Matthew Prior. Dialogues of the Dead and Other Works ::

Heavy, O Lord, on me thy judgments lie,
Accurst I am, while God rejects my cry.
O'erwhelm'd in darkness and despair I groan;
And ev'ry place is hell; for God is gone.
O! Lord, arise, and let thy beams controul
Those horrid clouds, that press my frighted soul:
Save the poor wand'rer from eternal night,
Thou that art the God of light.

II

Downward I hasten to my destin'd place;
There none obtain thy aid, or sing thy praise.
Soon I shall lie in death's deep ocean drown'd:
Is mercy there; or sweet forgiveness found?
O save me yet, whilst on the brink I stand;
Rebuke the storm, and waft my soul to land.
O let her rest beneath thy wing secure,
Thou that art the God of pow'r.

III

Behold the prodigal! to thee I come,
To hail my father, and to seek my home.
Nor refuge could I find, nor friend abroad,
Straying in vice, and destitute of God.
O let thy terrors, and my anguish end!
Be thou my refuge, and be thou my friend:
Receive the son thou didst so long reprove,
Thou that art the God of love.

ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR, 1692.

The town which Loüis bought, Nassau reclaims,
And brings instead of bribes avenging flames.
Now Loüis take thy titles from Above,
Boileau shall sing, and we'll believe thee Jove.
Jove gained his mistress with alluring gold,
But Jove like Thee was impotent and old:
Active and young he did like William stand,
And stunn'd the Dame, his Thunder in his Hand.

TO A CHILD of QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD, The AUTHOR Forty.

Written in 1704.

I

Lords, knights, and squires, the num'rous band,
That wear the fair miss Mary's fetters,
Were summon'd by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.

II

My pen amongst the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Shou'd dart their kindling fires, and look,
The power they have to be obey'd.

III

Nor quality, nor reputation,
Forbid me yet my flame to tell,
Dear five years old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

IV

For while she makes her silk-worms beds,
With all the tender things I swear,
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair.

V

She may receive and own my flame,
For tho' the strictest prudes shou'd know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.

VI

Then too alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.

VII

For as our diff'rent ages move,
'Tis so ordain'd, wou'd fate but mend it,
That I shall be past making love
When she begins to comprehend it.

TWO RIDDLES.

1710.

Sphinx was a monster that would eat,
Whatever stranger she could get;
Unless his ready wit disclos'd
The subtle riddle she propos'd.

Oedipus was resolv'd to go,
And try what strength of parts would do:
Says Sphinx on this depends your fate;
Tell me what animal is that,
Which has four feet at morning bright,
Has two at noon, and three at night?
'Tis Man, said he, who weak by nature,
At first creeps, like his fellow-creature,
Upon all four, as years accrue,
With sturdy steps he walks on two:
In age, at length, grows weak and sick,
For his third leg adopts the stick.

Now in your turn, 'tis just methinks,
You should resolve me, Madam Sphinx,
What greater stranger yet is he,
Who has four legs, then two, then three;
Then loses one, then gets two more,
And runs away at last on four .

A Prime-Minister.

A FABLE.

Personam Tragicam forte vulpes viderat,
O quanta species, inquit, cerebrum non habet!
Phædr.

The Fox an actor's vizard found,
And peer'd, and felt, and turn'd it round:
Then threw it in contempt away,
And thus old Phædrus heard him say:
What noble part can'st thou sustain,
Thou specious head without a brain?

A SONG.
[_]

SET BY Mr ABEL.

[Reading ends in melancholy]

Reading ends in melancholy,
Wine breeds vices and diseases,
Wealth is but care, and love but folly,
Only Friendship truly pleases:
My wealth, my books, my flask, my Molly,
Farewel all, if Friendship ceases.

CONSUMMATION.

To a Friend.

When Jove lay blest in his Alcmæna's charms,
Three nights, in One, he prest her in his arms;
The sun lay set, and conscious nature strove
To shade her God, and to prolong his love.
From that auspicious night Alcides came,
What less could rise from Jove, and such a Dame?
May this auspicious night with that compare,
Nor less the joys, nor less the rising heir,
He strong as Jove, She like Alcmæna fair.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

To a YOUNG LADY in search of HER DESTINY.

You, Madam, may with safety go,
Decrees of destiny to know.
For at your birth kind planets reign'd,
And certain happiness ordain'd:
Such charms as your's are only given
To chosen favourites of heaven.

But such is my uncertain state,
'Tis dangerous to try my fate:
For I would only know from art,
The future motions of your heart,
And what predestinated doom
Attends my love for years to come;
No secrets else, that mortals learn,
My care deserve, or life concern;
But this will so important be,

I dread to search the dark decree:
For while the smallest hope remains,
Faint joys are mingled with my pains.
Vain distant views my fancy please,
And give some intermitting ease:
But should the stars too plainly show
That you have doom'd my endless woe,
No human force, nor art, could bear
The torment of my wild despair.

This secret then I dare not know,
And other truths are useless now.
What matters, if unblest in love,
How long or short my life will prove?
To gratify what low desire,
Should I with needless haste enquire,
How great, how wealthy, I shall be?
O! what is wealth or pow'r to me?
If I am happy, or undone,
It must proceed from You alone.

AN ENIGMA.

By birth I'm a slave, yet can give you a crown,
I dispose of all honours, my self having none.
I'm obliged by just maxims to govern my life,
Yet I hang my own master, and lie with his wife.
When men are a gaming, I cunningly sneak,
And their cudgels and shovels away from them take.
Fair maidens and ladies, I by the hand get,
And pick off their diamonds, tho' ne'er so well set.
For when I have comrades, we rob in whole bands,
Then presently take off your lands from your hands.
But this fury once over, I've such winning arts,
That you love me much more than you do your own hearts.

CUPID Turned STROLLER.

FROM ANACREON, ODE III.

At dead of night, when stars appear,
And strong Bootes turns the Bear;
When mortals sleep their cares away,
Fatigu'd with labours of the day,
Cupid was knocking at my gate;
Who's there, says I, who knocks so late?
Disturbs my dreams, and breaks my rest?
O fear not me a harmless guest,
He said, but open, open pray;
A foolish child, I've lost my way,
And wander here this moon-light night,
All wet and cold, and wanting light.
With due regard his voice I heard,
Then rose, a ready lamp prepar'd,
And saw a naked boy below,
With wings, a quiver, and a bow:
In haste I ran, unlockt my gate,
Secure and thoughtless of my fate;
I set the Child an easy chair
Against the fire, and dry'd his hair;
Brought friendly cups of chearful wine,
And warm'd his little hands with mine;
All this did I with kind intent;
But he, on wanton mischief bent
Said, dearest friend, this bow you see,
This pretty bow belongs to me:
Observe, I pray, if all be right,
I fear the rain has spoil'd it quite:

He drew it then, and strait I found
Within my breast a secret wound.
This done, the rogue no longer staid,
But leapt away, and laughing said,
Kind host adieu, we now must part,
Safe is my bow, but sick thy heart.

SNUFF.

AN EPIGRAM.

Jove once resolv'd (the Females to degrade)
To propagate their Sex without their aid.
His brain conceiv'd, and soon the pangs, and throws
He felt, nor could th' unnatural birth disclose:
At last when try'd, no remedy would do,
The God took Snuff, and out the Goddess flew.

DAPHNE and APOLLO.

IMITATED.

Nympha, Precor, Penei mane.—
Ovid. Met. Lib. I.

APOLLO.
Abate, fair fugitive, abate thy speed,
Dismiss thy fears, and turn thy beauteous head,
With kind regard a panting lover view,
Less swiftly fly, less swiftly I'll pursue;
Pathless alas, and rugged is the ground,
Some stone may hurt thee, or some thorn may wound.

DAPHNE.
(Aside.)
This care is for himself, as sure as death,
One mile has put the fellow out of breath;
He'll never do, I'll lead him t' other round,
Washy he is, perhaps not over sound.

APOLLO.
You fly, alas, not knowing who you fly,
Nor ill bred swain, nor rusty clown am I;
I Claros-isle, and Tenedos command—

DAPHNE.
Thank ye, I wou'd not leave my native land.

APOLLO.
What is to come, by certain arts I know:

DAPHNE.
Pish, Partridge has as fair pretence as you.

APOLLO.
Behold the beauties of my locks.

(Daph.)

A fig—
That may be counterfeit, a Spanish-Wig;
Who cares for all that bush of curling hair,
Whilst your smooth chin is so extremely bare.

APOLLO.
I sing.

(Daph.)

That never shall be Daphne's choice,
Syphacio had an admirable voice.

APOLLO.
Of ev'ry herb I tell the mystic pow'r,
To certain health the patient I restore,
Sent for, caress'd;

(Daph.)

Ours is a wholsome air,
You'd better go to town and practise there:
For me, I've no obstructions to remove,
I'm pretty well, I thank your father Jove,
And physic is a weak ally to love.

APOLLO.
For learning fam'd fine verses I compose,

DAPHNE.
So do your brother quacks and brother beaux,
Memorials only, and reviews write prose.

APOLLO.
From the bent yew I send the pointed reed,
Sure of its aim, and fatal in its speed.—

DAPHNE.
Then leaving me whom sure you wou'd n't kill,
In yonder thicket exercise your skill,
Shoot there at beasts, but for the human heart
Your cousin Cupid has the only dart.

APOLLO.
Yet turn, O beauteous maid, yet deign to hear
A love-sick Deity's impetuous pray'r;
O let me woo thee as thou wou'dst be woo'd,

DAPHNE.

First therefore don't be so extremely rude;
Don't tear the hedges down, and tread the clover,
Like a hobgoblin rather than a lover;
Next to my father's grotto sometimes come,
At ebbing tide he always is at home.
Read the Courant with him, and let him know
A little politics, how matters go
Upon his brother-rivers Rhine or Po.
As any maid or footman comes or goes
Pull off your hat, and ask how Daphne does:
These sort of folks will to each other tell
That you respect me; That, you know, looks well:
Then if you are, as you pretend, the God
That rules the day, and much upon the road,
You'll find a hundred trifles in your way,
That you may bring one home from Africa;
Some little rarity, some bird, or beast,
And now and then a jewel from the east,
A lacquer'd-cabinet, some China-ware,
You have them mighty cheap at Pekin-fair.
Next, Nota Bene, you shall never rove,
Nor take example by your father Jove.
Last, for the ease and comfort of my life,
Make me your, lord what startles you, your wife;
I'm now, they say, sixteen, or something more,
We mortals seldom live above fourscore;

Fourscore, y' are good at numbers, let us see,
Seventeen suppose, remaining sixty-three,
Aye, in that span of time, you'll bury me.
Mean time if you have tumult, noise, and strife,
Things not abhorrent to a marry'd life,
They'll quickly end you see, what signify
A few odd years to you that never die;
And after all y' are half your time away,
You know your business takes you up all day,
And coming late to bed you need not fear,
Whatever noise I make, you'll sleep, my dear.
Or if a winter-evening shou'd be long
E'en read you physic book, or make a song.
Your steeds, your wife, diachalon, and rhime,
May take up any honest God-head's time,
Thus, as you like it, you may love again,
And let another Daphne have her reign,
Now love, or leave, my dear: retreat, or follow,
I Daphne, this premis'd, take thee Apollo,
And may I split into ten thousand trees
If I give up, on other terms than these.

She said, but what the am'rous God reply'd,
So fate ordain'd, is to our search deny'd,
By rats alas! the manuscript is eat,
O cruel banquet which we all regret;
Bavius, thy labours must this work restore,
May thy good will be equal to thy pow'r.

PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY Lord BUCKHURST, AT WESTMINSTER-SCHOOL,

At a Representation of Mr Dryden's CLEOMENES, The Spartan HERO.

At Christmas. 1695.

Pish, lord, I wish this Prologue was but Greek,
Then young Cleonidas would boldly speak:
But can Lord Buckhurst in poor English say,
Gentle spectators pray excuse the play?
No, witness all ye Gods of ancient Greece,
Rather than condescend to terms like these,
I'd go to school six hours on Christmas-day,
Or construe Persius while my comrades play.
Such work by hireling actors should be done,
Who tremble when they see a critic frown.
Poor rogues that smart like fencers for their bread,
And if they are not wounded are not fed.
But, Sirs, our labour has more noble ends,
We act our Tragedy to see our Friends:
Our gen'rous scenes are for pure love repeated,
And if you are not pleas'd, at least your treated.
The candles and the cloaths our selves we bought,
Our Tops neglected, and our Balls forgot.
To learn our parts we left our midnight bed,
Most of you snored whilst Cleomenes read;
Not that from this confession we would sue
Praise undeserv'd; we know our selves and you:
Resolv'd to stand or perish by our cause,
We neither censure fear, or beg applause,
For those are Westminster and Sparta's laws.

Yet if we see some judgment well inclin'd,
To young desert, and growing virtue kind,
That critic by ten thousand marks should know,
That greatest souls to goodness only bow;
And that your little Hero does inherit
Not Cleomenes more than Dorset's spirit.

[THE SECRETARY.]

Written at the HAGUE, In the year 1696.

While with labour assid'ous due pleasure I mix,
And in one day atone for the bus'ness of six,
In a little Dutch-chaise on a Saturday night,
On my left hand my Horace, a Nymph on my right.
No Memoire to compose, and no Post-Boy to move,
That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love;
For her, neither visits, nor parties of tea,
Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugée.
This night and the next shall be her's, shall be mine,
To good or ill fortune the third we resign:
Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate,
I drive on my car in processional state;
So with Phia thro' Athens Pysistratus rode,
Men thought her Minerva, and him a new God.
But why should I stories of Athens rehearse,
Where people knew love, and were partial to verse,
Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose,
In Holland half drowned in int'rest and prose:
By Greece and past ages, what need I be try'd,
When the Hague and the present, are both on my side,
And is it enough, for the joys of the day;
To think what Anacreon, or Sappho would say.
When good Vandergoes, and his provident Vrough,
As they gaze on my triumph, do freely allow,
That search all the province, you'd find no man there is
So bless'd as the Englishen Heer SECRETARIS.

THE MICE

A TALE.

TO Mr ADRIAN DRIFT, in the Year 1708–9.

Two Mice (dear boy) of genteel fashion,
And (what is more) good education,
Frolic and gay, in infant years,
Equally shar'd their parents cares.
The sire of these two babes (poor creature)
Paid his last debt to human nature;
A wealthy widow left behind,
Four babes, three male, one female kind.
The sire b'ing under ground, and bury'd,
'Twas thought his spouse would soon have marry'd;
Matches propos'd, and num'rous suitors,
Most tender husbands, careful tutors,
She modestly refus'd; and show'd
She'd be a mother to her brood.

Mother, dear mother, that endearing thought,
Has thousand, and ten thousand, fancies brought;
Tell me, O! tell me (thou art now above)
How to describe thy true maternal love,
Thy early pangs, thy growing anxious cares,
Thy flatt'ring hopes, thy fervent pious pray'rs,
Thy doleful days, and melancholy nights,
Cloyster'd from common joys, and just delights:

How thou didst constantly in private mourn,
And wash with daily tears thy spouse's urn;
How it employ'd your thoughts, and lucid time,
That your young offspring might to honour climb;
How your first care by num'rous griefs opprest,
Under the burthen sunk, and went to rest;
How your dear darling, by consumption's waste,
Breath'd her last piety into your breast;
How you alas! tyr'd with your pilgrimage,
Bow'd down your head, and dy'd in good old age.
Tho' not inspir'd, O! may I never be
Forgetful of my pedigree, or thee,
Ungrateful howsoe'er, mayn't I forget
To pay this small, yet tributary debt,
And when we meet at God's tribunal throne,
Own me, I pray thee, for a pious son.

But why all this? is this your fable?
Believe me Matt, it seems a bauble,
If you will let me know th' intent on't,
Go to your Mice, and make an end on't.

Well then dear brother,—
As sure as Hudi's sword could swaddle,
Two Mice were brought up in one cradle,
Well bred, I think, of equal port,
One for the gown, one for the court:
They parted, (did they so an't please you)
Yes, that they did (dear Sir) to ease you;
One went to Holland, where they huff folk,
T' other to vent his wares in Suffolk.
(That Mice have travell'd in old times,
Horace and Prior tell in rhymes,
Those two great wonders of their ages,
Superior far to all the sages.)
Many days past, and many a night,
E'er they could gain each other's sight;
At last in weather cold (not sultry)
They met at the Three-Cranes in Poultry.
After much buss, and great grimace,
(Usual you know in such a case)

Much chat arose, what had been done,
What might before next summer's sun;
Much said of France, of Suffolk's goodness,
The gentry's loyalty, mobbs rudeness,
That ended; o'er a charming bottle,
They enter'd on this tittle tattle.

Quoth Suffolk, by preheminence
In years, tho' (God knows) not in sense;
All's gone dear brother, only we
Remain to raise posterity;
Marry you brother; I'll go down,
Sell nouns and verbs, and lie alone.
May you ne'er meet with feuds or babble,
May olive-branches crown your table,
Somewhat I'll save, and for this end,
To prove a brother, and a friend.
What I propose is just, I swear it,
Or may I perish by this claret.
The dice are thrown, chuse this or that,
('Tis all alike to honest Matt)
I'll take then the contrary part,
And propagate with all my heart.
After some thought, some Portugueze,
Some wine, the younger thus replies.

Fair are your words, as fair your carr'age,
Let me be free, drudge you in marr'age,
Get me a boy call'd Adrian,
Trust me, I'll do for't what I can.
Home went well pleas'd the Suffolk tony,
Heart-free from care, as purse from money,
Resolving full to please his taudy,
He got a spouse, and jerk'd her body;
At last when teeming time was come,
Out came her burthen from her womb,
It prov'd a lusty squalling boy,
(Doubtless the dad's and mammy's joy.)
In short, to make things square and even,
Adrian he nam'd was by Dick, Stephen.

100

Matt's debt thus paid, he now enlarges,
And sends you in a bill of charges,
A cradle (brother) and a basket,
(Granted as soon as e'er I ask'd it)
A coat not of the smallest scantling,
Frocks, stockings, shoes, to grace the bantling,
These too were sent, (or I'm no drubber)
Nay add to these the fine gum-rubber;
Yet these wo'nt do, send t' other coat,
For (faith) the first e'nt worth a groat,
Dismally shrunk, as herrings shotten,
Suppos'd originally rotten.
Pray let the next be each way longer,
Of stuff more durable, and stronger;
Send it next week, if you are able,
By this time, Sir, you know the fable;
From this, and letters of the same make,
You'll find what 'tis to have a name-sake.

Cold and hard times, Sir, here, (believe it)
I've lost my curate too, and grieve it,
At Easter, for what I can see,
(A time of ease and vacancy)
If things but alter, and not undone,
I'll kiss your hands, and visit London;
Molly sends greeting, so do I Sir,
Send a good coat, that's all, good b'ye Sir.

Your's entirely, MATTHEW.

Wednesday Night, 10 o'Clock, Feb. 16, 1708/9.

101

THE VICEROY.

A BALLAD.
[_]

TO The Tune of The Lady Isabella's Tragedy: Or: The Step-Mother's Cruelty.

Written in 1714.

I

Of Nero, tyrant, petty king,
Who hertofore did reign
In fam'd Hibernia, I will sing,
And in a ditty plain.

II

He hated was by rich and poor,
For reasons you shall hear,
So ill he exercis'd his pow'r,
That he himself did fear.

III

Full proud and arrogant was he,
And covetous withal,
The guilty he would still set free,
But guiltless men enthral.

IV

He with a haughty impious nod
Would curse and dogmatize,
Not fearing either man or God,
Gold he did idolize.

102

V

A patriot of high degree,
Who could no longer bear
This upstart Viceroy's tyranny,
Against him did declare.

VI

And arm'd with truth impeach'd the Don,
Of his enormous crimes,
Which I'll unfold to you anon,
In low, but faithful rimes.

VII

The articles recorded stand,
Against this peerless peer,
Search but the archives of the land,
You'll find them written there.

VIII

Attend, and justly I'll recite
His treasons to you all,
The heads set in their native light,
(And sigh poor Gaphny's fall.)

IX

That trait'rously he did abuse
The pow'r in him repos'd,
And wickedly the same did use,
On all mankind impos'd.

X

That he, contrary to all law,
An oath did frame and make,
Compelling the militia,
Th' illegal oath to take.

103

XI

Free-quarters for the army too,
He did exact and force,
On Protestants, his love to show,
Than Papists us'd them worse.

XII

On all provisions destin'd for
The camp at Limerick,
He laid a tax full hard and sore,
Tho' many men were sick.

XIII

The suttlers too he did ordain
For licences should pay,
Which they refus'd with just disdain,
And fled the camp away.

XIV

By which provisions were so scant,
That hundreds there did die,
The soldiers food and drink did want,
Nor famine cou'd they fly.

XV

He so much lov'd his private gain,
He could nor hear or see,
They might, or die, or might complain,
Without relief pardie.

XVI

That above and against all right,
By word of mouth did he,
In council sitting, hellish spite,
The farmer's fate decree.

XVII

That he, O! Ciel, without trial,
Straitway shou'd hanged be,
Tho' then the courts were open all,
Yet Nero judge wou'd be.

104

XVIII

No sooner said, but it was done,
The Borreau did his worst,
Gaphny alas! is dead and gone,
And left his judge accurst.

XIX

In this concise, despotic way,
Unhappy Gaphny fell,
Which did all honest men affray,
As truly it might well.

XX

Full two good hundred pounds a year,
This poor man's real estate,
He set'led on his fav'rite dear,
And Culliford can say't.

XXI

Besides, he gave five hundred pound
To Fielding his own scribe,
Who was his bail, one friend he found,
He ow'd him to the bribe.

XXII

But for this horrid murder vile,
None did him prosecute,
His old friend helpt him o'er the stile,
With Satan who'd dispute?

XXIII

With France, fair England's mortal foe
A trade he carry'd on,
Had any other don't, I trow,
To Tripos he had gone.

XXIV

That he did likewise trait'rously,
To bring his ends to bear,
Enrich himself most knavishly,
O thief without compare.

105

XXV

Vast quantities of stores did he
Embezzel and purloin,
Of the King's stores he kept a key,
Converting them to coin.

XXVI

The forfeited estates also,
Both real and personal,
Did with the stores together go,
Fierce Cerb'rus swallow'd all.

XXVII

Mean while the soldiers sigh'd and sobb'd,
For not one souse had they,
His Excellence' had each man fobb'd,
For He had sunk their pay.

XXVIII

Nero, without the least disguise,
The Papists at all times
Still favour'd, and their robberies
Look'd on as trivial crimes.

XXIX

The Protestants whom they did rob,
During his government,
Were forc'd with patience, like good Job,
To rest themselves content.

XXX

For he did basely them refuse
All legal remedy,
The Romans he still well did use,
Still screen'd their roguery.

XXXI

Succinctly thus to you I've told,
How this Viceroy did reign,
And other truths I shall unfold,
For truth is always plain.

106

XXXII

The best of Queen's he hath revil'd,
Before, and since her death,
He, cruel and ungrateful, smil'd
When she resign'd her breath.

XXXIII

Forgetful of the favours kind,
She had on him bestow'd,
Like Lucifer, his ranc'rous mind,
He lov'd nor Her nor God.

XXXIV

But listen Nero, lend thy ears,
As still thou hast them on;
Hear what Britannia says with tears,
Of Anna, dead and gone.

XXXV

“O! sacred be Her memory,
“For ever dear Her name,
“There never was, or e'er can be,
“A brighter, juster, Dame.

XXXVI

“Blest be My Sons, and eke all those,
“Who on Her praises dwell,
“She conquer'd Britain's fiercest foes,
“She did all Queens excel.

XXXVII

“All Princes, Kings, and Potentates,
“Ambassadors did send,
“All nations, provinces, and states,
“Sought Anna for their friend.

XXXVIII

“In Anna They did all confide,
“For Anna They could trust,
“Her royal faith they all had try'd,
“For Anna still was just.

107

XXXIX

“Truth, Mercy, Justice, did surround
“Her awful judgment-seat,
“In Her the Graces all were found,
“In Anna all compleat.

XL

“She held the sword and ballance right,
“And sought Her people's good,
“In clemency she did delight;
“Her reign not stain'd with blood.

XLI

“Her gracious goodness, piety
“In all her deeds did shine,
“And bounteous was her charity,
“All attributes divine.

XLII

“Consummate wisdom, meekness all,
“Adorn'd the words she spoke,
“When they from Her fair lips did fall,
“And sweet her lovely look.

XLIII

“Ten thousand glorious deeds to crown,
“She caus'd dire war to cease,
“A greater Empress ne'er was known,
“She fix'd the world in peace.

XLIV

“This last and Godlike-act atchiev'd,
“To Heav'n She wing'd Her flight,
“Her loss with tears all Europe griev'd,
“Their strength, and dear delight.

XLV

“Leave we in bliss this heav'nly Saint,
“Revere ye just Her urn,
“Her virtues high and excellent,
“Astrea gone we mourn.

108

XLVI

“Commemorate my Sons the day,
“Which gave great Anna birth,
“Keep it for ever, and for aye,
“And annual be your mirth.”

XLVII

Illustrious George now fills the throne,
Our wise, benign, good king,
Who can his wond'rous deeds make known?
Or his bright actions sing?

XLVIII

Thee, fav'rite Nero, he has deign'd,
To raise to high degree,
Well Thou thy honours hast sustain'd,
Well voucht Thy ancestry.

XLIX

But pass—These honours on Thee laid,
Can they e'er make thee white,
Don't Gaphny's blood, which thou hast shed,
Thy guilty soul affright?

L

O! is there not, grim mortal tell,
Places of bliss and wo?
O! is there not a Heav'n, a Hell?
But whither wilt Thou go?

LI

Can nought change thy obdurate mind?
Wilt Thou for ever rail?
The prophet on Thee well refin'd,
And set thy wit to sale.

LII

How Thou art lost to sense and shame,
Three countries witness be,
Thy conduct all just men do blame,
Lib'ra nos Domine.

109

LIII

Dame Justice waits Thee well I ween,
Her sword is brandish'd high,
Nought can thee from Her vengeance screen,
Nor can'st Thou from Her fly.

LIV

Heavy Her ire will fall on Thee,
The glitt'ring steel is sure,
Sooner or later, all agree,
She cuts off the impure.

LV

To Her I leave Thee, gloomy Peer,
Think on Thy crimes committed,
Repent, and be for once sincere,
Thou ne'er wilt be De-Witted.

Sabbati 16. die Decembris 5 Gulielmi & Mariæ 1693.

UPON THIS PASSAGE IN SCALIGERIANA.

Les Allemans ne ce soucient pas quel Vin ils boivent pouveu que ce soit Vin, ni quel Latin ils parlent pouveu que ce soit Latin.

When you with High-Dutch Heeren dine,
Expect false Latin, and stumm'd Wine,
They never Taste who always Drink,
They always Talk who never Think.

110

Nell and John.

An Epigram.

I

When Nell, given o'er by the doctor, was dying,
And John at the chimney stood decently crying,
'Tis in vain said the Woman, to make such ado,
For to our long home, we must all of us go.

II

True, Nell, reply'd John, but what yet is the worst
For us that remain, the best always go first;
Remember, dear wife, that I said so last year,
When you lost your white heifer, and I my brown mare.

Bibo.

An Epigram.

When Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat,
As full of Champagne, as an egg's full of meat;
He wak'd in the boat, and to Charon he said,
He wou'd be row'd back, for he was not yet dead.
Trim the boat, and sit quiet, stern Charon reply'd,
You may have forgot, you were drunk when you dy'd.

Gabriel and his Wives.

An Epigram.

I

O death how thou spoil'st the best projects of life,
Said Gabriel, who still as he bury'd One wife,
For the sake of her family marry'd her cousin;

II

And thus in an honest collateral line,
He still marry'd on till his number was Nine,
Full sorry to die till he made up his Dozen.

111

Silvia.

An Epigram.

Her time with equal prudence Silvia shares,
First writes her Billet-doux, then says her pray'rs,
Her mass and toilet; vespers, and the play;
Thus God and Ashtaroth divide the day:
Constant she keeps her Ember-week, and Lent,
At Easter calls all Israel to her tent:
Loose without band, and pious without zeal,
She still repeats the sins she would conceal;
Envy her self from Silvia's life must grant,
An artful woman makes a modern saint.

Richard and Nelly.

An Epigram.

Quoth Richard in jest, looking wistly at Nelly,
Methinks child you seem something round in the belly:
Nell answer'd him snapishly, How can that be?
My husband has been more than two years at sea.
Thy husband! quoth Dick, why that matter was carry'd
Most secretly, Nell, I ne'er thought thou wer't marry'd.

CUPID IN AMBUSH.

It oft to many has successful been,
Upon his arm to let his mistress lean,
Or with her airy fan to cool her heat,
Or gently squeeze her knees, or press her feet.
All public sports to favour young desire,
With opportunities like this conspire;
Ev'n where his skill, the Gladiator shows,
With human blood, where the Arena flows.

112

There oftentimes love's quiver-bearing-Boy,
Prepares his bow and arrows to destroy:
While the spectator gazes on the fight,
And sees 'em wound each other with delight.
While he his pretty mistress entertains,
And wagers with her who the conquest gains;
Slily the God takes aim and hits his heart,
And in the wounds he sees he bears his part.

Nannette.

A Song.

I

Haste my Nannette, my lovely maid,
Haste to the bower, thy swain has made.

II

For thee alone I made the bower,
And strew'd the couch with many a flower.

III

None but my Sheep shall near us come,
Venus be prais'd, my sheep are dumb.

IV

Great God of love, take thou my crook,
To keep the wolf from Nannette's flock.

V

Guard thou the sheep, to her so dear,
My own, alas! are less my care.

VI

But of the wolf, if thou'rt afraid,
Come not to us to call for aid.

VII

For with her swain my love shall stay,
Tho' the wolf strole, and the sheep stray.

113

The Priest and the Shepherd.

An Imitation OF A GREEK EPIGRAM.

When hungry wolves had trespass'd on the fold,
And the robb'd shepherd his sad story told;
“Call in Alcides, said a crafty priest,
“Give him one half, and he'll secure the rest.”
No, said the shepherd, if the Fates decree,
By ravaging my flock to ruin me;
To their commands I willingly resign,
Pow'r is their character, and patience mine:
Tho', troth to me, there seems but little odds,
Who prove the greatest robbers, wolves or Gods?

ON A FART, LET IN THE HOUSE of COMMONS.

Reader I was born, and cry'd;
I crack'd, I smelt, and so I dy'd.
Like Julius Cæsar's was My death,
Who in the senate lost his breath.
Much alike entomb'd does lie
The noble Romulus and I;
And when I dy'd, like Flora fair,
I left the Common-Wealth my heir

114

On Hall's Death.

An Epigram.

Poor Hall caught his death standing under a spout,
Expecting till midnight, when Nan would come out;
But fatal his patience, as cruel the Dame,
And curst was the Weather that quench'd the Man's flame.
“Who e'er thou art that reads these moral lines,
“Make love at home, and go to bed betimes.”

Prometheus.

An Epigram.

Prometheus forming Mr Day,
Carv'd something like a man in clay.
The mortal's work might well miscarry;
He that does heav'n and earth controul,
Has only pow'r to form a soul,
His hand is evident in Harry.
Since One is but a moving clod,
T'Other the lively form of God,
'Squire Wallis, you will scare be able,
To prove all poetry but fable.

THE WANDERING PILGRIM.

HUMBLY ADDRESSED TO Sir Thomas Frankland, Bart. Post-Master, and Pay-Master-General to Queen Anne.

I

Will Piggot must to Coxwould go,
To live, alas! in want,
Unless Sir Thomas say No, no,
Th' Allowance is too scant.

115

II

The gracious Knight full well does weet,
Ten farthings ne'er will do,
To keep a man each day in meat,
Some bread to meat is due.

III

A Rechabite poor Will must live,
And drink of Adam's ale,
Pure-Element, no life can give,
Or mortal soul regale.

IV

Spare diet, and spring-water clear,
Physicians hold are good;
Who diet's thus need never fear,
A fever in the blood.

V

Gra'mercy, Sirs, y'are in the right,
Prescriptions All can sell,
But he that does not eat can't sh***
Or piss if good drink fail.

VI

But pass—The Æsculapian-Crew,
Who eat and quaff the best,
They seldom miss to bake and brew,
Or lin to break their fast.

VII

Could Yorkshire-Tyke but do the same,
Than He like Them might thrive,
But Fortune, Fortune, cruel Dame,
To starve Thou do'st Him drive.

VIII

In Will's Old master's plenteous days,
His mem'ry e'er be blest;
What need of speaking in his praise,
His goodness stands confest.

116

IX

At His fam'd gate stood Charity,
In lovely sweet array,
Ceres, and Hospitality,
Dwelt there both night and day.

X

But to conclude, and be concise,
Truth must Will's voucher be,
Truth never yet went in disguise,
For naked still is She.

XI

There is but One, but One alone,
Can set the Pilgrim free,
And make him cease to pine and moan,
O! Frankland it is Thee.

XII

O! save him from a dreary way,
To Coxwould he must hye,
Bereft of thee he wends astray,
At Coxwould he must dye.

XIII

O! let him in thy hall but stand,
And wear a porter's gown,
Duteous to what Thou may'st command,
Thus William's wishes crown.

THE ADVICE OF VENUS.

Thus to the Muses Spoke the Cyprian-Dame;
Adorn my altars, and revere my name.
My Son shall else assume his potent darts,
Twang goes the bow, my Girls, have at your hearts.

117

The Muses answer'd,—Venus we deride,
The Vagrant's malice, and his Mother's pride.
Send him to Nymphs who sleep on Ida's shade,
To the loose dance, and wanton masquerade:
Our thoughts are setled, and intent our look,
On the instructive verse, and moral book;
On female idleness his pow'r relies,
But when he finds us studying-hard he flies.

CUPID TURNED PLOWMAN.

FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.

His lamp, his bow, and quiver, laid aside,
A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders ty'd:
Sly Cupid always on new mischief bent,
To the rich field, and furrow'd tillage went.
Like any Plowman toil'd the little God,
His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sow'd;
Then sat and laugh'd, and to the skies above
Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove.
Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain,
And, as I bid you, let it shine or rain.
Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow,
Fell the sharp goad, and draw the servile plow,
What once Europa was Nannette is now.

118

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

AN EPIGRAM.

H.
O with what woes am I opprest!

W.
Be still you senseless Calf:
What if the Gods should make you blest?

H.
Why then I'd sing and laugh:
But if they won't, I'll wail, and cry.

W.
You'll hardly laugh, before you die.

TO FORTUNE.

ANOTHER.

Whilst I in Prison on a Court look down,
Nor beg thy favour, nor deserve thy frown,
In vain malicious Fortune, hast thou try'd,
By taking from my state to quell my Pride:
Insulting Girl, thy present rage abate;
And would'st thou have me humble, make me Great.

CHAST FLORIMEL.

I

No, I'll endure ten thousand deaths,
E'er any farther I comply;
O! Sir, no man on earth that breathes,
Had ever yet his hand so high.

119

II

O! take your sword and pierce my heart,
Undaunted see me meet the wound;
O! will you act a Tarquin's part?
A second Lucrece you have found.

III

Thus to the pressing Corydon,
Poor Florimel, unhappy maid,
Fearing by love to be undone,
In broken, dying, accents said.

IV

Delia, who held the conscious door,
Inspir'd by truth and brandy, smil'd,
Knowing that sixteen months before,
Our Lucrece had her second child.

V

And, hark ye, Madam, cry'd the bawd,
None of your flights, your high-rope dodging;
Be civil here, or march abroad;
Oblige the 'Squire, or quit the lodging.

VI

O! have I, Florimel went on,
Have I then lost my Delia's aid?
Where shall forsaken virtue run,
If by her friends she is betray'd?

VII

O! curse on empty friendship's name;
Lord, what is all our future view?
Then, dear destroyer of my fame,
Let my last succour be to you.

VIII

From Delia's rage, and Fortune's frown,
A wretched love-sick maid deliver;
O! tip me but another Crown,
Dear Sir, and make me Your's for ever.

120

PARTIAL FAME.

I

The sturdy Man if he in love obtains,
In open pomp and triumph reigns;
The subtil Woman if she should succeed,
Disowns the honour of the deed.

II

Tho' He for all his boast, is forc'd to yield,
Tho' She can always keep the field,
He vaunts His Conquest, She conceals Her Shame;
How Partial is the voice of Fame?

A SONG.
[_]

SET BY Mr PURCEL.

[Whither would my passion run]

I

Whither would my passion run,
Shall I fly Her, or pursue Her?
Losing Her I am undone,
Yet would not gain Her to undo Her.

II

Ye tyrants of the human breast,
Love and Reason! cease your war,
And order Death to give me rest;
So each will equal triumph share.

121

NON PAREIL.

In Praise of Phyllis.

I

Let others from the town retire,
And in the fields seek new delight;
My Phillis does such joys inspire,
No other objects please my sight.

II

In Her alone I find whate'er
Beauties a country-landscape grace;
No shades so lovely as Her hair,
Nor plain so sweet as is Her face.

III

Lilies and roses there combine,
More beauteous than in flow'ry field;
Transparent is Her skin, so fine,
To this each crystal stream must yield.

IV

Her voice more sweet than warbling sound,
Tho' sung by nightingale or lark,
Her eyes such lustre dart around,
Compar'd to them the sun is dark.

V

Both light and vital heat they give,
Cherish'd by Them my love takes root,
From Her kind looks does life receive,
Grows a fair plant; bears flow'rs, and fruit.

VI

Such fruit, I ween, did once deceive
The common parent of mankind;
And made transgress our mother Eve:
Poison it's core, tho' fair it's rind.

VII

Yet so delicious is it's taste,
I cannot from the bait abstain,
But to th' inchanting pleasure haste,
Tho' I were sure 'twou'd end in pain.

122

UPON HONOUR.

A FRAGMENT.

Honour, I say, or honest Fame,
I mean the substance, not the name;
(Not that light heap of tawdry wares,
Of Ermin, Coronets, and Stars,
Which often is by merit sought,
By gold and flatt'ry oft'ner bought.
The shade, for which Ambition looks,
In Selden's or in Ashmole's books:)
But the true glory which proceeds,
Reflected bright from honest deeds,
Which we in our Own breast perceive,
And Kings can neither take nor give.

THE OLD GENTRY.

I

That all from Adam first began,
None but ungodly Woolston doubts,
And that His son, and His son's son,
Were all but plowmen, clowns, and louts.

II

Each when his rustic pains began,
To merit pleaded equal right,
'Twas only who left Off at noon,
Or who went On to work till night.

123

III

But coronets we owe to crowns,
And favour to a court's affection,
By nature we are Adam's sons,
And sons of Anstis by election.

IV

Kingsale, eight hundred years have roll'd,
Since thy forefathers held the plow,
When this shall be in story told,
Add, That my kindred do so now.

V

The man who by his labour gets
His bread, in independant state,
Who never begs, and seldom eats,
Himself can fix, or change his fate.

THE INCURABLE.

AN EPIGRAM.

Phillis you boast of perfect health in vain,
And laugh at those who of their ills complain:
That with a frequent fever Cloe burns,
And Stella's plumpness into dropsy turns.
O! Phillis, while the patients are nineteen,
Little, alas! are their distempers seen.
But Thou for all Thy seeming health art ill,
Beyond thy lover's hopes, or Blackmore's skill;
No lenitives can thy disease asswage,
I tell Thee, 'Tis incurable—'tis Age.

124

THE Insatiable PRIEST.

I

Luke Preach-Ill, admires what we laymen can mean,
That thus by our profit and pleasure are sway'd;
He has but three livings, and would be a Dean,
His wife dy'd this year, He has marry'd His maid.

II

To suppress all His carnal desires in their birth,
At all hours a lusty young hussy is near;
And to take off His thought from the things of this earth,
He can be content with two thousand a year.

DOCTORS Differ.

AN EPIGRAM.

When Willis of Ephraim heard Rochester preach,
Thus Bently said to him, I pr'ythee, dear brother,
How lik'st Thou this Sermon? 'Tis out of My reach,
His is One way, said Willis, and Ours is Another.
I care not for carping, but this I can tell,
We preach very sadly, if he preaches well.

PONTIUS AND PONTIA.

I

Pontius, (who loves you know a joke,
Much better than he loves his life)
Chanc'd t'other morning to provoke
The patience of a well-bred wife.

125

II

Talking of you, said he, my dear,
Two of the greatest wits in town,
One ask'd, If that high fuzz of hair
Was, bona fide, all your Own.

III

Her own, most certain, t'other said,
For Nan, who knows the thing, will tell ye,
The hair was bought, the money paid,
And the receipt was sign'd Ducailly.

IV

Pontia, (that civil prudent She,
Who values wit much less than sense,
And never darts a repartee,
But purely in Her own defense)

V

Reply'd, These friends of your's, my dear,
Are given extremely much to satire,
But pr'ythee husband, let one hear,
Sometimes less wit, and more good-nature.

VI

Now I have one unlucky thought,
That wou'd have spoil'd your friend's conceit;
Some hair I have, I'm sure, unbought,
Pray bring your brother-wits to see't.

Cautious Alice.

So good a Wife doth Lissy make,
That from all company She flieth.
Such virtuous courses doth She take,
That She all evil tongues defieth.
And for her dearest Spouse's sake,
She with His brethren only lieth.

126

TO A POET of Quality, PRAISING THE Lady HINCHINBROKE.

I

Of thy judicious Muse's sense,
Young Hinchinbroke so very proud is,
That Sacharissa, and Hortense,
She looks, henceforth, upon as Doudies.

II

Yet She to One must still submit,
To dear mamma must pay Her duty,
She wonders praising Wilmot's wit,
Thou shou'dst forget His Daughter's beauty.

The PRATER.

An Epigram.

Lysander talks extremely well;
On any subject let him dwell,
His tropes and figures will content Ye:
He should possess to all degrees
The art of talk, he practises
Full fourteen hours in four and twenty.

127

TRUTH TOLD AT LAST.

AN EPIGRAM.

Says Pontius in rage, contradicting his Wife,
“You never yet told me one Truth in your life:”
Vext Pontia no way could this Thesis allow,
“You're a Cuckold, say's she, do I tell you Truth now?”

AN ENIGMA.

Form'd half beneath, and half above the earth,
We Sisters owe to art our second birth:
The Smith's and Carpenter's adopted Daughters,
Made on the land, to travel on the waters.
Swifter they move, as they are straiter bound,
Yet neither tread the air, or wave, or ground:
They serve the poor for use, the rich for whim,
Sink when it rains, and when it freezes swim.

TWO BEGGARS Disputing their Right to an Oyster they had Found; a Lawyer thus decides the Cause.

Blind Plaintiff, lame Defendant, share
The friendly Laws impartial care.
A Shell for Him, A Shell for Thee,
The Middle is the Lawyer's-Fee.
So Judge's Word decrees the People's Right,
And Magna Charta is a Paper-Kite.

128

A FRENCH SONG.

I

Why thus from the Plain does my Shepherdess rove,
Forsaking Her swain, and neglecting His love?
You have heard all my grief, you see how I die,
O! give some relief to the swain whom you fly.

II

How can you complain, or what am I to say,
Since my dog lies unfed, and my sheep run astray;
Need I tell what I mean, that I languish alone,
When I leave all the Plain, you may guess 'tis for One.

HUMAN LIFE.

What trifling coil do we poor mortals keep;
Wake, eat, and drink, evacuate, and sleep.

A CASE STATED.

I

Now how shall I do with my love and my pride,
Dear Dick give me counsel, if Friendship has any,
Pr'ythee purge, or let blood, surly Richard reply'd,
And forget the Coquet in the arms of your Nanny.

129

II

While I pleaded with passion how much I deserv'd,
For the pains and the torments for more than a year;
She look'd in an Almanack, whence she observ'd,
That it wanted a fortnight to Bartlemew-Fair.

III

My Cowley, and Waller, how vainly I quote,
While my negligent judge only Hears with her Eye,
In a long flaxen-wig, and embroider'd new coat,
Her spark saying nothing talks better than I.

FOR My own Monument.

I

As Doctors give physic by way of prevention,
Matt alive and in health, of his Tomb-Stone took care,
For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention
May haply be never fulfill'd by his Heir.

II

Then take Matt's word for it, the Sculptor is paid,
That the Figure is fine, pray believe your own eye,
Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,
For we flatter our selves, and teach marble to lye.

III

Yet counting as far as to Fifty his years,
His virtues and vices were as other men's are,
High hopes he conceiv'd, and he smother'd great fears,
In a life party-colour'd, half pleasure, half care.

130

IV

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,
He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree,
In public employments industrious and grave,
And alone with his friends, Lord how merry was he.

V

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,
Both fortunes he try'd, but to neither would trust,
And whirl'd in the round, as the wheel turn'd about,
He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.

VI

This verse little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere
Sets neither his titles nor merit to view,
It says that his relics collected lie here,
And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.

VII

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,
So Matt may be kill'd, and his bones never found,
False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea,
So Matt may yet chance to be hang'd, or be drown'd.

VIII

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,
To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same,
And if passing thou giv'st him a smile, or a tear,
He cares not—yet pr'ythee be kind to his Fame.

TO My Lord HARLEY.

EXTEMPORE.

Pen, ink, and wax, and paper send,
To the kind Wife, the lovely Friend;
Smiling bid Her freely write,
What her happy thoughts indite;
Of Virtue, Goodness, Peace, and Love,
Thoughts which Angels may approve.

M. P.

131

A LETTER TO The Honourable LADY Miss Margaret-Cavendish-Holles-Harley.

My noble, lovely, little Peggy,
Let this, my First-Epistle, beg ye,
At dawn of morn, and close of even,
To lift your heart and hands to heaven:
In double beauty say your pray'r,
Our father first, then notre pere;
And, dearest Child, along the day,
In ev'ry thing you do and say,
Obey and please my Lord and Lady,
So God shall love, and Angels aid, Ye.

If to these Precepts You attend,
No Second-Letter need I send,
And so I rest Your constant Friend,

M. P.

TRUTH AND FALSHOOD.

A TALE.

Once on a time, in sun-shine weather,
Falshood and Truth walk'd out together,
The neighb'ring woods and lawns to view,
As opposites will sometimes do.

132

Thro' many a blooming mead They past,
And at a brook arriv'd at last.
The purling stream, the margin green,
With flowers bedeck'd, a vernal scene,
Invited each itin'rant maid
To rest a while beneath the shade;
Under a spreading beach They sat,
And pass'd the time with female chat;
Whilst each her character maintain'd;
One spoke her thoughts; the Other feign'd.

At length, quoth Falshood, Sister Truth,
For so She call'd Her from Her youth,
What if to shun yon sult'ry beam,
We bathe in this delightful stream;
The bottom smooth, the water clear,
And there's no prying shepherd near?—
With all my heart, the Nymph reply'd,
And threw Her snowy robes aside,
Stript her self naked to the skin,
And with a spring leapt headlong in.
Falshood more leisurely undrest,
And laying by Her tawdry vest,
Trick'd her self out in Truth's array,
And cross the meadows tript away.

From this curst hour, the Fraudful Dame,
Of sacred Truth usurps the name,
And with a vile, perfidious mind,
Roams far and near to cheat mankind;
False sighs suborns, and artful tears,
And starts with vain, pretended fears;
In visits, still appears most wise,
And rolls at church Her saint-like-eyes.
Talks very much, plays idle tricks,
While rising-stock Her conscience pricks,
When being, poor thing, extremely gravell'd,
She secrets ope'd, and all unravell'd.
But on She will, and secrets tell
Of John and Joan, and Ned and Nell,

133

Reviling ev'ry One She knows,
As fancy leads, beneath the rose.
Her tongue so voluble and kind,
It always runs before Her mind;
As times do serve She slily pleads,
And copious tears still shew Her needs,
With promises as thick as weeds.—
Speaks pro and con, is wond'rous civil,
To-day a Saint, to-morrow Devil.

Poor Truth She stript, as has been said,
And naked left the lovely Maid,
Who scorning from Her cause to wince,
Has gone stark-naked ever since;
And ever Naked will appear,
Belov'd by All who Truth revere.

Nelly's Picture.

A SONG.

I

Whilst others proclaim
This Nymph, or that Swain,
Dearest Nelly, the lovely, I'll sing;
She shall grace ev'ry verse,
I'll her Beauty rehearse,
Which lovers can't think an ill thing.

II

Her eyes shine as bright
As stars in the night,
Her complexion's divinely fair;
Her lips red as a cherry,
Wou'd a Hermit make merry,
And black as a coal is her hair.

134

III

Her breath like a rose,
It's sweets does disclose,
Whenever you ravish a kiss;
Like iv'ry inchas'd,
Her teeth are well plac'd,
An exquisite beauty she is.

IV

Her plump breasts are white,
Delighting the sight,
There Cupid discovers her charms;
O! spare then the rest,
And think of the best:
'Tis heaven to dye in her arms.

V

She's blooming as May,
Brisk, lively, and gay,
The Graces play all round about her;
She's prudent and witty,
Sings wond'rously pretty,
And there is no living without her.

PROLOGUE FOR DELIA's PLAY.

The Royal Mischief. A Tragedy.

Ladies, to You with pleasure we submit,
This early offspring of a Virgin-Wit.
From your good nature nought our Authress fears,
Sure you'll indulge, if not the Muse, her Years,

135

Freely the praise she may deserve bestow,
Pardon, not censure, what you can't allow;
Smile on the work, be to her merits kind,
And to her faults, whate'er they are, be blind.

Let Critics follow Rules, she boldly writes
What Nature dictates, and what Love indites.
By no dull forms her Queen and Ladies move,
But court their Heroes, and agnize their love.
Poor Maid! she'd have (what e'en no Wife would crave)
A Husband love his Spouse beyond the grave:
And from a second-marriage to deter,
Shews you what horrid things Stepmothers are.
Howe'er, to Constancy the Prize she gives,
And tho' the Sister dies the Brother lives.
Blest with success, at last, he mounts a throne,
Enjoys at once his Mistress and a Crown.
Learn, Ladies, then from Lindaraxa's fate,
What great rewards on virtuous Lovers wait.
Learn too, if Heav'n and Fate should adverse prove,
(For Fate and Heav'n don't always smile on love)
Learn with Zelinda to be still the same,
Nor quit your First for any Second flame,
Whatever fate, or death, or life, be given,
Dare to be true, submit the rest to Heaven.

AMARYLLIS.

A PASTORAL.

It was the fate of an unhappy Swain
To love a Nymph, the glory of the plain;
In vain he daily did his courtship move,
The Nymph was haughty, and disdain'd to love.
Each morn as soon as the Sun's golden ray
Dispers'd the clouds, and chaced dark night away,

136

The sad despairing Shepherd rear'd his head
From off his pillow, and forsook his bed.
Strait he search'd out some melancholy shade,
Where he did blame the proud disdainful Maid,
And thus with cruelty did her upbraid:
Ah! Shepherdess will you then let me dye;
Will nothing thaw this frozen cruelty:
But you, lest you should pity, will not hear,
You will not to my suff'rings give ear;
But adder-like to listen you refuse
To words, the greatest charm that man can use.
'Tis now noon-day, the Sun is mounted high,
Beneath refreshing shades the beasts do lie,
And seek out cooling rivers to asswage,
The Lion's sultry heat, and Dog-Star's rage:
The Oxen now can't plow the fruitful soil,
The furious heat forbids the reaper's toil.
Both beast and men for work are now unfit,
The weary'd Hinds down to their dinner sit;
Each creature now is with refreshment blest,
And none but wretched I, debarr'd of rest,
I wander up and down thro' desart lands,
On sun-burnt mountain-tops, and parched sands.
And as alone, restless I go along,
Nothing but eccho answers to my Song.
Had I not better undergo the scorn
Of Jenny? is it not more easy borne?
The cruelty of angry Kate? altho'
That She is black, and you as white as snow.
O! Nymph don't, too much, to your beauty trust,
The brightest steel is eaten up with rust:
The whitest blossoms fall, sweet roses fade,
And you, tho' handsom, yet may dye a maid.
With Thee I could admire a country life,
Free from disturbance, city noise, or strife:
Amongst the shady groves and woods we'd walk,
Of nothing else but love's great charms we'd talk,
We would pursue, in season, rural sports,
And then let knaves and fools resort to courts;
I could, besides, some country-presents find,

137

Could they persuade you, but to be more kind:
But since with scorn you do those gifts despise,
Another Shepherdess shall gain the prize.
O! Amaryllis, beauteous Maid, observe,
The Nymphs themselves are willing Thee to serve,
See where large baskets full of flowers they bring,
The sweet fair product of th' indulgent spring.
See there the Pink, and the Anemony,
The purple Violet, Rose, and Jessamy.
See where they humbly lay their presents down,
To make a chaplet thy dear head to crown.
See where the beasts go trooping drove by drove,
See how they answer one another's love:
See where the Bull the Heifer does pursue,
See where the Mare the furious Horse does woo:
Each Female to her Male is always kind,
And Women, only cruel Women blind,
Contradict that for which they were design'd.
So Corydon loves an ungrateful Fair,
Who minds not oaths, nor cares for any prayer.
But see the Sun his race has almost run,
And the laborious Ox his work has done.
But I still love without the thought of ease,
No cure was ever found for that disease,
But Corydon, what frenzy does thee [seize].
Why dost thou lie in this dejected way?
Why doest thou let thy Sheep and Oxen stray?
Thy tuneful Pipe, why dost Thou throw away.
Had not you better dispossess your mind
Of Her who is so cruel and unkind;
Forget Her guile, and calm those raging cares,
Take heart again, and follow your affairs,
For what altho' this Nymph does cruel prove,
You'll find a thousand other Maids will love.

138

CUPID's Promise.

PARAPHRASED.

I

Soft Cupid, wanton, am'rous Boy,
The other day mov'd with my lyre,
In flatt'ring accents spoke his joy,
And utter'd thus his fond desire.

II

O! raise thy voice, One Song I ask,
Touch then th' harmonious string,
To Thyrsis easy is the task,
Who can so sweetly play and sing.

III

Two kisses from my mother dear,
Thyrsis thy due reward shall be,
None, none, like Beauty's Queen is fair,
Paris has vouch'd this Truth for me.

IV

I strait reply'd, Thou know'st alone
That brightest Cloe rules my breast,
I'll sing thee Two instead of One,
If Thou'lt be kind, and make me blest.

V

One Kiss from Cloe's lips, no more
I crave, He promiss'd me success,
I play'd with all my skill and power,
My glowing passion to express.

VI

But O! my Cloe, beauteous Maid,
Wilt thou the wisht reward bestow?
Wilt Thou make good what Love has said,
And by Thy grant, His power show?

139

Lamentation for DORINDA.

Farewel ye shady walks, and fountains,
Sinking vallies, rising mountains:
Farewel ye crystal streams, that pass
Thro' fragrant meads of verdant grass:
Farewel ye flowers, sweet and fair,
That us'd to grace Dorinda's hair:
Farewel ye woods, who us'd to shade
The pressing youth, and yielding maid:
Farewel ye birds, whose morning song
Oft made us know we slept too long:
Farewel dear bed, so often prest,
So often above others blest,
With the kind weight of all her charms,
When panting, dying, in my arms.
Dorinda's gone, gone far away,
She's gone, and Strephon cannot stay:
By sympathetic ties I find
That to Her sphere I am confin'd;
My motions still on Her must wait,
And what She wills to me is fate.

She's gone, O! hear it all ye bowers,
Ye walks, ye fountains, trees, and flowers,
For whom you made your earliest show,
For whom you took a pride to grow.
She's gone, O! hear ye nightingales,
Ye mountains ring it to the vales,
And eccho to the country round,
The mournful, dismal, killing sound:
Dorinda's gone, and Strephon goes,
To find with Her his lost repose.

But ere I go, O! let me see,
That all things mourn Her loss like me:

140

Play, play, no more ye spouting fountains,
Rise ye vallies, sink ye mountains;
Ye walks, in moss, neglected lie,
Ye birds, be mute; ye streams, be dry.
Fade, fade, ye flowers, and let the rose
No more it's blushing buds disclose:
Ye spreading beach, and taper fir,
Languish away in mourning Her;
And never let your friendly shade,
The stealth of other Lovers aid.
And thou, O! dear, delightful bed,
The altar where Her maidenhead,
With burning cheeks, and down cast eyes,
With panting breasts, and kind replies,
And other due solemnity,
Was offer'd up to love and me.
Hereafter suffer no abuse,
Since consecrated to our use,
As thou art sacred, don't profane
Thy self with any vulgar stain,
But to thy pride be still display'd,
The print her lovely limbs have made:
See, in a moment, all is chang'd,
The flowers shrunk up, the trees disrang'd,
And that which wore so sweet a face,
Become a horrid, desart place.
Nature Her influence withdraws,
Th' effect must follow still the cause,
And where Dorinda will reside,
Nature must there all gay provide.
Decking that happy spot of earth,
Like Eden's-Garden at it's birth,
To please Her matchless, darling Maid,
The wonder of her Forming-Trade;
Excelling All who e'er Excell'd,
And as we ne'er the like beheld,
So neither is, nor e'er can be,
Her Parallel, or Second She.

141

On Absence.

TO LEONORA.

If absence so much racks my Charmer's heart,
Believe that Strephon's bears a double smart,
So well he loves, and knows thy love so fine,
That in his Own distress he suffers Thine:
Yet, O forgive him, if his thoughts displease,
He would not, cannot wish Thee more at ease.

What need you bid me think of pleasures past?
Was there one joy, whose image does not last?
But that One; most extatic, most refin'd,
Reigns fresh, and will for ever in my mind,
With such a power of charms it storm'd my soul,
That nothing ever can it's strength controul.
Not sleep, not age, not absence can avail,
Reflection, ever young, must still prevail.
What influence-divine did guide that hour,
Which gave to minutes the Almighty Power,
To fix (whilst other joys are not a span)
A pleasure lasting as the life of man.

TO LEONORA.

ENCORE.

I

Cease, Leonora, cease to mourn,
Thy faithful Strephon will return.
Fate at thy sighs will ne'er relent,
Then grieve not, what we can't prevent;
Nor let predestinating tears,
Increase my pains, or raise thy fears.

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II

'Tis but the last long winter night,
Our Sun will rise to morrow bright,
And to our suff'ring passion bring
The promise of eternal Spring,
Which thy kind eyes shall ever cheer,
And make that Season all our Year.

ON A PRETTY MADWOMAN.

I

While mad Ophelia we lament,
And Her distraction mourn,
Our grief's misplac'd, Our tears mispent,
Since what for Her condition's meant
More justly fits Our Own.

II

For if 'tis happiness to be,
From all the turns of Fate,
From dubious joy, and sorrow free;
Ophelia then is blest, and we
Misunderstand Her state.

III

The Fates may do whate'er they will,
They can't disturb her mind,
Insensible of good, or ill,
Ophelia is Ophelia still,
Be Fortune cross or kind.

IV

Then make with reason no more noise,
Since what should give relief,
The quiet of Our mind destroys,
Or with a full spring-tide of joys,
Or a dead-ebb of grief.

143

The Torment of ABSENCE.

I

What a tedious day is past!
Loving, thinking, wishing, weeping:
Gods! if this be not the last,
Take a life not worth my keeping.

II

Love, ye Gods, is Life alone!
In the length is little pleasure:
Be but ev'ry day Our-Own,
We shall ne'er complain of measure.

THE NEW-YEAR'S GIFT TO PHYLLIS.

I

The circling months begin this day,
To run their yearly ring,
And long-breath'd time which ne'er will stay,
Refits his wings, and shoots away,
It round again to bring.

II

Who feels the force of female eyes,
And thinks some Nymph divine,
Now brings his annual sacrifice,
Some pretty boy, or neat device,
To offer at Her shrine.

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III

But I can pay no offering,
To show how I adore,
Since I had but a heart to bring
A downright foolish, faithful thing,
And that you had before.

IV

Yet we may give, for custom sake,
What will to both be New,
My Constancy a Gift I'll make,
And in return of it will take
Some Levity from You.

Coy Jenny.

A SONG.

I

For God's-sake—nay, dear Sir,
Lord, what do You mean?
I protest, and I vow Sir,
Your ways are obscene.

II

Pray give over, O! fie,
Pish, leave of your fooling,
Forbear, or I'll cry,—
I hate this rude doing.

III

Let me die if I stay,
Does the Devil possess You;
Your hand take away,
Then perhaps I may bless You.

145

TO CELIA.

AN EPIGRAM.

You need not thus so often pray,
Or in devotion spend the day,
Since without half such toil and pain,
You surely Paradise will gain.
Your Husband's impotent and jealous,
And Celia that's enough to tell us
You must inhabit Heaven herea'ter,
Because you are a Virgin-Martyr.

Upon a FRIEND, WHO HAD A Pain in his Left-Side.

I

Lay not the Pain, so near your heart,
On chance, or on disease,
So sensible, so nice a smart,
Is from no cause like these.

II

Your Friends, at last, the truth have found,
Howe'er you tell your story,
'Twas Celia's eyes that gave the Wound,
And they shall have the Glory.

University of Virginia Library

[MISCELLANEOUS POEMS ETC., FROM THE COLLECTION OF DRIFT]

Considerations on part of the 88th Psalm.

A College Exercise. 1690.

I

II

III

ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR, 1692.

TO A CHILD of QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD, The AUTHOR Forty.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

TWO RIDDLES.

A FABLE.

A SONG. [_] SET BY Mr ABEL.

[Reading ends in melancholy]

CONSUMMATION.

To a Friend.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

To a YOUNG LADY in search of HER DESTINY.

AN ENIGMA.

CUPID Turned STROLLER.

FROM ANACREON, ODE III.

SNUFF.

AN EPIGRAM.

DAPHNE and APOLLO.

IMITATED.

PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY Lord BUCKHURST, AT WESTMINSTER-SCHOOL,

At a Representation of Mr Dryden's CLEOMENES, The Spartan HERO.

At Christmas. 1695.

[THE SECRETARY.]

THE MICE

A TALE.

TO Mr ADRIAN DRIFT, in the Year 1708–9.

THE VICEROY.

A BALLAD. [_] TO The Tune of The Lady Isabella's Tragedy: Or: The Step-Mother's Cruelty.

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II

III

IV

V

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A SONG.
[_]

SET BY Mr ABEL.

A BALLAD.
[_]

TO The Tune of The Lady Isabella's Tragedy: Or: The Step-Mother's Cruelty.