University of Virginia Library

Miscellanies.

The FIRST PART.

A SATYR AGAINST VICE.

A SATYR AGAINST WHORING.

Slaves to Debauchery and Lustful Rage,
That drain the Streets, and prostitute the Stage,
Begot in heat of Lust on Hackney Whores,
Souls wrapt in Excrements of common Shoars.
Standing for patterns, 'fore the Limners Eye,
To draw the Lustful God Priæpus by.
Pox take ye all! This Curse I doubt's too late,
It long has been, 'tis like, your Whoring Fate;
Then all the Courses ever Sodom knew,
Or pocky Jilts, light on your Race and You;
Inflam'd by Lust, may you with Passion move,
And have the Pox return'd instead of Love;
May you with stinking Breaths pass unador'd,
And Breath a fulsome Clap at every Word;
May Dreams disturb by Night, & Whores by Day,
And ravenous Shankers eat your flesh away;
May Sores without, and fervent Heat within,
Consume and waste away your loathsome Skin;
May you be so Debaucht, so vilely Lewd,
'Till grown so great, Lust cannot be renew'd;
'Till one sad Ach expels another Pain,
And Claps in circles meet with Claps again;
'Till Stone, and Gout, and Stranguries contend,
Which to Old-Nick your lustful Soul shall send;
Haulting may you in Lifes dull Journey go,
Condemn'd to Stews above, and Hell below;
May bawling Bawds about your Dwellings roame,
And all your Spurious Issue haunt your home;
Having spent all your Wealth in Leachery,
May you unpittied on a Dunghil die;
May all these Curses, and Ten thousand more
Than all the angry Gods have in their store,
Light on you; then may Darted Vengeance come,
With hoarded Bolts of Wrath to raise your Tomb.
Gods! why o'er Nature did you take such Care,
In making Women exquisitely Fair?
Why build you dazling Altars like the Skies,
And do provide no better Votaries
Than Men? Lascivious Men! whose lustful frown
Spoils all that's fair, and pulls what's Sacred down;
Will all enjoy, and Married be to none,
Though Nature dictates only to use one.
In broken Language Beasts by pairs do prate;
The cooing Dove bills but his single Mate;
But Man, unbounded Man! Attempts all ill,
His Lust is grown as Boundless as his Will;
That Name call'd Husband is of Terror full,
The State Uneasie, Melancholy, Dull;
The Kennel, Kitchin, Oyster, rampant Whore,
Before a Wife, 's the Creature they Adore.
What Sot would wander, that has by his side
The Powerful Charms of a Smiling Bride?
Cool as the coldest Night, and Chaster far
Than Anchorets, or Vestal Virgins are;
Whose equal Love, do's equal Heat Inspire,
Prompted by Kindness, not a base Desire;
In whose Embraces gladly pass away
Whole tedious years in but one Halcyon day.
Fate Favours him, that makes him spend his Life,
Doom'd to those Golden Chains, to please a Wife.

To the Memory of Mr. JOHN OLDHAM.

TO THE Memory of the Right Honourable THE EARL of ROCHESTER.

Cease, Poets, cease, you are undone;
The Muses dearest darling Son
Is to the blest Elysium gone.
If Poets have in Heaven aboad,
There he'll commence a happy God:
For sure no Earthly Star cou'd shine,
With such a lustre, so Divine.
Oh! Had I trembling at thy Death,
Stood to suck in thy parting Breath,
That charming Philtre, which could prove
The source of Poetry and Love.
Ah! who shall Paint thy Passion right?
That lasting Torch of endless Light.
What manly force thy temper sway'd?
Yet gentle as a Love-sick Maid.
Unhappy I, by self-conceit,
By Fools applause, and Vulgar Cheat,
Thy Fancy strive to imitate.
Let me, Ah let me! but presume,
From thy gay Wings to pluck one Plume;
How would I brustle then, and spread
My Feathers on the Muses Bed?
But how dare I approach thy Shrine,
That's Sacred all, and all Divine:
Yet let my lesser Fire burn,
And be attendant at thy Urn;
When Orpheus, all lament and cry,
And senseless Stones, why should not I?
Under yon Beech but 'tother Day,
Young Philocles and Cloris lay
To hear thy Pipe, and hear thy Lays,
That shorter made the tedious Days.
But now as much they grieve and moan;
The Lord Adonis dead and gone.
Lov'd Silver Thames, so fam'd in Song,
With groaning streams does glide along:
Dropping like Tears, its Waters fall,
As if it wept thy Funeral.
When I the fair Corinna see,
I grieve, I sigh, to think on thee;
But more I grieve when I peruse
The Bawdy flashes of thy Muse.
This to the Publishers was due,
Not Licens'd and Allow'd by you:
But the lewd wretches took the pain
To act the Bawdy Lectures o're again.

ODE.

[Hard by the Scenes of Cruel Fate]

THE Tory Catch.

HYPERMNESTRA TO LINUS.

CORINNA TO PHILOCLES.

To thee, Dear Philocles, to thee I fend,
The much abus'd Corinna's faithless Friend.
Scythia, a Sanctuary sure allows
For broken Oaths, and unregarded Vows.
Ah, perjur'd Youth! to leave those dearest Arms,
He once confest were mere Circean Charms!
Cast at my Feet he oft would panting lie.
While growing Love did turn to Ecstasie:
Pensive he look'd, he groan'd, he breath'd forth sighs;
Sad was his Heart, and languishing his Eyes.
Grown Drunk with gazing, he would reeling stand,
And, drown'd in Raptures, kiss my charming Hand:
Then all in Passions, by the Gods he swore,
I was his Saint, and me he would adore.
Before our Friends he unseen looks would take,
And undiscerned assignations make:
Duty to them would make him words refrain,
But's Eye made Love in a far nobler strain.
His Eyes grown languid, did soft Vows impart:
(The Eye's the natural Index of the Heart)
Yet after Vows and Tears he Faithless proves;
The just result of our too conscious Loves.
When to the silent Groves Corinna hies,
Those guilty Scenes of our once dearest joys;
Here I can find no sweets, nor wonted ease,
But sadly mourn my absent Philocles.
Down to the spreading Beech I go, whose boughs
Have oft bore witness of our mutual Vows:
There see our names upon the paler Rind,
In Amorous Characters together joyn'd:
By annual growth, the Names now distant show;
Ah! must the Lovers be at distance too?
Relentless Fate! in vain do Mortals grieve,
And chide at Destiny they cann't retrieve.
Who could have thought our joys so fresh and green,
So big with Love, had ever Mortal been?
Uninterrupted sweets ran rowling by,
In boundless days, like vast Eternity.
No hours big with Fate our rest annoys,
Nor sudden change our unadulterate joys.
Indulgent Nature strove with care to please
The lov'd Corinna and her Philocles:
Whilest he the lovely Swain did sit and sing,
Beneath the pleasures of the blooming Spring.
The neighbouring Swains lay silent on the Plain;
And Philomel did chant her Lays in vain:
Down goes his Pipe, and qualms of Love come on:
(Then Mixing Vows and Kisses all in one)
Ah! tender Nymph, he said, was beauty given;
(Beauty the chiefest Gift of bounteous Heaven)
To die like yielding flowers before the Sun,
And give no scent before its race be run?
Ah! lovely Mistress of my kindest fires,
Who in my active Soul beget'st desires;
Bless with a smile my melancholy hours,
And I Eternally am stiled yours.
Ah! cruel fair One, smile! and smiling say,
My anxious days you will with Love repay.
And here I smiling said, (for who cold hold,
When ravish'd looks the Heart's lov'd message told)
“Know, Philocles, your Love I've always seen,
“And e're this time it had rewarded been.
“With gazing Eyes I oft your form did view;
“When you were sick I sympathiz'd with you:
“But Love-sick Maids will any thing endure;
“Refuse the Physick, though they love the Cure.
“But now I find, in vain I long have strove;
“Excuse me, if I blushing say, I Love.
“Take no advantage 'ore my weak replyes;
“In silence cherish a poor Virgins sighs.
Then here he swore, by all the Powers Divine,
He wou'd be always True, be always Mine.
But, Ah! says he, How weak the Joy does prove,
If we still rest on that slight Thing, call'd Love?
Sighs are but Airy Blasts, that move the Heart,
And drive the winged downy Cupid's Dart.
Kisses are empty Prologues to the Play,
And, like the Morning Dew, soon melt away.
Ah! 'tis Enjoyment must our Souls inspire,
And prove the Vigour of our Youthful Fire.
Tell me, sweet Maid, How blessed Venus sped
With all the Pleasures of the Genial Bed,
When she Adonis drew unto her Breast,
And, with stoln Joys, the Youthful Lover blest?
This was a better Act, and pleas'd her more,
Than, o're rude Hills, to see him chase the Boar.
If Languid Looks were all Love's Mystery,
The Dead, in Tombs, might court as well as we.
Yield, Beauteous Virgin, ere the Time comes on,
When nought but the Desire shall fresh remain;
Ere fumbling Age shall soberer things perswade,
And you be call'd that hated thing, Old Maid.
Yield, yield, I say.—But here I stopt his Speech,
And, with alluring Words, did him beseech,
Never again that impious Passion name,
So vilely great, and so adulterous flame,
The just procurer of our future shame.
Thus the Almighty Gods will angry be,
And who can brook a thundring Deity?
Oh! Mention not the Gods, he says, for they
In amorous sports do pass whole years away.
No Mortal here on Earth, or God above,
Is such a Lecher as Almighty Jove.
Great rampant Whores, Punks lewd and overgrown,
And sprawling Bastards do surround his Throne.
Out from unlawful Beds the Heavenly Race
Did spring, and ever since have lov'd the place.
We never yet have wicked Lovers been;
None but the guilty should lament for Sin.
How many sweets we lose, and dear delights,
While the dull Priest performs the Nuptial Rites:
And silly Children grieve their Parents mind,
And fret themselves when Nuptial knots they bind.
Happy Macareus, who didst gladly prove,
The pleasing joy of an incestuous Love;
To toy with Canace would slily creep,
When storms had rock't his Windy Sire asleep.
For this she never sigh'd, though she did mourn
His tedious absence, and his wish'd return:
But e're I leave my Mistress and my Dear,
The Gods shall come and shall inhabit here.
Come down, ye Gods, from Heavenly Seats come down!
The perjur'd Swain is from his Mistris gone,
And left a Teeming wretch to sigh alone.
Think, lov'd Apostate, how this tender Child,
And his sad Mother you have thus beguil'd.
Methinks his Infant voice does screeching cry,
In my loath'd Womb, his and my Misery:
My Child-bed Throes come on, yet I take care
Of seeing thee, my Faithless Wanderer.
When drousie Night comes on, all Creatures fly
To sweet repose, yet restless still am I.
One Night the drousie God came to my Bed,
And with soft slumber did my Temples spread:
Senseless I lay, as if I had been dead.
Just as sick Lovers use, a pleasing Dream
Came softly on, and for its lovely Theam,
Before mine Eyes thy faithless Image came.
Feeble with Love; my utmost force I try'd,
To lay the airy Phantome by my side:
But strugling hard, a parting Kiss it drew,
And from my Arms my empty Lover flew.
But when I wak'd, the Sun had deck'd my Bed,
And with the Night my sleepy Vision fled.
Good Gods! I cry'd, is this the bliss we prove?
This, this the promis'd Joy of Cupid's Love?
Then grown distracted, in my rage I tare
The golden Locks of my once lovely Hair:
Whil'st in my dismal Breast fear meets with fears,
I wash my Lilly Hands in briny Tears:
You may believe't, my Eyes are watry still;
And, while I write, upon my Paper spill
Their liquid Juice: A Juice well known to me,
Yet such as Lovers never care to see.
Why do I weep, when woe is past relief;
But there's a certain pleasure found in grief.
'Tis vain to speak to Woods and Rocks, 'tis vain
To cry to thee who 'rt harder, perjur'd Swain:
Yet read these Lines, read 'em as sent by me,
The only Legacy I leave to thee.
When unconfin'd at Liberty you rome,
Think on the wretched Nymph you've left at home.
And when to windy Mountains you repair,
Wast one kind sigh to poor Corinna here.
Whil'st thou dost Scythia's Frost and Snow discover,
(The fittest Climate for so cold a Lover)
Think how in scorching Love at home I burn,
And all the Night thy much loath'd absence mourn.
Thy tatter'd Flocks lie moaning 'ore the Plains;
A prey to greedy Wolves, and Pirate Swains:
Thy lowing Herds, by thee once lov'd so well,
In hoarser moans their Master's absence tell:
Scorch'd by the Summers heat, while these expire,
I die, I die, by no less scorching fire.
If to this Country you shall chance to come,
And view again your melancholy home,
Here you'll behold your dear Corinna's Tomb.
Then to my Tomb one tender sigh commit,
Unless your Heart be grown as hard as it.
Then write upon my Tomb, my Ghost t'appease,
Here lies Corinna, kill'd by Philocles.

CLEOPATRA TO ANTHONY.

And will you go, my Souldier, to the Wars?
Leave harmless Combats, Love's tumultuous Jarrs?
Can you in Winter-Nights more safely rest
On Beds of Steel, than Cleopatra's Breast?
A greater Bliss, my Mars, it cannot be,
To Fight with Cæsar, than to Toy with Me.
But why should I my Counsel thus afford
(My Discontented, and my Angry Lord)
To You? Yet sure, in Justice, you should view
Your dearest Mistress, bid one kind Adieu.
Did you but know the Fears that vex my Mind,
You would, my Lord, you would, you would be kind.
Pensive I lie, depress'd by Ominous Fate;
And all the Ills on the Unhappy wait.
I know Ventidius frowns, and says, That I
Am the Contriver of your Destiny.
I counsel'd you to fight at Sea; you did:
I from the Fight a frightful Woman fled.
Oh! had I been a Man, a Heart like Yours,
I never then had fled from Cæsar's Powers.
I grant all this; yet challenge you to tell,
Did you e're know a Woman love so well?
To me, when Young, my Nurse would often say,
Thy tender Limbs are made for Love and Play.
Noble Ambition does attend the Fair;
And handsom Ladies still presumptuous are:
But my Presumption, surely, none can blame;
Or term my Loving an Ambitious Flame.
No Magick Spells, or Philtre's do I prove,
By which Medea got her Jason's Love.
Our softest Joys no Hydra Serpents yield;
You, with rough Bulls, ne're plough the Flinty Field.
'Tis to my Eyes my fatal Conquest's due;
'Twere they perswaded, and they charmed you.
Yours fixt on Mine for ever seem'd to Live;
Then you were kind, and easie to forgive.
I value not your Wealth, nor your Disdain;
Only return the Love I gave, again.
The Rabble say, I with your Foes accord;
Betray your Country, and betray my Lord:
Witness, ye Gods! how I have kept my Vows;
My plighted Oaths, and all my Faith allows!
Witness ye Scenes of Joy, that we have seen,
That I am True, and still have Constant been!
True to your Bed; Why then should perjur'd Fate
Perswade you, I am false unto the State?
And what with Politicks should Women do?
They to Love's Oracles should pay their due,
And to their Lords be Constant still, and True.
Fie, Anthony! Are these your Vows? You swore
By your dead Sire, whose Image then you bore;
You swore, you did, that I should bear the sway;
Your Heart was mine, and Me you would obey.
Ventidius flatters you with Hopes of Fame;
And says, From War you'll raise a lasting Name:
Bids you take noble War for rusty Peace,
And Fields of Honour for Inglorious Ease:
Feel Juno's Rage, and Jove's important Ire;
His bluest Thunder, and his palest Fire.
But yet, How light does Fame and Honour prove,
Put in the Ballance with immortal Love?
Love, at whose Altars mighty Monarchs fall;
And tender Love ought to bear sway in all.
Let Souldiers Fight, and Tyrants Kings subdue,
And greatly strutt amongst the Martial Crew:
In Conquer'd Fields their Monuments may raise,
And write in Bloody Letters all their Praise:
Heav'ns grant us Peace, and crown with Mirth our Days.
Can you a greater Fame or Conquest win,
Than that already you have got, a Queen:
And were I not a Queen, I could despise
Your gawdy Shows, and Roman Gallantries.
I to my Native Splendor could repeat;
For Pageant Pomp does still attend the Great.
'Tis Love that makes me act the Things I do;
Makes me demean my self, to look on You.
I (when in Ægypt) had a Thousand Eyes
Were constant Slaves; for You I all despise.
When I upon the Silver-Cydnos Row'd,
You on the Shoar, How solemnly you bow'd?
I mark't your Motion to the Neighbouring Grove:
It seem'd distracted, all confus'd with Love.
With longing Eyes upon the Shoar you stand,
And press, among the Crowd, to see me land.
I entertain'd your Passion, Lov'd you too;
And, Heaven knows, advanc'd more than my due:
I cherish't all your Love 'twixt Hope and Fear;
For Cleopatra then was Cæsar's Dear:
Yet leaving him, to your Embraces run;
And fondly sought the way to be undone.
Now you'll leave me amidst my Envious Foes;
Your self to Dangers, and to Death expose:
Your plighted Oaths, and Faith you bear away;
If Love won't do, then I command you, stay.

Translations OUT OF HORACE.

BOOK II. ODE 14.

BOOK II. ODE 4.

BOOK II. ODE 16.

BOOK III. ODE 9.

A DIALOGUE BETWIXT HORACE and LYDIA.

HORACE.
When I alone my Mistress did enjoy,
When She was kindly free, not vilely coy,
When no smooth Lad about her Neck did cling;
I vy'd in pleasure with the Persian King.

LYDIA.
When you no Beauty lov'd but only mine,
And Lydia was no slave to Chloe's shrine,
Then fairest Lydia had a lasting Name,
Preceded Ilia in the rank of Fame.

HORACE.
The Thracian Chloe now has got my Heart,
Sweet at her Lute, excelling in her Art:
For whose dear sake I joyfully would die,
If I might gain the living Maid thereby.

LYDIA.
Calys, Ornitho's Son, a worthy Name,
Scorches my Heart with no unequal flame:
For whom I would a double Death enjoy,
If Heaven would give me the surviving Boy.

HORACE.
What now if Venus should the game retrieve,
And Marriage bonds betwixt us two should give?
If I should hate fair Chloes Aubourn Hair,
And ope' the Gate to Lydia, as my Dear?

LYDIA.
Though thou wert wilder than the raging Sea,
And he as beauteous as the Milky-way;
Thou angry as the Seas that threat the Skie,
In thy lov'd bosom I would live and die.

ODE.

[And why in red dost thou appear?]

ODE.

[Curse on your Friends! Why should they interpose?]

ODE.

[Well; Cælia's Married! If she be, I do not care]

ODE.

[You merry Virgins, mad Maids]

You merry Virgins, mad Maids,
Of busie London Town,
Abuse the Country sad Maids,
And every Rusty Clown:
Your Beauties all shall wither,
You Bawds and Whores together.
For if your Painting
Were but wanting,
Where would your Beauty be?
The Glances of your Eyes,
By which you do surprize,
Are all to Art, not Nature, due:
All your Charms are untrue;
Your faithless Vows do with your Paint agree.

ODE.

[Where discontented Lovers walk]

A LETTER TO A FRIEND.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS E. P. Who Died of the SMALL-POX.