Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses A Collection of Poems. In Three Volumes. By Mr John Hopkins |
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TO SYLVIUS, ON HIS AMASIA.
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 | Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses |  |
TO SYLVIUS, ON HIS AMASIA.
I Read; and all your Works my wonder raise,Thou gav'st me Pleasure, and I'll give thee Praise.
With Wit so Charming thy soft Passions move,
Minerva now should grow the Queen of Love.
Sylvius—
—To thee a double Fame is due,
Both as the Poet, and the Lover too.
She too grows doubly fam'd, whom Sylvius wooes,
Amasia, both the Mistress and the Muse.
If thou hast Lov'd, and thy Complaints be Just,
I pity thee,—and every Woman must.
She's dead—our Sex's glory, and their shame;
Could she be Mortal, yet despise thy Flame!
If thou hast Lov'd, but half as thou hast writ,
(But oh! Who Loves, with such a World of Wit.!)
The Maid, the Cruel Charming Maid you Sung,
With darts by Death, not Cupid, should be stung.
Death has absolv'd thee of thy Constant vow;
Forget the Maid, Fame be thy Mistress now.
Fame, which you Court not, to your Arms will flee,
The World will give, but take it first from me.
In vain—she gives you Fame, whom you adore,
Your Passion gives you that, but gives no more.
Such nat'ral turns in all your Numbers roll,
Were there no sense, the strain would move the Soul.
Their force is such as is in Musick found,
We should be Charm'd, by the bare Power of sound.
Tho' none can better write, do you write on,
You can be only by your self outdone.
All other Poets, reading thee. Despair,
And grieve to think thou hast so vast a share.
Asham'd of their own labours may they grow,
Whilst from thy Pen whole Helicon does flow.
Thy growing Laurels spread above us high,
Spring thro' the Air, and mounting, reach the Sky:
When Eccho'd from the Stars by sounding Fame,
A lasting glory shall secure thy Name.
Go on, and let thy thoughtful, wand'ring Muse,
Ravisht with Love, no other subject choose.
Let thy soft numbers still employ thy Pen,
Thy Muses Works surpass the Works of Men.
In after Ages may thy glory thrive,
And may thy name great Drayden's name survive.
Thou dost our Souls with thy soft Passions move,
Thou Art a Poet, like the God of Love.
You and the God of Love Amasia mourn,
The God of Love and you are Poets born.
Hold, I'm your Friend, and I must need advise,
Be wise, yet e'er it be too late, be wise.
Nor from the Press, nor the ingrateful Stage,
To your own ruine, Charm a thankless Age.
Amasia's dead—some solid good pursue,
Since every Muse has done a task for you;
Merit scarce ever meets reward—Adieu.
Both as the Poet, and the Lover too.
She too grows doubly fam'd, whom Sylvius wooes,
Amasia, both the Mistress and the Muse.
If thou hast Lov'd, and thy Complaints be Just,
I pity thee,—and every Woman must.
She's dead—our Sex's glory, and their shame;
Could she be Mortal, yet despise thy Flame!
If thou hast Lov'd, but half as thou hast writ,
(But oh! Who Loves, with such a World of Wit.!)
With darts by Death, not Cupid, should be stung.
Death has absolv'd thee of thy Constant vow;
Forget the Maid, Fame be thy Mistress now.
Fame, which you Court not, to your Arms will flee,
The World will give, but take it first from me.
In vain—she gives you Fame, whom you adore,
Your Passion gives you that, but gives no more.
Such nat'ral turns in all your Numbers roll,
Were there no sense, the strain would move the Soul.
Their force is such as is in Musick found,
We should be Charm'd, by the bare Power of sound.
Tho' none can better write, do you write on,
You can be only by your self outdone.
All other Poets, reading thee. Despair,
And grieve to think thou hast so vast a share.
Asham'd of their own labours may they grow,
Whilst from thy Pen whole Helicon does flow.
Thy growing Laurels spread above us high,
Spring thro' the Air, and mounting, reach the Sky:
When Eccho'd from the Stars by sounding Fame,
A lasting glory shall secure thy Name.
Go on, and let thy thoughtful, wand'ring Muse,
Ravisht with Love, no other subject choose.
Thy Muses Works surpass the Works of Men.
In after Ages may thy glory thrive,
And may thy name great Drayden's name survive.
Thou dost our Souls with thy soft Passions move,
Thou Art a Poet, like the God of Love.
You and the God of Love Amasia mourn,
The God of Love and you are Poets born.
Hold, I'm your Friend, and I must need advise,
Be wise, yet e'er it be too late, be wise.
Nor from the Press, nor the ingrateful Stage,
To your own ruine, Charm a thankless Age.
Amasia's dead—some solid good pursue,
Since every Muse has done a task for you;
Merit scarce ever meets reward—Adieu.
Yet hold; if still you would your self excel,
Leave off—so Wicherly did more than well.
Leave off—so Wicherly did more than well.
Urania.
| Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses | |