Mr. Cooke's Original Poems with Imitations and Translations of Several Select Passages of the Antients, In Four Parts: To which are added Proposals For perfecting the English Language |
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 | Mr. Cooke's Original Poems |  |
138
FABLE the Third. The Lark.
The gaudy Peacock, and the glossy Dove,
The Bird of Juno, and the Queen of Love,
Met in that Season, at the Dawn of Day,
When Nature smiles, and all the Fields are gay.
Sure, says Sir Plume, you'll never strive again
To vy with me, when you behold my Train;
When you the Beautys of my Person see,
Envy, but never more contend with me.
What but my Charms procur'd me the Esteem
Of aweful Juno, of her Sex supreme?
Shall it be say'd, that Turturrellus strove
With me, Attendant on the Wife of Jove?
Hence, says the Bird of Venus, Boaster fly;
And with thy Fool's Coat charm th'ill-judging Eye.
Me Men, and Gods, with Admiration view,
Plain, unaffected, with my glossy Hue.
No screaming Voice is mine; my gentle Coo
Instructs the faithful Lover how to woo.
These are the Merits of the courtly Dove,
Of me, Attendant on the Queen of Love.
Just as Sir Plume began his sharp Reply,
They both receiv'd a Summons from the Sky.
The Goddesses, prepar'd to journey far,
Each call'd her Birds to harness to the Car.
Not one his Flight a Moment dares delay,
But to his Office each directs his Way.
Just by a Lark, couch'd in his humble Nest,
Betwixt the Courtiers hear'd the fierce Contest:
O! Gods, he cry'd, on what was this Debate,
But who is first among the Slaves of State?
Here be my Dwelling on this native Sod,
Free from Subjection to a Tyrant's Nod.
Here to the Sons of Pride I live unknown,
Lord of myself, and all these Fields my own.
Dayly I strive to make my Friends rejoice,
And cheer my Neighbours with my grateful Voice;
And ev'ry Morn my Tribute first I pay
To whom I owe my all, the God of Day.
He ended here, and from his Nest begun,
With his best Note, to greet the rising Sun.
The Bird of Juno, and the Queen of Love,
Met in that Season, at the Dawn of Day,
When Nature smiles, and all the Fields are gay.
Sure, says Sir Plume, you'll never strive again
To vy with me, when you behold my Train;
When you the Beautys of my Person see,
Envy, but never more contend with me.
What but my Charms procur'd me the Esteem
Of aweful Juno, of her Sex supreme?
Shall it be say'd, that Turturrellus strove
With me, Attendant on the Wife of Jove?
Hence, says the Bird of Venus, Boaster fly;
And with thy Fool's Coat charm th'ill-judging Eye.
Me Men, and Gods, with Admiration view,
Plain, unaffected, with my glossy Hue.
No screaming Voice is mine; my gentle Coo
Instructs the faithful Lover how to woo.
139
Of me, Attendant on the Queen of Love.
Just as Sir Plume began his sharp Reply,
They both receiv'd a Summons from the Sky.
The Goddesses, prepar'd to journey far,
Each call'd her Birds to harness to the Car.
Not one his Flight a Moment dares delay,
But to his Office each directs his Way.
Just by a Lark, couch'd in his humble Nest,
Betwixt the Courtiers hear'd the fierce Contest:
O! Gods, he cry'd, on what was this Debate,
But who is first among the Slaves of State?
Here be my Dwelling on this native Sod,
Free from Subjection to a Tyrant's Nod.
Here to the Sons of Pride I live unknown,
Lord of myself, and all these Fields my own.
Dayly I strive to make my Friends rejoice,
And cheer my Neighbours with my grateful Voice;
And ev'ry Morn my Tribute first I pay
To whom I owe my all, the God of Day.
He ended here, and from his Nest begun,
With his best Note, to greet the rising Sun.
Thrice happy is the Man whose envy'd State
From Pride secludes him, and the Fool's Debate;
Contented he enjoys what Nature yields,
And inambitious plows his native Fields;
Just to the rich, and gen'rous to the poor,
He open keeps his hospitable Door;
Whose well pass'd Days, without a Fear, defy
The Hate or Malice of the sharpest Eye.
From Pride secludes him, and the Fool's Debate;
140
And inambitious plows his native Fields;
Just to the rich, and gen'rous to the poor,
He open keeps his hospitable Door;
Whose well pass'd Days, without a Fear, defy
The Hate or Malice of the sharpest Eye.
| Mr. Cooke's Original Poems | |