
Yet, John, those Pleasures you full dear do buy
Some times, and seasons.
For you but Tributaries are,
Aw'd by the furious men of War:
We Countrey-Bumkins then are happier far
For many reasons.

III

First, we have here no bawling Duns,
Nor those fierce things ycleped Bums,
No Cuckold-Constable, or Watch here comes
To apprehend us.
And then we've no unwholsome Dames
To broil us in their bawdy flames,
Nor need enquire after Physicians names,
That may befriend us.

378

IV

And next, we have excelling Ale,
Most high, and mighty, strong, and stale:
And, when we go, we need no other Bail
Than our own word, Sir,
When you all Day are fain to sit,
Send Paper-pellets of small wit,
Your Tickets; and, when none of them will hit,
Pawn Cloak, or Sword, Sir,

V

Then we out-do your Beauties, that
You Entertain with Cost, and Chat,
That make you spend your precious Time and Fat,
And yet are stedfast:
We here have homely willing Winn,
With bucksome Bess, and granting Jinn,
All full and plump without, and warm within,
That crackt the Bed fast.

379

VI

And then, for Mirth, we have much more
Than you, for all your various store,
For we prefer Bag pipes, so loud, before
Lute, or Cremona.
We caper with Tom Thump, i'th' Hall,
Measures beyond Corant, or Brawl;
And when we want a match for Ciceley, call
A roba bona.

VII

We have too errant Knights so stout,
As honest Hobinel and Clout,
With many an other stiff and sturdy Lout,
That play at wasters,
Shooe the wild Mare, and lick the board,
That for stiff Tuck, or cutting Sword,
For Man, or Woman, care not of a Turd,
But their own Masters.

380

VIII

Thus every of our petty toys
Outvies your greatest dear bought joys:
Then to thy freedom from the City-noise,
I'll drink a Beer-jack:
And now the Spring comes on apace,
Sweet flowers crown the Earth's green face
Nor can I doubt, but thou wilt have the grace
To wish thee here, Jack.

Les Amours.

I

She, that I pursue, still flies me;
Her, that follows me, I fly;
She, that I still court, denies me:
Her, that courts me, I deny.
Thus in one Web we're subt'ly wove,
And yet we mutiny in love.

381

II

She, that can save me, must not do it,
She, that cannot, fain would do:
Her love is bound, yet I still woe it:
Hers by love is bound in woe.
Yet, how can I of Love complain,
Since I have love for love again.

III

This is thy work, imperious Child,
Thine's this Labyrinth of love,
That thus hast our desires beguil'd,
Nor see'st how thine arrows rove.
Then pre'thee, to compose this stir,
Make Her love me, or me love Her.

IV

But, if irrevocable are
Those keen shafts, that wound us so;
Let me prevail with thee thus far,
That thou once more take thy Bow;
Wound Her hard heart, and by my troth,
I'll be content to take them both.

382

ELEGY.

How was I blest when I was free
From Mercy, and from Cruelty;
When I could write of Love at ease,
And ghess at Passions in my peace;
When I could sleep, and in my Breast
No love-sick Thoughts disturb'd my rest:
When in my brain of her sweet face
No Torturing Idea was,
Not Planet-struck with her Eyes Light,
But blest with Thoughts as calm as Night!
Now I could sit and gaze to Death;
And vanish with each sigh, I Breath:
Or else in her victorious Eye
Dissolve to tears, dissolving dye,
Nor is my Life more pleasant than
The Minutes of condemned Men,
Tost by strange Fancies, wrack't by Fears,
Sunk by Despair, and drown'd in Tears,

383

And dead to Hope; for, what bold He
Dares hope for such a Bliss as she?

And yet I am in love; ah! who
That ever saw her, was not so?
What Tigers unrelenting Seed,
Can see such Beauties, and not bleed?

Her eyes two sparks of Heavenly fire,
To kindle, and to charm desire,
Her Cheeks Aurora's blush, her Skin
So delicately smooth, and thin,
That you my see each azure Vein,
Her Bosoms Snowy whiteness stain:
But with so rich a Tincture, as
China 'bove baser metals has,
She's crown'd with unresisted Light
Of blooming Youth, and vigorous Spr'ite,
Careless charms, unstudied sweetness,
Innate vertue, humble greatness,
And modest freedom, with each grace
Of Body, and of Mind, and Face,

384

So pure, that Men, nor Gods can find
Throughout that Body, or that Mind
A fault, but this, to disapprove,
She cannot, or she will not love.

Ah! then, some God possess her heart
With mine uncessant vows, and smart,
Grant but one hour that she may be
In love, and then she'll pitty me.
Is it not pitty such a ghest,
As Cruelty, should arm that Breast
Against a love assaults it so?
Can Heavenly minds such rigour know?
Then make her know, her Beauties must
Decay, and molter into Dust:
That each swift Atome of her glass,
Runs to the ruin of her face;
That those fair blossoms of her Youth,
Are not so lasting as my truth,
My lasting firm Integrity:
Tell her all this, and, if there be

385

A Lesson to present her Sence
Of more perswading Eloquence,
Teach her that too, for all will prove
Too little to provoke her Love.
Thus dying people use to rave,
And I am grown my Passions slave;
For fall I must, my lot's Despair,
Since I'm so worthless, she so fair.

Her Hair.

ODE.

Ο πλοκαμος υπερερενικειος.

I

Welcome, blest Symptom of Consent,
More welcome far,
Than if a Star,
In stead of this bright Hair,
Should beautifie mine Ear,
And light me to my banishment.

386

II

Methinks I'm now all sacred fire,
And wholly grown
Devotion:
Sensual Love's in chains,
And all my boiling Veins
Are blown with sanctifi'd desire.

III

Sure she is Heaven it self, and I,
In fervent zeal,
This lock did steal,
And each Life-giving Thread,
Snatch't from her beamy Head,
As once Prometheus from the Sky.

IV

No: 'tis a nobler Treasure: She
(Won to believe)
Was pleas'd to give
These rays unto my care:
The Sphears have none so fair,
Nor yet so blest a Deitie.

387

V

Yet knows she not what she has done,
She'll hear my Prayers,
And see my Tears;
She's now a Nazarite
Rob'd of her vigorous Light,
For her resisting Strength is gone.

VI

I now could glory in my Power,
And in pretence
Of my suspence,
Revenge, by kissing those
Twins, that Natures pride disclose,
My Languishing and tedious hours.

VII

Yet I'll not triumph: but, since she
Will that I go
Thus wrapt in woe,

388

I'll tempt my prouder Fate
T'improve my Estimate,
And justle with my Destiny.

VIII

As well I may, thus being sure,
Whether on Land
I firmly stand;
Or Fortunes footsteps trace,
Or Neptunes foamy face,
Mischance to conquer; or endure.

IX

If, on a swelling Wave I ride,
When Eolus
His winds lets loose,
Those winds shall silent ly,
And moist Orion dry,
By virtue of this charming guide.

389

X

Or, if I hazard in a Field,
Where Danger is
The sole Mistress,
Where Death, in all his shapes,
Commits his horrid rapes,
And he, that but now slew, is kill'd;

XI

Then in my daring Crest I'll place
This plume of light
T'amaze the sight
O'th' fiercest Sons of Mars,
That rage in bloody Wars;
And make them fly my Conquering face.

XII

Thus in her favour I am blest;
And, if by these
Few of her rays

390

I am exalted so,
What will my Passions do
When I have purchas'd all the rest?

XIII

They must continue in the same
Vigour, and force,
Better, nor worse:
I lov'd so well before,
I cannot love her more,
Nor can I mitigate my Flame.

XIV

In Love then persevere I will
Till my hairs grow
As white as Snow:
And, when in my warm Veins
Nought but trembling cold remains,
My youthful love shall flourish still.

391

SONG.

I

Join once again, my Celia, join
Thy rosie Lips to these of mine,
Which, though they be not such,
Are full as sensible of bliss,
That is, as soon can tast a kiss,
As thine of softer touch.

II

Each kiss of thine creates desire,
Thy odorous Breath inflames Loves fire,
And wakes the sleeping coal:
Such a kiss to be I find
The Conversation of the Mind,
And whisper of the Soul.

III

Thanks, Sweetest, now thou'rt perfect grown,
For by this last kiss I'm undone;

392

Thou breathest silent Darts,
Henceforth each little touch will prove
A dangerous stratagem in Love,
And thou wilt blow up Hearts.

The Surprize.

I

On a clear River's flow'ry side,
When Earth was in her gawdy pride,
Defended by the friendly shade
A woven Grove's dark entrails made,
Where the cold clay, with flowers strew'd,
Made up a pleasing solitude;
'Twas there I did my glorious Nymph surprize,
There stole my passion from her killing Eyes.

II

The happy Object of her Eye
Was Sidney's living Arcady;

393

Whose amorous tale had so betrai'd
Desire in this all-lovely Maid;
That, whilst her Cheek a blush did warm,
I read Loves story in her form:
And of the Sisters the united grace,
Pamela's vigour in Philoclea's Face.

III

As on the brink this Nymph did sit,
(Ah! who can such a Nymph forget?)
The floods straight dispossest their foam,
Proud so her mirrour to become;
And ran into a twirling Maze,
On her by that delay to gaze,
And, as they past, by streams succeeding force,
In losing her, murmur'd t'obey their course,

IV

She read not long, but clos'd the Book,
And up her silent Lute she took,
Perchance to charm each wanton thought,
Youth, or her reading had begot.

394

The hollow Carcass eccho'd such
Airs, as had birth from Orpheu's touch,
And every snowy finger, as she plai'd,
Danc't to the Musick that themselves had made.

V

At last she ceas'd: her odorous Bed
With her enticing Limbs she spread,
With Limbs so excellent, I could
No more resist my factious blood:
But there, ah! there, I caught the Dame,
And boldly urg'd to her my flame:
I kiss'd: when her ripe Lips at every touch
Swell'd up to meet, what she would shun so much.

VI

I kiss'd, and plai'd in her bright Eyes,
Discours'd, as is the Lovers guise,
Call'd her the Authress of my woe:
The Nymph was kind, but would not do,
Faith, she was kind, which made me bold,
Grow hot, as her denials cold.

395

But, ah! at last I parted wounded more
With her soft pitty, than her Eyes before.

The Visit.

I

Dark was the silent shade, that hid
The fair Castanna from my sight:
The Night was black (as it had need,)
That could obscure so great a light.
Under the concave of each Lid
A flaming ball of beauty bright,
Wrapt in a charming slumber lay,
That else would captivate the Day.

II

(Led by a passionate desire,)
I boldly did attempt the way;
And though my dull Eyes wanted fire,

396

My seeing Soul knew where she lay,
Thus, whilst I blindly did aspire,
Fear to displease her made me stay,
A doubt too weak for mine intent,
I knew she would forgive, and went.

III

Near to her Maiden-Bed I drew,
Blest in so rare a chance as this;
When by her odorous Breath I knew
I did approach my Love, my Bliss:
Then did I eagerly pursue
My hopes, and found, and stole a kiss:
Such as perhaps Pygmalion took,
When cold his Ivory Love forsook.

IV

Soft was the sleep sate on her Eyes,
As softest down, or whitest Snow;
So gentle rest upon them lies,
Happy to charm those Beauties so;

397

For which a thousand thousand dies,
Or living, live in restless Woe;
For all that see her killing Eye,
With Love, or Admiration dye.

V

Chast were the Thoughts that had the power
To make me hazard this Offence;
I mark'd the sleeps of this fair Flower,
And found them full of Innocence;
Wond'ring that hers, who slew each hour,
Should have so undisturb'd a Sence;
But, ah! these Murders of Mankind
Fly from her Beauty, not her Mind.

VI

Thus, while she sweetly slept, sate I
Contemplating the lovely Maid,
Of every Tear, and every Sigh
That sallied from my Breast, afraid.
And now the Morning-star drew nigh,
When, fearing thus to be betray'd,
I softly from my Nymph did move
Wounded with everlasting Love.

398

De Lupo.

Epigram.

When Lupus has wrought hard all day,
And the declining Sun,
By stooping to embrace the Sea,
Tells him the Day's nigh done;
Then to his young Wife home he hies
With his sore labour sped,
Who bids him welcome home, and cries,
Pray, Husband, come to bed.
Thanks, Wife, quoth he, but I were blest,
Would'st thou once call me to my rest.

On Upstart.

Upstart last Term went up to Town,
There purchas'd Arms and brought them down,
With Welborne's then he his compares,
And with a horrid loudness swears

399

That his are best; for look, quoth he,
How gloriously mine gilded be;
Thine's but a Thred-bare Coat, he cry'd,
Compar'd to this, who then reply'd:
If my Coat be Thread-bare, or rent, or torn,
There's cause; than thine it has been longer worn.

Epitaph On Mrs. Mary Draper.

I

Reader , if thou cast thine Eye
On this weeping Stone below:
Know, that under it doth lye
One, that never Man did know.

II

Yet of all Men full well known
By those beauties of her Breast:
For, of all she wanted none,
When Death call'd her to her rest.

400

III

Then, the Ladies, if they would
Dye like her, kind Reader tell,
They must strive to be as good
Alive, or 'tis impossible.

Cælia's Fall.

I

Cælia , my fairest Cælia, fell,
Cælia, than the fairest, fairer,
Cælia, (with none I must compare her)
That all alone is all in all,
Of what we fair, and modest call,
Cælia, white as Alabaster,
Cælia, than Diana chaster,
This fair, fair Cælia, greif to tell,
This fair, this modest, chast one fell.

401

II

My Cælia, sweetest Cælia, fell,
As I have seen a Snow-white Dove
Decline her Bosom from above,
And down her spotless body fling.
Without the motion of the wing,
Till she arrest her seeming fall
Upon some happy Pedestal:
So soft this sweet, I love so well,
This sweet, this Dove-like Cælia, fell.

III

Cælia, my dearest Cælia fell,
As I have seen a melting Star
Drop down its fire from its Sphear,
Rescuing so its glorious sight
From that paler snuff of light:
Yet is a Star bright and entire,
As when 'twas wrap't in all that fire:
So bright this dear, I love so well,
This dear, this Star-like Cælia fell.

402

IV

And yet my Cælia did not fall
As grosser Earthly Mortals do,
But stoop't, like Phæbus, to renew
Her lustre hy her Morning rise,
And dart new Beauties in the Skies.
Like a white Dove, she took her flight,
And, like a Star, she shot her Light;
This Dove, this Star, so lov'd of all,
My Fair, Dear, Sweetest, did not fall.

V

But, if you'll say my Cælia fell,
Of this I'm sure, that, like the Dart
Of Love it was, and on my Heart;
Poor Heart alas! wounded before,
She needed not have hurt it more:
So absolute a Conquest she
Had gain'd before of it, and me,
That neither of us have been well
Before, or since my Cælia fell.

403

Eclogue.

Damon. C. C. Thyrsis. R. R.
Dam.
Thyrsis , whilst our Flocks did bite
The smiling Salads in our sight,
Thou then wer't wont to sing thy state
In Love, and Chloe celebrate;
But where are now the Love-sick laies
Whilom so sung in Chloe's praise?

Thyr.
'Las! who can sing? since our Pan dy'd
Each Shepherd's pipe is laid aside:
Our flocks they feed on parched ground,
Shelter, nor Water's for them found:
And all our sports are cast away,
Save when thou sing'st thy Cælia.

Dam.
Cælia, I do confess alone
My object is of Passion,
My Star, my bright Magnetick Pole,
And only Guidress of my Soul.

404

Thyr.
Let Cælia be thy Cynosure,
Chloe's my Pole too, though th' obscure:
For, though her self's all glorious,
My Earth 'twixt us does interpose.

Dam.
Obscure indeed, since she's but one
To mine a Constellation:
Her Lights throughout so glorious are,
That every part's a perfect Star.

Thyr.
Then Cælia's Perfections
Are scatter'd: Chloe's, like the Suns
United Light, compacted lye,
Whence all that feel their force, must dye.

Dam.
Cælia's Beauties are too bright
To be contracted in one Light;
Nor does my fair, her Rays dispence
With such a stabbing Influence,
Since 'tis her less imperious Will
To save her Lovers, and not kill.

405

Thyr.
Each beam of her united Light
Is, than the greatest Star more bright;
And, if she stay, it is from hence,
She darts too sweet an Influence,
We Surfeit with't: weak Eyes must shun
The dazling Glories of the Sun.
Perhaps, if Cælia do not kill,
'Tis want of Power, not of Will.

Dam.
I now perceive, thy Chloe's Eyes
To be no Stars, but Prodigies:
Comets, such as blazing stand
To threaten ruin to a Land:
Beacons of sulph'rous Flame they are,
Symptoms not of Peace, but War,
And thou I guess, by singing thus,
Thence stoll'st thine Ignis fatuus.

Thyr.
As th' vulgar are amaz'd at th' Sun,
When tripled by reflection;
Chloe's self, and glorious Eyes
To thee seem Comets in the Skies.

406

And true, they may portend some Wars
Such as 'twixt Venus, and her Mars,
But chast: whose captivating Bands
Would People, and not ruin Lands.
With such a Going fire I'll stray,
For who with it can lose his way?

Dam.
The Vulgar may perhaps be won
By thee to think her Sun, and Moon,
And so would I, but that my more
Convincing Cælia I adore.
Would we had both, that Chloe thine,
And my dear Cælia might be mine.
But if we should thus mix with Ray,
In Heav'n would be no Night, but Day;
For we should People all the Skies
With Plannet-Girls, and Starry-Boyes,
Chloe's a going-fire, we see,
Pray Pan, she do not go from thee.

407

Thyr.
Thanks, Damon, but she does, I fear,
The Shadows now so long appear:
Yet, if she do, we'll both find Day
I'th' Sun-shine of thy Cælia.

Her Sigh.

I

She sighs, and has blown over now
The storms that threat'ned in her brow:
The Heaven's now serene and clear,
And bashful blushes do appear,
Th' Errour sh'has found.
That did me wound,
Thus with her od'rous Sigh my hopes are crown'd.

II

Now she relents, for now I hear
Repentance whisper in my Ear,

408

Happy repentance! that begets
By this sweet Airy motion heats,
And does destroy
Her Heresie,
That my Faith branded with Inconstancy.

III

When Thisbe's Pyramus was slain,
This sigh had fetcht him back again,
And such a sigh from Dido's Chest
Wafted the Trojan to her Breast.
Each of her sighs
My Love does prize
Reward, for thousand, thousand Cruelties.

IV

Sigh on, my Sweet, and by thy Breath,
Immortal grown, I'll laugh at Death.
Had Fame so sweet a one, we shou'd
In that regard learn to be good:
Sigh on, my Fair,
Henceforth, I swear,
I could Cameleon turn, and live by Air

409

On the Lamented Death Of my Dear Uncle, Mr. Radcliff Stanhope.

Such is th' unsteddy state of humane things,
And Death so certain, that their period brings,
So frail is Youth, and strength, so sure this sleep,
That much we cannot wonder, though we weep.
Yet, since 'tis so, it will not misbecom,
Either perhaps our Sorrows, or his Tomb
To breath a Sigh, and drop a mourning Tear
Upon the cold face of his Sepulcher,

Well did his life deserve it, if to be
A great Example of Integrity,
Honour, and Truth, Fidelity, and Love,
In such perfection, as if each had strove
T'out-do Posterity, may deserve our care,

Or to his Funeral command a Tear,
Faithful he was, and just, and sweetly good
To whom ally'd in Virtue, or in Blood:

410

His Breast (from other conversation chast)
Above the reach of giddy Vice was plac't:
Then, had not Death (that crops in's Savage speed
The fairest flower with the rankest weed)
Thus made a beastly Conquest of his Prime,
And cut him off before grown ripe for Time,
How bright an Evening must this Morn pursue,
Is to his Life a Contemplation due.

Proud Death, t'arrest his thriving Virtue thus!
Unhappy Fate! not to himself, but us,
That so have lost him; for, no doubt, but he
Was fit for Heav'n, as years could make him be:
Age does but muster Sin, and heap up woes
Against the last, and general Rendezvous;
Whereas he dy'd full of obedient Truth,
Wrap't in his spotless Innocence of Youth.

Farewell, Dear Uncle, may thy hop'd for Bliss
To thee be real, as my Sorrow is;
May they be nam'd together, since I do
Nothing more perfect than my sorrow know;
And, if thy Soul into mens minds have Eyes,
It knows I truly weep these Obsequies.

411

On the Lord Derby.

To what a formidable greatness grown
Is this prodigious Beast Rebellion,
When Sovereignty, and its so sacred Law,
Thus lies subjected to his Tyrant awe!
And to what daring impudence he grows,
When, not content to trample upon those,
He still destroys all that with honest flames
Of loyal Love would propagate their Names!

In this great ruin, Derby, lay thy Fate,
(Derby, unfortunately fortunate)
Unhappy thus to fall a Sacrifice
To such an Irreligious Power as this;
And blest, as 'twas thy nobler sence to dye
A constant Lover of thy Loyalty.

Nor is it thy Calamity alone,
Since more lye whelm'd in this Subversion:
And first, the justest, and the best of Kings;
Roab'd in the glory of his Sufferings,

412

By his too violent Fate inform'd us all,
What tragick ends attended his great fall,
Since when his Subjects, some by chance of War,
Some by perverted justice at the Bar
Have perish't: thus, what th' other leaves, this takes,
And whoso scapes the Sword, falls by the Axe:
Amongst which throng of Martyrs none could boast
Of more fidelity, than the world has lost
In losing thee, when (in contempt of spite)
Thy steddy faith at th' exit crown'd with Light,
His Head above their malice did advance,
They could not murder thy Allegiance,
Not when before those Judges brought to th' test,
Who, in the symptomes of thy ruin drest,
Pronounc't thy Sentence. Basilisks! whose Breath
Is killing Poyson, and whose Looks are Death.

Then how unsafe a Guard Man's virtue is,
In this false Age, (when such as do amiss
Controul the honest sort, and make a prey
Of all that are not villanous as they)
Does to our Reasons Eyes too plain appear
In the mischance of this Illustrious Peer.

413

Blood-thirsty Tyrants of usurped State!
In facts of Death prompt, and insatiate!
That in your Flinty Bosoms have no sence
Of Manly Honour, or of Conscience,
But do, since Monarchy lay drown'd in Blood,
Proclaim't by Act, high Treason to be good;
Cease yet at last for shame: let Derby's fall,
Great, and good Derby's, expiate for all,
But if you will place your Eternity
In mischief, and that all good Men must dye,
When you have finish't there, fall on the rest,
Mix your sham'd slaughters with the worst, and best;
And, to perpetuate your murthering Fame,
Cut your own Throats, despair, and dye, and damn.

Ainsi soit il.

414

On Marriot.

Tempus edax rerum.

Thanks for this rescue Time; for thou hast won
In this more glory than the States have done
In all their Conquests; they have conquer'd Men,
But thou hast conquer'd that would conquer them,
Famine; and in this Parricide hast shown
A greater courage than their Acts dare own;
Thou'st slain thy eating Brother, 'tis a Fame
Greater than all past Heroes e're could claim:
Nor do I think thou could'st have conquer'd him
By force, it surely was by Stratagem.
There was a Dearth when he gave up the Ghost:
For, (on my life) his Stomack he ne're lost,
That never fail'd him, and without all doubt
Had he been victual'd he had still held out:
Howe're, it happen'd for the Nation well,
All fear of Famine now's impossible,

415

Since we have scap't his reign; Blest were my Rhymes,
Could they but prove, that for the peoples Crimes
He an atonement fell; for in him dy'd
More Bulls, and Rams, than in all times beside,
Though we the numbers of them all ingrost,
Offer'd with antique Piety, and Cost:
And 't might have well become the Peoples care
To have embowel'd him, if such there were,
Who, in respect of their Fore-fathers peace,
Would have attempted such a task as this,
For 'tis discreetly doubted he'll go hard
To eat up all his fellows i'th' Church yard:
Then, as from several parts each mangled Limb
Meet at the last, they all will rise in him;
And he (as once a Pleader) may arise
A general Advocate at the last Assize.

I wonder, Death durst venture on this prize,
His jaws more greedy were, and wide than his,
'Twas well he only was compos'd of Bone,
Had he been Flesh, this Eater had not gone;
Or had they not been empty Skelletons,
As sure as Death he'd crush't his Marrow bones;

416

And knockt 'em too, his stomack was so rise,
The Rogue lov'd Marrow, as he lov'd his life.

Behold! behold, O Brethren! you may see
By this late Object of Mortality,
'Tis not the lining of the Inward Man,
(Though ne're so soundly stuff't, and cramb'd) that can
Keep Life, and Soul together; for if that
Could have preserv'd him, he had kick't at Fate
With his High shooes, and liv'd to make a prey
Of Butchers stinking Offal to this day.

But he is gone, and 't had been excellent sport
When first he stalked into Pluto's Court,
Had one but seen with what an angry gust
The greedy Rasoal worried Cerberus;
I know he'd do't before he would retreat,
And, he and 's stomack are not parted yet;
But, that digested, how he'll do for meat
I can't imagine: for the Devil a bit
He'll purchase there, unless this tedious time
The tree of Tantalus was sav'd for him;
Should it prove so, no doubt he would rejoyce,
Spight of the Devil, and Hell's horrid noise.

417

But then, could 't not be touch't, 'twould prove a curse
Worse than the others, or he'd bear it worse:
Oh, would his Fortitude in suffering rise
So much in glory 'bove his Gluttonies,
That, rather than confess them to his Sire,
He would, like Porcia, swallow coals of Fire,
He might extinguish Hell, and, to prevent
Eternal pains, void ashes, and repent;
For, without that, his torments still would last,
It were damnation for him to fast.

But how had I been like to have forgot
My self, with raving of a thing is not,
Of his Eternity; I should condole
His Death, and Ruin, had he had a Soul:
But he had none: or 't was meer sensitive;
Nor could the gormundizing Beast out-live;
So that 't may properly of him be said,
Marriot the Eater of Grays-Inn is dead,
And is no more: Dear Jove; I thee intreat,
Send us no more such Eaters, or more Meat.

418

To Cælia's Ague.

ODE.

I

Hence, fond Disease, I say forbear,
And strive t'afflict my Fair no more,
In vain are thy attempts on her,
She was, alas! so cold before.

II

Yet thou at once, by Sympathy,
Disturb'st two Persons in one Ill;
For when she freezes, then I fry,
And so compleat her Ague still.

III

Sure thou my choice would'st fain disgrace,
By making her look Pale, and Green,
Had she no Beauties, but her face,
I never had a Lover been.

419

IV

For sparkling Eyes, and rosie Cheeks
Must, as her Youth does fade, decay:
But Virtue, which her Bosom decks,
Will, when they're sunk, and wither'd, stay.

V

Thou would'st eclipse that Virtue too,
For such a Triumph far too dear,
Making her tremble, as they do,
Whom jealous guilt has taught to fear.

VI

I wish thy Malice might so thrive
To my advantage, as to shake
Her Flinty Breast, that I might live,
And on that part a battery make.

VII

But since Assaults without some fire
Are seldom to perfection brought,
I may like thee baffled retire,
Thou hast her burning sit forgot.

420

VIII

Since thy attempts then never can
Atchieve the power to destroy
This wonder, and delight of Man,
Hence to some grosser Body fly.

IX

Yet, as returning stomacks do
Still covet some one Dish they see:
So when thou from my Fair do'st go,
Kind Ague, make her long for me.

A Valediction.

I go, I go, Perfidious Maid,
Obeying thee, my froward Fate,
Whether forsaken or betray'd,
By Scorn, or Hate.

I go, th' exact'st Professour of
Desire, in its Diviner sence,
That ever in the School of Love
Did yet commence.

421

Cruel, and False, could'st thou find none
Amongst those Fools thy Eyes engrost,
But me to practise Falshood on,
That lov'd thee most.

I lov'd thee 'bove the Day's bright Eye,
Above mine own; who melting drop,
As oft, as opening they miss thee,
And 'bove my hope;

Till (by thy promise grown secure)
That hope was to assurance brought,
My Faith was such, so chastly pure,
I doubted not

Thee, or thy Vows, nor should I yet
(Such, False one, is my Loves extream)
Should'st thou now swear, the Breath's so sweet
That utters them.

Ah, Syren! why did'st t'me entice,
To that unconstant Sea, thy love
That ebbs and flows so in a trice?
Was it to prove

422

The power of each attractive spell
Upon my fond enamour'd Youth?
No: I must think of thee so well
Thou then spak'st truth.

Else amongst overweening Boyes,
Or Dotards, thou had'st chosen one
Than me, methinks a fitter choice
To work upon.

Mine was no wither'd Old man's suit;
Nor, like a Boys just come from School,
Had'st thou been either deaf, or mute,
I'de been no Fool.

Faith! I was then, when I embrac't
A false belief thy Vows were true,
Or, if they were, that they could last
A day, or two.

Since I'de been told a Womans mind
Varies as oft, as April's Face:
But I suppos'd thine more refin'd,
And so it was,

423

Till (sway'd by thy unruly Blood)
Thou changed'st thy uncertain will,
And 'tis far worse to have been good,
Than to be ill.

Methinks thou'rt blemisht in each part,
And so, or worse than others are,
Those eyes grown hollow as thy heart,
Which two Suns were.

Thy Cheeks are sunk, and thy smooth Skin
Looks like a Conquest now of Time,
Sure th' had'st an Age to study in
For such a Crime.

Th' art so transform'd; that I in thee,
(As 'tis a general loss) more grieve
Thy falling from thy self, than me
Fool to believe!

For I by this am taught to prize
The inward beauties of the Breast,
Bove all the gayeties of the Eyes
Where Treasons rest.

424

Whereas, grown black with this abuse
Offer'd to Love's commanding Throne,
Thou may'st despair of an excuse,
And wish't undone.

Farewel thou pretty brittle piece
Of fine-cut Crystal, which once was
Of all my Fortune, and my Bliss
The only Glass,

Now something else: But in its state
Of former lustre, fresh and green
My Faith shall stand, to shew thee what
Thou should'st have been.

425

Love's Triumph.

I

God Cupid's Power was ne're so shown,
Since first the Boy could draw a bow;
In all past Ages, as this one,
This Love-sick Age we live in now:
Now He, and She, from high to low,
Or Lovers are, or would seem so.

II

His arrows now are every where,
In every Lip, and every Eye,
From Young, from Old, from Foul, and Fair,
This little Archer lets them fly:
He is a Traytor to Love's Throne,
That has no love, or seems t'have none.

III

If she be young, and fair, we do
Think her the blessing of this Life,
And, out of that opinion woe
Her for a Mistress, or a Wife,

426

And if they think us able Men,
The pretty Souls will love again.

IV

Or, if she be a Wife, and that
A jealous Ass corrupts her Bed,
We build our pleasures on his Fate,
And for her sake do crown his Head,
So what he fears a Truth doth prove,
And what's this but a trick of Love?

V

If she be left a Widdow, then
Her first Amours have warm'd her Blood,
She'll think us Puppies or no Men
Should not her wants be understood,
Pitty then makes us Lovers prove,
And, Pitty is the child of Love.

VI

If she be wither'd, and yet itch
To do as once in time of old,
We love a little, for she's rich,
Though, but to scare away the cold,

427

She has (no doubt) the gift t'asswage,
Then never stand upon her age.

VII

Thus Maid, Wife, Widdow do all wound,
Though each one with a different Eye,
And we by Love, to love are bound,
Either in heat, or policy,
That is, we love, or say we do,
Women, we love our selves; or you.

VIII

Cupid may now slacken his nerve,
Hang Bow, and Quiver in some place
As useless grown, useless they serve,
For Trophies of what once he was,
Love's grown a Fashion of the mind,
And we shall henceforth love by kind.

IX

Lord! what a Childish Ape was this,
How vain improvident an Elf,
To conquer all at once, when 'tis
Alas! a triumph ore himself?

428

He has usurp'd his own fear'd Throne,
Since now there's nothing to be done.

X

And yet there is, there is one prize
Lock'd in an adamantine Breast;
Storm that then, Love, if thou be'st wise,
A Conquest above all the rest,
Her Heart, who binds all Hearts in chains,
Castanna's Heart untouch'd remains.

A Rogue.

Reader , read this Man, than whom
Is none more vile in Christendom:
Thou may'st know him, wheresoe're
Thou meet'st him, by his Character,
And, to begin first with his Face,
It is the worst that ever was,
So Crab-like, wrinkled, and so foul,
His Mother shit him sure at stool.

329

To that, his Limbs are such, thou'dst swear
No two of them could make a pair:
His Hands! Man never saw such clutches,
Nor such Feet walk without crutches;
The bulk to these fair branches is
A Chaos of confounded Vice:
A trunk of Tumours, and Diseases,
Which a thousand Ulcers eases,
With a stink that would infect us,
Did not kinder Heaven protect us.

Now how this hide of his is lin'd!
To this shape he has a mind
Of so damn'd a leprous taint
As the Devil himself would Saint.
Bloody, revengeful, trecherous:
A hellish Lyar, covetous;
A cursed Sycophanting Slave,
A Fool, a Coward, and a Knave:
Lewdly debaucht (the Devil take him!)
As Drabs, and Dice, and Drink can make him:
Loudly profane 'bove Blasphemy,
The abstract of all Villany;

430

Ignorant of all things, but evil:
And now y' 'ave warning of a Devil.

The Contest.

Come, my Corinna, let us try,
Which loves you best, of You, and I,
I know you oft have in your Glass
Seen the faint shadow of your Face;
And, consequently, then became
And wond'ring Lover, as I am;
Though not so great a one, for what
You saw was but a glimpse of that,
So sweet, so charming Majesty,
Which I in its full Lustre see.
But if you then had gaz'd upon
Your self, as your reflexion,
And seen those Eyes for which I dye,
Perhaps you'd been as sick as I.

431

Thus Sweetest, then it is confest,
That of us Lovers I love best;
You'll say 'tis reason, that my share
Be great as my Affections are,
When you insensibly are grown
More mine, by Conquest, than your own.
But, if this Argument I name
Seem light to such a glorious claim;
Yet, since you love you self, this do,
Love me, at least, for loving you;
So my Despair you may destroy,
And you your loved self enjoy;
Acting those things, can ne're be done,
Whilst you remain your self alone:
So for my Sighs you make amends,
So you have yours, and I my Ends.

432

The False One.

[_]

In Imitation of that of Horace.

Non erat & Cœlo, &c.

I

Behold, False Maid, yon horned Light,
Which in Heav'ns arched Vault doth range,
And view part of thy self in it;
Yet she but once a Month does change.

II

The raging Sea, th' uncertain Air,
Or, what does yet more change admït,
Of variation Emblems are;
When thou, and only thou art it.

III

Philosophers their pains may spare
Perpetual motion where to find;
If such a thing be any where,
'Tis Woman, in thy Fickle mind.

433

IV

How oft, incentred in thine Arms,
Big with betraying Sighs and Tears,
Hast thou secur'd me, by thy Charms,
From other Lovers natural Fears.

V

Sighs, that improv'd the honest Flame,
Which made my faithful Bosom pant;
And Tears so gentle, as might claim
Belief, from Hearts of Adamant.

VI

These were the Arts seduc'd my Youth,
A Captive to thy wanton will:
That with a Falshood, like to Truth,
In the same instant cure, and kill.

VII

Go tell the next you will betray,
(I mean that Fool usurps my room)
How for his sake I'm turn'd away;
To the same Fortune he must come.

434

VIII

When I, restored to that Sence
Thou hast distemper'd, sound and free,
Shall, with a very just pretence,
Despise, and laugh at Him, and Thee.

ODE

Valedictory.

I

I go: but never to return:
With such a killing Flame I burn,
Not all th' enraged waves that beat
My ships calk't ribs, can quench that heat:
Nor thy Disdains, which colder are
Than Climats of the Northern Star;
Can freeze the Blood, warm'd by thine Eye:
But Sweet, I must thy Martyr dye.

435

II

Oh! canst thou know, that losing thee,
The Universe is dead to me,
And I to it, yet not become
So kind, as to revoke my Doom?
Gentle Heart, do: if I remove,
How can I hope t'atchieve thy love?
If not, I shall't a blessing call,
That she, who wounds may see my-fall.

III

Or say thou lov'st, and bid me go
Where never Sun his Face did show:
Or to, what's worse, want of thy Light,
Which dissipates the shades of Night;
To dangers, Death, Hell dares not own,
Scarcely to Apprehension known,
Arm'd with thy Will, (despite of Fear)
Ill seek them, as if Thou wer't there.

IV

But, if thou wilt I dye, and that,
By worse than thousand deaths, thy hate;

436

When I am dead, if thou but pay
My Tomb a Tear, and sighing say,
Thou do'st my timeless fall deplore,
Wishing th' had'st known my Truth before;
My Dearest Dear, thou mak'st me then,
Or sleep in peace, or live again.

To my friend Mr. Lely, on his Picture of the Excellently Virtuous Lady, the Lady Isabella Thynn.

Nature , and Art are here at strife;
This Shadow comes so neer the Life,
Sit still (Dear Lely) th' hast done that
Thy self must love, and wonder at;
What other Ages e're could boast,
Either remaining yet, or lost,
Are trivial toys, and must give place
To this, that counterfeits her face:

437

Yet I'll not say, but there have been,
In every past Age, Paintings seen
Both Good, and Like from every Hand,
That once had Maistry and command,
But none like her; Surely she sate
Thy Pencil thus to celebrate
Above all others that could claim
An Eccho from the voice of Fame.
For he, that most, or with most cause,
Speaks, or may speak his own applause,
Can't, when he shows his Master-peice,
Brag, he e're did a Face like this.
Such is thy chance to be the Man,
None, but who shares thy honour, can;
If such another do arise,
To steal more glory from her Eyes;
But 't would improvident bounty show
To hazard such a Beauty so;
'Tis strange thy Judgment did not err,
Or want a Hand; beholding her,
Whose awing Graces well might make
Th' assured'st Pencil to mistake.

438

To Her, and Truth then, what a crime,
To Us, to all the World, and Time
(Who most will want her copy) 'twere,
To have it then unlike appear!
But she's preserved from that Fate,
Thou know'st so well to imitate,
And in that Imitation, show,
What Oyl and Colour mixt can do;
So well, that had this Piece the grace
Of motion, she and none else has,
Or, if it could the Odour breathe,
That her departing sighs bequeath,
And had her warmth, it then would be
Her glorious Self, and none but she.
So well 'tis done; But thou canst go
No farthe's than what Art can do:
And when all's done this, thou hast made,
Is but a nobler kind of Shade;
And thou though thou hast play'd thy part,
A Painter, no Creator art.

439

To Chloris.

ODE.

Farewell, My Sweet, until I come,
Improv'd in Merit, for thy sake,
With Characters of Honour home,
Such, as thou canst not then but take.

To Loyalty my love must bow,
My Honour too calls to the Field,
Where, for a Ladies busk, I now
Must keen, and sturdy Iron wield.

Yet, when I rush into those Arms,
Where Death, and Danger do combine,
I shall less subject be to harms,
Than to those killing Eyes of thine.

Since I could live in thy Disdain,
Thou art so far become my Fate,
That I by nothing can be slain,
Until thy Sentence speaks my Date.

440

But, if I seem to fall in War,
T'excuse the murder you commit,
Be to my Memory just so far,
As in thy Heart t'acknowledg it;

That's all, I ask; which thou must give
To him, that dying, takes a pride
It is for thee; and would not live
Sole Prince of all the world beside.

Taking Leave of Chloris.

I

She sighs; as if she would restore
The Life, she took away before;
As if she did recant my Doom,
And, sweetly would reprieve me home,
Such hope to one condemn'd appears
From every whisper that he hears;

441

But what do such vain hopes avail,
If those sweet sighs compose a gale
To drive me hence, and swell my sail?

II

See, see! she weeps! who would not swear
That Love descended in that Tear,
Boasting him of his wounded prize,
Thus in the bleeding of her Eyes;
Or that those Tears, with just pretence,
Would quench the fire that came from thence?
But, oh! they are (which strikes me dead)
Christal, her frozen Heart has bred,
Neither in Love, nor Pitty shed.

III

Thus, of my merit jealous grown,
My happiness I dare not own;
But wretchedly her favous wear,
Blind to my self, unjust to her,

442

Whose sighs and tears at least discover,
She pitties, if not loves, her Lover,
And more betrays the Tyrant's skill,
Than any blemish in her will,
That thus laments, whom she doth kill.

IV

Pitty still, Sweet, my dying state,
My Flame may sure pretend to that,
Since it was only unto thee,
I gave my Life, and Liberty;
Howe're my Life's misfortune's laid,
By Love I'm Pitties object made.
Pitty me then; and if thou hear
I'm dead, drop such another tear,
And I am paid my full arrear.

443

ODE.

I

Come, let us drink away the time,
A pox upon this pelting Rhyme!
When Wine's run high, Wit's in the prime.

II

Drink, and stout drinkers are true joys,
Odes, Sonnets, and such little toys,
Are exercises fit for Boys.

III

When to our Liquor let us sit,
Wine makes the Soul for Action fit,
Who bears most drink, has the most wit.

IV

The whining Lover, that does place
His wonder in a painted Face,
And wasts his substance in the chace,

444

V

Could not in Melancholy pine,
Had he Affections so divine,
As once to fall in love with Wine.

VI

The Gods themselves their revels keep,
And in pure Nectar tipple deep,
When slothful Mortals are asleep.

VII

They fudled once, for recreation,
In Water, which by all relation,
Did cause Deucalions Inundation.

VIII

The spangled Globe, as it held most,
Their Bowl, was with Salt-water dos't,
The Sun-burnt Centre was the Toast.

IX

In drink, Apollo always chose
His darkest Oracles to disclose,
'Twas Wine gave him his Ruby-Nose.

445

X

The Gods then let us imitate,
Secure of Fortune, and of Fate,
Wine Wit, and Courage does create.

XI

Who dares not drink's a wretched Wight;
Nor can I think that Man dares fight
All day, that dares not drink all night.

XII

Fill up the Goblet, let it swim
In foam, that overlooks the brim,
He that drinks deepest, here's to him.

XIII

Sobriety, and Study breeds
Suspition of our Thoughts, and Deeds;
The down-right Drunkard no Man heeds.

XIV

Let me have Sack, Tobacco store,
A Drunken Friend, a Little Wh***re,
Protector, I will ask no more.

446

ODE.

I.

The Day is set did Earth adorn,
To drink the brewing of the Main,
And, hot with travel, will e're Morn
Carouse it to an ebb again,

Then let us drink, Time to improve,
Secure of Cromwel and his Spies,
Night will conceal our Healths, and Love
For all her thousand thousand Eyes.

Cho:
Then let us drink secure of spies
To Phæbus, and his Second rise.

II.

Without the Evening dew, and show'rs,
The Earth would be a barren place,
Of Trees, and Plants, of Herbs, and Flow'rs,
To crown her now enamell'd Face;

447

Nor can Wit spring, or Fancies grow,
Unless we dew our heads in Wine,
Plump Autumn's wealthy overflow,
And sprightly Issue of the Vine.

Cho:
Then let us drink secure of spies
To Phæbus, and his Second rise:

III.

Wine is the cure of Cares, and Sloth,
That rust the Metal of the Mind,
The Juice, that Man to Man does, both
In Freedom, and in Friendship bind.

This clears the Monarchs cloudy brows,
And chears the Hearts of sullen Swains,
To wearied Souls repose allows,
And makes Slaves caper in their chains.

Cho:
Then let us drink secure of spies
To Phæbus, and his Second rise.

448

IV.

Wine, that distributes to each part
Its heat and Motion, is the Spring,
The Poets Head, the Subjects Heart,
'Twas Wine made old Anacrcon sing.

Then let us quaff it, whilst the Night
Serves but to hide such guilty Souls,
As fly the beauty of the Light;
Or dare not pledge our Loyal Bowls.

Cho:
Then let us Revel, Quaff, and Sing,
Health, and his Scepter to the King.

449

ODE.

I

Fair Isabel, if ought but thee
I could, or would, or like, or love;
If other Beauties but approve
To sweeten my Captivity:
I might those Passions be above,
Those Pow'rful Passions that combine
To make, and keep me only thine.

II

Or, if for tempting treasure I
Of, the World's God, prevailing Gold,
Could see thy Love, and my Truth sold,
A greater, nobler Treasury;
My flame to thee might then grow cold,
And I like one whose love is sense,
Exchange thee for convenience.

450

III

But when I vow to thee, I do
Love thee above or Health or Peace,
Gold, Joy, and all such toys as these,
Bove Happiness and Honour too:
Thou then must know, this love can cease
Nor change for all the glorious show
Wealth and Discretion bribes us to.

IV

What such a love deserves, thou, Sweet,
As knowing best, may'st best reward;
I, for thy bounty well prepar'd,
With open arms my Blessing meet.
Then do not, Dear, our joys detard;
But unto him propitious be,
That knows no love, nor life, but thee

451

An Old Man's Gift to a Fair Lady.

Pox o'your doting Coxcomb! was there ever
So old a Lover, and so young a Giver?
A pair of Spectacles! who the Devil, but thee,
Could have found out such a disparity?
There were, t'oblige thy Love, far better ways,
A lump of Sugar, or her Name in Baies,
A row of Pins, a Baby, or a Purse,
Or what as fit had been, a Hobby-horse,
A Valentine, had'st thou not wanted bloud
To paint it with, would have been full as good.
Thy old Seal-ring, thy Grandam's pleated Gown,
A Boon-grace to preserve her from the Sun.
Or any thing, rather than a dull pair
Of second Eyes, these must deform thy Fair.

I see, thou fain would'st blast her in her prime
To parallel thy Age before her Time.

What do'st thou think thy Mistress cannot see,
Without such helps, thy full Deformity;

452

Thy shaking Noddle, and thy dropping Nose,
Whence the moist Philtre is salt Rheum that flows
Thy stooping Shoulders, and thy trembling Hands,
Thy burden Belly, and thy crinkling Hamms,
Thy spider's Legs, and thy club'd corny Feet,
That stink, though grown so dry they cannot sweat?
Or would'st thou have thy Love a Bug-bear be,
To fright the Boys in snavelling like thee?
Or is't to stop her sense she may not smell
The tainted Winds, that in thy Bowels swell,
Until they burst in cracks: nor snuff the sent,
Thy nasty, suppurated Issues vent?

I am content to think this gift was bought
In mirth, and given her for a Merry-thought.
Are they to mend her Sight, or dimm her Eyes,
So to eclipse her Sight from seeing these?
'Twas thy good Nature made thee give such ware,
And so, in troth, the Present was most rare.
For the great kindness of this gift implies,
Thou lov'st thy Mistress better than thine Eyes.

If to find out, thou ever had'st design
A Present sit to offer at her Shrine;

453

Thou should'st have bought the Sun that Day of light,
And all the twinkling Beauties of the Night,
And yet, those glories of that arched Scene
Had been for her an Offering too mean.

Embroider'd Waste-coats, Spanish Gloves, or Plate,
Watches, or Jewels might become her State.
But couldst thou find out no allurement else?
A pair of nasty horn-set Spectacles!
Where were thy Wits, Old Fools? she might have born
With them, if set in Amalthea's horn:
And had those green-glass Orbs been cut from some
O'th' crystal Sphear, they might her Eyes become.
The Case might have past too if made it were
Of the Embroider'd Girdle o'th' next Sphear:
But such a wretched Rogue, with such an itch,
Never made love to any wrinkled Witch.

Sure thou hast heard, that Love is blind, and thou
By this device would'st be a Cupid too.
A pleasant Plot i'faith! thou would'st be then
A pretty Boy of Fourscore years, and ten.
Or thou had'st laid 'em by, and wanting light
Bestow'dst them for some Gemm, as well thou might.

454

Or else amaz'd by th' lustre of her Face
Mistaking gav'st them for a Looking glass.

Howe're, whether thou didst, or didst not see,
I wish in stead of them th' hadst given her me.

In Amorem Medicum.

EPIG.

For Cares whilst Love prepares the Remedies,
The main Disease in the Physitian lies.

The Legend of the Famous, Furious, Expert, and Valiant Gittar-Masters, Caveliero Comer, and Don Hill.

BALLAD.

You, that love to read the Tracts,
Of tall Fellows Fights, and Facts,
In this Song will hear a wonder,
How two Fiddlers fell asunder,
Lampon, &c.

455

Comer had the first abuse,
Which admitted no excuse;
But, since Hill so ill did treat him,
Dick, in wrath, resolv'd to beat him,
Lampon, &c.

Straight a Broom-staff was prepar'd,
Which Don Hill no little scar'd;
But he resolv'd if Dick did bast him,
That his patience should out-last him.
Lampon, &c.

Whilst (good Christian) thus he me'nt,
To despise his punishment,
And first to appease his Foe send,
Loe! in sight, was Dick's fierce Nose-end;
Lampon, &c.

Whom, in terrour, Hill did ask,
If he durst perform his task,
Dick, in wrath, reply'd, God dam me!
To that purpose now come am I,
Lampon, &c.

456

And withal, with main, and might,
Up he trips this proper Knight,
And with such fury he quel'd Hill,
That to the Ground he level'd Hill;
Lampon, &c.

This shews Musick discord has,
Which the cause of this War was,
And, that Hill's beaten, is a token,
That their string of Friendship's broken;
Lampon, &c.

Now behold! this mortal cause,
Is referr'd to Harry Laws,
And since he's beaten Hill does tell tho,
Law shall give him salve for's Elbow.
Lampon, &c.

457

On Annel-seed Robin, the Hermophrodite.

EPITAPH.

Here, Reader, lyes, bereft of life,
The Embleme strange of Man and Wife,
Who, if they pay their Vows aright,
Make up a true Hermophrodite;
And in this Chest Entombed are,
The wonder of a single pair;
So that here thou may'st bewail,
Either the Female, or the Male.
Though the distracted grief of Friends,
Ever in single Robin ends.
No Rib was taken from his side,
Robin Bridegroom was, and Bride,
And, of his Marriage tye so tender,
He only did, with She engender;
Robin, with Robin so far won,
That the Male half begot a Son,

458

The Female half, a few years after,
Happily brought forth a Daughter,
So like, you from their looks might gather,
That Robin Mother was, and Father;
From Robin only diff'ring thus,
That neither was Amphibious,
Heav'n did so happily combine
This Doubtful Gender Masculine,
That they were Married at their Birth,
And both together laid in Earth,
Where let them lye, and no Man thwart 'em;
If they must part, the Devil part 'em.

ODE. To Chloe.

I

False one, farewell, thou hast releast
The Fire, imprison'd in my breast,
Your beauties make not half the show
They did a year or two ago;

459

For now I find,
The Beauties those fair walls enshrin'd,
Foul, and deform'd appear,
Ah! where
In Woman is a spotless mind?

II

I would not now take up thine Eyes,
But in revenge to tyrannize;
Nor should'st thou make me blot my skin,
With the black thou wear'st within;
If thou would'st meet,
As Brides do, in the Nuptial Sheet,
I would not kiss, nor play;
But say,
Thou nothing hast that can be sweet.

III

I was betray'd, by that fair Sign,
To entertainment cold within;
But found that fine built Fabrick lin'd,
With so ill contriv'd a Mind,

460

That now I must,
For ever (Chloe) leave to trust
The face that so beguiles
With smiles;
Falsehood's a charm to love, or lust.

ODE. To Chloris from France.

I

Pitty me Chloris, and the flame
Disdain, and Distance, cannot tame;
And pitty my necessity,
That makes my Court-ship, wanting thee,
Nothing but fond Idolatry.

II

In dark, and melancholy Groves,
Where pretty Birds discourse their loves,

461

I daily worship on my knee,
Thy Shadow, all I have of thee,
And sue to that to pity me.

III

I vow to it the sacred Vow,
To thee, and only thee, I owe
When (as it knew my true intent)
The silent Picture gives consent,
And seems to mourn my Banishment.

IV

Presaging thence my love's success,
I triumph in my happiness,
And straight consider how each Grace,
Adorns thy Body; or thy Face,
Surrender up to my embrace.

V

I think this little Tablet now
Because less cruel, fair as Thou;

462

I do from it mercy implore,
'Tis the sole Saint I do adore,
I do not think I love thee more.

VI

Yet be not jealous, though I do
Thus dote of it, in stead of you;
I love it not, for any line
Where captivating beauties shine:
But only (Chloris) as 'tis thine.

VII

And, though thy Shaddow here take place,
By intimating future grace,
It goes before, but to impart
To thee, how beautiful thou art,
And shew a reason for my smart.

VIII

Nor is't improper, Sweet, since thou,
Art in thy Youthfull Morning now,

463

Whilst I, depriv'd of thine eyes light,
Do drooping live a tedious Night
In Paris, like an Anchorite.

IX

Recall me then, that I may see,
Once more, how fair, and kind you be;
Into thy Sun-shine call again
Him, thus exil'd, by thy disdain,
And I'le forget my loss, and pain.

An Invitation to Phillis.

Come live with me, and be my love,
And thou shalt all the pleasures prove,
The Mountains towring tops can show
Inhabiting the Vales below.
From a brave height my Star shall shine
T'illuminate the desart Clime.
Thy Summer's bower shall overlook,
The subtil windings of the Brook,

464

For thy delight which only springs,
And cuts her way with Turtles Wings.
The Pavement of thy Rooms shall shine,
With the bruis'd Treasures of the Mine,
And not a Tale of Love but shall
In Minoture adorn thy wall.
Thy closet shall Queens Caskets mock
With rustick Jewels of the Rock,
And thine own light shall make a Gemm,
As bright of these, as Queens of them.
From this thy Sphear thou shalt behold
Thy snowy Ewes troop o're the mold,
Who yearly pay my Love a-piece
A tender Lamb, and silver Fleece.
And when Sols Rayes shall all combine
Thine to out-burn, though not outshine,
Then, at the foot of some green Hill,
Where crystal Dove runs murm'ring still,
We'll angle for the bright-ey'd Fish,
To make my Love a dainty dish;
Or, in a Cave, by Nature made,
Fly to the covert of the shade,

465

Where all the pleasures we will prove,
Taught by the little God of love.

And when bright Phœbus scorching beams,
Shall cease to guild the Silver streams,
Then in the cold arms of the Flood
We'll bathing cool the factious Blood,
Thy beautious Limbs the Brook shall grace,
Like the reflex of Cynthia's Face,
Whilst all the wond'ring Fry do greet
The welcome Light, adore thy Feet,
Supposing Venus to be come
To send a kiss to Thetis home.
And following Night shall trifled be
Sweet; as thou know'st I promis'd thee,
Thus shall the Summers Days, and Nights,
Be dedicate to thy delights.
Then live with me, and be my love,
And all these pleasures shalt thou prove.

But when the sapless Season brings
Cold Winter, on her shivering Wings,
Freezing the Rivers liquid face,
Into a crystal Looking-glass,

466

And that the Trees their naked bones,
Together knock, like Skeletons,
Then, with the softest, whitest Locks,
Spun from the tribute of thy Flocks,
We will o're cast thy whiter Skin,
Winter without, a Spring within.
At the first peep of Day I'le rise,
To make the sullen Hare thy prize,
And Thou with open Arms shalt come,
To bid thy Hunter welcome home.
The Partridge, Plover, and the Poot,
I'le with the subtle Mallard shoot;
The Fell-fare, and the greedy Thrush
Shall drop from ev'ry Haw-thorn Bush,
And the slow Heron down shall fall,
To feed my Fairest Fair withall,
The feather'd People of the Air,
Shall fall to be my Phillis fare,
No Storm shall touch thee, Tempest move;
Then live with me, and be my love.

But from her Cloister when I bring,
My Phillis to restore the Spring,

467

The ruffling Boreas shall withdraw,
The Snow shall melt, the Ice shall thaw;
The Aguish Plants fresh Leaves shall shew,
The earth put on her verdant hue,
And thou (Fair Phillis) shalt be seen
Mine, and the Summers beautious Queen.
These; and more pleasures shalt thou prove;
Then live with me, and be my love.

The Entertainment to Phillis.

Now Phœbus is gone down to sleep
In cold embraces of the deep,
And Nights Pavillion in the Sky,
(Crown'd with a Starry Canopy)
Erected stands, whence the pale Moon
Steals out to her Endimion;
Over the Meads, and o're the Floods,
Thorough the ridings of the Woods,
Th' enamour'd Huntress scours her ways,
And through Night's vail her horns displays,

468

I have a Bower for my Love,
Hid in the Center of a Grove
Of aged Oaks, close from the sight
Of all the prying Eyes of Night.

The polish'd Walls of Marble be
Pillaster'd round with porphyry,
Casements of Chrystal to transmit,
Night's sweets to thee, and thine to it,
Fine silver Locks to Ebon Doors,
Rich gilded Roofs, and Cedar Floors,
With all the Objects may express
A pleasing Solitariness.

Within my Love shall find each room,
New furnish'd from the Silk-worms Loom,
Vessels of the true antick mold,
Cups cut in Amber, Myrrh, and Gold;
Quilts blown with Roses, Beds with Down,
More white than Atlas aged Crown,
Carpets where Flowers woven grow,
Only thy sweeter steps to strew,
Such as may emulation bring,
To the wrought mantle of the Spring.

469

There silver Lamps shall silent shine,
Supply'd by Oyls of Jessamine,
And mists of Odours shall arise
To air thy little Paradise.
I have such Fruits too, for thy taste,
As teeming Autumn never grac't,
Apples, as round, as thine own Eyes;
Or, as thy Sister Beauties prize,
Smooth, as thy snowy Skin, and sleek
And ruddy as the Morning's cheek,
Grapes, that the Tyrian purple wear,
The spritely Matrons of the Year,
Such, as Lyœus never bare,
About his drowsy Brows, so fair,
So plump, so large, so ripe, so good,
So full of flavour, and of blood.

There's Water in a Grot hard by,
To quench thee, when with dalliance dry,
Sweet, as the Milk of Sand-red Cow,
Brighter than Cyntheas silver Bow,
Cold, as the Goddess self e're was,
And clearer than thy Looking-glass.

470

But oh! the summ of all delight
For which the Day submits to Night,
Is that my Phillis thou wilt find,
When we are in embraces twin'd.
Pleasures that so have tempted Jove,
To all his Masquerades of Love;
For them the Prince his purple waves,
And strips him naked as his Slaves.
'Tis they that teach humanity
The thing we love, the reason why:
Before we live; but ne'er 'till then,
Are females Women; or males Men:
This is the way, and this the trade,
That does perfect what nature made,
Then go; but first thy beauties skreen,
Lest they that revell on the Lawns
The Nymphs, the Satyrs, and the Fawns,
Adore thee for Nights horned Queen.

471

To Cœlia.

ODE.

I

When Cœlia must my old Days set,
And my young morning rise,
In beams of Joy, so bright, as yet
Ne're blest a Lover's eyes.
My state is more advanc'd than when
I first attempted thee;
I su'd to be a Servant then,
But now to be made free.

II

I've serv'd my time faithfull, and true
Expecting to be plac't,
In happy freedom, as my due
To all the joys thou hast:
Ill husbandry in love is such
A scandal to Loves pow'r,

472

We ought not to mispend so much,
As one poor, short-liv'd hour.

III

Yet think not (sweet) I'me weary grown,
That I pretend such haste,
Since none to surfeit e're was known,
Before he had a taste;
My infant love could humbly wait,
When young it scarce knew how
To plead; but grown to Man's estate
He is impatient now.

To Cupid.

ODE.

I

Fond Love, deliver up thy Bow,
I am become more Love than thou,
I am as wanton grown, and wild,
Much less a Man, and more a Child,

473

From Venus born, of chaster kind,
A better Archer, though as blind.

II

Surrender without more ado,
I am both King and Subject too,
I will command, but must obey,
I am the Hunter, and the Prey,
I vanquish, yet am overcome,
And, sentencing, receive my doom.

III

No springing Beauty scapes my Dart,
And ev'ry ripe one wounds my Heart;
Thus whilst I wound, I wounded am,
And firing others turn to flame,
To shew how far love can combine
The Mortal part with the Divine.

IV

Faith! quit thine Empire, and come down
That thou, and I may share the Crown,

474

I've try'd the worst thy arms can do,
Come then, and taste my power too,
Which (howsoe're it may fall short)
Will doubtless prove the better sport.

V

Yet do not; for in Field, and Town,
The Females are so loving grown,
So kind; or else so lustful, we
Can neither err, though neither see:
Keep then thine own Dominions, Lad,
Two Loves would make all Women mad.

The Tempest.

I

Standing upon the Margent of the main,
Whilst the high boiling tyde came tumbling in,
I felt my fluctuating thoughts maintain,
As great an Ocean, and as rude within,

475

As full of waves, of depths, and broken grounds,
As that, which daily laves her chalky bounds.

II

Soon could my sad imagination find,
A parallel to this half world of Flood,
An Ocean by my walls of Earth confin'd,
And Rivers in the chanells of my blood,
Discov'ring Man, unhappy Man, to be
Of this great Frame, Heavens Epitome.

III

There pregnant Argosies with full Sails ride
To shoot the Gulphs of sorrow and despair,
Of which the Love no Pilot has to Guide,
But to her Sea-born Mother steers by pray'r,
When oh! the Hope her anchor lost, undone
Rowls, at the mercy of the Regent Moon.

IV

'Tis my ador'd Diana, then must be
The Guidress to this beaten Bark of mine,

476

'Tis she must calm, and smooth this troubled Sea
And waft my hope over the vaulting Brine,
Call home thy venture Dian, then at last,
And be as merciful, as thou art chast.

The Litany.

I

From a Ruler that's a curse,
And a Government that's worse;
From a Prince that rules by awe,
Whose Tyranick Will's his Law;
From an armed Councel board,
And a Scepter that's a Sword,
Libera nos, &c.

II

From a Kingdom, that from health
Sickens to a Common-wealth;

477

From such Peers as stain their blood,
And are neither wise; nor good;
From a Gentry steept in Pots,
From unkennellers of Plots,
Libera nos, &c.

III

From a Church without Divines,
And a Presbyter that whines;
From John Calvin, and his Pupils,
From a Sentence without Scruples,
From a Clergy without Letters,
And a Free-State bound in Fetters,
Libera nos, &c.

IV

From the bustle of the Town,
And the Knavish Tribe o'th' Gown,
From long Bills where we are Debters,
From Bum-Bailiffs, and their Setters,

478

From the tedious City Lectures,
And Thanksgivings for Protectors,
Libera nos, &c.

V

From ill Victuals when we dine,
And a Tavern with ill Wine;
From vile Smoke in a short Pipe,
And a Landlord that will gripe,
From long Reck'nings, and a Wench
That Claps in English; or in French,
Libera nos, &c.

VI

From Demeans whose barren soil
Ne're produc'd the Barley Oyl;
From a Friend for nothing fit,
That nor Courage has; nor Wit:
From all Lyars, and from those
Who write nonsence Verse; or Prose,
Libera nos, &c.

479

VII

From a Virgin that's no Maid,
From a kicking, stumbling Jade,
From false Servants, and a Scold,
From all Women that are old,
From loud Tongues that never lye,
And from a domestick Spy,
Libera nos, &c.

VIII

From a domineering Spouse,
From a smoky, durty House,
From foul Linnen, and the noise
Of young Children, Girls or Boys,
From ill Beds, and full of Fleas,
From a Wife with Essences,
Libera nos, &c.

IX

From Trapans of wicked Men,
From the Interest of Ten,

480

From Rebellion, and the sense
Of a wounded Conscience;
Lastly, from the Poets Evil,
From

O. Cromwell

his Highness, and the Devil,
Libera nos, &c.

To some Great Ones.

EPIGRAM.

Poets are great Mens Trumpets, Poets fein,
Create them Vertues, but dare hint no stain:
This makes the Fiction constant, and does shew
You make the Poets, not the Poets you.

481

To the Memory of my worthy Friend Colonel Richard Lovelace.

To pay my Love to thee, and pay it so,
As honest Men should what they justly owe,
Were to write better of thy Life than can
Th' assured'st Pen of the most worthy Man:
Such was thy Composition, such thy Mind
Improv'd to Vertue, and from Vice refin'd.
Thy Youth, an abstract of the World's best parts,
Enur'd to Arms, and exercis'd in Arts;
Which with the vigour of a Man became
Thine, and thy Countries Pyramids of Flame;
Two glorious Lights to guide our hopefull Youth
Into the paths of Honor, and of Truth.

These parts (so rarely met) made up in thee,
What Man should in his full perfection be;
So sweet a temper into every sence,
And each affection breath'd an influence,
As smooth'd them to a Calm, which still withstood
The ruffling Passions of untamed Blood,

482

Without a wrinkle in thy Face, to show
Thy stable Breast could a disturbance know.
In Fortune humble, constant in Mischance,
Expert of both, and both serv'd to advance
Thy Name, by various tryals of thy Spirit,
And give the testimony of thy Merit;
Valiant to envy of the bravest Men,
And Learned to an undisputed Pen,
Good as the best in both, and great; but yet
No dangerous Courage; nor offensive Wit:
These ever serv'd, the one for to defend,
The other nobly to advance thy Friend:
Under which title I have found my Name
Fixt in the living Chronicle of Fame,
To times succeeding; yet I hence must go
Displeas'd I cannot celebrate thee so.
But what respect, acknowledgment, and love,
What these together, when improv'd, improve;
Call it by any Name (so it express
Ought like a Tribute to thy worthiness,
And may my bounden Gratitude become,)
Lovelace I offer at thy honour'd Tomb.

483

And though thy Vertues many Friends have bred
To love thee Living, and lament thee Dead,
In Characters far better coucht than these,
Mine will not blot thy Fame; nor theirs increase;
'Twas by thine own great Merits rais'd so high,
That, maugre Time, and Fate, it shall not die.

To Poet E. W.

Occasion'd for his Writing a Panegyrick on Oliver Cromwell.

From whence, vile Poet, did'st thou glean the Wit,
And Words for such a vitious Poem fit?
Where could'st thou Paper find was not too white;
Or Ink, that could be black enough to write?
What servile Devil tempted thee to be
A slatterer of thine own Slavery?
To kiss thy Bondage, and extol the deed,
At once that made thy Prince, and Country bleed?
I wonder much thy false Heart did not dread,
And shame to write, what all Men blush to read;

484

Thus with a base ingratitude to rear
Trophies unto thy Master's Murtherer?

Who call'd thee Coward (------) much mistook
The characters of thy pedantick Look;
Thou hast at once abus'd thy self, and us;
He's stout that dares slatter a Tyranne thus.

Put up thy Pen, and Ink, muzzle thy Muse
Adulterate Hag fit for a common Stews,
No good Man's Library; writ thou hast
Treason in Rhime has all thy Works defac't:
Such is thy fault, that when I think to find
A punishment of the severest kind,
For thy offence, my malice cannot name
A greater; than, once to commit the same.

Where was thy reason then, when thou began
To write against the sense of God, and Man?
Within thy guilty breast Despair took place,
Thou would'st despairing Die in spite of Grace.
At once th' art Judge, and Malefactor shown,
Each Sentence in thy Poem is thine own.

Then, what thou hast pronounc'd go execute,
Hang up thy self, and say, I bid thee do't;

485

Fear not thy memory, that cannot dye,
This Panegyrick is thy Elegy,
Which shall be when; or wheresoever read,
A living Poem to upbraid thee dead.

DIALOGUE.

Geron and Amarillis.
Gr.
Stay, stay, fair Nymph! oh! whither Flies
The love, and wonder of all Eyes?
Stay, and to see be now besought
The Miracle thy Charms have wrought;
Age turn'd to youth at Love's command,
And thine which nothing can withstand.

Am.
Be gon, old Fool, why dost thou slay
My better thoughts, and cross my way?
Fly, fly, and quit my shady walk,
Nature will blush to see us talk,

486

Who all conjunction must disclaim
Betwixt her glory, and her shame.
Prefer thy suit to some one fit,
If not to grant, to pardon it.
Thou wrong'st my youth, by thy pretence,
And ev'ry Pray'r is violence.
Love has on thee no wonder wrought,
Thou only art transform'd in thought,
Nor art thou quick'ned by my Eyes,
But dream'st of Metamorphosies.
Thou art the same old thing thou wast,
Without, or sight, or touch, or taste,
Hearing, or smell, or any sense,
That beauties grace should recompense.
And only hast a tongue to move
Contempt, and laughter, but no Love.

Ge.
Sweet, do not scorn me, though I seem
Old, and unfit for thy esteem;
Though hoary grown, and shrunk I am,
I feed within, perhaps, a flame;

487

As hot as can the youngest he,
That hourly Sighs, and sues to thee.
As I am old, I should be wise,
And better know the thing I prize,
Than twenty Younglings that do light
Their Torches only at the sight.

Am.
I shun thee not for any part
Of what thou seem'st, but what thou art.
And that, thou dost a flame believe,
Is but enough to make thee live:
For if thy Heart a flame should turn,
The bulk's so dry thy frame would burn.
I know thee old, and wish thee wise,
A younger Man, and younger Eyes;
On publick Faith thou courtest me,
For troth, I think thou canst not see.

Ge.
Would I were deaf! I might not hear
This confirmation of my fear.
I doubted thou would'st scornful prove,
But look'd for no reproach for love.

488

I come perhaps with full delight
T'outbid thy wary appetite;
I can distinguish Beauty too,
And taste the Fruit for which I sue.
Know all Love's ends, and all his ways,
Womens reproaches, and delays,
And furnish'd 'em with able Arms
To force the Fortress of thy charms.
Scorn then, ingrate, my love, and me;
Thy Spring will one day Winter be.
When ev'ry youthfull Shepherd Swain,
As thou dost me, will thee disdain.

Am.
Old Man, why should'st thou think me nice?
Because I cannot hug thy Ice?
Or tell me I shall Winter grow,
Because thy self art turn'd to Snow?
No heats so wild in my Blood play,
As need th' excess of thy allay:
Nor can the judgment of thy dim,
Erroneous sight, raise my esteem;

489

And that stiff blade of thine may in,
Attempts, but no performance, sin.
Go Dotard, and impartial look
Thy Shadow in the frozen Brook,
In that congeal'd mirror behold,
How shrunk thou art, wither'd, and old,
Thy Leaf dropt off from thy bald Crown,
And all an antick Statue grown;
Then say if ought thou there canst see
Fit to present my youth, and me.

Ge.
I have (fair Nymph!) consider'd all,
Thy Youth may tax my Age withall,
And on my self some Lectures read:
But cannot find that I am dead:
For furrow'd though my Skin appears,
Because old Time these threescore Years,
Has plow'd it up, I'me fruitfull still,
And want no power to my will.
And though my Leaf be fall'n, each Vein
Does a proportion'd heat retain.

490

One yielding Glance from thy fair Eyes
Would make my lusty Sap to rise;
My wanton Pulses strongly beat,
And glow with germinating heat.
Create me then, and call me thine,
We then will in Embraces twine,
As sweet, and fruitfull, as the Pair
That in their April coupled were.

Am.
Stay Shepherd, stay, you run too fast,
This fury is too hot to last;
And by the crackling Flame, I doubt,
The Fire will be soon burnt out.
Leave me, and stumble to thy Bed,
Where dream thou hast me; and thou'rt sped.

Ge.
Fair, and inflexible, will Love,
Pray'rs, Tears, and Suff'rings nothing move?
Thus then I leave thee, and am gone,
To die for an ungratefull one.
When I am dead if thou repent,
And sigh over my Monument,

491

By that sweet Breath, I shall respire,
And Dead enjoy my Life's desire.

Am.
Stay, stay, for now I better see
Th' unblemish't truth that shines in thee.
Thou conquer'd hast, I am o'recome,
Then lead me, Shepherd, Captive home.

CHORUS.

Jolly Shepherds, quit your Flocks
To the greedy Wolf, or Fox;
Though no Shepherd them attend,
Hecate will all defend.
For another Cynthia's led
To a lusty old Man's Bed.
Tune your Oaten Pipes and Play;
This is Hymen's Holy-day.
To one Night a Years mirth bring,
Winter's marry'd to the Spring.
Therefore it becomes each one
To Crown the revolution.

492

An Epitaph on Robert Port, Esq; design'd for a Monument:

And now set up in Elum Church, in the Country of Stafford.

Vertue in those good times that bred good Men
No testimony crav'd of Tongue; or Pen:
No marble Columns; nor engraven Brass,
To tell the World that such a Person was:
For then each Pious Act, to fair descent,
Stood for the worthy Owner's Monument:
But in this change of Manners, and of States,
Good Names, though writ in Marble, have their sates.
Such is the barb'rous, and irrev'rent rage
That arms the Rabble of this impious Age.

Yet may this happy Stone that bares a Name,
(Such as no bold Surviver dares to claim)
To Ages yet unborn unblemish't stand,
Safe from the stroke of an inhumane Hand.

493

Here, Reader, here a Port's sad Reliques lye
To teach the careless World Mortality;
Who while he Mortal was unrivall'd stood
The Crown, and Glory of his Antient blood:
Fit for his Princes, and his Countries trust,
Pious to God, and to his Neighbour just.
A loyal Husband to his latest end,
A gracious Father, and a faithfull Friend.
Belov'd he liv'd, and dy'd o'recharg'd with Years,
Fuller of Honour than of Silver Hairs.
And, to sum up his Vertues, this was he
Who was what all we should, but cannot be.

To Cupid, a foolish Poet, occasion'd by as foolish a Poem of his to a bona Roba.

I

Good Cupid, I must tell you truly,
Had it not been for Abram Cowley,
You, and your Ode, had come off blewly:

494

II

With other Thefts, that shall be nameless,
Because their Authors should be blameless;
Although your Worship's somewhat shameless.

III

Could such a spatious Beauty want
Matter her native worth to paint,
That thy Dull Muse was grown so scant?

IV

As thus to steal from other Muses,
When thine own Wit, at need, refuses,
Elogies for such pious Uses?

V

Out of her Shoulders, or her Haunches,
Thou surely might'st have Collopt Fancies,
Enough for Millions of Romances.

495

VI

From any part thou might'st find matter,
Enough the brightest she to flatter;
But that she cannot hold her Water,

VII

Was such a Saying of a Bard,
As (doubtless) yet was never heard,
By Man that Verses made; or mar'd.

VIII

Thou should'st have told her she was tight,
Strong built, well tackled, new and light;
Fitted for Stoage, and for Fight.

IX

But on what Mount was thy Muse Nurst?
Of Block-heads thou art sure the worst,
To say she sprang a Leak at first!

496

X

Cupid, I doubt me (not to flatter)
By your ill handling of the Matter,
You're but a simple Navigator.

XI

She's such a Vessel that who'll swim her,
Steer, and Man out, Carine, and trim her,
Must be no Youth of your small Timber.

XII

Then leave thy Rhiming, and be Quiet,
I tell the She's not for thy Diet,
Thou hast another Hulk to ply out:

XIII

And hope (thou Dunce) for no rewarding,
She's not so lean to need thy larding,
And thou a Poet worth a Farthing.

497

Philoxipes and Policrite.

An Essay to an Heroick Poem.

CANTO I.

The ARGUMENT.

This Canto serves first to relate,
Philoxipes his Birth, and parts,
His Princes Friendship Wealth; and State,
His Youth, his Manners, Arms, and Arts;
His strange contempt of Love's dread Dart:
Till a meer Shadow takes his Heart.

498

I

In Thetis lap, and by her Arms embrac't,
Betwixt the Syrian, and Cilician Coasts;
The Poets Cyprus fortunately plac't,
Like Nature's Casket, all her Treasure boasts:
An Isle, that once for her renowned Loves;
Stood consecrate to Venus, and her Doves.

II

From whose fair Womb, once sprung as fair a Seed
To shame the brood of the corrupted World,
The graceful Sexes of her happy Breed,
In one another chast Embraces curl'd:
Nor other difference knew, than did arise
From em'lous Vertue, for the Vertues prize.

III

And these were Strifes, where Envy had no place;
She was not known in such a vertuous War;
Nor had Ambition, with her Gyant Race,
In such Contentions a malignant share:

499

Love was the cause, and Vertue was the claim,
That could their honest, gentle Hearts enflame.

IV

But none, amongst that never failing Race,
Could match Philoxipes, that noble Youth,
In Strength, and Beauty, Fortitude, and Grace
In gentle Manners, and unblemisht Truth
In all the Vertues, and the Arts that shou'd
Embellish Manhood; or ennoble Blood.

V

A Prince descended from the Royal Lines
Of Greece, and Troy united in one Bed,
Where merit, and reward did once combine
The Seeds of Æacus, and Leomed,
And in a brave Succession did agree
Bold Felamon, and fair Hesione.

500

VI

From this illustrious Pair fam'd Teucer sprung,
Who, when return'd from Ilium's fun'ral Fire,
Without due Vengeance for his Brother's Wrong;
Was banisht home by his griev'd Father's Ire:
And into Cyprus fortunately came
To build a City to his Country's Name.

VII

Great Salamis, whose polisht Turrets stood
For many Ages in the course of Time,
T'orelook the surface of the swelling Flood,
The strength and glory of that fruitful Clime,
Was His great Work, from whose brave Issue, since,
The World receiv'd this worthy, matchless Prince.

501

VIII

Worthy his Ancestors, and that great Name,
His own true Merits, with the publick Voice,
Had won throughout the Isle, as his just claim,
Above whatever past a gen'ral Choice:
A Man so perfect, none could disapprove,
Save that he could not; or he did not love.

IX

Books were his Business, his Diversion Arms,
His Practice, Honor, his Atchievements Fame,
He had no time to love; nor could the Charms,
If any Cyprian Nymph his Blood enflame:
He thought the fairest print of Womankind
Too small a Volume to enrich his Mind.

X

He lov'd the tawny Lyon's dang'rous Chace,
The spotted Leopard; or the tusked Boar;
Their bloody Steps would the young Hunter trace,
And having lodg'd them, their tough Entrails gore:

502

Love was too soft to feed his gen'rous Fire,
And Maids too weak to conquer his Desire.

XI

In all his intervals of happy Truce,
Knowledge, and Arts which his high Mind endow'd,
Where still his Objects, and what they produce
Was the brave Issue of his solitude:
He shun'd dissembling Courts, and thought less Praise,
Adhear'd to Diadems, than Wreaths of Baies.

XII

Although betwixt him, and the youthful King,
Who, at this time, the Paphian Scepter sway'd;
A likeness in their Manners, and their Spring
Had such a true, and lasting Friendship made,
That, without him, the King did still esteem
His Court a Cottage, and her Glories dim.

503

XIII

One was their Country, one the happy Earth,
That (to its Glory) these young Heroes bred;
One year produc't eithers auspicious Birth,
One space matur'd them, and one councel led:
All things in fine, wherein their Vertues shone,
Youth, Beauty, Strength, Studies, and Arms were one.

XIV

This, so establish't Friendship, was the cause,
That when this modest Prince would fain retire,
From the fond World's importunate applause
Oft crost the Workings of his own Desire;
And made him, with a Fav'rites love, and skill,
Devote his Pleasures to his Master's Will.

504

XV

But once his Presence, and Assistance stood
In ballance with this hopeful Monarch's Bliss,
Love's golden Shaft had fir'd his youthful Blood;
Nor any Ear must hear his Sighs but his;
Artiphala his Heart had overthrown,
Maugre his Sword, his Sceptre, and his Crown.

XVI

From her bright Eyes the wounding Light'ning flew
Through the resistance of his Manly Breast,
By none, but his Philoxipes that knew
Each motion of his Soul to be exprest:
He must his Secrets keep, and Courtships bear,
Conceal them from the World, but tell them her.

XVII

This held him most to shine in the Court's Sphere,
And practise Passion in another's Name,
To dally with those Arms that levell'd were
His high, and yet victorious Heart t'enflame:

505

He fight, and wept, expressing all the Woe
Despairing Lovers in their Frenzy shew.

XVIII

And, with so good Success, that in some space
The magick of his Eloquence, and Art,
Had wrought the King into this Princess Grace,
And laid the passage open to her Heart:
Such Royal Suiters could not be deny'd,
The whole World's Wonder, and one Asia's pride

XIX

The King thus fixt a Monarch in his Love,
And in his Mistriss's fair surrender crown'd,
Could sometimes now permit his Friends remove,
As having other Conversation found.
And now resign him to the Peace he sought
To practise what the wise Athenian taught.

506

XX

Solon, that Oracle of famous Greece,
Could in the course of his experience find,
None to bequeath his knowledge to but this,
This glorious Youth blest with so rich a Mind,
So brave a Soul, and such a shining Spirit;
As Vertue might, by lawful claim, inherit.

XXI

It was his Precept, that did first distil
Vertue into this hopeful young Man's Breast;
That gave him Reason to conduct his Will,
That first his Soul in sacred Knowledg'd drest;
And taught him, that a wise Man, when alone,
Is to himself the best Companion.

XXII

He taught him first into himself retire,
Shunning the greatness, and those gaudy Beams,
That often scorch their Plumes who high aspire,
And wear the splendor of the World's extreams,

507

To drink that Nector, and to tast that Food,
That to their Greatness, make Men truly Good.

XXIII

And his unerring Eye had aptly chose
A place so suited to his Mind, and Birth,
For the sweet Scene of his belov'd Repose:
As all the various Beauties of the Earth,
Contracted in one plot, could nere outvie
To nourish Fancy; or delight the Eye.

XXIV

From the far fam'd Olympus haughty Crown,
Which, with curl'd Cypress, Periwigs his Brow
The chrystal Lycus tumbles headlong down,
And thence unto a fruitful Valley flows;
Twining with am'rous Crooks her verdant
Was't that smiles to see her Borders so embrac't.

508

XXV

Upon whose flowry Banks a stately Pile,
Built from the marble Quarry shining stood:
Like the proud Queen of that Elizean Isle,
Viewing her front in the transparent Flood:
Which, with a murm'ring Sorrow, kis'd her base
As loth to leave so beautiful a place.

XXVI

Lovely indeed; if tall, and shady Groves,
Enamel'd Meads, and little purling Springs,
Which from the Grots, the Temples of true Loves,
Creep out to trick the Earth in wanton rings:
Can give the name of Lovely to that place,
Where Nature stands clad in her chiefest Grace.

XXVII

This noble Structure, in her Sight thus blest,
Was round adorn'd with many a curious piece;
By ev'ry cunning Master's hand exprest,
Of famous Italy; or Antick Greece:

509

As Art, and Nature both together strove,
Which should attract, and which should fix his love.

XXVIII

There whilst the Statue, and the Picture vie
Their shape, and colour, their design, and life;
They Value took from his judicious Eye,
That could determin best the curious strife:
For naught, that should a Prince's Vertues fill,
Escap't his knowledge, or amus'd his skill.

XXIX

But in that brave Collection there was one,
That seem'd to lend her light unto the rest;
Wherein the mastry of the Pencil shone
Above, whatever Painter's Art exprest;
A Woman of so exquisite a Frame;
As made all Life deform'd, and Nature lame.

510

XXX

A Piece so wrought, as might to Ages stand
The work and likeness of some Deity;
To mock the labours of a humane hand:
So round, so soft, so airy, and so free,
That it had been no less, than to prophane,
To dedicate that Face t'a mortal Name.

XXXI

For Venus therefore Goddess of that Isle,
The cunning Artist nam'd this brave Design,
The critick Eyes of Wond'rers to beguile;
As if, inspired, had drawn a Shape divine:
Venus Vrania, Parent of their bliss,
Could be exprest in nothing more than this.

XXXII

And such a power had the lovely Shade,
Over this Prince's yet unconquer'd Mind;
That his indiff'rent Eye full oft it stay'd,
And by degrees his noble Heart enclin'd

511

To say, that could this Frame a Woman be;
She were his Mistriss, and no Fair but she.

Cætera desunt.

To Mr. Alexander Brome.

EPODE.

Now let us drink, and with our nimble Feet,
The Floor in graceful measures beat;
Never so fit a time for harmless Mirth
Upon the Sea-guirt spot of Earth.
The King's return'd! Fill Nectar to the brim,
And let Lyæus proudly swim:
Our Joys are full, and uncontrouled flow,
Then let our Cups (my Hearts) be so:
Begin the Frolick, send the Liquor round,
And as our King, our Cups be crown'd.
Go Boy, and peirce the old Faternian Wine,
And make us Chaplets from the Vine.

512

Range through the drowsy Vessels of the Cave,
Till we an Inundation have,
Spare none of all the Store, but ply thy Task,
Till Bachus Throne be empty Cask;
But let the Must alone, for that we find
Will leave a Crapula behind.
Our Griefs once made us thirsty, and our Joy,
If not allay'd, may now destroy.
Light up the silent Tapers, let them shine,
To give Complexion to our Wine;
Fill each a Pipe of the rich Indian Fume,
To vapour Incense in the Room,
That we may in that artificial Shade
Drink all a Night our selves have made.
No Cup shall be discharg'd, whilst round we sit,
Without a smart report of Wit,
Whilst our Inventions quickned thus, and warm,
Hit all they sly at, but not harm;
For it Wit's mastry is, and chiefest Art
To tickle all; but make none smart.
Thus shall our Draughts, and Conversation be,
Equally innocent, and free,

513

Our Loyalty the Center, we the Ring,
Drink round, and Changes to the King;
Let none avoid, dispute, or dread his Cups,
The strength, or quantity he sups:
Our Brains of Raptures full, and so divine,
Have left no room for fumes of Wine;
And though we drink like Free-men of the Deep,
We'll scorn the frail support of Sleep;
For whilst with Charles his presence we are blest,
Security shall be our rest.
Anacreon come, and touch thy jolly Lyre,
And bring in Horace to the Quire:
Mould all our Healths in your immortal Rythme,
Who cannot sing, shall drink in time.
We'll be one Harmony, one Mirth, one Voice,
One Love, one Loyalty, one Noise,
Of Wit, and Joy, one Mind, and that as free
As if we all one Man could be.
Drown'd be past Sorrows, with our future Care,
For (if we know how blest we are)
A knowing Prince at last is wasted home,
That can prevent, as overcome.

514

Make then our Injuries, and Harms to be
The Chorus to our Jollity,
And from those Iron times, past Woes recall,
Extract one Mirth to ballance all.

On Tobacco.

What horrid sin condemn'd the teeming Earth,
And curst her womb with such a monstrous Birth?
What Crime America, that Heav'n would please
To make thee Mother of the World's disease?
In thy fair Womb what accidents could breed,
What Plague give root to this pernicious Weed?
Tobacco! Oh, the very name doth kill,
And has already fox't my reeling Quill:
I now could write Libels against the King,
Treason; or Blasphemy; or any thing
'Gainst Piety, and Reason; I could frame
A Panegyre to the Protector/s Name:

515

Such sly infiction does the World infuse
Into the Soul of ev'ry modest Muse,

What politick Peregrine was't first could boast,
He bought a Pest into his native Coast?
Th' abstract of Poyson in a stinking Weed,
The spurious Issue of corrupted Seed;
Seed belch't in Earthquakes from the dark Abyss,
Whose Name a blot in Nature's Herbal is.
What drunken Fiend taught English-men the Crime,
Thus to puff out, and spawl away their time?

Pernicious Weed (should not my Muse offend,
To say Heav'n made ought for a cruel end)
I should proclaim that thou created wer't,
To ruin Man's high, and immortal part.
Thy Stygyan damp obscures our Reason's Eye,
Debauches Wit, and makes Invention dry;
Destroys the Memory, confounds our Care;
We know not what we do, or what we are:
Renders our Faculties, and Members lame
To ev'ry office of our Country's claim.
Our Life's a drunken Dream devoy'd of Sense,
And the best Actions of our time offence.

516

Our Health, Diseases, Lethargies, and Rhume,
Our Friendship's Fire, and all our Vows are Fume.
Of late there's no such things as Wit, or Sense,
Councel, Instruction, or Intelligence:
Discourse that should distinguish Man from Beast,
Is by the vapour of this VVeed supprest;
For what we talk is interrupted stuff,
The one half English, and the other Puff:
Freedom, and Truth are things we do not know,
VVe know not what we say, nor what we do:
VVe want in all, the Understanding's light,
We talk in Clouds, and walk in endless Night.

VVe smoke, as if we meant conceal'd by spell,
To spy abroad, yet be invisible:
But no discovery shall the Statesman boast,
VVe raise a mist wherein our selves are lost,
A stinking shade, and whilst we pipe it thus,
Each one appears an Ignis fatuus.
Courtier, and Pesant, nay the Madam Nice
Is likewise fall'n into the common Vice,
VVe all in dusky Error groping lye,
Rob'd of our Reasons, and the days bright Eye.

517

VVhilst Sailers from the Main-top see our Isle
VVrapt up in Smoak, like the Ætnean Pile.

VVhat nameless Ill does its Contagion shrow'd
In the dark Mantle of this noisom Cloud?
Sure 'tis the Devil: Oh, I know that's it,
Foh! How the Sulphur makes me Cough and Spit?
'Tis he; or else some Fav'rit Feind at least,
In all the Mischief of his Malice drest;
Each deadly Sin that lurks t'intrap the Soul;
Does here conceal'd in curling Vapours rowl:
And for the Body such an unknown ill,
As makes Physitians reading, and their skill:
One undistinguisht Pest made up of all
That Men experienc'd do Diseases call.
Coughs, Astma's, Apoplexies, Fevers, Rhume,
All that kill dead; or lingeringly consume;
Folly, and Madness, nay the Plague, the Pox,
And ev'ry Fool wears a Pandora's Box.
From that rich Mine, the stupid Sot doth fill,
Smokes up his Liver, and his Lungs, until
His reeking Nostrils monstr'ously proclaim,
His Brains, and Bowels are consuming Flame.

518

VVhat noble Soul would be content to dwell
In the dark Lanthorn of a smoky Cell?
To prostitute his Body, and his Mind,
To a Debauch of such a Stinking kind?
To sacrifice to Molech, and to fry,
In such a base, dirty Idolatry;
As if frail life, which of its self's too short,
VVere to be whift away in drunken sport.
Thus, as if weary of our destin'd years,
VVe burn the Thread so to prevent the Shears.

VVhat noble end, can simple Man propose
For a reward to his all-smoking Nose?
His purposes are levell'd sure amiss,
VVhere neither Ornament, nor Pleasure is.
VVhat can he then design his worthy hire?
Sure 'tis t'innure him for eternal fire:
And thus his aim must admirably thrive,
In hopes of Hell, he damns himself alive.

But my infected Muse begins to choke,
In the vile stink of the encreasing Smoke,
And can no more in equal numbers chime,
Unless to sneeze, and cough, and spit in Rythme.

519

Half stifled now in this new times Disease,
She must in fumo vanish, and decease.
This is her faults excuse, and her pretence,
This Satyr, perhaps, else had lookt like Sense.

Laura Sleeping.

ODE.

I

Winds whisper gently whilst she sleeps,
And fan her with your cooling wings;
VVhilst she her drops of Beauty weeps,
From pure, and yet unrivall'd Springs.

II

Glide over Beauties Field her Face,
To kiss her Lip, and Cheek be bold,
But with a calm, and stealing pace;
Neither too rude; nor yet too cold.

520

III

Play in her beams, and crisp her Hair,
With such a gale, as wings soft Love
And with so sweet, so rich an Air,
As breaths from the Arabian Grove.

IV

A Breath as hush't as Lovers sigh;
Or that unfolds the Morning door:
Sweet, as the Winds, that gently fly,
To sweep the Springs enamell'd Floor.

V

Murmur soft Musick to her Dreams,
That pure, and unpoluted run,
Like to the new-born Christal Streams,
Under the bright enamour'd Sun.

521

VI

But when she waking shall display
Her light retire within your bar,
Her Breath is life, her Eyes are day,
And all Mankind her Creatures are.

Laura Weeping.

ODE.

I

Chast, lovely Laura, 'gan disclose,
Drooping with sorrow from her Bed,
As with ungentle Show'rs the Rose,
O'recharg'd with wet, declines her head.

522

II

With a dejected look, and pace,
Neglectingly she 'gan appear,
When meeting with her tell-tale Glass,
She saw the Face of sorrow there.

III

Sweet sorrow drest in such a look,
As love would trick to catch desire;
A shaded Leaf in Beauties Book,
Charact'red with clandestine Fire.

IV

Down dropt a Tear, to deck her Cheeks
With orient Treasure of her own;
Such, as the diving Negro seeks
T'adorn the Monarch's mighty Crown.

523

V

Then a full showr of pearly Dew,
Upon her snowy Breast 'gan fall:
As in due Homage to bestrew;
Or mourn her Beauties Funeral.

VI

So have I seen the springing Morn
In dark and humid Vapours clad,
Not to eclipse but to adorn
Her glories by that conquer'd shade.

VII

Spare (Laura) spare those Beauties twins
Do not our World of Beauty drown,
Thy Tears are Balm for other Sins,
Thou know'st not any of thine own.

524

VIII

Then let them shine forth to declare
The sweet Serenity within,
May each day of thy Life be fair,
And to eclipse one hour be Sin.

SONNET.

[Chloris, whil'st thou and I were free]

Chloris , whil'st thou and I were free,
Wedded to nought but Liberty,
How sweetly happy did we live?
How free to promise, free to give?

Then Monarch's of our selves, we might
Love here, or there, to change delight,
And ty'd to none, with all dispence,
Paying each love its recompence.

525

But in that happy freedom we
Were so improvidently free,
To give away our Liberties;

And now in fruitless Sorrow pine,
At what we are, what might have been,
Had thou, or I, or both been wise.

SONNET.

[Why dost thou say thou lov'st me now]

Why dost thou say thou lov'st me now,
And yet proclam'st it is too late,
When bound by folly, or by fate,
Thou canst no further grace allow?

Repeat no more that killing Voice,
Thou beautious Victrice of my Heart;
Or find a way to ease my smart,
Maugre thy now repented choice.

526

'Tis not too late to love, and do
What love and nature prompt thee to,
Whilst thus thou triumph'st in thy prime;

Thou may'st discreetly love, and use,
Those pleasures thou didst once refuse:
But to profess it were a Crime.

SONNET.

[Why dost thou say thy Heart is gon]

Why dost thou say thy Heart is gon;
And no more mine, no more thine own;
But past retrieve for ever wed,
By sacred Vow t'another's Bed?

Why dost thou tell me that I lye
Bound in the same perplexed tye;
And that our now divided Souls
Are cold, and distant, as the Poles?

527

Dost thou not know when first our Loves
Were plighted in the secret Groves,
Our hearts were chang'd with equal flame:

Say, Chloris then, how can it be?
Couldst thou give me; or I give thee?
No, no, our selves are still the same.

SONNET.

[How should'st thou Love, and not offend!]

How should'st thou Love, and not offend!
Why, Chloris, I will tell thee how:
As thou did'st once, so Love me now,
And lye with me, and there's an end.

Thou only art enjoyn'd (my Sweet)
To keep thy Reputation high,
And that indeed, is secrecy,
Since all do err, thou all not see't.

528

Then fairest Fearless of all blame,
That sacred Treasure of thy Name
Into my faithful Arms commit.

Thou once did'st trust me, with thy fame,
I then was just, and true to it;
And, Chloris, I am still the same.

To Sir Aston Cockayne, on Captain Hanniball.

EPIG.

Your Captain Hanniball does snort and puff,
Arm'd in his Brazen-face, and Greazy Buff;
'Mongst Puncks, and Panders, and can rant, and roar,
With Cacala the Turd, and his poor Whore.
But I would wish his Valour not mistake us,
All Captains are not like his Brother Dacus;

529

Advise him then be quiet; or I shall
Bring Captain Hough, to bait your Hannibal.

In imitation of a Song in the Play of Rollo.

Take,O take, my Fears away,
Which thy cold Disdains have bred;
And grant me one auspicious Ray,
From thy Morn of Beauties shed.
But thy killing Beams restrain,
Lest I be by Beauty slain.

II

Spread, O spread, those orient Twins
Which thy snowy Bosom grace,
Where Love in Milk, and Roses swims,
Blind with Lustre of thy Face.
But let Love thaw them first, lest I
Do on those frozen Mountains dye.

530

To Sir Aston Cockayne, on his Tragedy of Ovid.

Long live the Poet, and his lovely Muse,
The Stage with Wit, and Learning to infuse,
Embalm him in immortal Elegy,
My gentle Naso, for if he should dye,
Who makes thee live, thou'lt be again pursu'd,
And banisht Heaven for Ingratitude.
Transform again thy Metamorphosis
In one, and turn thy various shapes to his,
A Twin-born Muse in such Embraces curl'd,
As shall subject the Scriblers of the World,
And spite of time, and Envy, henceforth sit,
The ruling Gemini of Love and Wit.

So two pure Streams in one smooth Channel glide
In even motion, without Ebb, or Tide:
As in your Pens Tybur, and Anchor meet,
And run Meanders with their silver Feet.

531

Both soft, both gentle, both transcending high,
Both skill'd alike in charming Elegy;
So equally admir'd the Laurels due,
Without distinction both to him and you:
Naso was Rome's sam'd Ovid, you alone
Must be the Ovid to our Albion;
In all things equal, saving in this case,
Our Modern Ovid has the better Grace.

Philodramatos.

De Die Martis, & Die Veneris.

EPIG.

Saturn and Sol, and Luna chast,
'Twixt Mars and Venus still are plac't,
Whilst Mercury and Jove divide,
The Lovers on the other side.

532

What may the hidden Mystery
Of this unriddled Order be?
The Gods themselves do justly fear,
That should they trust these two too near;
Mars would be drown'd in Venus, and so they
Should lose a Planet, and the Week a Day.

ALIUD.

Should Mars and Venus have their Will,
Venus would keep her Friday ill.

533

ODE To Love.

I

Great Love I thank thee, now thou hast
Paid me for all my Suff'rings past;
And wounded me with Nature's Pride,
For whom more Glory 'tis to dye,
Scorn'd, and neglected, than enjoy
All Beauty in the World beside.

II

A Beauty above all pretence,
Whose very Scorns are recompence,
The Regent of my Heart is crown'd,
And now the Sorrows, and the Woe,
My Youth, or Folly, helpt me to,
Are buried in this Friendly Wound.

534

III

Led by my Folly; or my Fate,
I lov'd before I knew not what,
And threw my Thoughts I knew not where;
With Judgment now I love, and sue,
And never yet Perfection knew,
Until I cast mine Eyes on her.

IV

My Soul that was so mean before,
Each little Beauty to adore;
Now rais'd to Glory, does despise,
Those poor and counterfeited Rays,
That caught me in my childish Days,
And knows no Power but her Eyes.

535

VI

Rais'd to this height, I have no more,
Almighty Love, now to implore
Of my auspicious Stars; on thee:
Than, that thou bow her noble Mind,
To be as mercifully kind:
As I shall ever faithful be.

536

TRANSLATIONS Out of several POETS.

Horace his second Epod Translated.

Happy's that Man that is from City-Care
Sequestred, as the Ancients were;
That with his own Oxe, ploughs his Father's Lands,
Untainted with usurious Bands:
That from Alarms of War in quiet sleeps;
Nor's frighted with the raging Deeps:
That shuns litigious Law, and the proud State
Of his more potent Neighbour's Gate.
Therefore, he either is imploy'd to joyn
The Poplar to the sprouting Vine,

537

Pruning luxurious Branches, grafting some
More hopeful Offspring in their room:
Or else, his sight in humble Valleys feasts,
With scatter'd troops of lowing Beasts:
Or refin'd Hony in fine Vessels keeps;
Or shears his snowy, tender Sheep:
Or, when Autumnus shews his fruitful head
I'th' mellow Fields with Apples covered,
How he delights to pluck the grafted Pear,
And Grapes, whose Cheeks do Purple wear!
Of which to thee, Priapus, Tythes abound,
And Silvan Patron of his Ground.
Now, where the aged Oak his green Arms spreads,
He lies; now in the flowry Meads:
Whilst through their deep-worn Banks the murmuring Flouds
Do glide, and Birds chant in the Woods:
And bubling Fountains slowing Streams do weep,
A gentle Summons unto Sleep.
But when cold Winter does the Storms prepare,
And Snow of thundering Jupiter:

538

Then with his Dogs the furious Boar he foils,
Compell'd into objected Toils:
Or, on the Forks extends his mashy Net,
For greedy Thrushes a deceit.
The fearful Hare too, and the Stranger Crane
With gins he takes, a pleasant gain.
Who but with such Diversions would remove
All the malignant Cares of Love?
But, if to these he have a modest Spouse,
To nurse his Children, keep his House,
Such, as the Sabin Women, or the tan'd
Wife o'th' painful Apulian,
To make a good Fire of dry Wood, when come
From his hard Labour weary home.
The wanton Cattle in their Booths to tye,
Stripping their stradling Udders dry,
Drawing the Must from forth the cleanly Fats,
To wash down their unpurchas'd Cates;
Mullet, or Thorn-back cannot please me more,
Nor Oysters from the Lucrine shore,
When by an Eastern Tempest they are tost,
Into the Sea, that sweeps this Coast.

539

The Turky fair of Africk shall not come,
Within the confines of my Womb:
As Olives from the fruitfull'st Branches got,
Ionian Snites so sweet are not.
Or Sorrel growing in the Meadow Ground,
Or Mallows for the Body sound.
The Lamb kill'd for the Terminalia;
Or Kid redeem'd from the Wolf's Prey.
Whilst thus we feed, what Joy 'tis to behold
The pastur'd Sheep haste to their Fold!
And th' wearied Ox with drooping Neck to come
Haling th' inverted Culter home;
And swarms of Servants from their Labour quit
About the shining Fire sit:
Thus when the Usurer Alphius had said,
Now purposing this Life to lead,
I'th' Ides call'd in his Mony; but for gain
I'th' Kalends put it forth again.

540

Horat. Ode IX. Lib. III.

Ad Lydiam.

Hor.
Whilst I was acceptable unto thee,
And that no other youthful Arm might cling
About thy snowy Neck, than mine more free,
More blest I flourisht than the Persian King.

Lyd.
And, for no other Womans Beauty, when
Thou sigh'dst; and when thy Chloe did not come
Before thy Lydia, thy Lydia then
Flourisht more fam'd than Ilia of Rome.

Hor.
Now Thracian Chloe is my only Dear,
Skill'd on the Harp, and skilful in an Air!
For whom to die I not at all should fear,
If gentle Fate my Soul in her would spare.

541

Lyd.
The Son of Ornithus the Thurine, me
With equal violence of heat doth move:
For whom, with all my Heart, I twice would die,
So Fate would spare the gentle Boy, my Love.

Hor.
What if our Friendship should renew,
And link our Loves in a more lasting Chain?
Yellow-hair'd Chloe, should I slight for you,
Should my access to thee be free again?

Lyd.
Though than a glorious Star He is more bright,
And thou than is the Adriatick Sea
More raging, and than spungy Cork more light,
Yet should I love to live and die with thee.

542

Martial, Epig. Lib. I. Ep. XX.

As I remember, Ælia cought full sore;
She cought out twice two Teeth, she had but four.
Now she may safely cough for ever: Why?
Her Mouth's not charg'd to let such Bullets fly.

Stances de Monsieur Theophile.

I

When thy nak'd Arm thou see'st me kiss
Upon the snowy Sheet display'd,
Which whiter than the Linnen is;
And, when my glowing Hand's betray'd,
Wandring about thy Paps: Thy Sense may prove,
Chloris, that with a burning heat I love.

543

II

As Zealots Eyes to Heaven tend,
So mine Eyes unto thine are turn'd,
When to thy Couch my Knees I bend,
With thousands of warm Passions burn'd,
My Lips from whispering Murmurs then are free,
And suffer my Delights to sleep with thee.

III

Morpheus glad of the surprise,
In his black Empire thee detains;
And hides from seeing me thine Eyes
VVith so dull, so heavy Chains,
That thy soft slumber'd-charmed, Spirits lye
Dumb, without murmur at his Tyranny.

544

IV

In breathing her perfume the Rose,
In shooting forth his heat the Day,
The Chariot, where Diana goes,
And Naiad's, when in Flouds they play,
The silent Graces in a Picture to
Make more of noise, than thy soft Breathings do.

V

Then by thee did I breathe a Sigh,
And when thy rest I had descryed;
The sweet Repose, that seal'd thine Eye:
With Passion then; Oh Heaven! I cryed;
How canst thou from such excellent Limbs, as these,
Extract so great an ill, as my Disease.

545

Her Heart and Mine.

Out of Astrea.

MADRIGALL.

I

Well may I say that our two Hearts
Composed are of flinty Rock;
Mine as resisting rigorous Darts;
Yours as it can indure the shock
Of Love, and of my Tears, and Smart.

II

But when I weigh the griefs, whereby
My Suff'rings I perpetuate,
I say, in this extremity,

546

In Constancy, that I am that
Rock, which you are in Cruelty.

To Charinus, an ugly Womans Husband.

Epig. out of Johannes Secundus.

Charinus , 'twas my hap of late
To have a sight of thy dear Mate,
So white, so flourishing, so fair,
So trim, so modest, debonair;
That if good Jove would grant to me
A leash of Beauties, such as she:
I'de give the Devil at one Word
Two that he'd take away the third.

547

An Ode of Johannes Secundus Translated.

To my dear Tutor Mr. Ralph Rawson.

The World shall want Phœbean light,
And th' Icy Moon obscured lye,
And sparkling Stars their Rooms shall quit
I'th' gloomy Sky:

The Crab shall shorter cut the Day,
The Capricorn prolong its Hours,
And t'abridge Nights unpleasant stay,
Command the Powers:

548

Earth shall be plow'd by crooked Ships,
And Carrs shall rowl upon the Seas,
Fishes in Woods, Bores in the Deep
Shall live and Graze:

Before I'le lay aside that care
Of thee, that's in my Bosom bred,
Whether i'th' Centre, or i'th' Air,
Alive, or dead.

EPIG. Translated out of Hieron; Amaltheus.

Acon his right, Leonilla her left Eye
Doth want; yet each in Form the Gods outvie.
Sweet Boy, with thine thy Sisters light improve;
So shall she Venus be, and thou blind Love.

549

Love's World.

Translated out of Astrea.

I

That Artist Love another World has made,
To which in'ts Centre fixt my Faith's the Earth:
And as on Earth the Worlds Foundation's laid,
My Faith the ground-sell is to this fair Birth.

II

If any jealous Fears are there disclos'd,
This constant Faith within my Breast to shake,
'Tis like those Winds within the Earth inclos'd,
Which with their riots make her Entrails quake.

550

III

My Tears the Ocean are: to dry those tears
A task no less, than to exhaust the Main:
'Cause of my Sighs, that I'me not lov'd the fear:
Those sighs the Storm, that stirs the Watry Plain.

IV

Bitter's this Sea; although its liquid course
Is but of Rivers sweet a concourse great;
More bitter are my Tears, pleasant their sourse
As sprung from you unto my Heart more sweet.

V

My Will's the Air, which in her power free
About my Faith in constant motion roves
The Winds Desires hot from their infancy,
By which, as Air by Winds, my will still moves.

551

VI

And as th' unruly Winds diversly stray
Though lock'd in Mountains, whence they dare not part:
So my Desires unto Respect obey,
And dare not break that Prison of my heart.

VII

The hidden Fire, which compasseth the Air,
Is th' undiscover'd Flame, wherewith I burn;
And, as that great Fire does to none appear,
So to Mens Eyes a borrow'd Face I turn.

VIII

My Hope's the waxing and the waining Moon,
Borrowing from you alone her glorious hue:
But when it darkly in the Clouds doth run,
'Tis doubtfull thought, that vainly follows you.

552

IX

Your Eye's the Sun incomparably bright,
Fair Eye Love's Sun, which to us all Light gives:
If th' other Sun gives the World living Light,
What Lover can deny by you he lives?

X

Why with such beauty has Love furnish'd you,
As that your sight's his Day, your absence Night,
If not t'injoy that blessing of your view?
Then let us rather live, than perish by't.

XI

The Summer's my hot Blouds redundancy;
And frozen Fear my cold, chill Winter brings,
But what of this, if still my Autumn be
As void of Fruit, as void of Flowers my Spring?

553

Martial, Ep. 84. Lib. 10.

Do'st muse to sleep, why Afer does not go?
Pre'thee, Cæcilian, look at's Bedfellow.

Id. Ep. 93. Lib. 11.

Who says, thou'rt Vitious, Zoilus, lies;
Thou art not Vitious, but a Vice.

Id. Ep. 58. Lib. 1.

Ad Flaccum.

Flaccus , thou ask'st, what kind of Girl I prize?
I like not one too Easy, nor too Nice.
I best with one betwixt these could dispense,
Not to afflict me, nor to glut my Sense.

554

Id. Ep. 48. Lib. 1.

De Diaulo Medico Paraph.

Diaulus Sextan from Physitian is
Of late become, and 'tis not much amiss:
For now, t'interr, his care he may apply
In this, those kill'd in that capacity.

Id. Lib. Ep. 65.

Ad Fabullam ambitiosam.

Thou'rt fair, we know't, a Maid, 'tis true,
And rich, why, we will grant that too.
But whilst too oft by thee 'tis said,
Thou'rt neither fair, nor rich, nor Maid.

555

Id. Lib. 1. Ep. 3.

Ad Velocem.

My Epigrams are long thou dost report,
For thy part, thou writ'st none: Thine are more short.

Id. Lib. 2. Ep. 88.

In Mamercum.

Thou nought repeat'st, yet Poet wouldst be thought;
Be what thou wilt, so thou repeatest nought.

556

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 9.

In Cinnam.

Cinna writes Verses against me, 'tis said,
He does not write whose Verse by none is read.

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 28.

In Nestorem.

Thou wondrest, Marius has a stinking Ear:
Nestor, 'tis long of thee, thou whisper'st there.

557

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 26.

In Candidum.

Thou, Candidus, alone enjoy'st th' estate;
Alone thy Money, Myrrhe, and Golden plate,
Massican, Cecuban Wine alone thou tast'st
Alone thou Wit, and Understanding hast.
Alone thou'st all things: I deny this one,
Thou hast a Wife too, but not thine alone.

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 32.

In Matriniam.

Thou say'st, I cannot fit an old Wife's Bed,
I can, Matrinia, thou'rt not old, but dead.
T'Hecube, or Niobe I could be prone,
But when she was no Bitch, and she no Stone.

558

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 52.

Ad Chloen.

Chloe , thy Face I do not prize,
Neither thy Neck, thy Hands, nor Thighs,
Nor Breasts, Hips, Hanches, Legs, nor Feet,
Nor what thou think'st more tempting yet;
And not t'insist on every part,
I could want all, with all my heart.

Id. Lib. 4. Ep. 78.

In Varum.

Varus of late to Supper did me call
His Plate was sumptuous his Victuals small:
With Gold, not Victuals, was his Table spread.
Our Eyes his Servants, not our Palats fed.

559

For Meat, not Sights, I came, then did I say,
Or bring us Meat, or take thy Plate away.

Id. Lib. 4. Ep. 86.

In Ponticum.

We drink in Glass, thou Myrrh, Ponticus; why?
Lest Glass of two Wines make discovery.

Id. Lib. 5. Ep. 46.

In Bassam.

Bassa , thou say'st, thou'rt fair, and a Maid too;
Bassa, thou often say'st what is not so.

560

Id. Lib. 5. Ep. 44.

De Thaide, & Lecania.

Thais her Teeth are black, as jet, or Crow:
Lecania's Teeth are white, as driven snow.
The reason of it easily is known,
Lecania bought Teeth wears, Thais her own.

Id. Lib. 17. Ep. 32.

In Cinnam.

Since thy dagg'd Gown's so dirty, when thy Shoe,
Cinna, is whiter than the Virgin-snow:
Why with thy Garment do'st t'thy Feet abuse?
Cinna, tuck up thy Gown, thou spoil'st thy Shoes.

561

Id. Lib. 10. Ep. 47.

Ad Seipsum.

These, pleasant Martial, are the things
That to Man's life contentment brings;
Wealth by succession got, not toil,
A glowing Hearth; a fruitfull Soil;
No Strife; few Suits; a Mind not drown'd
In cares; clean Strength; a Body sound;
Prudent Simplicity; equal Friends;
No Diet, that to lavish tends:
A Night not steept in Drink, yet freed
From Care; a chast, and peacefull Bed;
Untroubled Sleeps, that render Night
Shorter, and sweeter till the light;
To be best pleas'd with thine own state,
Neither to wish, nor fear thy Fate.

562

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 3.

Ad Musam.

It was enough five, six, seven Books to fill,
Yea and too much; why, Muse, dost scrible still?
Cease, and be modest. Fame no farther grace
Can add; My Book's worn out in every place.
When raz'd Messala's Monumentals must
Lye with Licinus's lofty Tomb in dust
I shall be read, and Travellors that come
Transport my Verses to their Father's home.
Thus I had once resolv'd (Her Clothes, and Head
Besmear'd with Ointment) when Thalia said,
Canst thou, Ungratefull, thus renounce thy Rhime?
Tell me; how would'st thou spend thy Vacant time?
To Tragick buskins would'st thy Sock transfer,
And in Heroick Verse sing bloudy War?
That tyrannous Pedants with awfull Voice
May terrify Old Men, Virgins, and Boys:

563

Let rigid Antiquaries such things write,
Who by a blinking Lamp consume the Night,
With Roman air touch up thy Poems Dress,
That th' Age may read its manners, and confess:
Thou'lt find thou may'st with trifling Subjects play,
Until their Trumpets to thy Reed give way.

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 19.

De Cinna.

Cinna would fain be thought to need,
And so he does, he's poor indeed.

564

Id. Lib. 8. Ep 23.

Ad Rusticum.

To thee I gluttonous and cruel seem
About my Cook, because I basted him
For supper; Rusticus, the cause was great:
What should a Cook be beaten for, but's meat?

Id. Lib. Ep. 47.

In variè se tondentem.

Part of thy Beard is clipt, part shav'd, another place
Is pull'd: who'd think this could be all one Face?

565

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 21.

Ad Luciferum.

Phospher , appear; why dost our joys delay
When Cæsar's coming only waits for Day?
Rome begs thy haste; on slow Boots's Carr
Do'st thou not ride, thou mov'st so slowly, Star?
Swift-footed Cyllarus, thou might'st have took,
Castor his saddle now would have forsook.
Why do'st thou longer stop the longing Sun?
Xanthus, and Ethon beat, and snort to run:
And Memnon's Mother watches till you come.
Nor will the Stars give place to greater Light,
But stay with th' Moon expecting Cæsars sight.
Now, Cæsar, come by Night, we shall have Ray:
The People cannot, where thou art, want Day.

566

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 35.

In pessimos Conjuges.

Since y'are a-like in Manners, and in Life,
A wicked Husband, and a wicked Wife,
I wonder much you are so full of strife!

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 53.

In Catullam.

The Fair'st of Women, that have been, or are
Thou art, yet Cheaper than them all by far;
To me Catulla, what a triumph 't were
That thou wer't, or more Honest, or less Fair.

567

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 59.

In Vacerram.

But Antick Poets thou admirest none,
And only prayest them are dead, and gone.
I beg your pardon, good Vacerra, I
Can't on such terms find in my Heart to die.

Id. Lib. 7. Ep. 100.

De Vetula.

Thou'rt soft to touch; charming to hear; unseen
Thou'rt both: but neither, take away the Screen.

568

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 41.

Ad Faustinum.

Sad Athenagoras nought presents me now,
As in December he was wont to do.
If Athenagoras be sad, or no,
I'll see: I'me sure, that he has made me so.

Id. Lib. II. Ep. 103.

In Lydiam.

He did not lye, that said, thy Skin was fair,
But not thy Face; so one, and th' other are.
Thy Face, if thou sit'st mute, and hold'st thy peace
Even as in one Embost, or Painted is.

569

But, as thou talk'st, thou loosest off thy Skin
And no ones Tongue more hurts themselves than thine:
Take heed the Ædile thee, nor hear, nor see,
As oft as Statues speak 'tis a Prodigie.

Id. Lib. 12. Ep. 7.

De Ligia.

If by her Hairs Ligia's Age be told,
'Tis soon cast up, than she is three years old.

Id. Lib. 12. Ep. 20.

Ad Fabullam.

That Themison has no Wife, how't comes to pass,
Thou ask'st: why Themison, a Sister has.

570

Horat. Lib 1. Carmin. Ode 8.

Ad Lydia.

Tell me, for God's sake, Lydia, why
Thy Sabaris thou do'st with love destroy.
The Glorious Field why should he shun,
Grown now impatient of the Dust, and Sun?
Why not in War-like bravery ride,
Curbing with bits the Gallick Horses pride?
Why fears he Tybers yellow Floud,
And flies the Olive more than Vipers Bloud?
Why not still crusht with Arms, whose art
Was fam'd for clean delivery of his Dart?
Why does he, Lydia, now lye hid,
As once, they say, the Son of Thetis did
Before Troy's wept for Funerall,
Lest in his own Apparel he might fall
Subject to Slaughter, and the Harms
Of bloudy Lycians unrelenting Arms?

571

De Fortuna: an sit cæca.

Epig. ex Johann. Secundo.

Why do they speak the Goddess Fortune blind?
Because She's only to th' unjust inclin'd;
This Reason nought Her blindness does declare,
They only Fortune need who Wicked are.

Tria Mala ex eodem.

The three great Evils of Mans life,
Are Fire, Water, and a Wife.

572

Id. Lib. Ep. 15.

In Neæram.

'Twas Night, and Phæbe in a Heaven bright
Shone 'mongst the lesser sparks of Light,
When, thou (to wound the Gods) vowd'st to fulfill
The strictest tenures of my will,
With straighter Arms, than ever th' Ivy tall
Embrac'd the aged Oak withall;
Whilst Wolves devour, and whilst Orion stirs
The Winter Main to Mariners;
And that this Love should mutual last, whilst air
Wanton'd with Phæbus's uncut Hair.
Neæra false on my good Nature wan
Too much; were Flaccus ought of Man,
He'd not t'another yield thee Night by Night;
But seek another Love in spight:
Nor would his Anger so provok'd give place,
To th' Charms of thy offensive Face.

573

But, Thou, who ere more happy, and now grown
Proud usher'st my Affliction,
Thou mayst be rich in Cattle, and in Land,
Pactolus may flow to thy Hand;
Thou mayst be too a Pythagorean
O'recome with Beauty Nerean.
Yet thou, alas! wilt mourn her change to see,
When I by turn shall laugh at thee.

ODE De Theophile.

Par.

I

Thy Beauties, Dearest Isis, have
Disturbed Nature at their sight,
Thine Eyes to Love his blindness gave,
Such is the vigour of their light:

574

The Gods too only minding thee,
Let the World err at liberty.

II

And having in the Suns bright Eye
Thy glances counterfeited seen,
Even their Hearts, my Sweet, thereby
So sensibly have wounded been:
That, but they're fixt, they'd come to see,
And gaze upon their Creature thee.

III

Beleive me, in this humor They
Of things below have little Care,
Of good, or ill, we do; or say,
Then since, Heaven lets thee love me, Dear,
Without revenging on thine Eye,
Or striking me in Jealousy.

575

IV

Thou mayst securely in mine Arms
And warm Womb of my wanton bed,
Teach me t'unravel all thy Charms;
Thou nothing, Isis, needest dread:
Since Gods themselves had happy been,
Could all their power have made thee Sin.

Elegy de Theophile.

Since that sad Day, a sadder Farewell did
My Eyes the object of my flame forbid,
My Soul, and Sense so disunited are,
That being thus deprived of thee, My Fair,
I find me so distractedly alone,
That from my self, methinks my self am gone.
To me invisible's the Sun's fair Light,
Nor do I feel the soft repose of Night:

576

I Poyson tast in my repast most sweet;
And sink where-ever I dispose my feet;
My Life all company, but Death, has lost,
Chloris, so dear the love I bear thee cost.

Oh Gods! who all the joys we have bestow,
Do you with them always give torments too?
Can that, we call Good Fortune never hit
Humane designs, but ill must follow it?
If equally you interweave the Fate
With good, and ill of those you love, and hate.
In vain I sue to her, I so adore,
In vain her help that has no Power implore.
For, as black Night pursues the glorious Sun,
The greatest Good does but some Ill fore-run.
When handsome Paris liv'd with Helen fair,
He saw his Fortune rais'd above his Care;
But Fate severely did revenge that bliss,
For (as with time his Fortune changed is.)
From his Delights sprang a debate, that Fire
Brought to old Troy, and massacred his Sire.
And though in that subversion there appears
Such sad mishaps of Bloud, of Fire, and Tears;

577

Yet by that Heavenly Face I so adore,
I swear, for love of thee, I suffer more.
For so long absent from thy gracious Eyes,
Methinks I banisht am the Deities.
And that from Heaven with Thunder wrapt in Flame,
To th' Centre I precipitated am.
Since I left thee, my Pleasures in their Tomb
Lye dead, and I their Mourner am become.
With all Delights my Thoughts distasted are,
And only to dislike the World take care;
Which as complying with my peevish Will,
Does nothing, I protest, but vex me still.
In Paris, like an Hermit, I retire,
And in one Object limit my Desire.
Where e're my Eyes seek to divert my Mind,
I bear the Prison, where I am confin'd.
My Blood is fir'd, and my Soul wounded lies,
By th' golden Shaft shot from thy killing Eyes
All the Temptations, that I daily see,
Serve only to confirm my Faith to thee.
The usual helps, that humane Reason bless,
To render a Man's Passion something less,

578

Stir mine up more to suffer chearfully
Th' obliging Torments, that do make me dye.
My Prudence, by my Courage, is withstood,
As by a rock the fury of the Floud.
I love my Frenzy, and I could not love
Him of my Friends, that should it disapprove;
Nor do I think, my reasonable part
Will e're approach me, whilst thou absent art.
I find my Thoughts uncessantly approve
The torturing effects of faithful Love.
I find, that Day it self shares in my pain;
The Air's o'respread with Clouds, the Earth with Rain;
That horrid Visions in my starting Sleep,
My Soul in their illusions tangled keep:
That all the apprehensions in my Head
Are Madness, by my feverish Passion bred,
That at husht midnight I imagine Storms,
And see a Ship-wrack, in its dreadfull'st Forms,
Fall from the top of an high precipice
Into the Jaws of an obscure Abyss:

579

And there a thousand ugly Serpents see,
Hissing t'advance their scaly Crests at me.
I cannot once dream of a false Delight,
But cruel Death straight seizes me in spite.
But when Heaven (weary to have gone thus far)
Gives, that I live under a better Star;
And when th' unconstant Stars, by their chang'd power,
Present me for my Pains one happy hour;
My Soul will find it self chang'd at thy sight,
And of all past mishaps revenged quite.
Though in Nights Sleep my Spirits buried lay,
Thy sight, my Dear, would lend them beams of Day.
Thy Voice has over me the self same power,
With Zephyr's Breath over th' Earth's wither'd Flower:
The vigorous Spring makes all things fresh and new;
The blowing Rose puts on her blushing hue;
The Heavens more gay, the Days more fair appear,
Aurora dressing to the Birds gives ear,
The wild Beasts of the Forrest free from Care,
Do feel their Bloud, and Youth renewed are,

580

And naturally obedient to their Sense,
Without remorse, their Pleasures recommence.

I only in the season all are blest,
With cruel, and continual Griefs opprest,
Alone in Winter, sad, and comfortless,
See not the glorious Spring, that we should bless.
I only see the Forrest fair forsook,
'Th' Earths surface Desart, and the frozen Brook,
And, as if charm'd, cannot once tast the Fruit,
That in this season to all Palats suit.

But when those Suns my adoration claim,
Shall with their Rays once reinforce my Flame,
My Spring will then return more sweet, and fair
By thousand times than those, Heavens Lamp gives, are,
If ever Fate allow mine Eyes that grace,
My Joys will transcend those of humane Race,
Nothing, but that, Oh Gods! nothing but that
Do I desire to baffle Death, and Fate.

581

Out of Astrea.

MADRIGALL.

I think I could my Passions sway,
Though great, as Beauties power can move
To such obedience, as to say,
I cannot; or I do not love.
But to pretend another Flame,
Since I adore thy conqu'ring Eye,
To thee, and Truth, were such a shame,
I cannot do it, though I dye.

If I must one, or th' other do,
Then let me die, I beg of you.

582

Stanzes upon the Death of Cleon.

Out of Astrea.

I

The Beauty which so soon to Cinders turn'd,
By Death of her Humanity depriv'd,
Like Light'ning vanisht, like the Bolt it burn'd:
So great this Beauty was, and so short liv'd.

II

Those Eyes so practis'd once in all the Arts,
That loyal Love attempted; or e're knew:
Those fair Eyes now are shut, that once the hearts
Of all that saw their lustre, did subdue.

583

III

If this be true, Beauty is ravisht hence,
Love vanquisht droops, that ever conquered,
And she who gave Life by her influence,
Is, if she live not in my Bosom, dead.

IV

Henceforth what happiness can Fortune send,
Since Death, this abstract of all Joy has won;
Since Shadows do the Substance still attend,
And that our good does but our ill fore-run?

V

It seems (my Cleon) in thy rising morn,
That Destiny thy whole Days course had bound,
And that, thy Beauty, dead, as soon as born,
Its fatal Hearse, has in its Cradle found.

584

VI

No, no, thou shalt not die, I Death will prove,
Who Life by thy sweet Inspiration drew;
If Lovers live in that which doth them love,
Thou liv'st in me, who ever lov'd most true.

VII

If I do live, Love then will have it known,
That even Death it self he can controul,
Or, as a God, to have hïs Power shown,
Will that I live without or Heart, or Soul.

VIII

But, Cleon, if Heav'ns unresisted will
'Point thee, of Death th' inhumane Fate to try,
Love to that Fate equals my Fortune still,
Thou by my mourning, by thy Death I dye.

585

IX

Thus did I my immortal Sorrows Breath,
Mine Eyes to Fountains turn'd of springing Woe;
But could not stay the wounding Hand of Death,
Lament; but not lessen misfortune so.

X

When Love with me having bewail'd the loss
Of this sweet Beauty, thus much did express,
Cease, cease to weep, this mourning is too gross,
Our Tears are still than our misfortune less.

586

Song of the inconstant Hylas.

Out of Astrea.

I

If one disdain me, then I fly
Her Cruelty, and her Disdain;
And e're the Morning guild the Sky,
Another Mistriss do obtain.
They err who hope by force to move
A Womans Heart to like; or love.

587

II

It oft falls out that they, who in
Discretion seem us to despise,
Nourish a greater Fire within,
Although perhaps conceal'd it lies.
Which we, when once we quit our rooms,
Do kindle for the next that comes.

III

The faithful Fool that obstinate
Pursues a cruel Beauty's Love,
To him, and to his Truth ingrate
Idolater does he not prove?
That from his pow'rless, Idol, never
Receives a Med'cine for his Fever.

588

IV

They say the unweary'd Lovers pains
By instance meet with good success;
For he by force his end obtains:
'Tis an odd method of Address,
To what Design so e're't relate,
Still, still to be importunate.

V

Do but observe the hourly Fears
Of your pretended faithful Lover,
Nothing but Sorrow, Sighs, and Tears,
You in his chearfull'st Looks discover;
As though the Lovers Sophistry
Were nothing but to whine, and cry.

589

VI

Ought he by a Man's Name be styl'd,
That (losing th' Honor of a Man)
Whines for his Pepin, like a Child
Whipt and sent back to School again,
Or rather Fool that thinks amiss,
He loves, but knows not what Love is?

VII

For my part, I'll decline this Folly,
By others harms (thank Fate) grown wise,
Such Dotage begets Melancholly,
I must profess Loves Liberties;
And never angry am at all
At them who me inconstamt call.

590

SONNET.

Out of Astrea.

[Since I must now eradicate the Flame]

Since I must now eradicate the Flame,
Which, seeing you, Love in my Bosom plac't,
And the Desires which thus long could last,
Kindled so well, and nourisht in the same.

Since Time, that first saw their Original,
Must triumph in their end, and Victor be,
Let's have a brave Design, and to be free,
Cut off at once the Briar-rose, and all.

591

Let us put out the Fire Love has begot,
Break the tough Cord tied with so fast a knot,
And voluntary take a brave adieu.

So shall we nobly conquer Love and Fate,
And at the Liberty of choice do that,
Which time its self, at last, would make us do.

A PARAPHRASE.

The Beauty that must me delight,
Must have a Skin, and Teeth Snow white:
Black arched Brows, black sprightly Eyes,
And a black Beauty 'twixt her Th**ghs;
Soft blushing Cheeks, a Person tall,
Long Hair, long Hands, and Fingers small;
Short Teeth; and Feet that little are,
Dilated Brows, and Haunches fair:

592

Fine silken Hair, Lips full, and red,
Small Nose, with little Breast and Head:
All these in one, and that one kind,
Would make a Mistriss to my Mind.

An Essay upon Buchanan's First Book de Sphæra. Never perfected.

How various are the World's great parts I sing,
And by what League the jarring Seeds of things
Agree in one, the Causes Motion breed
Why Darkness Light, and Coldness Heat succeed,
And why the Suns, and the Moons horned Light
Suffer Eclipses of o're-shading Night.

Thou who the Temples, wall'd with sacred Light.
(Impenetrable to our weaker sight)
Inhabit'st, holy Father of the Skies,
Propitious be to this bold Enterprize,
Whilst to the World we do Thy Acts reveal,
And the immense Work of the Pole unseal;

593

That people ignorant of Truth, a Mind
(From Sloth, and long-liv'd Error so refin'd)
May lift to Heav'n, and whilst amaz'd, the Ball
They so embraced with a Flaming Wall,
And wheeling times return in certain course,
May own the Mover, and admire his Force,
That props so great a Pile, that with the bit
Of his Eternal Law doth govern it;
And in His secret Council has decreed
It fit for Man's innumerable Need.

And thou, young Mercury Tymolion,
Thy Father's, and thy Country's hopeful Son,
Go, my Companion, in thy tender Years,
Castalion Woods, and sacred Founts draw near,
Frequent that unknown Peace, and Nymphs soft Choires
Subject to loss; nor avaritious Fires.

The time will come (when time has giv'n thee Force)
That thou shalt bravely, with thy foaming Horse,
Rush into War, and gloriously advance
In dusty Fields thy Country's threatning Launce:

594

Till then, thy Syre, either shall Lombards deign
T'orecome, wild Germans, and the Warlike Spain
By Force; or Conduct: Or with Gallick spoil,
Dazling the Sun, deck Calidonia's Soyl.

Cætera desunt.

Cn. Cornelii Galli; vel potius Maximiani Elegia 1. Trans.

Why, envious Age, dost thou my End delay?
Why in this wearied Trunk delight to stay?
My captive Life from such a Prison free,
Death now is Rest, when Life is Misery.
I'm no more what I was, but sunk, and old,
And what remains is languishing and cold.
The day that young Men chears, offends mine Eye,
And (which is worse than Death) I wish to die.

I was my Youth, whilst Wit, and Beauty crown'd,
An Orator throughout the World renown'd.

595

The Poets charming lies full oft I feign'd,
And by fictitious Tales, true Titles gain'd.
In all Disputes of Wit the Wreath bore I;
And have my Eloquence reputed high,
High, and immortal. Oh! what then remains
Worthy an old Man's Living; or his Pains?
Nor less than these the Beauty of my Face,
Which (though the rest are wanting) wins much Grace.
Manhood to that, which richer far than Gold,
Makes Wit a greater price, and Lustre hold.
If I, with Dogs, the Thickets would surround,
The conquer'd Prey fell at my Launces Wound;
Or would I loose Shafts from the bending Yew,
With great applause untamed Beasts I slew;
Or with the sinewy Wrestlers if I try'd,
With my strong Nerves their oyly Limbs I ty'd:
Now at the Race I all that came out-run;
And now in Tragick Song the Buskin won.
This mixture of good things my worth increast,
Still various Works of Art advance us best:

596

For whatsoever things simply delight,
Joyn'd to another Grace, shine out more bright;
With such a Mine of Fortitude adorn'd,
All threatning Dangers I contemn'd, and scorn'd.
Bare-head I made the Winds and Storms retreat,
Feeling no Winters Cold; nor Summer's Heat;
I swam the yellow Tyber's gelid Stream,
And fearless would the doubtful Current stem.
With the least Sleep I could forsake my Bed,
And with the slend'rest fare be amply fed.
Or if a drunken Guest surpriz'd my Walls,
To waste the forlorn day in Bacchanals;
Lyæus self struck Sail, amaz'd, and dumb,
And he that always conquer'd, fell o'recome.
Nor is't an easy thing the Mind to bend
At once with two Opposers to contend.
And in this kind of strife they say of Yore,
Great Socrates the Victor's Trophy bore.
And thus they say the rigid Cato won;
Things are not ill themselves, unless ill done.
To all things dreadless I oppos'd my Face,
And to my constant Mind Mischance gave place.

597

With little pleas'd I still lov'd to be poor,
And being Lord of all, could wish no more.
Thou only, wretched Age, dost me subdue,
To whom who conquers all things else must bow.
'Tis into thee we fall, and what at last
Decays, and withers, thou alone dost wast.
Hetruria ravisht with these parts of mine,
Wish'd that I would with her fair Daughters twine:
But Liberty to me was far more sweet,
Than all the Pleasures of the Nuptial Sheet.
In my gay Youth I walk'd about proud Rome,
To view what Virgins there might overcome,
Which might be won; or which was fit to seek;
When at their sight, soft blushes stain'd my Cheek.
Now runs a smiling Girl her self to hide,
And yet not so, as not to be descry'd;
But by some single part to be reveal'd,
Gladder by much to be so ill conceal'd.
Thus did I fare, and acceptable pass
To all, and thus a lusty Suiter was,
And only so: For Nature my strong Brest,
In Modesty and Chastity had drest.

598

For whilst I strove the choicest Fair to wed,
I wore out Cold ev'n to a Widdow'd Bed.
They all to me ill bred, or ugly seem'd,
And I none worthy my Embraces deem'd.
I hated lean ones, fat were a Disease;
Neither the low; nor yet the tall would please.
With middle Forms I ever lov'd to play,
And in the midst most Graces ever lay.
Here of our softest parts lies all the bliss,
And in this part Loves Mother seated is.
A slender Lass not lean, I lov'd to chuse,
For Flesh is fittest for a fleshy use:
One whose most strait Embraces would delight,
Not one whose Bones should goar my Ribs in Fight.
I lov'd no Fair, unless her Cheeks were spread
With native Roses of the purest red.
This Tincture Venus owns above the rest,
And loves the Beauty in her Flower drest.
A long white Neck, and golden flowing Hair,
Have long been known to make a Woman fair.
But black Brows, and black Eyes catch my Desire,
And still, when seen, have set my Heart on fire.

599

I ever lov'd a red, and swelling Lip,
Where a full Bowl of Kisses I might sip,
A long round Neck than Gold appear'd more rare,
And the most wealthy Gem outshone by far.
Ill fits it Age, to speak his wanton prime,
And what was decent then, is now a Crime:
For various things do diff'rent Men delight,
Nor yet are all things for all Ages right;
Things apt for one Age, at the last may grow
Uncomely for the self-same Man to do.
The Child by play, th' old Man's by stead'ness seen,
But the young Man's Behaviour lies between.
This silent sadness best becomes, and that,
Is better lik'd of for his Mirth, and Chat:
For rolling times does all things turn, and sway,
And suffers none to run one certain way.

Now that a long unprofitable Age,
Lies heavy on me, I would quit the Stage.
Life's hard Condition gripes the Wretched still;
Nor is Death sway'd by any humane Will.

600

Tho Wretch wishes to die, but Death retires,
Yet when Men dread him, then the Slave aspires.
But I alass, that maugre all my Arts,
Have been so long dead in so many parts,
On Earth I think shall never end my Days,
But enter quick the dark Tartarean ways.
My Tast, and Hearing's ill, mine Eyes are such,
Nay I can scarce distinguish by my Touch:
No Smell is sweet; nor Pleasure; who'd believe
A Man could sensibly his Sense out-live?
Lethe's Oblivion does my Mind embrace,
And yet I can remember what I was.
The Limbs diseas'd, the Mind no Work contrives,
The thought of ills all other aim deprives.
I sing no Lyricks now, that dear Delight,
With all my Voices Grace, is perish'd quite;
Frequent no Exercise, no Odes rehearse,
And only with my Pains, and Griefs converse;
The Beauty of my Shape and Face are fled,
And my revolted Form 'fore-speaks me dead.
For fair, and shining Age has now put on
A bloodless, Funeral Complexion.

601

My Skin's dry'd up, my Nerves unpliant are,
And my poor Limbs my Nails plow up, and tear,
My chearful Eyes, now with a constant Spring,
Of Tears bewail their own sad Suffering;
And those soft Lids that once secur'd mine Eye,
Now rude, and bristled grown, does drooping lie,
Bolting mine Eyes, as in a gloomy Cave,
Which there on Furies, and grim Objects rave.
'Twould fright the full-blown Gallant to behold
The dying Object of a Man so old;
Nor can you think that once a Man he was,
Of humane reason, who no portion has.
The Letters split, when I consult my Book,
And ev'ry Leaf I turn'd does broader look.
In Darkness do I dream I see the Light,
When Light is Darkness to my perish'd Sight.
Without a Night t'oreshade him, the bright Day
Is from my Sense depriv'd, and snatch'd away.
Who can deny, that wrap'd in Nights Embrace,
I groping lie in the Tartarean place?
What mad Adviser would a Man perswade
By his own Wish to be more wretched made?

602

Diseases now invade, and Dangers swarm,
Sweet Banquets now, and Entertainments harm
We're forc'd to wean our selves from grateful things
And though we live, avoid the sweets Life brings
And me, whom late, no accident could bend,
Now the meer Aliments of Life offend.
I would be full, am sick when I am so,
Should fast, but abstinence is hurtful too.
'Tis chang'd to surfeit now what once was Meat,
And that's now nauseous, which before was sweet
Venus, and Bacchus's Rites, now fruitless are,
That use to fill this Life's contingent Care.
Nature alone panting, and prostrate lies,
Caught in the ruin of her proper Vice.
Julip; nor Cordial now no Comfort give;
Nor ought that should a Patient sick relieve:
But with their Matter their Corruption have,
And only serve to importune my Grave.
When I attempt to prop my falling Frame,
The Letts oppos'd, make my Endeavours lame.
Until my Dissolutions tardy day
All helps of Arts do with the thing decay

603

And by th' appearance since th' afflicted Mind
Can no diversion, nor advantage find;
Is it not hard we may not from Mens Eyes
Cloak, and conceal Ages Indecencies.
Unseeming Spruceness th' old Man discommends;
And in old Men only to live offends.
With Mirth, Feasts, Songs, the old must not dispense,
O wretched they whose Joys are an offence!
What should I do with Wealth, whose use being ta'ne,
Although I swim in store, I poor remain:
Nay 'tis a Sin to what we have got to trust,
And what's our own to violate unjust.
So thirsty Tantalus the neighbour Stream,
And Fruit would tast, but is forbidden them.
I but the Treas'rer am of my own Pelf,
Keeping for others what's deny'd my self:
And like the Fell Hesperian Dragon grown,
Defend that golden Fruit's no more my own.
This above all is that augments my Woes,
And robs my troubl'd Mind of all Repose.
I strive to keep things I could never gain,
And ignorantly hold some things in vain.

604

Continu'd Fears do credulous age invade;
And th' old Man dreads the ills himself has made,
Applauds the past, condemns the present Years;
And only what he thinks Truth, Truth appears:
He only learned is, has all the skill,
And thinking himself wise, is wider still.
Who though with Trouble he much Talk affords,
Faulters, forgets, and dribbles out his Words;
The Hearer's tir'd, but he continues long;
O wretched Age, only in prating strong!
Idly he talks, and strains his feeble Voice,
Whilst those he pleas'd before, laugh at his noise.
Their Mirth exalts him, he still louder grows,
And dotingly his own Reproach allows:
These are Death's Firstlings, Age does this way flow,
And with slow pace creeps to the Shades below.
Whilst the same Colour Meen, nor pace appear
In the poor Traveller that lately vvere.
My Garment from my vvither'd Limbs hangs down,
And vvhat before too short, too long is grovvn.
We strangely are contracted, and decrease,
A Man vvould think our very Bones vvere less.

605

Our burthen'd Age cannot the Heav'ns behold,
But prone still looks upon the parent Mold.
On three Feet first vve halt, on four next fall,
And on the Earth like helpless Infants crawl.
To their first Birth and Mother all things tend,
And vvhat vvas nothing shall in nothing end.
Hence 'tis that learning Age the senseless Ground,
Does with his bending Crutch so often wound.
And with thick steps making a tardy way,
In a hoarse Voice may thus be thought to say;
Receive me, Mother, to remorse incline,
And in thy Lap cherish these Limbs of mine.
The Children vvhoot me vvheresoe're I go;
Why wilt thou let thy Birth so monstrous grovv?
I vvith the Gods have novv no more to do,
Each Office of my Life I have run through.
My vvasted Carcass then at last restore,
To the cold Clay from vvhence I came before.
To spin a miserable Life in smart,
Of a Maternal Care can be no part.
Then propping his vveak Joynts, he feebly cravvls,
And on his weary Bed neglected falls.
Lying like livid Corps of Life bereft,
Only the rafters of the Building left.

606

Should I still lie, and lying win more space,
Yet who would think me in a living place?
'Tis pain to live, with heat we burn, not warm,
The Clouds offend, the Air, and Coldness harm.
The Dew, and soft Showers that in April flow,
With Autumns jocund Days offensive grow.
Coughs, Flegm, and Leprosies afflict the old,
And ages minutes by his Groans are told.
How can I him a living Man believe,
Whom Light, and Air, by which he panteth, grieve
Those gentle Sleeps which other Mortals ease,
Scarce in a Winters Night mine Eye-lids seise;
Or if it come to shade my setting Beams,
Tis clad in all the shapes of frightful Dreams.
The softest Feather-beds seem hard as Stones,
And lightest Quilts oppress my naked Bones.
I quit my Bed at mid-night to the Floor,
And suffer much, I may not suffer more.
Our own Infirmities our selves invade,
And by the way we hate, we're Captives made.
Our Entrails suffer Dissolution,
By which the noble Structure is o'rethrown.
Unlookt for Age, o'reburthen'd with these things,
Has learnt to bow under the weight he brings.

607

Who therefore would desire in Griefs so four,
When the Minds vanisht, to prolong his hour?
Better die once, than dying live by far,
Making the Trunk the Senses Sepulchre;
But I repine not, my time wasted is,
And Nature's shame to open is amiss.
Sinewy Bulls in time invalid grow,
The Horse that once was fair's mishapen now.
Time tames the fury of the Lions wild,
And Age will make the Caspian Tygers mild.
Antiquity the Stones themselves will race,
And to old Time all Natures Works give place:
But I were best prevent mischance to come,
And by one blow anticipate my doom.
To haste a certain Ruin is less pain,
Than is the fear of Mischiefs that remain.
But in the other World what Torments are,
Suspends, and well becomes an old Man's Care.
Contempt, and Mischiefs ev'rywhere attend,
And in distress I find no helping Friend.
The Boys, and Girls deride me now forlorn,
And but to call me Sir, now think it scorn.
They jeer my Count'nance, and my feeble Pace,
And scoff that nodding Head that awful was:

608

And though I nothing see, I can perceive,
My Pains by this contempt redoubled grieve.
He's happy Merits a smooth Life to spend,
And shut his Days up with a constant end.
That's hard at last we Reputation call,
From which height tumbling, still augments the fall.

Ad Furium, Ep. 23.

Ex Catullo.

Though Furious Servant have, nor Chest,
Spider, nor Fire, nor creeping Beast,
He has a Syre, and a Stepdame yet,
Whose greedy Teeth a Flint would eat.
And doubtless leads a happy Life
With's Father, and his wooden Wife.
No Wonder; for their Healths are clear,
They eat together, nothing fear.
No Conflagrations, Ruins great,
No impious Facts, nor foul Deceit.

609

All accidental dangers scorn,
And having Bodies dry as horn;
Or what we still do dryer hold
The Sun, or hunger; or the cold,
Amongst the happy are enroll'd.
No sweat; nor salivation flows
From thee; no drop hangs at thy Nose;
And to this cleanness, cleaner far.
Thy A**se is than a Salt-Seller,
Nor Ten times in a Year does Sh**te,
And that parcht Pease; or Stones doth quite
In hardness pass, which if thou list
To rub, and crumble in thy Fist:
Thou may'st securely do it, and
Ne're stain the Whiteness of thy Hand.
These Benefits do not despise,
Nor rashly, Furius, lightly prize;
Let begging then for shame alone,
For thou art rich enough for one.

610

De Catella Publ. Mart. Ep. 110. Lib. 1.

PAR.

As Lesbias Sparrow, Tricksy wanton is,
And purer than the Turtle's Kiss;
Fairer than Maids, deckt in their Morning beams,
And of more price than Indian Gems.
Tricksy, that little Bitch, is my delight,
My Sport by Day, my Love by Night.
She apprehends her Master's joy, and woe,
And wanton's, or's dejected so.
And if in play, or love she quest, or whine,
Men think she speaks in Language fine.
She rouses with me at the dawning peep,
And by my side all Night doth sleep;
So calm, so still, no sigh does interpose
Betwixt me, and my sweet repose:
Or if an accident unlook'd for come,
To ease the gripings of her Womb,

611

She slips no drop of any kind to stain;
Or to ill sent the counterpain:
But nimbly rises up, and whining tells
What her necessity compells.
Such innate Chastity adorns the Beast
She knows not lust; nor have we guest,
Throughout mankind, one worthy to invade,
The treasures of so fair a Maid.
And lest the Fate of her extreamest Day
Should snatch her Memory away,
We wisely have in cunning colour set,
The Beauty of her counterfeit;
In which fair Tricksy you so like may see,
That She is not more like to She.
In fine expose her, and her Shade to view
You'll think both painted; or both true.

Eccho ad Pictorem Ausonii Epig.

T'express me in a Face! vain Painter why?
Or court an unknown Goddess with thine Eye?

612

From Hyre, and Tongue, I'me sprung mother of vain
Report, who Voice without a Mind retain.
Catching last Syllab'es from their dying tone,
And mocking others Language with my own.
Shrill Eccho only in the Ear is found;
But if thou'lt paint her like, go paint a Sound.

De Myrone & Laide Ausonii.

Epig.

Of Lais hoary Myron begg'd a Night,
But she repulst him with a slight.
He soon perceiv'd the cause, and his white Head
With shining black soon overspread.
Myron the same in Face, but not in Hue,
Returns his Love-suit to renue.
But Face and Hair compared by the Dame,
Thinking him like, but not the same.
Perhaps the same Top, yet dispos'd to play;
She to the subtle Youth could say;

613

Fondling, forbear to importune me so,
Thy Father I deny'd, but now.

De Vita beata.

[_]

Paraphras'd from the Latin.

Come y'are deceiv'd, and what you do
Esteem a happy Life's not so;
He is not happy that excels
I'th' Lapidary's Bagatells;
Nor he, that when he sleeps, doth lye
Under a stately Canopy;
Nor he, that still supinely hides,
In easie Down his lazy Sides;
Nor he, that Purple wears and sups
Luxurious Draughts in Golden Cups;
Nor he, that loads with Princely sare,
His bowing Tables whil'st they'll bear;

614

Nor he, that has each spacious Vault
With Deluges of Plenty fraught;
Cul'd from the fruitful Libyan Fields,
When Autumn his best Harvest yields:

But he whom no mischance affrights;
No Popular applause delights,
That can unmov'd, and undismay'd
Confront a Ruffins threatning Blade.
Who can do this; that Man alone
Has Power, Fortune to Disthrone.

Q. Cicero de Mulierum levitate.
[_]

Translat.

Commit a Ship unto the Wind;
But not thy Faith to Women kind;
For th' Oceans waving Billows are
Safer than Womans Faith by far.
No Woman's Good, and if there be,
Hereafter, such a Thing as she:

615

'Tis by I know not what of Fate,
That can from Bad, a Good Create.

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.

Some Men of Sense, and who pretend to be
Ancient Well-willers to your Family,
Photis, give out, that Baud Men may thee call
And do thy modesty no wrong at all.
Thou swear'st they Infamously lye
And that no Word of Verity
They ever spake, then; or before:
And yet it cannot be deny'd
But by thy Cuckold Husbands side,
Thou every Night dost lay a Whore.

616

In Coccam.

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.

Thy Cheeks having their Roses shed,
And thy whole frame through Age become
So loathsom for all use in Bed,
That 'tis much fitter for a Tomb:
Cocca thou shouldst not be so vain,
(Although thy Eloquence be great)
As to expect it should obtain,
That I should do the filthy Feat.
And that same Engine in your Hood
You Cherish, Court, and Flatter so,
Now you have made him barely stood;
Is not so charitable though,
As in his vigorous Youth to be
A Crutch to your Antiquity.

617

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.

Old Fop, why should you take such pains
To Paint, and Perriwig it so?
My nobler Love alas! disdains
To stoop so infamously low.
Time that does mow the fairest Flowers,
Has made so very bold with yours,
You should expect to be deny'd:
The Footmen can no more endure you,
And, if no sport in Hell, assure you
You'll never more be Occupy'd.

Epig. writ in Calistas Prayer Book. By Monsieur Malherbe.

Whilst you are Deaf to Love, you may,
Fairest Calista, Weep, and Pray,

618

And yet alas! no Mercy find:
Not but God's Merciful 'tis true:
But can you think he'll grant to you,
What you deny to all Mankind.

ODE Bacchique de Monsieur Racau.

I

Now that the Day's short, and forlorn
Of Melancholick Capricorn
To Chimny-corners Men translate:
Drown we our Sorrows in the Glass,
And let the thoughts of Warfare pass,
The Clergy and the Third Estate.

II

Maynard, I know what thou hast writ,
That sprightly issue of thy Wit,

619

Will live whilst there are Men to read:
But what if they recorded be
In Memories Temple, boots it thee,
When thou art gnawn by Worms, and dead?

III

Henceforth those fruitless Studies spare,
Let's rather Drink until we stare
Of this delicious Juice of ours:
Which does in excellence precede
The beverage which Ganimede
Into th' Immortals Geblet pours.

IV

The Juice that sparkles in this Glass,
Make tedious Years, like Days, to pass;
Yet makes us younger still become:
By this from lab'ring Thoughts are chas't,
The Sorrows of those ills are past,
And terrour of the ills to come.

620

V

Let us Drink brimmers then, Time's fleet,
And steals away with winged Feet
Halling us with him to our Urn:
In vain we sue to it to stay;
For Years like Rivers slide away,
And never, never do return.

VI

When the Spring comes attir'd in Green
Then Winter flies, and is not seen,
New Tides do still supply the Main:
But when our frolick Youth's once gone,
And Age has ta'ne Possession;
Time ne're restores us that again.

VII

Death's Laws are universal, and
In Princes Pallaces command,

621

As well as in the poorest Hut:
We're to the Parcæ subject all
The Threads of Clowns, and Monarchs shall
Be both by the same Cizors cut.

VIII

Their rigours, which all things deface,
Will ravish in a little space
Whatever we most lasting make;
And soon will lead us out to drink
Beyond the Pitchy Rivers brink
The Waters of oblivious Lake.

Lyrick.

Ex Cornelio Gallo.

Lydia , thou lovely Maid, whose White
The Milk, and Lilly does outvie,
The Pale and Blushing Roses light,
Or polisht Indian Ivory.

622

Dishevel, sweet, thy yellow Hair,
Whose ray doth burnisht Gold disprize,
Dissolve thy Neck so brightly fair,
That doth from Snowy Shoulders rise.

Virgin, unvail those starry Eyes,
Whose Sable Brows like Arches spread;
Unvail those Cheeks, where the Rose lies
Streak'd with the Tyrian Purples Red.

Lead me those Lips with Coral lin'd,
And kisses mild of Doves impart,
Thou ravishest away my Mind,
Those gentle kisses steal my Heart.

Why suck'st thou from my panting Breast
The Youthful vigour of my Blood?
Hide those Twine-Apples, ripe, if prest
To spring into a Milky-flood.

623

From thy expanded Bosom, breathe
Perfumes Arabia doth not know;
Thy every part doth Love bequeath,
From thee all excellencies flow.

Thy Bosoms killing White then shade,
Hide that temptation from mine Eye:
Thou seest I languish, cruel Maid;
Wilt thou then go, and let me dye?

De luxu, & libidine.

Epig. Tho. Mori.

Let who would die to end his Woes,
Both, Wench, and Tipple, and he goes.

624

Id. in Avarum.

EPIG.

With narrow Soul thou swim'st in glorious Wealth,
Rich to thy Heir: but wretched to thy self.

Id. in Digamos.

EPIG.

Who having one Wife buried, Marries then,
After one Shipwrack tempts the Sea agen.

625

Stances de Monsieur de Scudery.

I

Fair Nymph, by whose perfections mov'd,
My wounded Heart is turn'd to Flame;
By all admired, by all approv'd,
Indure at least to be belov'd,
Although you will not Love again.

II

Aminta as Unkind, as Fair
What is there that you ought to fear;
For cruel if I you declare,
And that indeed you cruel are,
Why the reproach may you not hear?

626

III

Even reproaches should delight,
If Friendship for me you have none;
And if no anger, I have yet,
Enough perhaps that may invite
Your hatred; or compassion.

IV

When your Disdain is most severe,
When you most rigorous do prove,
When frowns of anger most you wear;
You still more charming do appear,
And I am more, and more in Love.

V

Ah! let me, Sweet, your sight enjoy,
Though with the forfeit of my Life;
For fall what will, I'de rather dye,
Beholding you, of present Joy,
Than absent, of a lingring Grief.

627

VI

Let your Eyes lighten till expiring
In flame my Heart a Cinder lye;
Falling is nobler, than retiring,
And in the glory of Aspiring;
'Tis brave to tumble from the Sky.

VII

Yet I would any thing imbrace,
Might serve your anger to appease;
And, if I may obtain my Grace,
Your Steps shall leave no print; nor trace
I will not with Devotion kiss.

VIII

If (Cruel) you will have it so,
No word my passion shall betray;
My wounded Heart shall hide its Woe:
But if it Sigh, those Sighs will blow,
And tell you what my Tongue would say.

628

IX

Should yet your rigour higher rise,
Even those offending Sighs shall cease;
I will my Pain, and Grief disguise:
But (Sweet) if you consult mine Eyes,
Those Eyes will tell you my Distress.

X

If th' utmost my respect can do,
Still more your cruelty displease;
Consult your Face, and that will shew
What Love is to such Beauty due,
And to the state of my Disease.

Epitaph Monsieur Maynard.

John , who below here reposes at leisure,
By pilf'ring on all hands, did rake up a Treasure

629

Above what he e're could have hop'd for himself;
He was Master of much; but imparted to no Man,
So that had he not had a Wife, that was common
Ne're any Man living had shar'd of his Wealth.

On Cation a Dwarf.

Epig de Monsieur Maynard.

The extended wont of Nature,
As all Mens Judgments will allow,
Never piss'd so small a Creature;
Nor such a Mannikin as thou.
One might conceal thee well enough
In the least plet of thy small Ruff;
Alas! thou half a Man art scant:
Go, and shew thy Stature (Cation)
In the gross of some Batallion,
Most bravely mounted on an Ant.

630

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.

Anthony feigns him Sick of late,
Only to shew how he at home,
Lies in a Princely Bed of State,
And in a nobly furnish'd Room,
Adorn'd with Pictures of Vandike's,
A pair of Chrystal Candlesticks,
Rich Carpets, Quilts, the Devil, and all:
Then you his careful Friends, if ever,
You wish to cure him of his Fever,
Go lodge him in the Hospital.

In Coccam.

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.

Cocca thou'dst still be lov'd; nor wilt abate
Our Primitive ardour, but with Discontent:

631

Altho' thou knowst thy Youth bears the same date
With that alas! of the Old Testament.
Thine Eyes no more are Homicides,
And thy warpt front its furrows hides
Under the Paint-house of a Hood.
Now ply thy Beads; thy Name's renouned,
Thou the first Baudy-house hast founded,
Has been erected since the Flood.

In Coccam.

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.

Lord! how wrinckled is thy Fore-head!
And how Gray thy Hair is grown!
Lord! how chink't thy Lips, and aride!
And thy whole Frame turn'd Skeleton!
Truly, Cocca, I regret thee,
Sure Old Age did undiscreetly,
To be with thy Face so bold:
Henceforth none will pleasure make thee;
But thou purchase of the Laquey,
What thou once the Master sold.

632

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.

Come, let's Drink, and drown all Sorrow,
'Tis what the Time invites us to,
And who knows whether to morrow
Was ordained for us or no!
Death watches us, and when that Slave
Has once enclos'd us in the Grave,
And heaps of Mold upon us hurl'd;
Farewel good Victuals and good Wine;
I read in no Author of mine
Of Taverns in the other World.

To Agrippa.

The Sixth Ode of Horace. His First Book of Lyricks.

Varius , in living Annals may
To the admiring Universe
Voice out in high Mæonian Verse

633

Thy Courage, and thy Conquests won,
And what thy Troops by Land, and Sea
Have through thy noble conduct done.
Our Muse, Agrippa, that does fly
An humbler pitch, attempts not these,
T'express Pelides rage; nor sly
Ulysse's tedious Voyages:
Nor dips her Plume in those Red Tydes,
Flow from the Bloody Parricides
Of Pelop's cruel Family:
We nothing to such heights pretend
Since Modesty,
And our weak Muse, who does aspire
No further than the jolly Lyre,
Forbids that we
Should in our vain attempts offend,
And darken with our humble laies,
Thine and great Cæsar's Godlike Praise.
Who to his worth can Mars display,
When clad in Arms, whose dreadful Ray,
Puts out the Day?

634

Or brave Meriones set forth,
When soyl'd in Trojan Dust; or raise
Fit Trophies to Tydides worth,
Who to th' Immortal Gods was made
A Rival by Minerva's aid?
We Sing of Feasting, and Delights,
Stout Drinking, and the harmless Fights
Of hot young Men, and blushing Maids,
Who when the Foe invades,
Make a faint show,
To Guard what they're content shou'd go.
These are the Subjects of our Song,
In Nights, that else would seem too long,
Did we not wisely prove
The sweets of Jollity, and Love.

Epig. de Monsieur Corneille.

Martin , Pox on him, that impudent Devil,
That now only lives by his Shifts,
By borrowing of Dribblets, and Gifts,

635

For a forlorn Guinny I lent him last Day,
Which I was assured he never would pay;
On my own Paper would needs be so civil,
To give me a Note of his Hand,
But I did the Man so well understand,
I had no great mind to be doubly trapan'd,
And therefore told him 'twas needless to do't:
For said I, I shall not be hasty to Dun ye,
And 'tis enough surely to part with my Money,
Without losing my Paper to boot.

Epig. de Monsieur Cotin.

After so many Works of various kinds
Dawen with so great pains has writ,
And all the recompence the Poet finds,
Is but the poor contempt of Wit;
If Dawen now forbear to write on still,
'Tis that he weary is of doing ill.

636

Epig. de Mons. de Bensaurade.

Here lies a great load of extr'ordinary merit,
Who taught us to know ere he did hence depart,
That a Man may well live without any Heart,
And die (which is strange!) without rend'ring his Spirit.

Madrigal on Queen Dido.

Translated from Cavalier Guarini, and he from Ausonius.

O Fortunata Dido, &c.

How hapless, Dido, was thy Fate
In both conditions of Life,
To be alike Unfortunate,
Whether a Mistriss, or a Wife!

637

Both alike unhappy made thee,
Or thou thy self unhappy made;
But thy Lover false betray'd—thee,
And thy Husband was betray'd.
He one miserably dying,
Poor Queen thou wast enforc'd to sly;
And the other fasly slying,
Thou didst miserably dye.

Sede d' Amore.

Madrigal. From Cavalier Guarini.

Tell me Cupid, where's thy Nest,
In Clora's Eyes, or in my Breast?
When I do behold her Rays,
I conclude it in her Face:
But when I consider how
They both wound, and burn me too,
I conclude then by my smart,
Thou inhabits in my Heart.

638

Mighty Love, to shew thy Power,
Though it be but for an Hour,
Let me beg without Offence,
Thou wilt shift thy Residence,
And erect thy self a Nest,
In my Eyes, and in her Breast.

Foco di sdegno.

From Cavalier Guarini. Madrigal.

Fair, and False, I burn 'tis true,
But by Love am no ways moved;
Since your Falshood renders you
So unfit to be beloved.
Tigress then, that you no more,
May triumph it in my smart;
It is fit you know before,
That I now have cur'd my Heart.

639

Henceforth then if I do Mourn,
And that still I live in pain.
With another flame I burn;
Not with Love; but with Disdain.

Risposta. del Tasto.

Burn, or Freeze at thine own pleasure,
Thou art free to Love, or no;
'Tis as little loss, as treasure,
Whether thou be'st Friend, or Foe.
Lover False, and Unadvised,
Who to threaten art so vain,
Light thy Love I ever prized,
And less value thy Disdain.
If to Love 'twas ever bootless,
And neglected was thy smart:
The Disdains will be as Fruitless,
Of thy fickle, hollow Heart.

640

WINTER.

I

Hark, hark, I hear the North Wind roar,
See how he riots on the Shoar;
And with expanded Wings out-stretch,
Ruffels the Billows on the Beach.

II

Hark, how the routed Waves complain,
And call for Succor to the Main,
Flying the Storm as if they meant
To creep into the Continent.

III

Surely all Æoli's huffing Brood
Are met to War against the Flood,
Which seem surpriz'd, and have not yet
Had time his Levies to compleat.

641

IV

The beaten Bark her Rudder lost,
Is on the rowling Billows tost;
Her Keel now Plows the Ouse, and soon
Her Top-Mast tillts against the Moon.

V

'Tis strange! the Pilot keeps his seat;
His bounding Ship does so curvet,
Whilst the poor Passengers are found,
In their own fears already drown'd.

VI

Now Fins do serve for Wings, and bear
Their Scaly Squadrons through the Air;
Whilst the Airs Inhabitants do stain
Their gaudy Plumage in the Main.

VII

Now Stars concealed in Clouds do peep
Into the secrets of the deep;

642

And Lobsters spued from the brine,
With Cancer constellations shine.

VIII

Sure Neptune's Watery Kingdoms yet
Since first their Corral Graves were wet,
Were ne're disturbed with such alarms;
Nor had such trial of their Arms.

IX

See where a Liquid Mountain rides,
Made up of innumerable Tides,
And tumbles headlong to the Strand,
As if the Sea would come to Land.

X

A Sail, a Sail, I plainly spy,
Betwixt the Ocean and the Sky,
An Argosy, a tall built Ship,
With all her Pregnant Sailers a-trip.

643

XI

Nearer, and nearer, she makes way,
With Canvis Wings into the Bay;
And now upon the Deck appears
A croud of busy Mariners.

XII

Methinks I hear the Cordage crack,
With furrowing Neptune's foaming Back,
Who wounded, and revengeful roars
His Fury to the neighb'ring Shoars.

XIII

With massy trident high, he heaves
Her sliding Keel above the Waves,
Opening his Liquid Arms to take
The bold invader in his wrack.

XIV

See how she dives into his Chest,
Whilst raising up his floating Brest

644

To clasp her in, he makes her rise
Out of the reach of his surprize.

XV

Nearer she comes, and still doth sweep
The Azure Surface of the deep,
And now at last the Waves have thrown
Their Rider on our ALBION.

XVI

Under the Black cliff, spumy base,
The Sea-sick Hulk her fraight displays,
And as she walloweth on the Sand,
Vomits her burthen to the Land.

XVII

With Heads erect, and plying Oar,
The Ship-wrack'd Mates make to the Shoar;
And dreadless of their danger, climb
The floating Mountains of the brine.

645

XVIII

Hark, hark, the noise, their Eccho make
The Islands Silver Waves to shake;
Sure with these throws, the lab'ring Main
'S delivered of a Hurricane.

XIX

And see the Seas becalm'd behind,
Not crispt with any breeze of Wind;
The Tempest has forsook the Waves,
And on Land begins his braves.

XX

Hark, hark, their Voices higher rise,
They tear the Welkin with their Cries;
The very Rocks their fury feel,
And like Sick Drunkards nod, and reel.

XXI

Louder, and louder, still they come,
Niles Cataracts to these are dumb;

646

The Cyclope to these Blades are still,
Whose Anvils shake the burning Hill.

XXII

Were all the Stars enlightned Skies,
As full of Ears as sparkling Eyes;
This rattle in the Christal Hall,
Would be enough to deaf them all.

XXIII

What monstrous Race is hither tost,
Thus to Alarm our British Coast;
With Outcries, such as never yet
War, or Confusion could beget.

XXIV

Oh! now I know them let us home,
Our Mortal Enemy is come,
Winter and all his blust'ring train,
Have made a voyage o're the Main.

647

XXV

Vanisht the Countrys of the Sun,
The Fugitive is hither run,
To ravish from our fruitful Fields
All that the teeming Season yields.

XXVI

Like an Invader, not a Guest,
He comes to Riot, not to Feast;
And in wild fury overthrows,
Whatever does his march oppose,

XXVII

With bleak and with congealing Winds,
The Earth in shining Chains he binds;
And still as he doth farther pass,
Quarries his way with Liquid Glass.

XXVIII

Hark, how the blusterors of the Bear,
Their Gibbouse Cheeks in triumph tear,

648

And with continued Shouts do ring
The entry of their Palsy'd King.

XXIX

The Squadron nearest to your Eye,
Is his Forlorn of Infantry,
Bow-men of unrelenting Minds,
Whose Shafts are Feathered with the Winds.

XXX

Now you may see his Van-guard rise
Above the Earthy Precipice,
Bold Horse on bleakest Mountains bred,
With Hail instead of Provend fed.

XXXI

Their Launces are the pointed Locks,
Torn from the Brows of Frozen Rocks,
Their Shields are Chrystals as their Swords,
The Steel the rusted Rock affords.

649

XXXII

See the main Body now appears,
And hark the Æolian Trupetters,
By their Hoarse Levets do declare,
That the bold General Rides there.

XXXIII

And look where Mantled up in White,
He sleads it like the Muscovite;
I know him by the Port he bears,
And his Life-guard of Mountaineers.

XXXIV

Their Caps are Fur'd with Hoary Frost,
The Bravery their cold Kingdom boasts;
Their spungy Plads are Milk White Frieze,
Spun from the Snowy Mountains Fleece.

XXXV

Their Partizans are fine carved Glass,
Fringed with the Mornings spangled Grass;

650

And Pendant by their brawny Thighs,
Hang Cimetars of burnisht Ice.

XXXVI

See, see, the Reer-ward now has won
The Promontories trembling Crown,
Whilst at there numerous Spurs, the Ground
Groans out a hollow murmering sound.

XXXVII

The Forlorn now halts for the Van;
The Reer-guard draws up to the Main;
And now they altogether croud
Their Troops into a threatning Cloud.

XXXVIII

Fly, fly; the Foe advances fast
Into our Fortress, let us hast
Where all the Roarers of the North
Can neither Storm, nor Starve us forth.

651

XXXIX

There under Ground a Magazine
Of Sovereign juice is collard in,
Liquor that will the Seige maintain,
Shou'd Phœbus ne're return again.

XL

Till that, that gives the Poet rage,
And thaws the gelly'd Blood of Age;
Matures the Young, restores the Old,
And makes the fainting Coward bold.

XLI

It lays the careful Head to rest,
Calms Palpitations in the Breast,
Renders our Lives misfortune Sweet,
And Venus frolick in the Sheet.

XLII

Then let the chill Sciorocco blow,
And gird us round with Hills of Snow;

652

Or, else go whistle to the Shoar,
And make the hollow Mountains roar.

XLIII

Whilst we together jovial sit
Careless, and Crown'd with Mirth and Wit;
Where though bleak Winds confine us home,
Our Fancies round the World shall roam.

XLIV

We'll think of all the Friends we know,
And Drink to all worth Drinking to:
When having Drunk all thine and mine,
We rather shall want Health than Wine.

LXV

But where Friends fail us, we'll supply
Our friendships with our Charity;
Men that remote in Sorrows live,
Shall by our lusty Brimmers thrive.

653

XLVI

We'll Drink the Wanting into Wealth,
And those that Languish into Health,
The Afflicted into Joy, th' Opprest
Into Security and Rest.

XLVII

The Worthy in Disgrace shall find
Favour return again more kind,
And in restraint who stifled lye,
Shall taste the Air of Liberty.

XLVIII

The Brave shall triumph in Success,
The Lovers shall have Mistresses,
Poor unreguarded Virtue Praise,
And the Neglected Poet Baies.

XLIX

Thus shall our Healths do others good,
Whilst we our selves do all we wou'd;
For freed from Envy and from Care,
What would we be, but what we are?

654

L

'Tis the plump Grapes Immortal Juice
That does this happiness produce,
And will preserve us free together,
Maugre mischance, or Wind and Weather.

LI

Then let Old Winter take his course,
And roar abroad till he be hoarse,
And his Lungs crack with Ruthless Ire,
It shall but serve to blow our Fire.

LII

Let him our little Castle ply,
With all his loud Artillery,
Whilst Sack and Claret Man the Fort,
His Fury shall become our Sport.

LIII

Or, let him Scotland take, and there
Confine the plotting Presbyter;
His Zeal may Freeze, whilst we kept warm
With Love and Wine, can know no harm.

655

An ELEGY upon the Lord Hastings.

Amongst the Mourners that attend his Herse
With slowing Eyes, and wish each Tear a Verse,
T'embalm his Fame, and his dear Merit save
Uninjur'd from th' oblivion of the Grave;
A Sacrificer I am come to be,
Of this poor Off'ring to his Memory.
O could our pious Meditations thrive
So well, to keep his better part alive!
So that, in stead of Him, we could but find
Those fair Examples of his Letter'd Mind:
Vertuous Emulation then might be
Our hopes of Good Men, though not such as He.
But in his hopeful progress since he's crost,
Pale Vertue droops, now her best Pattern's lost.
'Twas hard, neither Divine, nor Humane Parts,
The strength of Goodness, Learning, and of Arts,
Full crowds of Friends, nor all the Pray'rs of them,
Nor that he was the Pillar of his Stem,

656

Affection's Mark, secure of all Mens Hate,
Could rescue him from the sad stroke of Fate.
Why was not th' Air drest in Prodigious forms,
To groan in Thunder, and to weep in Storms?
And, as at some Mens Fall, why did not His
In Nature work a Metamorphosis?
No; he was gentle, and his Soul was sent
A silent Victim to the Firmament.
Weep, Ladies, weep, lament great. Hastings Fall;
His House is bury'd in his Funeral:
Bathe him in Tears, till there appear no trace
Of those sad Blushes in his lovely Face:
Let there be in't of Guilt no seeming sence,
Nor other Colour than of Innocence.
For he was Wise and Good, though he was Young;
Well suited to the Stock from whence he sprung:
And what in Youth is Ignorance and Vice,
In him prov'd Piety of an excellent price.
Farewel, dear Lord; and since thy Body must
In time return to its first Matter, Dust;
Rest in thy melancholy Tomb in Peace: For who
Would longer live, that could but now die so?