A Dialogue between two water Nymphs Thamesis and Sabrina.
Tha.
Ho! all yee sister-streams that govern'd be.
By great Diana's watry diety.
Yee silver Nymphs that gliding sport and play,
And kis your flowry bancks, and flowing stray
In lofty murmurs, ô come sit you here,
And lend my swelling grief a voice or tear.
Sab.
What poor afflicted Soul with mournful cries
And sobs awakes my long benighted eyes?
What hapless maid of her first love bereav'd
Bemoans her friend in death's black armes received?
Perhaps some pining Votress in ye dark
Bedews a Lover's tombe with tears; hark! hark!
Tha.
Ah me forlorn! ah me forsaken maid!
Where is my loveliness and honour strayd?
Those glories dwelt upon me? & those swans
That sung my name beyond proud Ganges sands,
And fill'd both Indies with the wide renown
Of my spread fame? Now tost now tumbled down?
Sab.
I thought my crimson streams had buried all
The bitter land-flouds of a Kingdoms thrall.
But lo! a louder eccho living is,
A floud of yet continued miseries.
A tide of wo at last has found a tongue
To bear a sad part in my doleful song:
Speak wretched Maid, whence art?—
Tha.
—tis I, tis I,
Poor Thamesis out of my ruines cry,
Gravell'd with sorrow and scortch'd up with heat
Of war, struck deaf with drums, who was the seat
Of peace and plenty, now the rouling map
Of violence and tyranous mishap.
Sab.
Alas fair Princess! were there left in mee
A Creek reserv'd from grief to pitty thee,
With what swift hast should I divert ye course
Of my salt waves to mixt their scatter'd force
With that vast body of thy tears? And close
My springs with thine to make a sea of woes?
Tha.
Can there be such a monster that dares own
It's small undoing when my mischief's shown?
O can there be proportion 'twixt the drops
Of private ills, and the full plenteous crops
And buckets of mine anguish? O forbear!
I drank those showers whereof thy storms skirts were.
Sab.
We grant (Great Lady of the Isles) that thy
Tumultuous tumours were that pluresie
That caus'd the opening of our veins. Thy head
Distemper'd, we grew soon imbodied
In the same gulf and ocean of thy pain,
Languishing rivulets of thee the maine.
But if the surges of thy bosom have
Digg'd for thy beauty an untimely grave:
If thy rash waters have so run thee in
The winding gyres and streights of suffering;
Thank thy Augean filthiness for these,
Thy Hydra which hath slain thy Hercules.
Tha.
Tis true Sabrina I have acted right
The fable of ye Horse; who needs would fight
The Hart: But finding streight himself to bee
Too weak for his Pallizadoed enemie;
He begs the man to ride him, and became
His slave, to gain an empty victor's name.
Sab.
No, rather I suppose th'hast verefi'd
The story of the Frogs, that to Jove cry'd
To have a King. He heard their praiers tis said
And flung them down a Beam to be their head.
But they dislik'd with peace, again did call,
On which he sent a Stork that eat them all.
So thou yt kick'st at quiet kings, hast gain'd
A conquest, wch now rides thee double rein'd.
Thou, thou that shrunk'st at puny Subsidies
Art eas'd at length with Taxes and Excize;
Hast only chang'd the names of things ye Hague
For Amsterdam, the Meazles for the Plague.
Tha.
Crush not Sabrina now my smarting sores,
But let the offring of my crumbled Towers,
And rubbish Palaces appease thy feirce
Censure: For lo I speak but in my hearse.
This issue of my breath's a parting groan:
Add not affliction to affliction.
Sab.
Nor has ye burden lighted all on thee
Alone sweet Nymph, but Humber, Trent & Dee,
Medway, and my poor channel had their share
In th'crimson streams of a most bloudy war.
If by the shore the Publick Father dy'd
Twas not long since the Son here slipp'd a side?
Sav'd by a miracle of Providence,
The finger of the Gods, that caught him hence
From out ye jaws of death, to make him more
Than that fight gain'd could seal him conquerour.
But least I lessen thy deserts, ô take
The glory of our ruine for thy sake.
Tha.
Twas I indeed was that main spring of all
That set the judgments moving, wch did fall,
And in each quarter of the land did roam,
But now again are justly travell'd home
Through my own bowels. O my pride and purse
Were both at once the Countrie's & my curse.
Fulness of bread, & wantoness, that brat
Of sweet abused peace, in me begat
A nicety of palate, a desire
Of novelties, and setting all on fire,
Which flame once kindled, I was forc'd to be
The Fuel of my own calamitie.
Sab.
And rightly, since thou wast ye wombe and well
From whence those Spirits rose, to be their Hell.
The high throne of that many headed Beast
Popular Soveraignty: A snaky nest
And Synagogue of Asps, which share the sweat
Of three tame Nations tyed up from their meat.
Tha.
What thē Sabrina rests yet to be done?
But that we shun with shame and fly the sun,
Suffring a willing winter to congeal
Our drops to christal, which wee'le mildly deal
In softer showers of pious tears again
Till we have purg'd a scarlet Kingdoms stain.
