[Poems on Several Occasions with A Pastoral :: :: University of Virginia Library

[Poems on Several Occasions with A Pastoral

to which is added A Discourse of Life] [by John Tutchin]

Tutchin, John (1661?-1707)

Miscellanies.

A SATYR AGAINST VICE.

A SATYR AGAINST WHORING.

To the Memory of Mr. JOHN OLDHAM.

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

ODE.

THE Tory Catch.

HYPERMNESTRA TO LINUS.

CORINNA TO PHILOCLES.

CLEOPATRA TO ANTHONY.

Translations OUT OF HORACE.

A LETTER TO A FRIEND.

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

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Translations OUT OF HORACE.

BOOK II. ODE 14.

Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthume,
Labuntur anni, &c.

I.

Ah Posthumus! How quick our years
Do slide away!
The winged hours for none will stay.
Virtue, that always pillars rears,
Eternal Monuments of Fame,
Leaving behind a lasting Name,
To her best Friend it can no time allow,
Or keep deep Furrows from his aged brow.

II.

Should'st thou a thousand Bribes, as Offrings bring,
To the Infernal King,
'Twould move no pity in his hardn'd Breast;
'Twould give thy weary Soul no rest.
He the bold Stygian water aws:
He gives to Gerion and to Titius Laws.
Ah, sooty Lake! thy waves, alas!
We all or soon or late must pass.

III.

All the bold Mortals, that do sport
On Earths round Globe,
From the base Rabble to the Court;
From Plush and Ermins to the homely Robe,
Must all descend to Charon's Boat, and be
Wafted by him to vast Eternity.

IV.

In vain we Martial fury shun,
In vain from swelling Waves we run;
In vain we fear the ominous time
Of sickly Autumns prime.

Down to the gloomy shore we soon must go;
Through Pitchy Waves must row,
To dread Cocytus, that amazing shoar,
Where Danaus wicked race does roar,
And Sysiphus does roll his Stone
In endless grief, alone.

V.

Thou soon thy pleasant Lands no more shalt view;
To thy dear smiling Wife shalt bid a long adieu.
Nought of thy shady Groves with thee shall go,
But the sad Cypress, that does mourning show.
Thy nobler Heir with joy shall spend
All thou didst save, and Feast his Friend;
And wash the Stones with better Wine
Than that which makes the Bishops ruby Noses shine.

BOOK II. ODE 4.

Ne sit ancillæ tibi amor pudori,
Xanthia Phoceu, &c.

I.

To love a Serving-Maid no Sin can be:
Servants to us in Love are free.
The rough Achilles fell in Love
With the white Skin'd Briseis, and did prove
Her humble Servant, once her lofty Lord.
The Son of Telamon, so fam'd in War,
His Female Slave ador'd.
A Girle fair
Was all the great Atrides did esteem,
Of all the Wealth and Victories got by him.

II.

How canst thou tell but that fair Phillis may
Be born of as noble clay
As that which makes those Pageants we call Kings:
Thou know'st not but she springs

From a great Regal Line;
And weeps because the Gods have cast her down:
Believe me, Phoceus, she deserves a Crown.
She needs must be Divine;
She, who no breach of Oaths did ever know,
Who for an honest fame could wealth for-go,
Must needs of some high Parentage be born.
I, whom Age doth seize
With its incurable Disease:
I, who all wanton wishes scorn,
Admire her Face, her Arms, and every Limb,
And think it worth my just esteem.

BOOK II. ODE 16.

Otium Divos rogat in patenti
Prensus Ægeo, &c.

I.

When the poor Mariner can nought espie
But Sea and Skie,
Caught in the large Ægean Waves,
The dismal Clouds chasing away the Day;
The waining Moon no Light does give,
The guiding Lamps of Heaven are gone away;
Then the poor Merchant prays the Gods to live.
Peace, cry the Thracians, lame with War,
The Medes as quiet as their Quivers are,
Would be. But Peace, alas! is sold
Not for rich gems, nor Purple, nor for Gold.

II.

'Tis not, Oh Grosphus! treasures great
Can make perplexing care retreat;

'Tis not the Spears, with Horses joyn'd,
Remove the tumults of the Mind;
Or drive the busie thoughts from off ones Bed.
His Mite a Million is, who lives so well,
As no base Fear molests his sleep:
No great Ambition does disturb his Head,
Whose Board with homely Dainties doth excell,
Above a King's desire;
Set off with one old Salt, that once did grace his Sire.

III.

Why for Eternal Pleasures do we strive,
In a decaying mortal life?
Why must our station be remov'd
From that dear Country once we lov'd?
Why do we seek another Air,
And leave our Native Land?
The change of Climates does not change our care:
Who aws a Nation can't himself command.
Care, from the sturdy Ships won't keep aloof,
Though they were all of Canon proof:
The Card, the Compass, Helm and all the Art
That Neptunes briny Subjects know,
Perplexes the poor Seamans Heart:

Sometimes he dreads the Rock, and then the Seas,
And knows not where to go.
Fear trips it faster than frightn'd Hind,
Flies with more hast than the rough Easter Wind,
To rob a Mind of Ease.

IV.

He that at present has a joyful Mind,
Ne're thinks on what's to come:
He scorns to think on things that are not made,
Without a Being are in Chaos laid.
What pleasure can he find
To dream of future care, or think of future ease?
He keeps his pleasant home,
And mixes his sad thoughts with those that please.
None that the Gods have blest we happy call;
For whom they happy made, was never blest in all.
How soon the great Achilles did to Death
Yield his departing Breath?
How soon Death took him hence,
Who had Millions slew?
Soon did old Tython bid his House adieu:
His snowie Hairs cou'd not their wearer save,

From the inexorable Grave:
What is deni'd to thee, to me may fall by chance.

V.

Thou tell'st thy hundred Flocks of bleating Sheep,
Art pleas'd when thy Sicilian Heifers low:
No Musick is so good,
As Neighing Mares, that rattle through the Wood.
Thou in bright Tissues, in deep red dost go;
When the good natur'd Gods have given me,
A Soul of Verse, a Poets name,
That's writ on the chief Pinnacle of Fame;
A Heart from all perplexing Passions free:
Free from the Cowards cold, and Madman's Heat
But scorns the Vulgar, and contems the great.

BOOK III. ODE 9.

A DIALOGUE BETWIXT HORACE and LYDIA.

Donec gratus eram tibi
Nec quis quam, &c.

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.