Pocula Castalia The Authors Motto. Fortunes Tennis-Ball. Eliza. Poems. Epigrams. &c. By R. B. [i.e Robert Baron] |
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But ah! how short's the tenure of mans blisseOn this side immortality! alas!
The gaudiest Fate with black lines dapled is.
What mortall e'r so bright a day did passe,
But viewing o'r the howers at Night, has seen
Some he had wish'd had not so gloomy been?
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Yee happy Hermits! secur'd by kind fate,From the gilt curse of Fortunes flattery!
Your blisse alone enjoyes a fixed seat,
Ours ebb and flow; you only wealthy be
In voluntary Poverty, and still
Pleas'd what e'r comes, since what's heavens is your will.
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Whilst we are the blind Idoll Fortune's sport,We are her Balls (stufft (ah) how beggerly)
The world so hazzardfull's her Tennis-court,
Contents the Cord, Her bandying Rackets be
Hope and Despair, with these, she (wanting eyne)
Tosse us, ofter below than 'bove the Line.
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Soon to Therevtvs this crosse newes made wingThat Ulorvs (who now he thought had made
The Wormes a feast) on Beauty banqueting
In his fair Daughters armes entwined laid.
So stead of being into his first dust thrown,
Of his own flesh was a chief member grown.
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No Bear rob'd of her Cubs, no hunted BoarMelted to foam, chaft with so buncht a brow.
As dread Tarpean Jove when's thunder tore
The Welkin, and his forkt bolts laid full low
Th'ambitious Piles the hundred hands had rear'd;
With wrath so arm'd the furious King appear'd.
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How can an Infant Muse reach at such woe?Which only he can tell that Father is
To but one girle (whom Cypria did indew
With her choice gifts, and Delius with his)
When he sees him clasp'd in her dear armes ly
Whom he thinks his, and her worst enemy?
222
What Earthquakes in a Land th'Kings anger makes!As th'Forest trembles when the Lions roar,
As Schoole-Boyes when his rod their Master shakes:
Such Palsie seiz'd the Court, And horror more
Than curiosity made all long to know
Since the dread arm was up, whose should be th'blow.
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But these are safe in their best sute of MaleTheir Innocence, the Queen and hers are meant.
So meannesse oft times is the low shrubs baile,
When Cyclops sweat the lofty Cedars rent.
Now overhasty Prince, who would not be
Rather a Groom than Wife or Childe to thee?
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The King no sooner thought it than he sentTo th'Ile a Confident, a man whose will
He knew was melted into his, and bent
To feast all's humors were they good or ill.
He in Commission strong and's trusty Band
Soon left his own, and gain'd th'Æolian strand.
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What time the pale Moon peeping through a cloud,The secrets of the sullen night behold,
He and his train through the Queens guard did croud
With the Black Rod in's hand, which, her, he told
The King had sent, in token she must go
With him, the cause and end she soon should know.
226
The patient Queen with humble grace repli'd,“And wills the King I soon my end should know?
“I thank his Grace, by making me his Bride:
“He heav'd me to the high'st seat Earth can show,
“And still he's good (since then this Earth hath none
“More rich) in giving me a Heavenly Throne.
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To th'Princesse Lodgings next this MessengerOf Death made way, where he did vertue see
With valour sporting; she with her brave Dear,
She the sweet burthen of the Gallants knee.
So Turtles bill, so Kids upon the Plaine,
Their snowie limbes doe wantonly enchain.
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One of her hands (that compact of firm snowAnd softer Ivory) he glew'd to's Lip,
Her other play'd with's jetty Locks. Doves so
From twig to twig as her quick fingers trip
From curl to curl, do hasten; but as they
Are th'Fowlers: so must these be Fortunes prey.
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Now blasts their ears the cruel Message sentFrom th'angry King; now they (O harshest Death!)
From eithers sweet embracements must be rent.
This melts the Princesse's eyes, th'affright her breath
Stopt, and she fainting catcht fast at her Dear,
As drowning men at any bough that's near.
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Upon his Arm she her declining headDid rest, whilst death in gliding sleeps disguize
Crept softly o'r her silence; fear bespred
Her silver Lids as curtaines 'fore her eyes
(Wherein the Sun was set) that her losse might
Not give her fresh wounds by the bitter sight.
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Those Corrall twins her Lips which late I guestBloud hardned into blushing stone, turn'd clay.
Her Breath retired to perfume her Breast;
Her Roses and her Lillies drooping lay;
Her late swift Pulses slept, and did constraine
Their wanton dances in her Saphire veine.
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Th'uncivill Pursivant arm'd with the wreathOf his dread Master, falleth foule upon
The noble Youth; nought threats he lesse than Death,
Than which the vigorous Law more harsh had none.
So Falstaffe triumph'd o'r Hotspur's stiffe clay;
But, what cannot resist is Asses prey.
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The Gallant youth who in just rage e'r whileWould such unmannerly soules kick from their slime,
Now seems no sense of injury to feel
Because the Mans high trust secur'd his crime
From privat chastisement; words poiz'd should be
Not by their own weight but the tongues degree.
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The Ladies that their due attendance paidTo the sweet Princesse in the fright all shear.
Distracted thus, few to their Mistris laid
Their helping hands, which they employ to tear
Their hair now skar'd on end: all their tongues thus
Secure thy selfe by flight Lord Ulorvs.
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As the last Trump shall at that great Assiise(That Day of raising bones, and quickning clay)
Rallie our scatter'd attomes, and we 'rise
From out the mouldie Beds wherein we lay:
So at that Loved name Rosella broke
The bars of drowzie Death, and gently woke.
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