Marinda :: :: University of Virginia Library

From the Immortal Seats above,
I Beauty's Goddess, Queen of Love,
Descend to see, if here below
Ye ought of my lost Cupid know:
As on my Lap the other day
The wanton Chitt did sport and play,
(Whether it was Design or Chance)
He let his Golden Arrow glance
On my left side; which done, he fled,
And ever since has rambling stray'd.

I, that am Mother of the Child,
By Nature gentle, soft, and mild,
Come here to seek him, and when found
To give him Pardon for my Wound:
I've search'd my Orb, and that of Jove,
And the wide space where Planets move,
I look'd for him in Mars his Sphere,
(For I had often seen him there)
Above, I've nothing left untry'd
To find where my lov'd Boy do's hide.

Mortals, to you at last I'm come,
To see if Cupid here does roam
In your Abodes, which he oft makes his Home.

Ladies, I know I must despair
To find my Boy amongst the Fair,
For tho' he pleas'd about you flyes,
Basks in the Glances of your Eyes,
Sports in your Hair, and fain wou'd rest
In the soft Lodging of your Breast,

The Child to enter strives in vain
A place that's guarded by Disdain:
With Men I better Fate shall prove
Whose Hearts are open still to Love:
Tell me then, Sirs, I pray now do,
Has my Child hid himself with you?
If any one shall shew me where
To find the Boy, by Styx I swear,
(A sacred Oath,) that he shall have
The sweetest Kiss I ever gave;
But he that brings him to my Arms
Shall Master be of all my Charms;
What greater Promise cou'd I make,
If Love's whole Empire were at Stake?
Do's none reply? perhaps he lyes
Lurking amongst you in disguise,
Has laid aside his Darts and Bow,
That he may pass incognito;
But mark these Signs, and you'll discover
(For all his Tricks) the wily Rover:

Tho' full of Cunning, full of Years,
The Chitt's so little, he appears
An Infant yet, and like a Child
Is froward, restless still, and wild;
He seems to sport himself, and joy
In ev'ry little foolish Toy,
Tho' all the time his fell Intent
On wicked Mischief's wholly bent:
A Trifle angers him, but then
A Trifle pleases him again:
At once there in his Look appears
Joy mixt with Grief, and Smiles with Tears;
His golden Locks in Ringlets wind
Thick on his Front, but bare behind,
As oft we Fortune painted find.
A decent Pride his Air do's grace,
A flushing Red glows o'er his Face,
His sparkling Eyes with Pleasure dance,
And often as it were by chance
Leering, he steals a sideling glance.

From his sweet Lips, when e'er he speaks,
The lisping Accent softly breaks,
And all his Prattle's level'd right
For wanton Dalliance and Delight;
His laughing Mouth do's always smile,
The better to conceal his guile;
As treach'rous Snakes 'midst Flowers play,
The heedless Virgin to betray:
At first Appearance ne'er was seen
A Creature of an humbler Mien,
He softly knocks, or stands at door,
Your kind assistance to implore,
But soon to lord it he'll begin,
If once your Pity lets him in:
He's ne'er at rest, 'till in his hand
You've put the whole and sole Command;
Then all th'old Lodgers are turn'd out
To make room for the looser rout
Of his own Followers, whose sway
Reason itself is forc'd t'obey:

The modest Stranger thus becomes
An open Tyrant, and consumes
Whate'er to thwart his Will presumes.

You've heard the Marks, by which you may
Know and arrest the Runaway:
Sirs, tell me if he here do's stray!
Do's any hope the Boy to hide?
Th'Attempt is vain, tho' often try'd;
For who can think Love to conceal?
Each Look, each Word will Love reveal:
He'll force his way thro' all Disguise,
Break from the Tongue, start from the Eyes,
As the false Adder never to be charm'd
Tears from the Breast in which 'twas hid and warm'd.

But since I cannot find him here,
Before I back to Heav'n repair,
A little farther still I'll seek the Wanderer.

A Tale sent by a Friend.

Ægon and Strephon, gentle Swains,
Glory and Envy of our Plains,
Rivals in beauteous Cloe's Love,
Met her one day; when each did move
With equal warmth the wily Fair,
That she wou'd once for all declare
Who was the happy Man, and whom
She to Despair and Death wou'd doom:
The Shepherdess that day was dress'd
Artfully plain, and lookt her best;
Her flowing Hair in Ringlets play'd,
A flowry Chaplet deckt the Maid.
A Garland Ægon's Head did bind,
Strephon had left his Wreath behind:
Sore press'd was Cloe, but not caught,
Such Skill had Love and Nature taught;

Her real Thoughts she'd not discover,
For she was loath to lose a Lover;
And thus the Secret she conceal'd,
Each long'd, yet fear'd, to have reveal'd:
The Nymph her flowry Chaplet bound
On Strephon's Head; her own she Crown'd
With Ægon's Wreath; so well her Part
She play'd, that which in Cloe's Heart
Had greatest share, is hard to say,
And is disputed to this day,
The happy Youth that Cloe's Chaplet bore,
Or the blest Swain whose Garland Cloe wore.

ECLOGUE.

In return to the foregoing Tale.

Ægon and Strephon, both, the gentlest Swains,
The Glory and the Envy of our Plains,

Had from Fair Cloe's Hand each such a Test
Of Love receiv'd, as either wou'd have bless'd
If singly given, but giv'n to both in sight,
Each of his Rival dasht the sweet Delight:
The Nymph on Strephon's Brow, her Chaplet bound,
With Ægon's Garland she her Temples crown'd;
Hence a fierce Contest grew; Our Fields and Groves,
That whilome ecchoed with these Shepherds Loves,
Rang with their Feuds; and now all Peace was lost,
Our Nymphs and Swains were into Parties tost;
Till tir'd of Broils, and weary even of Life,
They made Palæmon Umpire of their Strife;
Under a Beach's Shade th'old Shepherd sat,
And with Attention heard the grand Debate,
That he might end the Quarrel, and declare
Which Youth in Cloe's Heart had greatest share;
Strephon began—Shepherd, there needs no Art
To prove, that I possess the Fair one's Heart,
This Wreath I on my joyful Temples wear,
Shews that I reign without a Rival there.

ÆGON.
Cou'd I the Paint of Words, like Strephon, use,
The Aid of their false Varnish I'd refuse;
The Garland by my Beauteous Cloe worn
Shews where her Love is plac'd and where her Scorn.

STREPHON.
Swain, had you seen, but how the lovely Maid
Her flowry Chaplet twin'd around my Head,
With what kind Softness she the Present grac'd;
You ne'er had doubted where her Love was plac'd.

ÆGON.
O had Palæmon seen the Nymph, how pleas'd,
How eagerly she on my Lawrel seiz'd,
What a triumphant Joy about her play'd;
His Sentence had not been thus long delay'd.

STREPHON.
No sooner Cloe did her Strephon spye,
But miss'd his Wreath, (Love has so quick an Eye)
To bind my Brow th'impatient Maid did tear
The Garland from her lovely flowing Hair.

ÆGON.
Soon as my Garland did approach her sight,
The Shepherdess began her own to slight;
She thought no Chaplet could her Head adorn
So well, as that was by her Shepherd worn.

STREPHON.
I'll urge no more, for never Nymph cou'd give,
Or Shepherd e'er a dearer Pledge receive,
Than this blest Wreath by her own Fingers wove,
With which she deck'd my Head, and crown'd my Love.

ÆGON.
When she her Chaplet did on thee bestow,
Which withers now, and dies upon thy Brow,
Alas! 'twas only to give Place to mine,
Which on her Head do's with fresh Lustre shine.

PALÆMON.
The Gods forbid my Sentence shou'd decide
This noble Strife, or injure either side;

Each Shepherd with such Force his Cause does plead,
That each seems worthy of the Beauteous Maid;
Did the Great Pan himself in Judgment sit,
To Cloe he wou'd back the Cause remit;
'Tis she, and only she, that can declare,
Which Shepherd in her Heart has greatest share;
The happy Youth that Cloe's Chaplet bore,
Or the blest Swain, whose Garland Cloe wore.

Answer to the foregoing ECLOGUE.

So much is said and sung of Plains,
Of Fields, of Groves, of Nymphs and Swains,
Of purling Streams, and Myrtle Shades,
Of listning Ecchoes and deaf Maids,
Of harder Hearts than hardest Rocks,
Of lowing Herds, and bleating Flocks;
On which the Nymph and Shepherd plays,
A constant Chime of rural Layes,

That vext at hearing the same Tune,
From Noon to Night, from Night to Noon.
Thirsis had long his Pipe laid by,
Quite tir'd with rustick Harmony.

But when You to the Woods repair,
He thinks them worthy of his Care,
He thrusts into the list'ning Throng,
Charm'd with the Musick of your Song;
Where Two so Artfully contest,
That while each speaks, his Cause is best;
Palæmon needs must wrong decide,
Had he adjudg'd for either Side,
For when such Swains so well contend,
'Twere pity that the Strife shou'd end.

When Thirsis saw an Eclogue writ,
Simple and plain, and yet with Wit;
And that its Beauty did not lye
In the stale worn out Imagery,
Of Fields, Groves, Brooks and Shades, but found
New Musick, on a Pastoral Ground,

Inspir'd by you, th'inchanted Swain,
Resolves to try a rural Strain;
His Pipe refits, invokes the Nine,
And on a shady Bank recline,
He tells the Crowd, that round him wait,
That he'll Marinda Emulate.
But all in vain, his Oaten Reed
Breaths the Old Sounds, he then with speed
Snatches his Harp, which does alike succeed.
Th'impatient Shepherd full of Ire,
Rises, and breaks both Pipe and Lyre.

Masque of the Virtues against Love.

From Guarini.

[I.]

We the White Witches are, that free
Enchanted Hearts from Slavery,
Love's dark Abodes all tremble at our Voice,
And at the awful Noice,
All the blind Archers skud along,
And frighted to their Shady Myrtles throng.
We cloud the Sun that shines in Cælia's Eyes,
Hush the Winds swell'd by Lovers Sighs,
And stop their Tides of Tears even when they highest rise.
We by our Magicks guiltless Power,
Hearts long since Dead, to a New Life restore.

II.

All Love's black Arts, and fatal Wiles,
How he the heedless Wretch beguiles,
How in false Smiles the Face is dress'd,
And how false Pity heaves the Breast,

Circe's Spells, the Syrens Lays,
How one transforms, the other slays,
We open shew
To mortal View;
Come Love-sick Minds, see how the force of Charms
The Tyrant of his Rage disarms,
Yours be the Advantage all; for we
Claim nought but th'Honour of the Victory.

Sonetto of Abbate Salvini's, sent from Italy on occasion of the foregoing Translation. Done into English by a Friend.

Cou'd Virtue amongst Men appear,
And her own Shape and Semblance wear,
In your bright Mind she'd take her Seat,
Nor from your beauteous Form retreat;
Her heav'nly Charms each Soul wou'd fire,
And Love into each Breast inspire:

Yet Virtue's self cou'd do no more,
Did she exert her utmost Power,
Than you (her lively Image) do:
All Hearts their Homage pay to you,
Our distant Nation's Trophies raise,
And offer tributary Praise
To you, whose matchless Mind does shine,
And reach us thro' a Form divine.

Human Frailty.

From Guarini.

This mortal Life,
Courted with such eager Strife,
Is like a Feather, which by Winds is toss't
In the same moment rais'd and lost:
Or if it tries in giddy rounds to soar,
And in the Air to dance,
As if by its own Wings up bore
'Tis owing to the Chance
Of it's own natural Levity;
Short-liv'd' is all its Gaiety,

A while it strays
Thro' the ten thousand winding ways,
The Labyrinths o'th' Azure Plain;
But as from Earth it rose, to Earth it falls again.

On Providence.

From Filicaia.

As a kind Mother with indulgent Eye
Views her fair Charge, and melts with Sympathy,
And one's dear Face imprints with Kisses sweet,
One to her Bosom clasps, one on her Knee,
Softly sustains in pleasing Dignity,
And one permits to cling about her Feet;
And reads their various Wants, and each Request
In Look, or Action, or in Sigh express'd:
This little Supplicant in gracious Style
She answers, that she blesses with a Smile;
Or if she blames their Suit, or if approves,
And whether pleas'd, or griev'd, yet still she loves:

With like regard high Providence Divine
Watches affectionate o'er Human Race
One feeds, one comforts, does to all incline,
And each assists with kind Parental Care;
Or, once denying us some needful Grace,
Only denies to move an ardent Pray'r,
Or, courted for Imaginary Wants,
Seems to deny, but in denying grants.

CANZONE.

From Monsignor della CASA.

[I.]

As the young Hind
Flies thro' the Woods half dead with fear,
If she but chance to hear
The whistling Wind
Among the Branches play,
Or murmuring Current thro' the Valley stray,
At naming Love
So Cloe flies,
In vain I move

To stop the wayward Maid,
She's deaf to all that's said,
And thro' wide pathless Ways she hies,
Slighting her Lover's Moan,
Whose Life will not long stay, now she is gone.

II.

She fled, and with her took my Soul away,
But what I had to say
Of all the grievous diff'ring kinds
Of Torments that I bear,
She left unto the Winds
To scatter in the Air.
And dye I must, unless she back returns
To view the Flames in which her Lover burns,
And like a pitying Judge speaks Comfort whilst she sees
The Tortures I endure by her Decrees:
Not that I hope for Ease or Rest
From those fair guilty Eyes,
But to find Pity in her Breast,

After I have confess'd
All my Love-Thefts, and little Treacheries.

III.

I'll not conceal
How oft my greedy Sight,
When the kind Winds rais'd up her flowing Vail,
Stole under, and with what Delight
Her snowy Neck it wander'd o'er,
Desirous still of viewing more:
What Joy I felt (for all I'll own)
When her pretty Feet appear'd
Beneath her waving Gown:
And now you've my Confession heard,
Oh! will it nought avail?
Can none be found my Plaints to bear
To my rigid Judge's Ear!
And if her Pity she denies, let Right at last prevail.

IV.

Ye Maids that round my Cloe wait,
Who best her kind, or froward Hours know,

Have Pity on my Fate,
And beg she wou'd bestow
Rest on my tortur'd weary Soul,
That does thro' endless Changes rowl:
For Hope and Fear I equal Reason see,
Whilst the Inconstant She,
Of various Passions runs the round,
Does all my Guesses mock, and all my Thoughts confound.
Now a sweet Smile sits lovely on the Fair,
And her bright Eyes void of Disdain appear,
But whilst they promise Peace, they make a cruel War.
And yet I'll not my Plaints repeat,
Since I am kept alive by this her kind Deceit.

V.

Fate, to shew its wanton Force,
Has made my Tigress with her Pity slay;
A Storm, that looks serene and gay,
Varies my dubious Course;

Hence oft I sink into a soft Repose,
Oft my Breast glows
With such fierce Anguish, that I strive in vain
To quiet the tormenting Pain,
'Till angry grown,
I in old Story find
How a Nymph less coy than She
(If we're inform'd aright)
Stopt in the middle of her flight
Became a Tree;
Or stiffen'd to a Stone.
And thus I ease my troubled Mind,

VI.

Cou'd I but once that frozen Breast behold,
(Where Pity ne'er a Footstep did imprint,)
Petrified into a Flint,
That beauteous Face, those Locks of Gold,
Not in a Flow'r, or verdant Bays confin'd,
But in a knotty Bark enclos'd,
Stand on a Mountain's Top expos'd
To every boisterous Wind:

How wou'd the Sight
My weak afflicted Heart delight?
Oh Charming Maid!
How does my hasty Tongue
Hurry on my heedless Song,
And utter what I never said!
But Love's in fault, that shou'd restrain
This Rashness, and lets loose the Rein,
Love keeps my dubious Life 'twixt Hope and Dread,
And well I see,
Whilst I the fickle Nymph upbraid,
I am just as giddy, and as wild as She.

On the Invention of Letters.

From Brebeuf.

The Noble Art from Cadmus took its rise
Of painting Words, and speaking to the Eyes:
He first in wondrous Magick Fetters bound
The Airy Voice, and stopt the flying Sound:
The various Figures by his Pencil wrought,
Gave Colour, and a Body to the Thought.

Masque of Country Lasses.

From Guarini.

We are the Fairest of our Plains,
Courted in vain by rustick Swains,
We neither crisp, nor tinge our Hair,
Nor paint our Cheeks to make us Fair,
But all to Nature's Bounty owe;
She makes these Golden Ringlets flow,
These Lillies shine, these Roses glow.
The Dew untouch'd by Phœbus' Beam,
A bubling Spring, or purling Stream,
Our Necks with whitest Snow adorns,
With Beauties brighter than the Morn's;
The Morn, with whom each Day we rise,
Whilst heavy Sleep clouds others Eyes:
Our Look's the Image of our Mind,
Both pure and clear; no Fraud you'll find,
No Syrens Song, whose treach'rous Lay
Does first entice, and after slay:

Then Lovers don't disdain to try
Treasures best hid in Poverty;
No Market here we ever hold,
Where Beauty's to be bought and sold.
No gilded pompous Shews appear
To cheat th'unwary Customer,
But Love, for Love, is all the Traffick here.

The timerous Lover.

From Guarini.

O coward Heart,
Why dost thou act so mean a part?
Why hide and slink away,
When Cloe does appear;
And with her bring the Day?
Why so chill and cold become,
When so bright a Fire is near?
Why so hoarse and dumb,
When you my Torments shou'd declare?
What is't you dread? the lightning of her Eyes?
Alas! he's happy that so dies.

A Translation of part of the Fifth Scene of the Second Act of Pastor Fido.

Dear happy Woods, where gloomy Silence dwells,
Of sweet Repose, ye peaceful lonely Cells,
Gladly I you revisit; had my Fate
Suffer'd my Fortune on my Wish to wait,
You I had priz'd above th'Elysian Field,
Whose Shades to Demi-gods immortal Pleasures yield.
Who most of this World shares, enjoys the least;
Its seeming Goods are real Ills confess'd,
Nor do we them possess, but are by them possess'd.
Wealth's but a Golden Chain; what's Virtue, Birth,
Beauty and Youth, and all that Heaven or Earth
Bestows on Mortals, if 'midst all we find
The Anguish of a discontented Mind?
Thrice happy Shepherdess, whose tender Side
A clean tho' homely Garment scarce does hide,

Rich in herself, and to those Beauties born
With which kind Nature does her Sex adorn;
No Want she knows, nor Plenty, (worse Disease)
Desiring nothing she has all can please:

Poor, but contented.

With Nature's Gifts, she Nature's Gifts revives,
Milk to her Milky whiteness Lustre gives,
Whilst the Bees Honey with her Sweetness meets,
And joyns to heighten all her Native Sweets.
The Christal Spring which does her Drink supply,
Is both her Bath, and Glass she dresses by;
When she is pleas'd, all things to her seem Gay,
No Tempests can her Poverty dismay;
One only Care in her soft Breast remains,
Nor is that Care disturb'd by anxious Pains;
Her tender Flocks feed on the Verdant Meads,
On her bright Eyes her faithful Shepherd feeds,
The Shepherd not by Man or Fate enjoyn'd,
But first by Nature, then by Love assign'd,

Under their favourite Myrtle's fragrant Shade
Together sit the Swain and charming Maid:
Belov'd, she loves, nor her pure Flame conceals,
But every Passion to her Swain reveals,
And every Passion he, e'er she reveals it, feels.

Poor, but contented.

A Pastoral Dialogue from the Spanish.

ALCIDAS and DIANA.
ALCIDAS.
Whilst the Sun's ardent Beams
The Heavens around us Fire,
And the chast Bands of Nymphs retire
To shady Groves, and purling Streams;
Whilst in repeated Strains,
The Grashopper complains;
With such a Grace
Pastora mourns,
That the Sky's angry Face
No longer burns,

But melts into refreshing Showers,
That glad the thirsty Earth, and raise the drooping Flowers,

DIANA.
Whilst the bright Planet of the Day
In midway poiz'd, 'twixt East and West,
Darts thence on lab'ring Hind his burning Ray
With fiercest Ire,
Who on the naked Plain with Toil opprest
Stands all his Fire:
My Shepherd Tunes his Oaten Reed
With such resistless Charms,
The boist'rous Winds he of their Rage disarms:
Their Fury stopt, they now with speed
Wondring to his Musick throng,
And with soft Zephirs bland, accompany his Song.

ALCIDAS.
Ye limpid Brooks that gliding hither bring
An everlasting Spring,
By whose kind Influence the Banks around
With never-fading Flow'rs are crown'd,
May your clear Streams enjoy a cool Retreat
Beneath this gloomy Shade,

Fenc'd from the raging Heat;
May no rude Flocks invade,
And with unhallow'd Feet
Defile your Chrystal Waters sweet;
Nor any wretched Lover's woe
Make your smooth Current swell, or Turbid flow.

DIANA.
Ye verdant Meads,
Where Nature with a liberal Hand
Her Bounty spreads;
Trees that in gay Confusion stand,
And Flow'rs, that paint the various Scene,
May your thick Boughs be ever green,
And may no furious Winds have pow'r
With keener blast
Your Beauties to devour,
And all your tender Honours waste;
Let not the ruffl'd Heavens in Tempests rowl,
Nor lowring o'er the grateful Land-skip scowl.

ALCIDAS.
Here far remote from all the dang'rous Storms
Of fickle Courts,

We safe enjoy the peaceful Charms
Of all our Rural Sports;
Now on a shady Bank recline
We strike the vocal Lyre;
The little Birds make up the Choir,
And in the tuneful Consort joyn;
The flowry Shrubs beneath us bend,
And thro' the Air their fragrant Odours send.
Thus our short Time we pleasingly beguile,
Whilst Fields, Woods, Hills and Plains around us smile.

DIANA.
Here the soft whispers of a gentle Breeze,
That murmurs thro' the Trees,
Delights us more,
Than do's the noisie Shout
Of a loud popular Rout
The Men in Power;
Vain little Minds that study to be Great!
Your stately Banquet's but a brawl,
And your points of Honour all
An empty Cheat.
Your Words the farthest from your Meaning flie,
And all your Converse centres in a Lie.

ALCIDAS.
No Snares th'Ambitious here in Covert lay
Their Rivals to betray.
No Miser with unwearied pains
Pursues his sordid Gains;
None here with high Desires,
To Trusts or Posts aspires:
Our guiltless Hearts from Wrath and Guile are free,
In all our Looks and Words appear
A Native Goodness, and Simplicity;
Envy, Injustice, Pride, are strangers here,
Safe in a low Estate we rest,
And with pure unmix'd Joys, our homely Fare is blest.

DIANA.
The simple Swain
Plows no new Seas, nor no new World explores
In quest of Gain,
Nor to the distant Indies roams,
And there by Thousands summs
His Leagues, and Stores;
But hies as joyous to the Field,
With what his scanty Fortune gives,

As he that the great Rents receives
Of what his large Possessions yield,
As he who thousand Fertile Acres sows,
And in his crowded Folds unnumber'd Cattle stows.

On a Lady's Statue in Marble.

From the SPANISH.

How lively, by the dext'rous Sculptor's Hand,
Does Cloe's Image in this Marble stand!
The Artist here imploy'd a greater Care
Than Nature did, when first she form'd the Fair:
She her white Lustre gave, and frozen Breast,
And he has both with utmost Skill exprest:
Her, Nature fram'd as her most finish'd Piece;
She's fashion'd here with no less Artifice.
But Nature, who the Fair for Love design'd,
Lookt out Materials of the softest Kind,
And made her of a Mold the most refin'd.
The Sculptor saw the Nymph for whom he burn'd,
By her own Rigour into Marble turn'd,
By no Tears soft'ned, by no Pity warm'd,
And made her of that Rock, to which she was transform'd.

The same in Burlesque.

See, how in this Marble Statue
Phillis like herself looks at you.
Nature and Carver were at Strife,
But he has done her most to th'Life:
She made that frozen Breast so white,
He made her such another by't;
She made her a most pretty Creature,
And He exactly hit each Feature;
She her for Love and Dalliance chose,
And did of softest Mold compose,
Like to the Jess'mine or the Rose.
But He, who saw how She was grown
Hard and relentless as a Stone,
Did her with artful Chizel frame
Of what She by her Fault became.

To Marinda leading up the Masque of the Virtues: On her Translation from Guarini. P. 23.

See, Shepherds, see, how Fair Marinda leads
The Masque of Virtues o'er the flow'ry Meads;

How the Triumphant Goddesses rejoice,
Her Guidance follow, and obey her Voice:
Round the Gay Band, Honour his Line extends,
Which Modesty with strictest Guard defends;
All looser Thoughts soon vanish at their sight,
And guilty Blushes hide in shades of Night.
Ungovern'd Appetite, and bold Desires,
And wanton Pleasure, and tumultuous Fires;
If with advent'rous Step they press too nigh,
Shrink back, and from the Magick Circle flye.
Thus when the Morn with all her radiant Train,
Descends from Eastern Hills, the Birds obscene
Take Wing, and boding Omens haste away,
Pale Ghosts retire, and shun th'approaching Day.

An Epigram on the same Subject.

Did Plato live, that Sage, whose piercing Mind
Found Virtue wanted nought, to Charm Mankind,
But to assume a Body; he might see
His bright Ideas verify'd in Thee.

Sonetto.

From Guarini.

When Sable Night opens her spangled Scene,
And each Star sparkles in the pure Serene,
Pleas'd, (in their turns) with Wonder we behold
Those glitt'ring Lights, that stud the Heavens with Gold:
But when the Day breaks from the Eastern Sky,
Those lesser Fires must all extinguish'd dye.
And Cynthia's self (tho' Regent of the Night)
Sickly and wan, retires, and hides her Light.

Thus thousand Charming Beauties now appear,
And deck with scatter'd Gemms our Hemisphere,
Whilst my bright Goddess here has ceas'd to shine,
And now in Delos shrouds her Rays Divine;
But if to our Horizon she returns,
All other Lights will shrink into their Urns.
Whilst round her such refulgent Beams she pours,
As might irradiate far more Worlds than ours.

Madrigal.

From Guarini.

Does this Fair Syren from the Skies descend,
Or from the Waters rise?
When we to her Song attend,
Or view the Heaven in her Eyes,
No Mortal Creature she appears;
She must Celestial be,
But that she lives in a tempestuous Sea
Of wretched Lover's Tears.

An Elegie on a Favourite Dog.

To her Father.

Who can forbid the Muses Tears to flow?
On such a Subject to indulge her Woe?
Where-e'er Fidelity and Love are join'd,
They claim the Tribute of a grateful Mind.
Birds have had Funeral Rites, and with swol'n Eyes
Fair Lesbia grac'd her Sparrow's Obsequies;

His warlike Steed Young Ammon did lament,
And rais'd a City for his Monument.
That bright celestial Dog that decks the Skies,
Did by his Merit to that Honour rise:
And all the Virtues by which Men renown'd
To Heavenly Seats have climb'd, in Dogs are found.
None dare in glorious Dangers farther go,
None are more watchful to repel the Foe;
Nor are those tend'rer Qualities of Mind
That most endear us, Strangers to this Kind.
In human Race, alas! we seldom prove
So firm a Friendship, so unfeign'd a Love.

Can any then, your grateful Labours blame,
Or wonder, you shou'd to your Favourite's Name
The last just Honours pay? it were not fit
So bright a Merit shou'd in darkness set,
That he who so distinguish'd liv'd, shou'd dye,
And in the common Herd forgotten lye.

No; let a Monumental Marble tell
How dear he liv'd, and how bewail'd he fell.

Press gently on him Earth, and all around
Ye Flowers spring up, and deck th'enamel'd Ground;
Breath forth your choicest Odours, and perfume
With all your fragrant Sweets his little Tomb.

Sonetto.

From Petrarch.

Thoughtful, alone, thro' barren Wastes I stray,
Slow lingring Steps pace out the measur'd way:
With jealous Fear around my Eyes I cast,
To shun the Paths by human Footsteps trac'd.

Vain are all other Coverts to conceal
From sight of Men, the Torments that I feel:
A lifeless Figure, and a joyless Meen
Disclose the Fire that smother'd burns within.

The rocky Hills, and Streams, that silent flow,
The Groves, and Dales, are conscious of my Woe,
And only they the fatal Secret know.

But to howe'er remote a part I rove,
Or pathless Waste, or Hill, or Dale, or Grove,
I'm still pursu'd by my Companion, Love.

Sonetto.

From Petrarch.

Love, let us stand our Glory to behold,
And see the bright Immortal Scene unfold,
What wondrous Sweetness charms our ravish'd sight,
And makes our Earth, a Heaven of Delight.

How well does that Simplicity of dress
The native Beauties of her Mind express;
With what a matchless Grace she looks, she moves,
Whilst slow she passes thro' those shady Groves.

See how the Grass, and Flowers of various hue
Crowding about her Feet, spring up anew,
And gently bending, to be press'd they sue.

A lucid Splendour spreads around the Skies,
Which smile with Joy, as glad of fresh Supplies
Of pure Serene, from those refulgent Eyes.

Canzone.

From Petrarch.

[I.]

Ye limpid Brooks, by whose clear Streams
My Goddess laid her tender Limbs,
Ye gentle Boughs, whose friendly Shade
Gave shelter to the lovely Maid,
Ye Herbs, and Flow'rs, so sweetly prest
By her soft rising snowy Breast,
Ye Zephirs mild, that breath'd around
The place where Love my Heart did wound;
Now at my Summons all appear,
And to my dying Words give ear.

II.

If then my Destiny requires,
And Heaven with my Fate conspires,
That Love these Eyes shou'd weeping close,
Here let me find a soft Repose.
So Death will less my Soul affright,
And free from dread, my weary Spright
Naked alone will dare t'essay
The still unknown, tho' beaten way;
Pleas'd that her mortal Part will have
So safe a Port, so sweet a Grave.

III.

The cruel Fair, for whom I burn,
May one day to these Shades return,
And smiling with superiour Grace,
Her Lover seek around this Place,
And when instead of me she finds
Some crumbling Dust tost by the Winds,
She may feel Pity in her Breast,
And sighing wish me happy Rest,

Drying her Eyes with her soft Veil,
Such Tears must sure with Heaven prevail.

IV.

Well I remember how the Flow'rs
Descended from these Boughs in Show'rs,
Encircled in the Fragrant Cloud
She sat, nor 'midst such Glory proud.
These Blossoms to her Lap repair,
These fall upon her flowing Hair,
(Like Pearls enchas'd in Gold they seem)
These on the Ground, these on the Stream;
In giddy Rounds these dancing say,
Here Love and Laura only sway.

V.

In rapt'rous Wonder oft I said,
Sure she in Paradise was made,
Thence sprang that bright Angelick State,
Those Looks, those Words, that Heav'nly Gate,
That Beauteous Smile, that Voice Divine,
Those Graces that around her shine,

Transported I beheld the Fair,
And sighing cry'd, how came I here?
In Heav'n, amongst th'Immortal blest,
Here let me fix, and ever rest.

An Epistle to Marinda.

A just Applause, and an Immortal Name
Is the true Object of the Poet's Aim;
In quest of this they boldly quit the Shoar,
And dangerous Seas and unknown Lands explore.
In the whole Plan their Interest has no share,
The Goods of Fortune are beneath their Care,
They on the Smoak of publick Incence live,
Look down on Wealth, and think it mean to thrive.

This meager Author keeps himself in heart,
With the Conceit alone of the huge Part
He has in our Esteem, fancy's he hears
Fame with her Trumpet sounding in his Ears
Such loud and charming Notes, while all this Noise
Is but the Ecchoe of his single Voice.

This proudly boasts he with Success has try'd
The Secret Waller left him when he dy'd

T'Embalm the Hero's Name, and by his Rhymes
Preserve it fresh, and sweet to future Times.

E're he begins his Poem to rehearse,
He thus bespeaks your Praises: Sir, my Verse
Has the good luck to please both Town, and Court,
Dennis was nibling, but his Teeth paid for't:
And (this premis'd) at reading every Line,
An awkward Joy thro' the Fool's Face does shine,
His sparkling Eyes with Pride and Pleasure glow,
His panting Breast heaves quick, his Voice is low,
Each Act does Extasie and Rapture show.
Speak:—He is sure it must be in his Praise,
You are struck dumb, if silent, with his Lays.
This Phrase seems low and flat:—O Sir, I see
You're not well skill'd in true Simplicity.
That Passage is too dark, might I advise
A little clearing up; God help your Eyes.
Here Pegasus requires a stricter Rein:
Sir, for Buffoonry you've a pretty Vein.

'Tis thus our Author, who with Anger burns,
For each Advice an Injury returns.
Is he applauded? Truth must needs prevail.
If censur'd: Men will still at Merit rail.

Be't then a Poet's Care himself to raise
Above the reach of a malicious Praise,
Or treacherous Friend: these following Rules, tho' few,
A false Applause distinguish from a true.

Be sure you press the Circle to declare
Their Sentiments, ev'n where they doubt you Err;
Press them, in such a way, as if 'twere meant
To ask Advice, not beg a Compliment:
With wary heed view well their Looks, and Air,
Men's real Thoughts are first discover'd there.
Mark more their Accent than their Words; be wise,
And trust less to their Tongue, than to their Eyes.
Here wide glaz'd Opticks openly betray
The forc'd. Attention which your Hearers pay,

Who strive at last by an ill-tim'd Applause
To make up for a long suspicious Pause:
Here an affected Praise pronounc'd with Art,
Wou'd cover the true Language of the Heart.
'Tis in a Word scap'd from them, in the streaks
Of a quick springing Joy, that Nature speaks.

When a Work pleases, each Man claims a share
In the Immortal piece, makes it his care,
And Int'rest too, that it shou'd perfect be,
And wou'd have what he likes from Censure free.
Insipid is th'Encomium you receive,
Unless the Critick does a Relish give:
A General Praise distrust, he's not your Friend
That nothing censures, or does all commend.

Marinda, let your steady Judgment guide
Your Poet thro' those Dangers, steer him wide
Of all these Shelves, let your unerring Taste
Secure him from the Malice of the rest.

Sonetto from Monsignor Della Casa.

O sleep, thou gentle Off-spring of still Night's
Soft humid Shades; sick Mortals sweet repose,
Pleasing Forgetfulness of all the Ills
That human Life imbitter and perplex.

Aid now my Soul, that languishes, and finds
No Rest; and ease my weak and weary Limbs:
Bend hitherwards, O Sleep, thy aery flight,
And o'er me drop thy dark extended Wing.

Where is that Silence, shy of Day, and Sun,
And those light Dreams that with uncertain steps
Wav'ring attend on the nocturnal Walks?
Alas! in vain I thee invoke, in vain
Court the cool Sable Shades: O restless Bed
Fill'd full with Thorns; O racking dreadful Nights.

Another of Casa's on a Picture.

Now tell me (Love) are these the flowing Locks,
That midst the Roses and the Lillies play'd?
Are these the Tresses that I long to seize,
And Vengeance take for all the Pains I feel?

Is that the lovely Brow, in which he hides,
That at his Pleasure leads my captive Will?
Are those the Eyes from which his Darts are thrown?
But from no other sure such Force cou'd come.

Who has that Face in this small Space confin'd,
Which oft my Pen attempted has in vain?
Shame not to me alone, but to my Art.
Let's stand and see the charming Wonder rise
From th'Adrian Sea, which its old wont renews
Of bringing forth Celestial Deities.

Sonetto from Marini.

Soft Sleep, thou Son of Silence and of Night,
Parent of wild imaginary Forms,
Thro' whose dark quiet Paths the Lover oft
Straying does haply find his wish'd-for Bliss.

Now ev'ry Heart, but mine, in sweet Repose
Slumbers amidst these light and aery Shades;
Forsake thy closer Caverns, gentle Sleep,
Thy Grots Cimerian, gloomy as my Thoughts.

Approach me with thy lov'd Forgetfulness,
Bring that bright Form, whereon I joy to gaze,
Let it speak Comfort to my lone Desires.

But if to see the Semblance of the Fair
In thee's deny'd me, I at least shall find
The Image of that Death I long to meet.

An Ode on the Queen's Birth-day.

[I.]

Phœbus arise, and with the dawning Light
Haste and dispel the Mists of Night.
Less welcome was the first kind Ray
That pierc'd the dark Abyss, and lighted up the Day,
Less welcome to the barren Earth,
Than is to us the Morn, that gave to Anna Birth.
Be Anna Heaven's peculiar Care;
Ye Angels be her Guardians here,
And watch around her Head, whilst she
Is Guardian of our Europe's Liberty.

II.

To Her th'Oppress'd for Refuge fly,
To Heaven and Her in vain th'Oppress'd can never cry.
She with impartial Hand does weigh

Contending Princes Rights, and each prevails
As her Power turns the Scales;
A Power too great for any Hand, besides
That which equal Justice guides.
Long while had Vict'ry, that Bird of Prey,
Stoop'd to the Tyrant's Lure;
Anna has chain'd her to the juster Side,
Taught her the Rights of Nations to secure.
Be Anna Heaven's, &c.

III.

Thrice happy they
Under her wise and gentle Sway,
Who stand upon the Shoar, and only see from far
All the Rage and Storms of War;
Safe in her pious Care they rest,
And with the Sweets of Peace in midst of Wars are blest.
Thus when thick Darkness Ægypt spread around,
In Goshen's Land alone the Light of Day was found.
Be Anna, &c.

SONG.

[The budding Rose]

The budding Rose
That smiles on Phœbus dawning Rays,
Then blushing glows,
And her fair Bosom wide displays;
Then on the Ground
Scatters her fading Honours round;
Should teach coy Silvia this great Truth,
That she shou'd make her best of Youth.
But the disdainful She no more
Is at this Emblem mov'd, than at our Plaints before.

Upon an Impromptu of Marinda's, in Answer to a Copy of Verses.

In vain you with Marinda's Song compare,
Whose Carelesness excells your greatest Care;

Her quick Impromptu's in just Numbers flow,
Not only Fire, but Strength and Beauty show.
She o'er Parnassus Hill does lightly bound,
You sweat and labour up the rising Ground;
Whilst panting to the topmost Cliff you tend,
We see what Pains it costs you to ascend.
She keeps within her Force, and yet we find
All that attempt her Flight lag far behind.
The curious Dolci thus with study'd Grace,
Labours t'adorn each Feature of the Face;
With Care and Time he draws the Picture true,
And we the finish'd Piece with Pleasure view.
Whilst Raphael with a Touch does all command,
All animate; from under his bold Hand,
The noble Figure does not grow, but start;
And we astonish'd stand at his superior Art.

Canzone of Monsignior della Casa.

[I.]

Long time I wander'd in uncertain Ways,
And many Years in doubtful Paths I trod,
A weary Traveller, and chang'd them oft,
Finding no rest; both Hills and Vales I pass'd,
O'er craggy Mountains and thro' Desarts wild:
At Land I look'd for Sea, at Sea for Land.
Enrag'd at length, myself I then despis'd,
And my vain Thoughts, that find no Help or Guide.
Blind faithless World, I now too well perceive
How much thy Fruit do's differ from the Flow'r.
Sad Story 'tis to tell what various Woes
In my long Pilgrimage and Banishment
I suffer'd, and of which I see no end,
Unless, thou Lord, with gracious Ray benign
Shew me the Way, and guide my dubious Steps,
When if I stray it is my Fault and Choice.

II.

In my gay Years a new and strange Desire
Sprung up, and with such Pleasures fill'd my Soul,
That never One did Life, or Liberty,
Or Wealth, or if ought dearer is, pursue
So eagerly, as I thy Sweets, O Love.
Now doating on the glances of an Eye,
Now on a snowy Hand; and if from far
Thro' a loose Veil the Golden Ringlets shone,
Or beauteous Feet beneath the flowing Gown
Plaid tripping, (how the Folly I bewail!)
My ravish'd Heart strait like a Bird of Prey
Stoop'd at the Lure; And thus my early Youth
Was by vain Thoughts bewildred and mis-led:

III.

But what does yet my just Repentance more
Embitter, oft I wept, and begg'd for ease
Of my delightful voluntary Pain,
And learn'd in pleasing Accents to complain:

101

I bore the Cold of many a piercing Night
To bend a stubborn and obdurate Heart,
Which sometime melted at my Woes: 'Tis meet
That my repenting Tears shou'd wash me clean
From those black Stains, and that terrestrial Filth
Which from my Crimes my sullied Soul imbib'd
(Spotless infus'd) nor can it re-ascend
T'its native Heav'n, with such a Load oppress'd;
Unable its lost Beauty to resume
'Till form'd again, and a new Creature made,
By the same Power, that its first Being gave.

IV.

Be that true Love Divine, my Guide and Aid,
Which me from nothing to this Heighth has rais'd;
If still my Soul in crooked Ways delights,
Void of all Help it must for ever stray,
And wander on in Darkness, while blind Lust
Obscures that Light, which from on high does spring.

103

As after struggling long, the wearied Stag
Flies from the broken Toils; So I from Love
(Who his fond Vot'ries feeds with Poyson fell)
Fled, ling'ring with a slow, and heavy pace;
But whilst my Sorrows past I gently sung
Collected in myself, a new Desire
Shot up within my glowing Breast, to soar
Above th'Aonian Mount, and Paths attempt
Trod now by few.

V.

And (as a Pilgrim spurr'd
With dear remembrance of his native Home,
Thro' Woods, o'er Mountains urges on his way)
I labour'd up the craggy Cliff, and strove
To reach the foremost, and to join the Choir
Of those, whose Song immortaliz'd their Names;
My force flagg'd under my ambitious Aims;
Nathless I still pursu'd my way, and robb'd
My Days of Quiet, and my Nights of Sleep,
In vain! That Bard whose Sight a drop serene
Had quench'd, or dim Suffusion veil'd, aspir'd

105

So high on tow'ring Wing, he mock'd my Pains,
And left me faint, and breathless, all behind.

VI.

A fond Credulity next turn'd my Thoughts
To follow where bright Honour led the Way,
With Dignity and lofty Titles strow'd;
Virtue appear'd contemptible and vile
Unless in richest Gems and Purple clad:
O how did I lament the joyous Days
Chang'd now to black and guilty Nights; I found
Too late how Men that trust the faithless World
Are cheated and undone: What anxious Cares
Dark Deeds, and deep Despair oft lurk conceal'd
Under a false, forc'd Smile, and shining Glare.

Thro' all these intricate and various Paths
I wander'd lost; weary and faint at length
With hoary Head, and broke with Toils and Years,
Tho' slow, and late, I gladly back return,
And quit those Paths that to Destruction lead.

107

Methinks I see a glimmering Light that breaks
From far, O may it quick disperse those Mists
That my Affections clog, and cloud my Mind;
O may it guide my wand'ring Steps to Bliss!

From Tasso's Jerusalem. lib. 16.

STA. 14.

See how on yonder Bush
The Virgin Rose
Breaks from her Verdure with a Blush,
And does but half her Charms disclose,
Which less disclos'd, the brighter still appear;
See how grown bolder she displays
Her Bosom bare, see how she then decays;
No more that Flow'r remains,
That Flow'r no more which thousand Nymphs and Swains
Long'd in their Wreaths to wear.

109

15.

Thus with the Day
The Bud and Blossom of our mortal Life
Passeth away,
And no glad Spring returns to chear
Our drooping Year.
Come then with eager Strife
Gather your Roses this fair Morn,
The Evening soon your Day shuts in,
Gather your Roses and your Heads adorn,
Whilst you can love and be belov'd again.

110

A TALE.

A band of Cupids th'other Day
Together met to Laugh and Play,
When on a sudden, Come, who flies?
Says one; But whither, t'other cries?
Why? whither, but to Cloe's Eyes?
Reply'd a third. The wanton Crew
(Like swarms of Bees to Roses) flew
Around the beauteous Cloe's Face,
And crowded hard to get a place.
This on her nether Lip does fix,
Whilst on her Cheek Another sticks.
This swings upon her flowing Hair,
In her fair Eyes a lovely pair
Of Youths stand with their Torches lit,
Two others on her Eye-brows sit,
Each with his Bow; Amongst the Rest
One miss'd her Chin, and on her Breast
Fell head-long, but soon looking up did cry
None of you've got so good a Place as I.

111

To Marinda.

Cupid pursu'd, and sore distrest,
Begg'd Lodging in Marinda's Breast,
With humble Looks his Suit renew'd,
And promis'd to be very good;
He Venus left, because he found
That she the Nymphs wou'd have him wound,
And it had always been his care
Never to hurt the Good and Fair.
Marinda smil'd, and bid Disdain
Take him, and carry him home again,
And tell his Mother, it was fit,
That she shou'd chain th'unlucky Chitt,
Not suffer him about to roam,
And wander thus so far from Home,
Since Venus by Experience knew
What Mischief he was wont to do.

112

On Marinda's Toilette.

Hence vulgar Beauties take their pow'rful Arms,
And from their Toilette borrow all their Charms:
But bright Marinda with a kinder Care
Rebates her sharper-pointed Glances here.
With our weak Sight in pity she complies,
And with our Fashions vails the Glories of her Eyes.
The Angels thus descending from above
To visit Men with Messages of Love,
Such Shape assum'd our Blessing to compleat,
And make the Favour kind as it was great.
Through mortal Vestments shone th'Angelick Air,
And tho' in human Form they seem'd most heav'nly Fair.

113

A Dialogue between Lucinda and Strephon, on a Butter-Fly that reviv'd before the Fire, and afterwards flew in to it and was burnt.

LUCINDA.
See Strephon, see, with what an eager Strife
The little Atoms kindle into Life,
How the poor Insect spreads its downy Wings,
With what a grateful Ardour up it springs,
Tow'ring aloft to meet that lovely Flame
From whose kind Warmth its Life and Vigour came.
Ah hapless Insect! new inspir'd with Breath,
Where Thou had'st found thy Life to meet with Death;
Relentless Fire! alas! how could'st Thou prove
Cruel to so much Gratitude and Love?

114

STREPHON.
Lucinda, let not this employ your Care,
You as the Fire, We as the Insects are;
A worthier Object for your Pity find,
The Insect leave, and look upon Mankind.
Your Charms at first awaken our Desire,
Spread thro' a vital Warmth, and kindle up the Fire.
Then with full Hopes, we imp our Wings for flight,
To sport and revel in a Flame so bright.
Soaring at last too near those beauteous Eyes,
Th'aspiring Lover by their Rigour dies.

To Marinda. A Puerperium.

Cupid a froward Chit as e'er was bred,
Once in an Humour from his Mother fled;
And Venus, doating on the lovely Boy,
Came down from Heaven to seek her lovely Joy;

115

She half distracted thro' the World did rove,
Sought every Corner for her pretty Love:
But all in vain: At last she chanc'd to stray
Where bright Marinda's new-born Infant lay.
Fair Venus stop't, and shrieking cry'd, O why
Did my own Dearest from his Mother fly?
Where hast thou wander'd? When an Infant smile
Graceful as Cupid's, without Cupid's Guile,
Shew'd her mistake; Transported with such Charms,
The Goddess caught the Babe up in her heav'nly Arms.

And thus she spake:
I see such Beauties in those Looks do shine,
That thou Marinda's Cupid art or mine;
May'st thou reward thy beauteous Mother's Care,
And be as Good and Happy as thou'rt Fair,
May'st thou to her a greater Blessing be,
Than is my too-lov'd Wanderer to me.

117

Core in Augello

From Guarini.

A Nymph (tho' of the Tigress breed)
Wept for a Bird that from her fled,
Quarrell'd with Heav'n, and rail'd at Fate,
And call'd herself Unfortunate.
My Heart transfix'd by Cupid's Arrow,
Put on the shape of her lov'd Sparrow,
And neatly plum'd and trick'd and dress'd,
It flew, and lit upon her Breast:
But soon the cruel Creature knew it,
As soon the cruel Creature slew it.
Then pleas'd at the discover'd Guile,
She dry'd her Eyes, and 'gan to smile.

118

EPIGRAMS.

I. To Cloe.

Cloe her Gossips entertains
With Stories of her Child-bed Pains,
And fiercely against Hymen rails;
But Hymen's not so much to blame:
She knows, unless her Mem'ry fails,
Before she Wedd, she'd much the same.

Epigram II. To Sylvia reading St. Bernard's Life.

'Twas well for Bernard, he was born
Some Ages ere thy cruel Scorn
The Captive World had ruin'd and undone;
For had Heav'n otherwise decreed,
Those Eyes had ne'er the Saint's Life read,
But he had seen them, and to Hell had gone.

119

Epigram III.

[Come Megg be quick, and make the Bed]

Come Megg be quick, and make the Bed,
Now tuck the Feet, now place the Head,
I'll kiss you if you don't bestir ye;
Quoth Megg, I can't abide to hurry.

A Dialogue between Phillis and Strephon.

Phillis and I, as we our Flocks did guide
One Ev'ning homewards by the River's side,
With pleasure She the Stars i'th' azure Skies
Admiring view'd, I those in her bright Eyes.
Phillis, said I, those distant Wonders slight,
And let the nearer entertain your Sight;
Turn and behold your beauteous Eyes in mine,
Your Eyes, which far those heavenly Lights out-shine
Can I, reply'd she, from your Eyes receive
So clear an Image as this Stream can give?
No Stream, said I, your fatal Charms can show
So well, as Those which from my Eyes do flow.

120

Wrote the last Day of the Year. To Marinda.

The Muse stood by, and whisper'd in my Ear,
Be wise, and end your Rhyming with the Year.
The Youth whom We inspire may Favour find,
None of the Muses to old Age are kind,
Retire in time from the Poetick Throng,
With this Applause, Marinda lik'd your Song,
The brightest Genius did your Verse commend,
Honour'd the Poet with the Name of Friend:
Here to the Muses die, and o'er your Tomb
Let this be read by Ages yet to come;
Ye Nymphs and Swains your Garlands hither bring,
Here lyes the Shepherd did Marinda sing.

On Sight of the Present Empress.

Had Gloriana liv'd, when brightest Charms
Summon'd the Rival Princes all to Arms,

121

Whoe'er that World of Beauty had enjoy'd,
No more on Conquest had his Thoughts employ'd,
The Victors ne'er had deign'd new Worlds t'explore,
Or with young Ammon fondly wept for more.
Well may'st Thou Charles th'Iberian Throne resign,
All that is worth contending for is Thine.

To a Friend of Marinda's that did not enough admire the Empress.

What, has Marinda's Form so fill'd thy Mind,
No other Object can admittance find?
Must he renounce all farther use of Sight
That once approaches that refulgent Light?
So if by Chance th'adventrous Swain espy'd
By a clear Brook, or shady Covert's side,

122

One of th'Immortal Dames, the Poets feign'd
The Youth to future Objects blind remain'd,
Struck with the heavenly Charms to that Degree,
He neither cou'd, nor wish'd again to see.

Translation of a Sonetto of Dr. Salvini's.

His native Shore the Mariner forsakes
Blith, and for Golden Dreams he quits his Ease,
But broke with Toil, vows to the Gods he makes
If he returns, ne'er more to try the Seas.

The Gods consent, and bring him safe to Land,
But tir'd with Ease, or pinch'd by Want and Cares,
He views his shatter'd Hulk upon the Strand,
Refirs it, nor new Seas nor Dangers fears.

123

Thus when I launch'd into Love's faithless Main,
Fallacious Hopes did o'er my Fears prevail,
And pleas'd, I drove upon the liquid Plain,
And spread my Sails to ev'ry flattering Gale.

'Till my weak Bark by furious Tempests caught,
Was well nigh sunk; I Shipwreck'd reach'd the Shore,
And by my own too sad Experience taught,
Resolv'd to trust those treach'rous Waves no more.

When from Lucinda's Eyes a Look serene,
That gently smil'd, and promis'd fair, inspir'd
Fresh Gales of Hope, I put to Sea again,
Loathing that Port, I once so much desir'd.

Upon a noble Venetian Lady.

Mankind had giv'n the Cyprian Altars o'er,
And ceas'd the Goddess longer to adore.
Venus oft ask'd the Cause; at last she heard
On th'Adrian Sea a Rival had appear'd:

124

Whether She Mortal or Immortal were,
Was doubtful, but Men paid their Homage there.
The Queen of Paphos rag'd, nor wou'd She stay,
But thro' the foaming Billows cut her Way:
Saw Moceniga; and, with Envy fir'd,
Back to her Cyprus sullenly retir'd.

On a Romantick Lady.

This poring over your grand Cyrus
Must ruin you, and will quite tire us.
It makes you think, that an Affront 'tis,
Unless your Lover's an Orontes,
And courts you with a Passion frantick,
In Manner and in Stile Romantick.
Now tho' I count my self no Zero,
I don't pretend to be an Hero.
Or a By-blow of him that thunders,
Nor are you one of the sev'n Wonders,
But a young Damsel very pretty,
And your true Name is Mistress Betty.

125

[As Corydon went shiv'ring by]

As Corydon went shiv'ring by,
Sylvia a Ball of Snow let fly,
Which straight a Globe of Fire became,
And put the Shepherd in a Flame;
Cupid now break thy Darts and Bow,
Sylvia can all thy Feats out-do,
Fire us with Ice, burn us with Snow.

An Epitaph on a Gallant Lady.

O'er this Marble drop a Tear,
Here lies fair Rosalinde,
All Mankind was pleas'd with her,
And She with all Mankind.

The Butterfly.

To please a giddy Girl, my Amorous Heart
Assumes new Forms, and varies Proteus' Part.

126

Her wav'ring Humour in each Shape to try,
'Tis now at last become a Butterfly:
Wing'd by the radiant Glories of her Eyes
In wanton Circles to its Ruin flies;
While flutt'ring round and round the dazling light,
It plyes and hovers near those Rays too bright,
Nor e'er the simple dang'rous Sport gives o'er,
Till first its Wings, then Life, the Flames devour.
O happy Insect! bless thy Fate; Expire,
To rise a Phœnix from so sweet a Fire.

ANACREONTIC.

I spy'd, as through May-Fair I strol'd,
A Wax-work Cupid to be sold.
So arch a Look, a Face so smooth,
Made me step Curious to the Booth,
And pleas'd with a Device so New
From Head to Foot the Imp I view.

127

I call'd the Man; who coming forth,
I ask'd him what the Toy was worth?
The Man replies in homely Stile,
Master, e'en give me what you will
And take him: for to say the Truth,
I never made this Wax-work Youth,
And should be glad could I get clear,
At any Rate, of such like Gear.
Well, here's a Tester for him. Come
Cupid, let you and I go home:
But hark ye, Spark (I'm not in jest)
Light me a Fire in Cloe's Breast,
And warm that cruel, frozen Dame;
Or Faith I'll melt thee at my Flame.

128

A Madrigal in imitation of the Italian.

The Beauteous cruel Maid
Begins to feel the Injuries of Age;
And yet my Love
Do's neither Ease nor Respite prove.
Time's swift and pow'rful Aid
Is come too late my Passion to asswage,
For tho' the Flame to Ashes turns,
My Heart still burns.

Madrigal II.

[Haste bitter Sighs]

Haste bitter Sighs
To the bright Cause of my Despair,
Say to the rigid Fair,
If you wou'd longer cruel be,
Abate your Cruelty;
Alas the Caitiff dies,
And Death will quickly set him free,
Both from his Torment and your Tyranny.

129

Madrigal III.

[Love, (alas!) where dost thou rest]

Love, (alas!) where dost thou rest
In Cloe's Looks, or in my Breast?
When I see thee gayly shine,
Thou'rt wholly in that Face Divine;
When I feel thee burn and smart,
I'm sure thou'rt got into my Heart:
Prithee Love, if thou woud'st shew
What Wonders thou on us can'st do:
Change me now and then thy Place,
Burn in her Breast, shine in my Face.

A Madrigal from Guarini. IV.

My Tigress dream'd she saw me die,
And waking, griev'd it was not true;
Then from her angry Looks let flie
An Arrow, and her Lover slew.

130

In vain he flies,
From those dear fatal Eyes
That open can her Lover slay,
And shut, his Death survey.

Madrigal V.

[The Beauteous cruel Maid]

The Beauteous cruel Maid,
Begins to feel the Injuries of Age;
And yet my Love
Do's neither Ease nor Respite prove;
Time's swift and powerful Aid
Is come too late, my Passion to asswage;
For tho' the Flame to Ashes turns
My Heart still burns.

Madrigal VI.

[Haste, bitter Sighs]

Haste, bitter Sighs,
To the bright Cause of my Despair;
Say to the rigid Fair,

131

If you wou'd longer Cruel be,
Abate your Cruelty:
Alas! the Caitiff dies,
And Death will quickly set him free,
Both from his Torment, and your Tyranny.

Madrigal VII.

[Poor honest Will. was good for nought]

Poor honest Will. was good for nought,
None good, or ill, of him once thought:
To no Man he was Foe or Friend,
Was sometimes lay'd, sometimes an-end;
Amongst us liv'd t'his Eighty'th Year,
E'en just as if he'd ne'er been here.

Madrigal VIII.

[Here Cloe lyes]

Here Cloe lyes,
Whose (once bright) Eyes
Set all the World on Fire:
And not to be
Ungrateful, she
Did all the World admire.

132

A Translation from Tasso. Gierusalemme liberata.

Mean while, Erminia, 'midst the shady Trees
Of a thick aged Wood, half dead with fear,
Pursu'd what way the nimble Courser chose,
Whose slackned Reins her trembling Hand scarce held:
Thro' the dark various Pathless Windings, he
His Mistress bore; safe out of sight, or reach.
As after a long toylsome Chace, the Hounds
(Their Game in closest Coverts hid and lost)
Panting and sad, back in the Evening turn;
The Warriours so, with Wrath and Anger fill'd,
Their weary Steps bend homeward; whilst she flies,
Pale, and dismay'd, nor ever turns to see,
Whether she's still pursu'd: all Night she flies,
All Day, and wanders without Help or Guide,
Nor hears or sees ought but her Fears and Cries:
And now the Sun from radiant Carr had loos'd

133

His fiery Steeds, to sleep in Thetis Lap,
When to clear Jordan's gliding Stream she came,
Lit on his flow'ry Bank, and laid her down.
She took no Food, her Griefs were all her Food,
She thirsted after nothing but her Tears:
Till Sleep, that with its sweet forgetfulness,
To wretched Mortals rest and quiet brings,
Spread o'er the Maid his gentle peaceful Wings,
Lockt up her Senses, and her Sorrows still'd:
Nathless, fond busie Love in various shapes
Ceas'd not t'intrude and trouble her Repose:
The warbling Birds that with their joyous Songs,
Welcome the dawning Day; the murm'ring Brooks,
The rus'ling Boughs, and the cool sportive Breese
That curles the Stream, and brushes o'er the Flow'rs,
Awak'd the Maid—

Imperfect.

135

Romanez de Quevedo.

Upon Orpheus and Eurydice. From the Spanish.

Ypon a time, as Poets tell,
Their Orpheus went down to Hell
To fetch his Wife, nor cou'd he guess
To find her in a likelier Place.

Down he went singing, as they say,
And troling Ballads all the way;
No wonder that, the Reason's clear,
For then he was a Widower.

Timber and Stones with speed did flie
After his Noble Harmony:
The self-same thing I've seen befall
The wofull'st Scraper of them all.

To Hell he came, and told his Case,
Torment and Pain streight quit the Place;

137

Each Fiend was happy, when compar'd
With such a wretched wedded Bard.

He had the luck, with doleful Ditty,
Deaf Pluto to inspire with Pity,
And got (if you will call it Gain,
And not a Plague) his Wife again.

With his Petition he comply'd,
But him to these Conditions ty'd,
That he shou'd take, not look upon her:
Both hard Commands to Man of Honour.

So on the Loving Couple went,
He led her up the steep Ascent;
But when the Man does downward stray,
The Woman then does lead the way.

The fond Wretch turn'd his Head too soon:
If 'twas on purpose, 'twas well done:

139

But if by chance, a hit indeed
Which did beyond his Hopes succeed.

Happy's the married Wight that e'er
Comes once to be a Widower;
But twice of one Wife to get free,
Is Luck in its Extremity.

This is the first, last Instance of this kind,
No Fool will e'er again such Fortune find.