Some Fragments of NERO,
a Tragedy lost.
I.
Ambition
is a lawless Thirst of Fame,
An eager Race after an empty Shade,
And Grandeur is but Misery adorn'd;
It at a Distance glares, and is ador'd:
Draw near, th' Illusion ceases to deceive,
The superficial Gilding wears away,
And leaves the Idol naked to our View.
II.
Love is a little, sly, designing Knave,
And meanly steals his Conquests o'er our Minds,
While Reason's lull'd to Sleep by Idleness;
But when we rouse, and boldly charge the God,
The Coward flies, and we're our selves again.
III.
'Tis well! sleep on: the Hours that Wretches sleep,
Are stol'n from Misery—
IV.
Why dost thou start? of what art thou afraid?
It is a beaten Road which leads to Death:
My Father pointed out the Way to me,
And his Forefather mark'd his Passage hence.
V.
How kind are Tyrants, when they wou'd destroy:
While yet we live, 'tis in their Pow'r to pain;
But when the friendly Stroke of Death is o'er,
What do their Chains, and Tortures then avail?
VI.
Men call me Tyrant, so, in Truth, I am;
But chiefly to my self—why then reform!
—'Tis now too late!—Furies, and Hell—who's there?
Alone I am too many for my self.
VII.
—Virtue is its own Reward,
And now rewarded only by it self;
A precious fewel, whose transcendent Worth
Is known, but to those few who bosom it;
Its Pow'r can disappoint the Tyrant's Rage,
And weary Punishment; the Gods infuse
A hidden Balsam in its sufferings,
To mitigate their Pains: So just is Heav'n!
VIII.
Let us not meet Misfortunes; 'tis too soon
To feel them, when they come—
IX.
Man's highest Wisdom is of small Account;
He sees, at best, as thro' a clouded Glass,
Erroneous Forms, and the false Shapes of Things.
X.
Shou'd ev'n the Gods themselves from Heav'n descend,
Mix with Mankind, and trifle here on Earth,
No Altars wou'd be rais'd, no Incense smoak;
The Creature their Creator wou'd despise,
And soon forget to whom they owe their Being.
XI.
It is a Maxim in the Art of Love,
Which all shou'd learn, who wou'd successful prove,
That Women still disdain the prostrate Prize,
But follow still, whene'er the Lover flies;
They frown, while Man submissively complains,
Or laugh at the poor Wretch, who buggs his Chains:
Let him but struggle for his Liberty,
At the Expence of their's they'll set him free.
XII.
To the Unhappy Death at any Time
In any Shape is welcome: What sick Man
Consults the Garb of his Physician?
XIII.
When Fear has once thrown Reason from her Seat,
Unbridled Fancy reigns without Controul,
And hurries us to Madness—
XIV.
At length the proudest Fair must be subdu'd;
For she who gains each Day a thousand Hearts,
Has still a Heart to lose—
Design'd for an Epilogue to a
Tragedy call'd the
Revenge.
'Tis well a Southern Clime our Scene supplies,
Where Passions with superiour Ardour rise,
Where the fond Spouse dares venture to inquire,
And the chast Wife, to prove her Truth, expire!
A British Husband, and suspect! nay, dye,
A willing Martyr to his Jealousy!
That were a Farce indeed! and an Offence
Against our Country's Breeding, and good Sense!
And what kind, squeamish Dame of this frank Nation
E'er gave up Life, to clear her Reputation?
No! here th' experienc'd Pair, like Sharpers, meet,
Both arm'd alike, and both resolv'd to cheat,
While the fair Nymph consents, but to be free,
And wears the Yoke for greater Liberty.
But if, amidst the Herd, some Churl we find;
Not absolutely to her Faults resign'd,
To her first Error he may yet be kind.
But if th' imprudent Sot his Shame will spread;
What's the dire Vengeance for his sprouting Head?
Why, what she most desires—a sep'rate Bed.
Let none then here of Hymen's Bonds complain,
Howe'er he treats his Votaries in Spain,
In ev'ry Point our Freedom we maintain.
Part of the Epilogue to a
Comedy call'd the
Masquerade.
Heavens! what Alteration wou'd be here,
Shou'd ye to Night in your true Forms appear?
But of your real Shapes you're all afraid;
And the whole World is one great Masquerade.
The Courtier's smile, the Hero's dreadful Air,
The Virgin's Frown, the Widow's deep Despair,
And solemn Coxcomb's venerable Face
Are useful Vizards all, and meer Grimace;
And wisest, bravest, safest, happiest
Are they, whose borrow'd Masks conceal them best.
EPISTLE X.
To a Friend with ---
Before these Sheets the Press's Weight shall feel,
For after that we can have no Appeal,
Deign to peruse them with a careful Eye,
And lop the Branches, lest the Tree shou'd dye.
Whate'er luxuriant Fancy paints too strong,
Relentless blot, and shorten, what's too long:
Wheree'er she fails, the empty Spaces fill,
And graft upon the Stock with friendly Skill;
Tho' rarely Fancy does her Aid refuse,
And more are lost from knowing not to choose.
O had I that Simplicity and Grace,
Which pleas'd, e'er Art did Nature's Charms deface,
In those our great Originals of Yore,
Whom distant I pursue, and you adore!
Yet Nature pure, unveil'd cou'd we present,
How might we hope, to give the Age Content,
Or Censure 'scape in these affected Times,
When Poetry's scarce known, but by her Rhimes,
When Bards, as of Sterility afraid,
Croud all together Man e'er thought, or said,
Heap Words, on Words, to multiply in haste,
And think, no Ornament can be misplac'd?
So it be fine, they care not, where 'tis found.
Their Labours like a Planter's Nurs'ry Ground,
Where Trees are in a wild Disorder thrown,
And Seeds of every Kind confus'dly sown.
No Matter! so my Lines you shou'd approve,
And a few more such Friends, whose Truth we love.
But now, tho' you may find, I've shot too wide,
And miss'd my Aim, fear not an Author's Pride!
Be bold, and free! for tho' the Offspring's mine,
I will not, like the Ape, suppose it fine.
FINIS.
